Performing the Nation in Interwar Germany: Sport, Spectacle and Political Symbolism, 1926-36

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Performing the Nation in Interwar Germany

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Performing the Nation in Interwar Germany Sport, Spectacle and Political Symbolism, 1926–36 Nadine Rossol

© Nadine Rossol 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 author has asserted her right to be identified as the author 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 978–0–230–21793–5 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

Für Emma

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Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

List of Abbreviations

xi

Acknowledgements

xii

Introduction

1

1 Bodies and Urban Space: Parades, Marches and Demonstrations 1890s–1920s ‘When the Germans learned to demonstrate . . .’: Demonstrations in Imperial Germany The republic and parades: Expressing republican spirit or militaristic principles? ‘A black-red-gold storm in German Cities’: Interpreting urban space

13 14 18 25

2 Sports and Games 1925–1928 Frankfurt in 1925: The Workers’ Olympics Cologne’s Kampfspiele in 1926: Sport and the nation ‘Turnvater Jahn’ and republican festivities in August 1928

34 35 42 49

3 Staging the Republic: Constitution Day Festivities in 1929 ‘Staging the Republic’: Ideas, concepts, problems Flags, masses and parades: August 1929 A republican mass spectacle: Performing unity

58 59 66 71

4 Republican Nationalism: The Rhineland Celebration in 1930 The republic and nationalist themes The Rhineland as part of festive representation The Rhineland mass spectacle in 1930

80 81 85 90

5 Party Rallies and the Thingspiel in the Third Reich Nazi Party Rallies: Staging the Volksgemeinschaft The Nazi Thingspiel: A National Socialist theatre form vii

102 103 108

viii

Contents

The Loreley and the Thingspiel: Rhine romantic and spectacles

113

6 The Death of the Spectacle in the mid-1930s The festive play at the Olympic Games in 1936 The death of the spectacle in the mid-1930s Territorial unity in 1938: The sporting festival in Breslau

121 122 129 133

7 ‘Like 100 years ago . . .’: Local Festivities in Weimar and Nazi Germany Constitution Day celebrations at local level The Reichsbanner and its festivities Reforming popular taste: The Nazis and local celebrations

139 140 145 150

Conclusion

158

Notes

166

Bibliography

204

Index

222


1.1 Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung, 21.8.1926, title page: Der Tag der Hundertausend in Nürnberg. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf 1.2 Constitution Day Celebration 1928. Courtesy of Institut für Stadtgeschichte Frankfurt am Main 1.3 Der Heimatdienst, IX, no.3, February 1929, title page: Zum Jubiläum der Deutschen Nationalversammlung 2.1 Workers’ Olympics 1925. Courtesy of Institut für Stadtgeschichte Frankfurt am Main 2.2 Kampfspiele 1926. Courtesy of Carl und Liselott Diem-Archiv, Cologne 2.3 Kampfspiele 1926. Courtesy of Carl und Liselott Diem Archiv, Cologne 2.4 Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung, 26.5.1928, no. 21. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf 2.5 Der Heimatdienst, VII, no. 15, 1. Augustheft 1928, Friedrich Ludwig Jahn, 11.8.1778 3.1 Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung, 22.8.1925, no.34, Einst und Jetzt: Ein ‘Volksfest 1913’ in Berlin, Verfassungsfeier der Republikaner 1925 in Berlin. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf 3.2 Festschrift zur Bundesverfassungsfeier Reichsbanner Schwarz-Rot-Gold 10-11. August, Berlin 1929 (Berlin, 1929) cover 3.3 Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, NL Redslob, I,B-240, Das 12 Uhr Blatt, 12.8.1929, no.187. Courtesy of Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg 4.1 Illustrierte Republikanische Zeitung, 9.8.1930. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf 4.2 Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, NL Redslob, Festspiel zur Rheinlandbefreiung. Courtesy of Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg ix

21 27 28 39 46 48 50 55

62

69

75 84

93

x


4.3 Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, NL Redslob, Festspiel zur Rheinlandbefreiung. Courtesy of Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg 5.1 Loreley Thingspiel site 1935/36. Courtesy of St. Goarshausen Archiv 5.2 Loreley Thingspiel arena completed. Courtesy of St. Goarshausen Archiv

94 116 117

While every effort has been made to trace right holders, if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be pleased to make the necessary arrangements at the first opportunity.

List of Abbreviations

AdsD BArch Berlin BLHA DAF DDP DNVP DVP FRG GDR GNM, DKA GStAPK IRZ KdF LAB NL NSDAP PSK RAD RM SA SPD

Archiv der sozialen Demokratie Bundesarchiv Berlin Brandenburgisches Landeshauptarchiv Potsdam Deutsche Arbeitsfront (German Labour Front) Deutsche Demokratische Partei (German Democratic Party) Deutschnationale Volkspartei (German Nationalist People’s Party) Deutsche Volkspartei (German People’s Party) Federal Republic of Germany German Democratic Republic Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Deutsches Kunstarchiv Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung/ later: Illustrierte Republikanische Zeitung Kraft durch Freude (Strength through Joy organisation) Landesarchiv Berlin Nachlass Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (National Socialist German Workers’ Party) Provinzial Schulkolleg Reichsarbeitsdienst (State Labour Service) Reichsmark Sturmabteilung (Nazi stormtroopers’ organisation) Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschland (German Social Democratic Party)

xi

Acknowledgements One of the nicest tasks of writing a book is to thank all those who have contributed to its completion. My first debt is to Anthony McElligott, who supervised my PhD thesis on which this book is based. As he will know best, his unfailing confidence, academic mentoring, moral support and friendship have helped me immeasurably. I could not have wished for a kinder and, at times, more challenging mentor who made sure that I would only give my best. For all that I would like to thank him. Over the years, I had the pleasure of discussing my research with a number of people whose suggestions have helped me to form my ideas. Many of them have shared my research in Berlin with me. I am grateful to David Meeres, Christoph Jahr, Susanne Kiewitz, Ute Krickeberg and Jens Thiel. Special thanks are due to Tina Dingel for her good-humoured moral support. Christian Welzbacher and Bernd Buchner share my fascination for the Reichskunstwart and have inspired me with their own works. Bernd Buchner generously took the time to read and comment on the PhD thesis. I have benefited greatly from his knowledge on Social Democratic symbols. For their insightful comments on the manuscript undoubtedly turning this into a better book, I am particularly grateful to Moritz Föllmer, Anthony McElligott, Matthew Potter, Willemijn Ruberg and David Welch. When I started my PhD in the History Department at the University of Limerick in 2002, I experienced the light-hearted companionship of the extraordinary postgraduate community there. Friends and colleagues in the History Department found time to proof read pieces of my work and provided practical help when it came to juggling academic tasks. My thanks go to all of them. Thanks also to Emmanuelle Bossé, Willemijn Ruberg and Claudia Siebrecht for their companionship in the past years. Rachael Powell and Babette Pütz have accompanied my work with their interest and friendship ever since I have met them in St Andrews. In Germany my friends Andrea Schlüter, Anja Sager and in particular Dorothea Scigala Ostrek have contributed more than they might be aware of to the completing of this study. My book would not have been possible without the great assistance of numerous archivists and librarians in Berlin, Bonn, Cologne, Frankfurt xii

Acknowledgements xiii

am Main, Koblenz, Leipzig, Nuremberg, Potsdam and St. Goarshausen. I would like to thank Dr Hans-Georg Golz (Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung), Mareike Malzbender (Dietz Verlag), Werner Bonn (Archiv St. Goarshausen), Dr Birgit Jooss (Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum Nürnberg), Michael Winter (Carl und Liselott Diem-Archiv Köln) and Irmgard Bartel (Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung Bonn). I had the pleasure of presenting parts of my work at the German Historical Institute in London, the Centre for Historical Research in Limerick, the University of St Andrews, the German Studies Association conference in St Paul and the research seminar of Heinrich A. Winkler at the Humboldt University Berlin. The participants of these seminars provided further thoughtful comments of which I have benefited greatly. I was very fortunate to have received generous funding for my work. Plassey Campus Centre in Limerick and the Irish Research Council for the Humanities and Social Sciences supported me with postgraduate scholarships. The Faculty of Humanities at the University of Limerick helped with a one-year fee waiver and a number of conference grants. I am particularly grateful for the support and the sustained interest in my work of the Irish Research Council for the Humanities and Social Sciences (IRCHSS). A two-year postdoctoral fellowship granted by the IRCHSS allowed me to complete my book and embark on a new research project. This book is dedicated to my little goddaughter and niece Emma. As much as for Emma the book is for my entire family whose encouragement, warmth and humour have helped me tremendously. Despite the constant absences I inflict upon them since my undergraduate years in Scotland, I can count on their unconditional support for my academic journeys. I know that this is not a small matter.

Introduction

Writing on Weimar and Nazi Germany, with an eye to political culture, means first of all dealing with a number of images and assumptions closely linked to both periods. The term ‘Weimar culture’ evokes a set of mental snapshots. Some of them are of the stunning Marlene Dietrich, the modern architecture of the Bauhaus, or Charleston-dancing girls in short dresses. Breathtaking cultural prosperity stands in sharp contrast to political turmoil and economic depression. In these images Weimar Germany is crisis-ridden and exciting at the same time. The failure of the republic and the sense of an intensive, but all too short, experiment in republican democracy and cultural modernity in Germany still inspire scholars writing on Weimar to devise book titles such as Dancing on the Volcano or Promise and Tragedy.1 However, we need to keep in mind that the cultural admiration of 1920s Germany is in part a post1945 phenomenon.2 After the collapse of the Nazi regime, the limelight of Weimar culture shone even more brightly. Historians have helped to create these impressions, too.3 In addition, the condemnations of the alleged political shortcomings of the republic need to be placed in the context of the late 1940s and early 1950s when ‘learning from Weimar’s mistakes’ became the guideline for reconstructing Germany’s shattered political system.4 It is this division of the Weimar era into spectacular culture on the one hand and disastrous politics on the other that has long impeded scholars from concentrating on an area in which the fusion of culture and politics was practised—republican state representation.5 The attempts by the young Weimar Republic to promote its democratic state-system to the German population with the help of symbols, monuments and festivities have long been neglected in historical research. Instead, republican representation has been negatively contrasted to allegedly more successful Nazi festivities.6 The claim that the republic 1

2


never reached the hearts and minds of its citizens is added to the long list of Weimar’s shortcomings. Once again, the republican experience is placed in ‘the antechamber of the Third Reich’.7 Indeed, it is Nazi propaganda that provides us with the next set of images illustrating some of the difficulties we are faced with. Scenes from Leni Riefenstahl’s films on Nazi Party Rallies or photographs of thousands of people waiting for the arrival of the Führer are part of our collective memory of the Third Reich. Whether or not we have personal experiences of the Nazi regime is irrelevant. In fact, images of the Third Reich seem to be gaining, rather than losing, appeal. It is quickly forgotten that they were mostly the result of staged and rehearsed performances and were created to be used as pieces of propaganda.8 Historical studies, which question the effectiveness of Nazi propaganda and caution against overstating its impact, have not yet been able to change commonly held perceptions. The Third Reich’s propaganda machinery is considered to be masterly in its seductive and manipulating allure.9 Walter Benjamin’s concept stressing the use of aesthetics in politics has become commonplace in interpretations of Nazi representation, especially with regards to festivities, celebrations and spectacles.10 ‘Gesamtkunstwerk of political aesthetics’ or ‘formative aesthetics’ are terms used to analyse festivities in the Third Reich.11 They suggest that the Nazis developed a specific style for their festivities with a deliberate focus on aesthetics, symbols, decoration and festive set-up. This alleged distinctive Nazi style is emphasised even more by positively contrasting it to the supposedly sober and boring celebrations of the Weimar Republic. The trinity of manipulation, seduction and political aesthetics is difficult to break up. My study challenges the notion that the Nazis invented the use of aesthetics for the staging of their mass events and argues instead that the time span from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s can be considered as a whole with regard to the development of political aesthetics and festive culture. A stress on rhythm, moving bodies and national community characterised many mass events in the republic and strongly influenced festivities, parades, sporting activities and spectacles commissioned by the republican state in the Weimar years. When the National Socialists came to power in 1933, they continued and expanded many of the previously applied festive styles. Consequently, by the mid-1930s, the closing point of my book, the public had been well accustomed to the use of aesthetics in mass-staged events by political organisations and by the state alike. In fact, at the end of the period covered in my study, representational forms based on mass involvement in particular mass

Introduction 3

plays—which had previously been so popular—were no longer believed to express the Zeitgeist anymore. The seven chapters of the present work follow a broad chronological outline. Commencing with an overview on demonstrations in late Imperial Germany, their focus shifts to festive events of the mid- and late 1920s and eventually to Nazi festivities of the mid-1930s. In addition to the chronological order, I concentrate on individual themes closely linked to the development of ceremonial customs and festive aesthetics. Discourses relating to festive choreographies, mass staging and theatrical performances shape this book. For the Weimar Republic, the stark contrast between difficult political and economic circumstances and enormous cultural productivity led to a whole range of negative crisis metaphors.12 However, recent works on Weimar Germany have started to suggest more open approaches to the period. Scholars have shown that contemporaries attached multilayered meanings to the term ‘crisis’ which were sometimes positive, linking ‘crisis’ to new opportunities and options in the future.13 New approaches to the Weimar Republic have not only challenged the negative crisis concept—so closely linked to the notion of a ‘doomed’ republic—but also focused on cultural history more than previous works. This does not mean breaking away from political history but rather combining both areas.14 Thomas Mergel has shown in his 2002 study on parliamentary culture in Weimar Germany how a cultural history approach can shed new light on the study of politics.15 This is applied for the areas of republican representation and political culture, too. Different political milieus are analysed with greater interest in issues of cultural identities.16 While older studies on political symbols and festivities in Weimar Germany have mainly examined opposing political groups forging their public celebrations and symbolic representation against each other,17 recent works have started to shift the focus away from the political extremes.18 Studies concentrating on the efforts of the Weimar state and republican organisations to publicly present the young democracy to the population have suggested more open and, indeed, more positive approaches to the allegedly boring, sober and timid representative efforts in the Weimar years.19 In addition, republican political culture on the ground—carried by democratic parties and other republican groups—has received more nuanced attention than simply portraying it as sandwiched between the political extremes.20 After this outlook on research trends, we want to concentrate more closely on issues of aesthetic representation and festive performances as part of the political culture of the 1920s and 1930s. While festivities, spectacles and parades were already used by the monarchy to present

4


and communicate its politics to the public, an essential change in style and representation of politics occurred after the First World War.21 Bernd Weisbrod argues that the war experience and its perception had created a crisis for previously established symbolic forms of politics resulting into a political style that stressed the visual, the performative and the dramatic.22 The rhetoric of all political affiliations promised salvation in the future and in so doing diverged more and more from political reality. Furthermore, the potential opponent was demonised leading to the dramatising of political decisions.23 Wolfgang Hardtwig takes up this important focus on visual, performative and aesthetic aspects of political culture for the interwar years but he largely excludes the supporters of Weimar democracy from this development. He claims that the democrats stayed far behind the medial possibilities of their time to visualise and personify politics.24 Taking a more nuanced approach, I will show that state representation in 1920s Germany echoed modern cultural developments with a stress on three areas: the visual, the inclusive and the spectacular. Both mass entertainment and elite culture in the Weimar Republic were largely ‘a culture of the visual’;25 and the same holds true for the republic’s state representation, which was also characterised by a particular ‘inclusiveness’—that is, official encouragement to participate actively in public festivities and great state occasions. In addition, there was an emphasis on the overall impression of representative events, as can be seen in the ways in which they were planned and staged. This is what I mean by the ‘spectacular’ aspect of representative culture in Weimar Germany. Clearly these elements were not limited to the representative matters of the Weimar state but used by political parties as well as by the Nazi state after 1933. In fact, the philosopher Peter Sloterdijk considers a public performance culture as a common denominator for various political factions, including Weimar Germany’s democrats, in the interwar years. He writes: From expressionism to Marlene Dietrich’s spectacular legs in the film The Blue Angel, from the bloody comedy of the Hitler putsch in 1923 to the performance of the Three-Penny-Opera, from the impressive funeral ceremony for Walther Rathenau in 1922 to the travesty of the Reichstag fire in 1933 . . . the constant crisis everyone talked about was a good director creating spectacular effects.26 The time frame suggested in my study, 1926 to 1936, might seem surprising at first and requires further explanation. Research on early

Introduction 5

twentieth-century Germany has begun to challenge the legitimacy and importance of conventional political breaks—such as 1918, 1933 and 1945—for developments in German history. Some works have shifted the turning points to the end of the First World War and the beginning of the second one arguing that the interwar years qualify as a distinctive time period.27 Other scholars extend the boundaries even further to the Imperial period either from 1914 to 1945 or, more creatively, from 1916 to 1936.28 This is not done to deprive the Weimar Republic of its distinctiveness or to crush it between Imperial and Nazi Germany, but rather meant to sharpen the eye for continuities and discontinuities. Hence more fluid boundaries between political state forms are proposed. However, the areas of state representation, public rituals and mass festivities are still often neglected in this development. I take the efforts of the Weimar state and of republican organisations to visually present the new democracy to a mass audience as the starting point for my study. It was not until the mid-1920s that these attempts, often prepared earlier, but postponed due to financial, political and economic instabilities, eventually bore fruit. Although the ‘stable middle years’ of the republic were not as stable and peaceful as sometimes suggested, the lack of direct political threats to the existence of the Weimar state created breathing space in which new representative methods and concepts were tried out. Therefore, the mid-1920s constitute a good starting point for this book. Similarly a decade later, in the mid-1930s, changes occurred again. This time the inclusion of the public in mass spectacles, hailed as a key principle of successful festivities and often wrongly interpreted as a feature introduced by the National Socialists, started to lose its appeal. I have already referred to the increased interest in recent historical research on cultural matters including visual history, identity formation and national memory.29 Linked to this development, we are also witnessing a ‘performative turn’ in historical studies. Peter Burke’s insightful essay ‘Performing History: The Importance of Occasions’ offers an overview on the various areas that can be fruitfully examined with greater attention to the notion of performance. They range from the study of emotions and the examination of political language to the focus on festivals and theatrical performances.30 As much as the concentration on performance can be applied to the study of text, for example the performance of emotions in letter writing, it is often understood as an approach with its main focus on actions, symbols and rituals. It has become a normal part of historical analysis for scholars working on the medieval and early modern period but for the twentieth century there

6


still remains much to explore using the significant insights that a closer examination of public performances can offer.31 In my study, I concentrate on public performances in the form of spectacles, parades, political assemblies and sports activities.32 These different strands of a public performance culture shaped the early twentieth century.33 The limitations of examining festivals, spectacles, parades and assemblies lie in the very nature of these events. They were unique experiences affecting participants and spectators in ways which written sources as well as visual ones can only partially capture. Consequently, the various political and cultural meanings which the organisers inscribed into these performances become particularly important to offer the ‘intended’ interpretative framework for the audience. Many concepts discussed in relation to theatrical productions and public performances play an important role in my study showing that visual, performative and spectacular aspects were essential not only for theatre directors and choreographers but also for public representations of the state and its political message. Theatre directors, dance choreographers, artists and actors debated whether spatial reforms of their stages would lead to different ways of staging their theatrical productions. The importance of rhythmic movements was discussed as much as the more active inclusion of the audience.34 In fact, the theatre triggered and responded to contemporary discourses on the body, on spatial conceptions and on modern technology as well as on the relationship between the masses and the individual.35 We will see that many of these issues influenced the planning of those responsible for the staging of public festivities from the mid-1920s onwards. My book centres on five mass spectacles. Chapter 1 provides an overview on changes in the staging of parades and demonstrations in Germany from the 1890s to the mid-1920s. In focusing on peaceful street demonstrations of the working class in the Kaiserreich, Chapter 1 illustrates the importance allocated to the participants’ behaviour and to the route the demonstrations took through the urban environment. Later the chapter concentrates on the Weimar years and examines how republican organisations and the Weimar state interpreted urban space for the republican cause. Chapter 2 offers a comparative analysis of two mass-staged sporting events in the mid-1920s: the socialist Workers’ Olympics in 1925 and the bourgeois Kampfspiele (combat games) in 1926. Despite the different political ideologies, the choreographies were strikingly similar. Chapter 2 will also illustrate that the republican state used sports to complement its festivities aiming at increasing their popularity. Moving to the late 1920s, Chapter 3 examines different

Introduction 7

ways of ‘staging the republic’ with a particular focus on a mass spectacle commissioned and financed by the Weimar state in 1929 as part of its annual republican celebration. This chapter traces how organisers and planners attempted to present the spectacle as an aesthetic expression of republican democracy. While Chapter 4 examines another mass spectacle commissioned by the republic in 1930, it shows nationalist instead of republican overtones. The ‘liberation’ of the Rhineland in the summer of 1930, namely the withdrawal of foreign troops from the area, was celebrated with a mass play that was nationalist in contents and innovative in its staging. The themes of national regeneration and territorial wholeness were at the centre of the play. These four chapters also illustrate a development in the bodily expressions used at public performances. Parades and sporting activities were eventually, as Chapters 3 and 4 show, incorporated into the extended framework of mass spectacles. The following three chapters, from Chapter 5 to Chapter 7, concentrate on the Third Reich. Chapter 5 offers a short overview on the staging of Nazi Party Rallies and focuses in more detail on the Nazis’ efforts to create their specific National Socialist mass theatre, the Thingspiel. Applying many of the principles characteristic of experimental theatre reforms of the Weimar years, the Thingspiel movement only flourished in the early years of the Nazi dictatorship and ended in the mid-1930s. The construction of the Loreley Thingspiel stage at the Rhine will exemplify the monumental ideas behind the project as well as its failure. Chapter 6 concludes the examination of mass spectacles with a look at the festive play staged at the opening ceremony of the Berlin Olympic Games in 1936, one of the last spectacles of its type to be performed in the Third Reich. Furthermore, the chapter examines the sporting festival in Breslau in 1938 bringing together the important themes of sports and territorial unity. Finally, Chapter 7 shifts the focus to local festivities and shows that very few of the concepts characterising mass-staged events had an impact on local level. Local festive styles remained largely unchanged. Members of republican organisations in the 1920s and Nazi propagandists in the 1930s attempted to reform local festivities echoing the same demands relating to the discipline of the participants, the tasteful decoration of the venue and, above all, the avoidance of Kitsch and light entertainment. Several key themes run through the chapters illustrating continuities between the Weimar and the Nazi period. First of all, spatial dimensions of festivities, parades and spectacles were debated in various forms in the time period under consideration here. Political connotations of the

8


(often) urban environment in which the festive event took place were immensely important. Urban space was interpreted and reinterpreted by different political groups aiming at imprinting their political message(s) upon this environment. Meanwhile, efforts to reform the actual space of performances, for example moving from theatre houses to open-air stages, were taken on board by most organisers of festivities regardless of their political conviction. Next to the importance of spatial issues, the theme of national regeneration through the restoration of territorial wholeness dominated discourses on celebrations, festivities and spectacles. This seemingly nationalist topic was at the centre of almost all festive performances in the 1920s and 1930s ranging from sporting activities particularly welcoming German participants from ‘occupied areas’ over republican spectacles celebrating the Rhineland ‘liberation’ to Nazi Party Rallies stressing Großdeutschland. Although all the festive performances examined in my study used the aesthetic appeal of the masses, their political connotations differed substantially. When commenting on mass events, republican organisations wrote delightedly of mass support for the young democracy. The Weimar state interpreted mass participation in festivities as resembling a community of equals capturing the main principle of democracy in this way. In the Nazi dictatorship, mass participation was presented as the support of the ‘people’s community’ for Hitler. While political interpretations of the masses differed, its aesthetic appeal—when structured, ordered and organised—applied to the entire period from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s. The order of disciplined bodies making up geometric shapes or forming—through simultaneous movements—the impression of one national body fascinated many. It was also a well-established part of popular entertainment in both Weimar and Nazi Germany. Films and revues presented orderly and disciplined bodies in dancing groups or in filmic mass scenes.36 To add to popular entertainment, disciplined bodies were an essential element of working-class demonstrations and parades since the early twentieth century. Connected to disciplining bodies was disciplining the behaviour of those taking part in festive events. As much as these festive forms appealed throughout the 1920s and 1930s, we will see that there was also criticism on them. Ordered and disciplined movements were criticised as resembling militaristic drill by some. Nevertheless, it was only in the mid-1930s when the fascination with orderly formations of collective mass bodies came to an end. To be sure, there existed an international dimension to the aesthetic elements and performative styles that will be examined here

Introduction 9

for Germany. A focus on mass choreographies and spectacles, on welltrained bodies and disciplined participants, and on sports and aesthetics characterised festive staging in democracies and dictatorships alike in the 1920s and 1930s, both in Europe and the USA. Similarities and reciprocal influences have been examined for totalitarian regimes such as Soviet Russia, Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy which demonstrate that Italy served as a role model when it came to the staging of festivities.37 Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi argues that aesthetic considerations were central to the construction of Italian fascism. This included the shaping of the disciplined fascist man both as an individual and as a part of an orderly crowd.38 For Soviet Russia, Malte Rolf and others have analysed festivities in detail. Sport parades played an important role in them presenting the trained bodies of athletes as visions of the new man in the country’s future.39 A comparison of festivals and celebrations in dictatorships including Italy, Russia and Japan can be found in the 2006 special issue of the Journal of Modern European History.40 However, it was not just dictatorial regimes that influenced each other. Public performance culture in the early twentieth century ranged from reform ideas in theatre staging, the novelty and freshness expressed in modern dance to the ever-increasing emphasis on inclusive and visually appealing mass events. Already the international connections between artists, theatre directors, choreographers and dancers meant that these developments did not remain confined to one country.41 The theatre historian Erika Fischer-Lichte shows that mass spectacles of the interwar years can be interpreted as universal attempts of searching for a solution when confronted with a crisis scenario. She argues that mass spectacles in Europe and the USA were a form of political theatre characterised by a combination of theatrical elements and political rituals that aimed at inclusion, community and collective identity, regardless of the political state form of the country.42 Still, not many studies have focused on the aesthetic forms, reference points and representative means of democracies. The dictum that political aesthetics belong to the field of totalitarian regimes seems to be a long lasting one. The fact that democratic states also need to communicate and ‘perform’ messages to the public has only recently begun to influence historical studies. For Germany, the National Socialist legacy in this area is hard to shake off.43 However, works on the signs and symbols of democratic parliaments have made a beginning in this field.44 In her innovative study on body and dance culture in the early twentieth century, Inge Baxmann suggests that the formation of an orderly and disciplined national body—symbolised through mass spectacles,

10


parades and processions—had been long established in Germany and France relying on similar rituals and festive means. Unlike the Weimar state that needed to inscribe political meaning(s) in mass spectacles, France possessed an established national festive culture in which bodily practices stood for republican attributes and national community. Baxmann writes: ‘Exercises of well formed bodies and synchronised movements were expression of the orderly masses that had been transformed into the state’s citizens. Gymnastic exercises and games were part of the political staging representing the opposite of the asocial, violent masses . . .’45 Clearly, discussions erupting in Germany in the 1920s and 1930s on the inclusiveness of festivities, political connotations of spectacles, the participation of the audience and the representative devices of mass performances were not confined to Germany. ∗

∗

∗

Before we focus on parades and demonstrations examined in Chapter 1, some background information important for the whole study should be provided. While the name of the Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels can be placed into context by many, his predecessor in the Weimar years is less well known. It was the art historian Dr Edwin Redslob (1884–1973) who was responsible for giving cultural and artistic shape to republican state representation and, in so doing, making the republic visible to the population. After the end of the First World War and the collapse of the monarchy, a democratic state was introduced to the German population for the first time. To deal appropriately with the challenges of republican state representation, a new state position, the Reichskunstwart, was created in 1920. The small office was linked to the Reich Ministry of the Interior. Edwin Redslob was appointed as head of the office and the first, and only, Reichskunstwart. Redslob’s office was dissolved when the Nazis came to power. While the office of the Reichskunstwart was generally forgotten after 1945, Edwin Redslob is remembered most for his activities after the Second World War. With others, he founded the newspaper Der Tagespiegel and was one of the founding fathers and acting rector of Berlin’s Free University to name his most important initiatives.46 In the Weimar years, the Reichskunstwart was to be involved in all areas of cultural state representation. This included the creation of new state symbols, the staging of state celebrations and the erection of monuments. Redslob helped to shape the public face of the republic. In practice, the work of the Reichskunstwart was made difficult by limited

Introduction 11

financial means, a small staff and the unwillingness of several ministries to collaborate.47 But, despite difficulties and shortcomings, the Weimar state had created an office that should, by definition, contribute to the visibility of the republic in the public sphere.48 It was not just organisational and administrative problems that turned Edwin Redslob’s job into a difficult one. The landscape of political symbols in the Weimar years was fragmented and contested, as we will see more closely later, and, unlike the Nazi state, the republic could not create authority for its representation by outlawing all other representative efforts.49 The pluralism of democracy meant that republicans with their symbols and celebrations competed with the ones of other political affiliations. Discussions on a national public holiday for Weimar Germany illustrate this aspect. Many supporters of the republic believed that the signing of the Weimar Constitution on 11 August 1919 provided the appropriate date for a republican holiday.50 However, Constitution Day did not become an official holiday because the German parliament never voted with a majority for it. Alternative suggestions representing different political reference points included November 9; sections within the German Social Democratic Party (SPD) were in favour of 1 May; and the nationalist parties proposed to commemorate the foundation of the German Kaiserreich on 18 January.51 A consensus on this issue never emerged. However, the fact that Constitution Day never became a public holiday did not mean that it was not celebrated as we will see. In fact, festive routines and traditions developed and Constitution Day festivities grew in size and scale. In addition to the Reichskunstwart, who helped to shape the image of the republic for state occasions, the war veteran organisation Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold, founded in Magdeburg in 1924, offered opportunities to show support of the republic on local and national level.52 Officially a war veteran organisation, the Reichsbanner did not restrict its membership to former soldiers.53 It was open to all male republicans, stressing that it stood above party politics. Promoting the republican idea in local areas was an important aim of the organisation. The claim that the republican organisation stood above party politics held true for its leading men who came from different democratic parties supporting the Weimar Republic. Locally, the membership structure was more homogeneous. According to Karl Rohe, up to 80 per cent of the Reichsbanner members were Social Democrats.54 The republican organisation stated that it had more than 3 million members. Historians are more cautious and suggest figures between 1.5 million and 2 million.55 Regardless of the exact figure, the Reichsbanner grew quicker than many

12


had expected and the organisation played an essential role in publicly representing the republic. Its members participated in parades and festivities to celebrate the republican state. This public support was made visible through republican flags, Reichsbanner uniforms, and numerous participants. But we will also see that the political message(s) of public performances, whether these were parades, festivities or sporting events, never remained unchallenged.

1 Bodies and Urban Space: Parades, Marches and Demonstrations 1890s–1920s

Parades, marches and demonstrations belong to the best-known and most public representative forms. They show strength, voice protest and gather support for a particular claim or cause. In so doing, parades provide visual images, acoustical impressions as well as physical movements through public spaces. This chapter concentrates on changes and developments in parades and demonstrations from the 1890s to the mid-1920s with a focus on the moderate left. Parades, marches and demonstrations always used the notion of occupying public space. Organisations claimed space and, with this, attention for their particular cause. At the same time, individual bodies within parades became collective carriers of this cause. Consequently, they imprinted their political conviction(s) upon the environment they were marching through. Sometimes urban space was included in a political narrative to offer a politically charged framework for a particular event. Parades of the moderate left, especially of the Social Democrats and affiliated organisations, reveal a continuous increase in emphasising order and discipline. Organisers and planners of working-class demonstrations had always stressed the importance of discipline to publicly illustrate that workers behaved well. This increased in the 1920s when the appeal of paramilitary groups and veteran societies had to be matched. However, this development was not just due to the much-quoted militarisation of the Weimar Republic.1 It also expressed general trends focusing on order, rhythm, shape and aesthetics. The first part of the chapter will offer an overview on demonstrations in Imperial Germany and discuss the importance of these manifestations of power especially for the working class. Public space could be filled, at least temporarily, with a political ideology. Demonstrations could, unless forbidden by the police, lead through areas of politically 13

14


opposed parts of society or mobilise members in supportive quarters of the city. The left was keen to present its marches, parades and festivities as orderly with well-behaved participants to give the bourgeois population no cause for complaints. This tradition remained throughout the Weimar years. Scholarly examinations of parades and demonstrations in Weimar Germany are often limited to violent clashes between Communists and National Socialists in the final years of the republic.2 In contrast, here the focus lies on the mid-1920s, and, instead of looking at the republic’s enemies, the chapter concentrates on its supporters. The second part of the chapter examines how the republic used parades and demonstrations for its state representation. We will see discussions on the question whether parades actually represented a genuine representative form for a democracy or simply imitated old, allegedly anti-republican, traditions. It becomes obvious that parades have to take place in an environment and a context offering clear political interpretations for them. The third part will focus on the republican organisation Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold and on its interpretations and occupations of urban space. This interpretive authority was always only temporary. After all, the urban environment was open to different ideologies projected upon it. Parades and demonstrations were not the only means of representation, neither for a state nor for any other group putting forward a particular agenda. Some commentators tried to solve the shortcomings of republican parades by experimenting with other representative forms including sporting activities and spectacles.

‘When the Germans learned to demonstrate . . .’: Demonstrations in Imperial Germany The phrase ‘When the Germans learned to demonstrate . . .’ is borrowed from Bernd J. Warneken’s works in which he examines peaceful demonstrations in Imperial Germany before the outbreak of the First World War. Concentrating on the demonstrating activities carried out in Prussia aimed at reforming the three-class-vote—a voting system that strongly disadvantaged the working class and its parties—Warneken shows that urban space was turned into an arena for political discourse(s). The streets were seized by the Social Democrats and even partly by the liberal bourgeois to manifest that, through changing the voting system, the workers should be included in the existing state. Thus discipline and order were an important part of these demonstrations to show that one was to be a reliable agent in the state.3

Parades and Demonstrations 1890s–1920s

15

Streets were meeting places for people from otherwise spatially and socially distinctive spheres. They were used for working-class demonstrations as well as monarchical ceremonies, and for a variety of everyday activities in between these extremes.4 A heterogeneous group of people made use of them. Nevertheless, this is not to suggest that the multilayered use of public space had an equalising effect on Germany’s Imperial society. The police and the populace alike believed to be able to distinguish the social status of a citizen based on his or her outer appearance and clothing as much as on the way how and for what reasons he or she used the streets.5 To add to this class dimension, streets as well as many other public places within the urban environment were gendered spaces, too. Men and women could not make the same use of public spaces. The division of men linked to public spaces and women to private and local ones remained intact even after 1918.6 Streets could also be part of a very distinctive interpretation of urban space. In the German capital Berlin, the city centre—the area of the city palace, the Lustgarten and the main street Unter den Linden—was reserved for monarchical ceremonies and military parades. This Imperial festive culture was protected by the police and described by the liberal press as visualising the official hierarchy of Imperial Germany. Social Democratic newspapers hardly commented on these festivities. If they did, monarchical celebrations were disdainfully labelled as organised cheering for the monarchy.7 The importance of specific spaces within the urban environment resurfaced again when the routes for republican parades in 1920s-Berlin were discussed. These manifestations of republican power were deliberately led through the former centre of Imperial authority. Indeed, similar reproaches, speaking of ‘organised cheering’ were formulated in Weimar Germany; this time, however, directed against the republicans. Thomas Lindenberger draws attention to the fact that monarchical festivities—and their impact on urban space—were perceived as a normal part of public life in Imperial Germany, in particular in Berlin. Consequently, Imperial spectacles were, despite Social Democratic reservations, not only witnessed and liked by the bourgeois elites but by many more.8 Since most of the demonstrating activities were carried out and organised by the SPD and other working-class organisations, their prime time could only commence after the fall of legislation against Social Democratic assemblies in 1890. In addition to the spatial aspect, although the Social Democrats hardly ever managed to stage their demonstrations at the centre of monarchical power due to heavy policing of the area, there was a seasonal regularity too. A majority of demonstrating activities was

16


carried out in spring and autumn to coincide with the parliamentary schedule and with Social Democratic holidays at these times of the year. And, not surprisingly for activities largely depending on working-class participants, demonstrations took place on Sundays or in the evenings of the working week.9 Unlike social protests, which often ended in violence, street demonstrations were meant as peaceful means of representation.10 They were symbolic actions in which nonverbal communication played a crucial role: the number of demonstrators, the route(s) through the city, the way of walking, the clothing, the posters, flags and badges carried as well as the interactions between the public, the demonstrators and the police.11 This should not only create a feeling of unity and give a coherent impression to the outside, but also influence the press coverage of the events. As any symbolic action, demonstrations needed to be noticed and discussed to create repercussions beyond the actual event. For a long time, the SPD refrained from using street demonstrations as a means of protest because the party did not trust the discipline of its members and supporters. But not just the supporters of the SPD had ‘to learn how to demonstrate’ peacefully, the conservative classes as well had to be able to put these demonstrations into context without mistaking them for the first signs of strikes or uprisings.12 A mass of people peacefully occupying public space was an unfamiliar way of voicing protest in Imperial Germany. For decades, public gatherings of people articulating societal injustice had been considered as a threat to public order and to the existing state. Peaceful demonstrations, in particular the ones aimed at changing the Prussian voting system, negated former styles of social protests. In so doing, its participants did not just illustrate that they wanted to be part of the state but also highlighted the differences from more radical attempts of changing the status quo.13 Although not intended, even street demonstrations could sometimes turn into more violent events as radical members within the SPD doubted that peaceful demonstrations constituted a successful concept to achieve changes.14 Peaceful Social Democratic demonstrations consciously used the impact masses of bodies made on spectators witnessing the event. Body language became an important tool during these demonstrations. This included several key elements: the spatial dimension, the style of walking, the clothing, the songs and the sounds of the participants’ steps.15 Demonstrations often led from assembly points in working-class areas to wealthier quarters of the city or to sites of national importance. This was to symbolically imprint their claims on these areas.16


17

Various festive elements influenced peaceful demonstrations and the development of political aesthetics linked to them. National liberal festivals, the assembly culture of democratic gymnasts and students in the nineteenth century as well as other festive customs played a part. Frequently, the claim has been made that there was also a military tradition influencing these demonstrations because of their focus on order and discipline.17 Bernd J. Warneken has repeatedly challenged this interpretation arguing convincingly that a close examination of physical movements and expressions shows that they were not characterised by imposed military discipline but rather based on consensus and common experience. This is not to suggest that the Social Democrats did not stress order and discipline as part of demonstrating activities. Accumulations of people had to be co-ordinated; they needed to walk in approximately the same pace, and had to follow orders not to disturb the traffic. But unlike a military parade, there was still a variety of behaviour tolerated. The style of walking varied; the demonstrations were open for people to join or leave along the way; and, while being part of the demonstration, participants could look around, talk and even smoke.18 In fact, Wolfgang Kaschuba draws attention to the fact that peaceful working-class demonstrations, despite the self-imposed disciplinary regulations, often caricatured a bourgeois representative style by, for example, imitating goose stepping. He concludes regarding workingclass demonstrations: ‘. . . they are a synthesis of different traditions and roots. They show a symbolic profile that makes deliberate references to contemporary self-image(s) and image(s) of the other . . . In so doing, bourgeois political aesthetics are counteracted with their [working class] own aesthetic development of body politics.’19 With a deliberate stress on order and respectability, distinguishing the Social Democrats from more radicalised workers who did not shrink away from resorting to violence to underpin their demands, the SPD and its supporters wanted to show their willingness to be a reliable part of the state. However, this strategy had its downside as Thomas Lindenberger has examined. He states: The bitter irony of this link between law-biding citizen and worker was its integrative effect . . . as much as the SPD could control its revolutionary elements the party’s ability to impress its direct opponent, the police, weakened. And, the occupation of established conventions as the right to demonstrate, and doing this in bourgeois clothing, did not change the workers’ position as second-class citizens.20

18


Once the Social Democratic ‘street politics’ lost the perspective of mass strikes as ultimate goal or threat, and peaceful street demonstrations became established, they turned into an impressive routine which even the police force began to handle in a rather laissez-faire manner. The Social Democrats took care of order and discipline themselves. But in so doing, they rendered their demonstrations into harmless symbolic actions that could, before the outbreak of the First World War, not directly influence or change the political system and the distribution of power in Imperial Germany.21 In the Weimar Republic, the constitution guaranteed the right of assembly outdoors without previous permission as long as people assembled peacefully and unarmed. However, local and regional circumstances could interfere with this right. Police authorities could prevent assemblies and demonstrations if they endangered public safety, if violent clashes with others could be expected, or if the traffic was to be seriously interrupted. Theoretically, demonstrations and assemblies forbidden on these grounds should only be suspended temporarily. In reality, however, restrictive measures regarding demonstrations and assemblies, especially of the extreme left, remained in practice for months, sometimes years. This policy created a discrepancy between theory and practice. The Weimar Constitution possessed a very liberal right of assembly, far beyond the norms and practices nowadays, but it was often limited by long-lasting suspensions of demonstrations, justified with local or regional conditions. The early and the last years of the republic, periods characterised by political and economic crises, saw the most suspensions of demonstrations in Weimar Germany fearing violent upheaval.22 The following section will focus on the middle period of the 1920s in which demonstrations and outdoor assemblies were not only allowed but in which the republican state made conscious efforts to participate in these public demonstrations of power.

The republic and parades: Expressing republican spirit or militaristic principles? Parades, marches and assemblies held by political parties, war-veteran societies, paramilitary organisations and various other groups characterised public life in 1920s Germany.23 The Weimar years were literally ‘moving and moved times’.24 Parades in the Weimar Republic made use of an old and well-established pattern relying on symbols that spoke to different senses: visually with flags, acoustically by shouting slogans and physically by marching from one place to another. These manifestations


19

of power strengthen the feeling of unity within a group, and create a strong and coherent impression to the outside. A clear-cut division into participants on the one hand and spectators on the other was denied by republicans who claimed that the inclusiveness of their parades distinguished them from other forms of representation. In fact, festive representative forms, aimed at staging a ‘national body’, were frequently promoted as a rhythmical experience for participants and viewers alike. Most demonstrations, however, only created a feeling of rhythm for the ones actively involved in marching down the street.25 At the end of the Weimar years, violent attacks on political opponents became an almost normal part of demonstrations. Increased demonstrating activity was interpreted as a development shifting political discourse(s) from the parliament to the streets. The Centre Party deputy Stieler lamented in a parliamentary debate in February 1930: ‘Unfortunately, disagreements are nowadays often not carried out with the use of minds but with the use of uniforms, legs, flags, and big drums instead. The winners are those with the most participants or the most rowdies in their ranks.’26 Despite this criticism, demonstrations and parades were not left to be dominated by political extremes. The growing strength of the republican organisation Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold provided planners of republican festivities with thousands of men carrying black-red-gold flags and walking orderly down the streets. They wanted to create an inclusive republican, not a party political, impression. This was an asset republican politicians was keen to utilise and included the Reichsbanner in official state-staged festivities of the Weimar Republic. A regular highlight of Constitution Day festivities was a torch-lit march through the capital, passing Berlin’s palace and the Lustgarten, along the main street Unter den Linden, to the Brandenburg Gate and the parliament buildings. In so doing, the republican parade took one of the most visible and public routes through the German capital. It passed symbols of republican power and marched through the centre of former Imperial authority in which not long before only military parades and monarchical festivities had been allowed to take place.27 It was in August 1927 when the first big Constitution Day parade was staged in Berlin including 12,000 participants, half of them members of the Reichsbanner. The other 6,000 participants were a mixed group of members of the unions, the German Association of Civil Servants, the Jewish War Veteran Organization and Berlin choirs to name the numerically largest organisations.28 In the following years, the parade continuously increased. Only a year later, in 1928, the number of participants had almost tripled to 30,000. While the Reichsbanner once

20


again mobilised the largest single group with 10,000 members, the police listed 16 other organisations. Unions and the Association of Civil Servants participated again alongside Berlin’s fire brigade with 700 participants and the Socialist Working Class Youth with 2,500 people. The list of organisations taking part in 1928 illustrated a characteristic shift occurring in republican festivities; a predominately political event had turned, over the years, into one in which its civic character moved into the foreground. This was manifested through the participating associations of different professions and occupations.29 Before the event, a discussion between members of municipal offices, governmental ministries and the police demonstrated how seriously the issue of a parade as means of state representation was taken. Representatives of the Reich Ministry of the Interior, the Prussian Ministry of the Interior, the police, Berlin’s city council and the Prussian Ministry of Education were present. Suggestions on having four separate marches, some deliberately leading through the working-class areas of Berlin to reach the people there, and then uniting them into one big parade in front of the Reichstag building were debated. The impression, everyone agreed, would be overwhelming.30 Eventually, the police’s concerns of too much chaos were taken into account and the plans were reversed: one big parade that at the end, after passing the most important Berlin landmarks, broke up into three to four smaller ones marching through different parts of the German capital.31 Following the principles of republican planners, who wanted to organise parades with an inclusive character, mirroring the inclusiveness of the new democracy, liberal newspapers enthusiastically described Constitution Day parades as visual representation of the whole nation. In August 1928, the Berliner Tageblatt wrote: . . . with torches and music they walk in the same rhythmical step, young couples, children, lads with their girlfriends, men and women from all classes of society and from all professions . . . Who has watched this, has not only seen an organised parade, but the celebration of the whole nation and the confession of this nation to the republic.32 The Reichsbanner pointed out that it was the German people who were marching with the republican organisation at its core.33 In so doing, the organisation reacted to anti-republican reproaches which claimed that the general public did not care about the young democracy and that republican parades only mobilised Reichsbanner members.34 However,


21

films and photographs of these festivities contradict this interpretation. Streets were packed with spectators. Children sometimes tried to accompany the parades by running alongside them. On the other hand, the interpretation of an inclusive event, resembling the democratic nation consisting of equals, was not quite accurate either. Films also depict a clear division between men marching, many of them in Reichsbanner uniforms, and spectators observing from the sidewalks without joining the parade.35 The title page of the Reichsbanner’s journal Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung (IRZ), giving an impression of the 1926 Constitution Day parade of the Reichsbanner in Nuremberg, illustrates this aspect. A division into passive and active participants is obvious from the photograph. Other forms of representation attempted to overcome this static division by creating a more active role for the audience. In modern theatre of the early twentieth century, this development is sometimes referred to as ‘the discovery of the spectator’.36 Although the photograph

Illustration 1.1 Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung, 21.8.1926, title page: Der Tag der Hundertausend in Nürnberg. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf

22


shows that the parade was less inclusive than claimed, the audience was not completely passive. Applauding, cheering, possibly singing, will most certainly have greeted the men in the parade. Nevertheless, discipline and militaristic appearance became important aspects for the republican movement in order to meet the competition on the far right and left from the late 1920s onwards. The Nazis and the Communists were regarded to be ahead in this development. But the stress on discipline and order was not just made for practical or competitive reasons; it was part of a long tradition in the staging of workingclass festivities.37 This included, and always had done, clear disciplinary guidelines for the participants. Polite and disciplined behaviour was expected of Reichsbanner men anyway, but in particular when they were part of a parade. Smoking, for example, was tolerated on other occasions but not when the men marched through the city because ‘it destroys the overall impression’.38 Critical voices on republican parades lamented that the events were imitations of militaristic style and appearance. On the tenth anniversary of the republic in 1929, the left-wing journalist Carl von Ossietzky cautioned that the Weimar state was fooling itself when it light-heartedly equated big republican parades with deep-rooted democratic beliefs.39 He criticised: ‘What could have been a celebration of all freedom-loving citizens has turned into a parade day for republicans . . . its carefully dispensed verve, its lack of original style, recalls the day of the Reich foundation, only this time celebrated in the summer’.40 In fact, the political right formulated similar criticism too. Friedrich Everling from the German Nationalist People’s Party (DNVP) stated that the Reichsbanner ‘had borrowed its uniforms from Hitler, its colours from democracy, possessed degenerated generals as leaders and exercised a discipline resembling a new kind of militarism’.41 Presumably the rightwing politician had little against uniforms, discipline and militarism but clearly disapproved of the fact that the supporters of the republic applied representative means that had for long been promoted by the nationalist right. In August 1932, although already formulated similarly eight years earlier, the nationalist war-veteran organisation Stahlhelm wrote, in the build up to its annual meeting, that even the ‘anti-militaristic’ left paid tribute to the spirit of order and discipline by imitating the appearance of the Stahlhelm. According to its journal, these actions were in vain because the outer form of Stahlhelm marches, characterised by discipline, order and obedience reflected the principles of the nationalist war-veteran organisation.42 The moderate and the extreme left-wing forces, so the message, could never truly capture the militaristic spirit of parades carried out by former soldiers. Despite the criticism, the


23

Stahlhelm revealed a little uneasiness when recognising that the political opponents were up to par. With hindsight, Friedrich Stampfer—editor of the Social Democratic newspaper Vorwärts—wrote on the importance of the Reichsbanner to visualise the republic in his memoirs: The times in which the monarchists could call the new state a republic without republicans were over. Now the republicans were present, visible in their uniforms they marched and played their drums and pipes . . . New republican conviction and old German preference for uniforms and militaristic style were combined to its own representative form.43 Indeed, parades supporting Weimar democracy were not lessons in civic state education but should create a colourful, festive and joyful atmosphere. For spectators and participants alike, parades belonged to the highlights of festivities staged by the republic.44 Occasionally, parades in honour of the republic caused controversies before they actually happened. Despite the fact that the German police were controlled by individual Länder and not a centralised institution, Berlin’s police force was frequently involved in representative tasks of the republic. Due to its Social Democratic leadership, the police of the capital had its own Constitution Day festivities in honour of the Weimar Constitution. From 1924 until the end of the republic, the police officers celebrated Constitution Day with an assembly, music, speeches and a parade.45 Actually, the very first Constitution Day celebration of Berlin’s police force in August 1924 took place with all these elements but a parade. Two days before the event, Reich Chancellor Wilhelm Marx sent a telegram to the Prussian State President Otto Braun drawing attention to concerns about the police parade envisaged for the celebration. The fact that the police were carrying weapons, so Marx, had caused problems at diplomatic level. Namely the French had expressed worries regarding public parades of armed police officers.46 In the summer of 1924 negotiations between the French and the Germans were not an easy task. The 1923 occupation of the Ruhr area by French and Belgian troops was still fresh on people’s minds, but, at the same time, the German government was determined to keep political discussions with the French going. Consequently, the parade of Berlin police officers— leading from the city palace to the Brandenburg Gate—was cancelled.47 The Prussian Minister of the Interior Carl Severing and Reich President Friedrich Ebert attempted to calm down the situation. Both men were convinced that the speeches at the ceremony would make clear

24


that it was not a militaristic event.48 Severing and Ebert were to be proven wrong in their assessments. The celebration was held at Berlin’s palace square. Otto Braun and Friedrich Ebert spoke and stressed the importance of the police for the republican state.49 The celebration started with the playing of the Egmont overture, followed by the two speeches and concluded with the singing of the national anthem.50 The police journal Die Polizei commented enthusiastically: ‘Bright sunshine in Berlin when the Constitution Day celebration of the police began. Everything was decorated with black-red-gold flags which are signs of the reawakening German national pride . . . We regret that similar celebrations of the police have not already happened in previous years.’51 Others viewed the event with less sympathy. The Times described the atmosphere created by the police officers in their green uniforms saluting Reich President Ebert in front of Berlin’s city palace as militaristic. The newspaper reported that a large number of people came to watch ‘for Berlin’s citizens love to see soldiers’.52 Republican flags present did not seem to alter this evaluation. The French paper Le Temps stressed the comparison to the military even more stating that the discipline and appearance of the police were reminiscent of the military in Imperial Germany.53 This deliberate connection to the military, even though police officers in green uniforms without arms hardly resembled the Imperial army, shows how fragile the trust towards Germany was, six years after the end of the war. It also illustrates the importance and power of visual representation, though clearly some deliberate misunderstandings occurred here too. The outcry of the two newspapers can easily be imagined, if the initially planned parade of armed police officers from Berlin’s palace, along Unter den Linden, to the Brandenburg Gate had actually taken place. Obviously, Friedrich Ebert and Carl Severing had underestimated the impact of visual images. It was not the speeches of democratic politicians in which the police force was reminded of its important role to protect the democratic state and its constitution, not even the republican colours decorating the area, but police officers in uniforms that shaped the perception of the event in the two foreign newspapers. This incident reminds us of the openness of representative forms. Parades could take place in a previously politically charged urban environment and were consequently placed and ‘labelled’ as republican events. They could be part of a political choreography in which the location, the occasion and the timing, in addition to the contextualising through speeches, offered an unambiguous interpretative framework. When political connotations and references that offered this framework


25

were ignored, the assembly of uniformed police officers in honour of the Weimar Constitution could be turned into an event resembling militaristic spirit.

‘A black-red-gold storm in German Cities’: Interpreting urban space In addition to being part of state-organised festivities, the republican organisation Reichsbanner staged its annual Constitution Day celebration in a different German city each year from 1924 to 1933. In so doing, the organisation offered different areas of the country the opportunity to send local Reichsbanner groups to one of their main events. The cities chosen—Weimar, Hamburg, Nuremberg, Leipzig, Frankfurt am Main, Berlin and Koblenz—illustrate the geographical spread the organisation aimed at. Indeed, the Reichsbanner journal reported enthusiastically in August 1925: ‘In the South and the North, in the East and the West, from the Alps to the sea coasts, thousands of celebrations show the people’s commitment to the Weimar Constitution.’54 On a smaller scale the Reichsbanner published the image of a republican map showing the area of Magdeburg-Anhalt in which places with local Reichsbanner groups were marked and the caption read ‘365 local groups in over 400 villages’.55 This local model, a network of republican strongholds, should serve as example for the national context. Despite celebrations in different cities, numerous Reichsbanner groups from the area Berlin-Brandenburg regularly participated in state-organised celebrations in the German capital. This ‘mapping of the republic’ recalled not unintentionally a rhetoric of defending and conquering areas for the republican cause. After Reichsbanner celebrations in Frankfurt am Main in 1928, Karl Hölterman, the vice-president of the organisation, demanded that ‘Berlin needed to be conquered for Constitution Day celebrations in August 1929 by a black-red-gold storm.’56 This war rhetoric of the Reichsbanner was not unique but echoed by numerous organisations and paramilitary groups on the far left and right.57 The nationalist Stahlhelm, annually staging a big meeting for its organisation in different German cities, described its allegedly successful spread with similar words. When the nationalist war-veteran organisation celebrated in Koblenz in 1930, its journal stated: Four years have passed since we met at the Rhine in 1926 . . . four years with the great parades and marches in Berlin, in Hamburg,

26


in Munich. These were milestones. The reserved people of Hamburg showed our flags at the second day. Munich was ours before we got there. And now, the Rhine will be ours.58 The Stahlhelm’s choice for the location of its annual meetings, certainly for Koblenz in 1930 and Breslau in 1931, was inspired by demonstrating strength at the Western and Eastern borders of Germany. This illustrates that the right timing of these events played a crucial role too. Internally, the staging of mass gatherings was often the annual highlight important to mobilise and motivate members. Of course, there was an external dimension as well. Parades were staged to counter-act the events of other organisations. Police, trying to prevent the direct confrontation of different political organisations, often managed to avoid the staging of two events at the same time in the same city.59 Naturally, the Reichsbanner wanted to demonstrate strength and the forceful spread of the republican idea. But cities for Reichsbanner celebrations were not only selected for their geographical location, their importance for a republican narrative was also a reason. The Reichsbanner celebrated in Weimar in 1924, not to remember the great poets of the city, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, but to stress the birthplace of the Weimar Constitution. In 1919 the national assembly had met in Weimar’s national theatre and voted for the democratic constitution of the Weimar Republic.60 However, the city of Weimar, as birthplace of the democratic constitution, was difficult ground for unambiguous republican interpretations. In 1928 the Reichsbanner commemorated the 80th anniversary of the first German parliament in Frankfurt am Main in 1848.61 Frankfurt’s citizens were included in this attempt to link the republic to a democratic tradition. When the Reichsbanner’s journal described that the Constitution Day celebration in Frankfurt had been strongly supported by the people there, it pointed out that this was not surprising given the democratic spirit rooted in the city’s population.62 This interpretation of Frankfurt and its citizens was common among democrats in the Weimar Republic. Depending on the political conviction, Frankfurt was praised as the cradle of Germany’s parliamentary democracy or as the place of revolutionary uprisings in March 1848.63 In fact, the city of Frankfurt had more to offer than a democratic tradition centred on 1848. By the end of the Weimar Republic, the city had presented itself as a reliable republican pillar. It had hosted an 1848-commemorative ceremony in 1923 and the Reichsbanner’s festivities in 1928. Furthermore, the Workers’ Olympics took place there in 1925, and Frankfurt unveiled


27

the first municipal plaque commemorating Reich President Friedrich Ebert. Nevertheless, the Reichsbanner relied on linking Frankfurt’s traditional symbols of democracy to the republican present. The postcard for its Constitution Day festivities in 1928, inviting all republicans to join, showed the Paulskirche—the location of Germany’s first parliament in 1848—and a republican flag in front of it. The displayed republican symbols could be easily connected to Frankfurt’s past and to the republican present. After all, the Paulskirche was still there, and so were black-red-gold flags as the national flag of the Weimar Republic. The symbolic language of the postcard combined two objects that possessed unambiguous potential of identification. In contrast, photographs and pictures of the city of Weimar at Constitution Day festivities illustrated that some urban environments were more difficult to be included into a republican founding narrative than others. Frankfurt’s image as birthplace of democracy lived from the

Illustration 1.2 Constitution Day Celebration 1928. Courtesy of Institut für Stadtgeschichte Frankfurt am Main

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past embodied in the visual representation of the Paulskirche decorated with black-red-gold flags. Weimar actually possessed the venue in which the democratic constitution had been accepted. But since this location was the city’s national theatre, its connection to plays by Goethe and Schiller, of which several had premiered there, was a stronger one. Festively decorated with republican flags and banners at the front of the national theatre for republican festivities, the view still falls first on the Goethe and Schiller statue in front of the building. Ideally, Weimar stood for republicanism and classic culture.64 More likely, the small city with its characteristic sights rooted in German classicism remained the city of the great classical poets. In fact, being perhaps the city most closely linked to German culture, it was an easy task for anti-republicans to attack the republic not only on political but also on cultural matters. They negatively contrasted the contested modernity of the republic to German classicism. In the 1920s, Weimar had turned into a bulwark of right-wing nationalist forces.65

Illustration 1.3 Der Heimatdienst, IX, no.3, February 1929, title page: Zum Jubiläum der Deutschen Nationalversammlung


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Not all cities could be as easily linked to the republican cause as Frankfurt. Thus the Reichsbanner applied a tactic also used by other political organisations and parties; it created a special importance for cities without an obvious link to republican events. The city of Koblenz, situated at the rivers Rhine and Mosel, was selected as a meeting place in 1931. This was one year after foreign troops had left the occupied area there and Koblenz was portrayed as manifesting the peaceful understanding between the Germans and the French. In 1926 the Constitution Day celebration took place in Nuremberg. The city, situated in anti-republican Bavaria, was celebrated as the first Bavarian city hosting a big republican celebration. With celebrations in Nuremberg, so the message, the Reichsbanner had successfully conquered enemy ground.66 In reality, the impressive festivities there had less to do with having convinced antirepublicans but with Nuremberg’s mayor Hermann Luppe, a member of the German Democratic Party (DDP), who supported the event.67 The Reichsbanner depended on municipal support in all of the cities in which it wanted to stage an event as big as its annual gathering. Consequently, the political convictions of mayors, city councils and other members of the local elite were an important factor.68 Bavaria was not a stronghold of republican spirit in the Weimar years, and the Bavarian government made no attempts to hide its anti-republican attitude which generated numerous conflicts with the government in Berlin.69 Local elites, however, could make independent decisions. Despite the Reichsbanner success, the case of Nuremberg also illustrates that the interpretation of urban space by one political group did not remain unchallenged. Two years after the Reichsbanner’s celebrations, the Nazis held their party rally there. The National Socialists had already met in the city of Weimar in 1926. In the Third Reich, cities were included into the creation of a Nazi founding myth. Munich became ‘the city of the movement’, portrayed as the place that had supported the National Socialists from the very beginning. The city famous for Nazi Party Rallies remained Nuremberg. Other German cities, in particular those connected to German culture, kept these images, but stressed Hitler’s keen interest in culture and arts. Municipal administrations also stressed the importance of their cities, towns and villages for the Nazi movement creating their individual local Nazi tradition. For example, in the Nazi period the Westphalian area of Lippe, with middle-sized towns like Detmold and Lemgo, annually celebrated, and partly re-enacted, the regional elections of January 1933 in which the Nazi Party had received a majority in the area. This was interpreted as Lippe’s contribution to the Nazi success. The celebrations included festive processions as well as

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the unveiling of commemorative plaques at locations where Hitler had held election campaign speeches.70 Public space was given a specific Nazi interpretation. After the end of the Third Reich, the opposite took place and city councils, mayors and citizens stressed the alleged resistance of their respective cities, towns and villages.71 At a national level, the Reichsbanner wanted to create a map of the country spotted with different big cities that had hosted a republican mass event. By stressing the success of past events, these cities were connected to each other as well as to a republican tradition. Within big cities, the Reichsbanner also divided the urban environment into specific republican spaces by including, if possible, republican landmarks in the festive programme or creating some at the event. Naturally, the Reichsbanner did not only try to promote its republican message within big cities, but celebrations there secured the necessary numbers of participants and spectators providing pictures and success stories for the newspapers.72 Months before the festivities, the Reichsbanner informed its members of the location and encouraged them to travel there. The groups close to the designated city were expected to participate to guarantee a big enough turn out. For festivities in Leipzig in 1927, local groups of the areas in central Germany had to participate. But often numerous other Reichsbanner groups travelled very long distances to be part of the annual event.73 The Reichsbanner suggested to its members to stay after the celebrations and visit the city. Publications with the festivities’ programmes listed main sights, tours and the most popular pubs and taverns of the location.74 The Reichsbanner also formulated demands for the urban population. Republican newspapers reminded readers that the decoration of the house or apartment with republican flags belonged to the duties of the citizens to welcome the Reichsbanner members. Flags were one of the most important ways of visually occupying public space and expressing support, and the Reichsbanner, like any other political organisation, measured the success of its events by the numbers of flags displayed.75 Descriptions on the presence of black-red-gold flags structured the urban environment as well, with working-class areas and suburbs often praised as showing more support than the wealthier quarters in the city centre.76 Municipal support of Reichsbanner events, expressed through republican flags on the city hall or other public buildings, was criticised by nationalist newspapers as party politics. The nationalist right considered the republican organisation as a political party, in this respect not different from its Communist or nationalist counterparts. Since municipal


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authorities normally did not show flags of other political groups, they should not display the flag of the Reichsbanner.77 The fact that the Reichsbanner’s flag was also the national flag of the republic did not matter in this argumentation. Not just the display of black-red-gold flags was expected of local citizens, other demands were formulated too. The Reichsbanner group of the designated city had to arrange accommodation for Reichsbanner men visiting. Schools and gyms served this purpose but also private accommodation was organised. Citizens were asked to provide sleeping places for a few nights. In Leipzig, in preparation to the Reichsbanner festivities in August 1927, the police reported of numerous small Reichsbanner marches through different areas of the city in order to promote the organisation and to convince the population to offer accommodation. The police stated that particularly in working-class areas these activities bore fruitful results and ‘some people just took Reichsbanner visitors home with them before they had reached the designated gyms or schools’.78 The Leipziger Volkszeitung addressed Leipzig’s citizens by asking them ‘to show their hospitality through accommodation for visitors and decoration in republican colours’.79 Demands were formulated not only for republican citizens but for members of the Reichsbanner too. The orientation guide for Reichsbanner members for the Constitution Day festivities in Berlin in 1929 listed numerous regulations. The men should behave in a disciplined manner because others would judge the Reichsbanner based on individual behaviour. They should be friendly and helpful, should not be provoked by political opponents, should not get drunk and should always help the police with its difficult job. The Reichsbanner members were reminded that they should not enter taverns that did not display black-red-gold flags and should always buy only republican newspapers.80 Programmes for Reichsbanner celebrations often scheduled one event after another including speeches, parades, assemblies and performances. Clearly, republican festivities were divided into political parts in which the importance of the date and the republic was stressed, sometimes including demands to defend and fight for the democratic state, followed by entertainment and popular events. Torch-lit marches, parades, public concerts, fire works, dances, sports and games were typical aspects of the celebrations.81 Within this framework, parades were to demonstrate a strong impression of community and should make a republican presence felt. They turned the urban environment into a republican space, at least as long as republicans marched through it.

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The poet Karl Bröger captured this notion of Reichsbanner parades in his poem published in August 1926: Constitution Day! Let’s walk orderly in rows Flags fly proudly in the wind To us, those who are committed Constitution Day! We are the people, the republic We ourselves determine fate Million hearts and one beat Constitution Day!82 Bröger’s piece suggested the rhythm which can be easily connected to the sound of steps simultaneously hitting the pavement. Publicly representing the republic increasingly became a maledominated sphere with few attempts to involve women. Especially the Reichsbanner illustrated this development. One of the biggest republican organisations, well integrated into official representative matters of the Weimar state, excluded women as members and neglected to find a place for them in any other way.83 Its stress on struggle, defence and male community left little room for women. Their role was limited to decorating the house in black-red-gold colours or reading tales of republican heroes to the children.84 Towards the end of the 1920s, the Reichsbanner realised this situation and started to stress women’s importance for the republic.85 However, it had done too little too late in this respect. Festivities of the republican left as Social Democratic First of May demonstrations illustrated did not come from a tradition of excluding women. Karen Hagemann argues for her case study Hamburg that participation of working-class women was high in festive events to which children could be brought along.86 First of May festivities as well as Constitution Day celebrations still possessed this festive atmosphere, but the aim of the Reichsbanner to be up to par with paramilitary organisations of the far left and the far right took its toll. Gendered spaces of the urban environment, in which prominent public squares close to important government or ministerial buildings still belonged to the sphere of men contributed to this development of— perhaps unintentionally—excluding women of many opportunities to visually express their support of the young democracy.87 A look at the title pages of the Reichsbanner journal IRZ, despite being a publication promoted as a journal for the whole republican family, shows


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the tradition of working-class visual representation in which men fight and defend republican democracy with flags and fists.88 Women were largely absent and only appeared allegorically in the form of ‘the goddess of liberty’ representing democracy, unity and liberty.89 They were often limited to traditional roles within the house—hence within the private sphere—or they were depicted as mothers, sisters, girlfriends or wives who worried and cared for their men fighting for the survival of the republic.90 Christoph Kühberger points out that the National Socialists presented female support in very similar categories.91 The republican state did not deliberately counteract this development and missed integrating women in its representation as well. Wolfgang Kaschuba rightly considers games, sports and militaristic rituals as characteristic elements of men’s culture.92 This is certainly not entirely to be blamed on the Reichsbanner. In fact, it was obvious for most commentators in Weimar Germany that the Reichsbanner’s ‘militaristic appeal’ was far behind, especially Communist organisations. A lack of ‘goose-stepping’ characterised Reichsbanner parades and instead we find cheering and singing. Carl Misch wrote convincingly in support of the Reichsbanner in September 1928 commenting that the Communists did not criticise the republican organisation for its appearance, but for the fact that it supported republican democracy.93 The Reichsbanner and the police parades, although both organisations were not centrally controlled by the Berlin government, came to represent the Weimar state at festive occasions in the German capital. Consequently, discussions on the outer appearance of police and Reichsbanner parades, including praise and criticism alike, were always discussions on how the young republic should be presented to its citizens.

2 Sports and Games 1925–1928

The popularity of sports reached a climax in the 1920s and fascinated the public through speed, strength and mass participation.1 The reasons for this enthusiasm have been interpreted differently. It is sometimes regarded as a continuation of playing war by different means with its focus on physical strength, competition, struggle and victory. Indeed, left-wing sport organisations often criticised their middle-class counterparts for this very reason. Some historians have explained the enthusiasm by suggesting that young people found in sports and body culture the clarity and clear-cut ideas they missed in the political, social and cultural life of the Weimar Republic. Peter Gay calls this alleged longing by the youth for more stability in numerous areas in the 1920s ‘a quest for wholeness’.2 Following this interpretation, the sports movement must have been closely associated with the right.3 But this was not the case. It can be equally linked to democratic groups, which also alluded to the strong sense of belonging and community without questioning republican democracy.4 Sporting activities quickly create a sense of community and of national identification. At the same time, they represent fair play and playing with, rather than against, each other. We have already seen in Chapter 1 that the appeal of unity and rhythm cannot be linked to only one political faction. The same holds true for sports. Indeed, not all formations of moving bodies should be interpreted as exemplifying a militaristic spirit of Weimar Germany’s society.5 Although there exists a strong link between sports and nationalism, sport per se cannot be ascribed to one political ideology alone.6 This becomes clear when focusing on two large sporting events staged in the 1920s: the Socialist Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt in 1925 and the bourgeois Kampfspiele in Cologne a year later in 1926. In both events the appeal of numerous bodies skilfully choreographed suggested a sense 34

Sports and Games 1925–1928

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of order and community. It is often assumed that parties, organisations and state systems that differed politically made use of substantially different forms of representation and aesthetics. This was not the case. Underlying concepts and aesthetic appeal of the events represented trends characteristic of the decade from the mid-1920s to the mid1930s rather than particular left- or right-wing ways of festive staging. This is not to suggest that both sports events were interchangeable or had similar political messages, but—embedded into different political frameworks—they used similar festive means. The last part of the chapter will illustrate how sport was used as a festive element to enhance the appeal of republican festivities. In particular school celebrations were believed to appeal more when sporting activities were part of them. Despite the honest commitment of republican officials in charge of festivities and their attempts to create popular festivals, it will become obvious that the inclusion of sporting events did not always work in favour of the republic. Difficulties arising from the combination of festivities to honour the Weimar Constitution and the ‘Father of Gymnasts’ Friedrich Ludwig Jahn illustrate that sporting activities had to be placed into an explicit republican framework. Otherwise their connections to the celebrated republican occasion remained unclear.

Frankfurt in 1925: The Workers’ Olympics For the working class and the SPD, the sports movement was an important element of their culture and identity. This is particularly obvious for the period of Imperial and Weimar Germany.7 The Workers’ Olympic Games in Frankfurt am Main—staged in the summer of 1925—was an international event. Its organisers justified its necessity with the following words: ‘Our Olympic Games differ from similar bourgeois events not just because they are a mass event but also because they follow different principles. The bourgeois Olympics pit nations against each other; one can almost say the games are a war with the means of sports.’ The Workers’ Olympics, on the other hand, should serve more noble values as friendship, international unity and reconciliation among the peoples.8 The choice for Germany, and, specifically, for Frankfurt, was made on practical, rather than ideological, grounds. Mass festivities in Leipzig in the early 1920s had illustrated that the sports organisations of the German working class had been well capable of staging and organising mass events. Furthermore, the city of Frankfurt supported the sporting

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event and co-operated with the central organisation of the Workers’ Olympics. Frankfurt provided its municipal stadium, practice grounds and 103 schools as accommodation for visitors. In addition, the city offered financial help. With 75,000 RM the city of Frankfurt made three times the money available that the republican state contributed.9 The very limited financial help from the German government might have been due to the fact that the Reich Ministry of the Interior was headed by the right-wing nationalist Martin Schiele. Schiele was certainly not keen on granting more money than absolutely necessary to the left-wing event. However, it has to be kept in mind that perhaps also other ministers would not have been too willing subsidising a sporting event at which the International was played, red flags shown and the solidarity of the working class proclaimed. In addition to financial subsidies, the working-class sports organisations tried to cover some of the costs through merchandising. Books, badges, postcards and posters were sold to generate money and to promote the event at the same time. Despite these efforts, the Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt ended with financial losses. As a consequence, the Workers’ Olympics were successively staged only every six years, instead of following the Olympic rhythm. After Frankfurt in 1925 the next one took place in Vienna in 1931 and in Antwerp in 1937.10 Frankfurt’s mayor Ludwig Landmann, a member of the DDP, had no political problems with the event.11 The city possessed the infrastructure necessary for the staging of the sporting activities including adequate public transport and a newly built sport stadium. Frankfurt’s stadium stood in line with the ones in Berlin and Cologne, all constructed with facilities to host mass events.12 In fact, the municipal authorities in Frankfurt and Cologne aimed at presenting their respective cities in a particularly flattering light. With the Workers’ Olympic, Frankfurt wanted to promote its image of a sports city celebrating its new stadium. By hosting the Kampfspiele in 1926, Cologne reopened its doors for tourism after the end of the foreign occupation of the city. Both cities boosted, with the support of sports, their modern images.13 Workingclass publications praised Frankfurt’s generosity and reminded its readers of the city’s past as location of the March revolution in 1848. We have already come across Frankfurt’s interpretation as the cradle of German democracy. In his 1926 publication on the Workers’ Olympics, Hans Fenz described how the city of Frankfurt had decorated municipal buildings, schools, churches, buses and trams with flags in the colours of the republic, the region and the city. He commented that a


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workers’ sporting event greeted with such festive decoration could only have happened in the democratic city of Frankfurt.14 Despite the city’s wholehearted support, there were also critical voices illustrating that not everyone in Frankfurt was delighted by the staging of a working-class mass event there. While the accommodation of athletes and visitors involved private houses, a tent colony, gyms and schools, right-wing parents attempted to avoid that sportsmen were accommodated in their children’s schools arguing that the workers were not hygienic enough.15 Indeed, the Workers’ Olympics were not an usual sports event. Already the opening ceremony with the entry of the sportsmen and sportswomen from different countries into the Frankfurt stadium illustrated its special character. Witnessed by 45,000 spectators, the athletes entered, accompanied by the sounds of the International, and carried red flags with the name of their countries. No national colours were presented.16 Clearly, this was part of the Socialist message of the event and interpreted by a contemporary account as follows: ‘The applause turned into a storm when the French athletes marched into the stadium. German national chauvinism was clearly rejected [. . .] those who entered had been as little responsible for the war as those applauding’.17 After the athletes had assembled, official speeches, delivered by international representatives of working-class sports organisations, stressed the character of the Workers’ Olympics based on the principles of peace, solidarity and workers’ community.18 Mass gymnastic exercises were also part of the opening ceremony. Performed to music the exercises stressed order and discipline. The gymnasts had received detailed guidelines requesting them to pay attention to their posture, to refrain from talking and to march orderly into the stadium.19 Thus uniformity in the dress, good posture and simultaneous movements characterised the performance.20 The organisers offered an ideological interpretation:‘The rhythm of mass exercises expresses the strong will of the masses to protect the culture of the working class [. . .] Not nations but human beings stand together’.21 Despite this ideological justification, the appeal of the exercises also played an important role in the festive ceremony. In a commemorative book on the games, the description of the gymnastic mass exercises in Frankfurt was presented in a literary style common for left-wing organisations in Weimar Germany: 8,000 gymnasts in twelve columns marched into the stadium like powerful battalions of the proletariat behind a sea of red flags [. . .]Living lines and diagonals, well trained harmonic bodies, only

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dressed with short black trousers, stood stiff like stone pillars or waved in the cadence of the music. It was an unforgettable sight of health, life and strength and in sync united tanned naked bodies [. . .] the female gymnasts were another fabulous sight, the bodies of future mothers bending in the sunlight’.22 To create such an impression, the gymnasts had to follow meticulously a blueprint that indicated where to stand, when to start and how to position themselves on the stadium ground. Sketches and instructions on their positions on the sports field offer an insight into the exact planning behind such big mass exercises which left nothing to the spontaneous decision of the individual performer.23 The exercises, praised as an embodiment of beauty, order and discipline, illustrate a characteristic feature of mass events staged by the working class. We have seen the emphasis on order and discipline already in parades and marches in which workers wanted to present themselves as disciplined and law-biding citizens in response to prevalent bourgeois prejudices regarding the alleged untidy and undisciplined behaviour of members of the working class. The concerned Frankfurt parents, questioning the hygiene of the workers accommodated in their children’s schools fearing that they could contaminate this clean and ordered environment, exemplified these notions. Dirt and disorder became connected and threatened accepted categories.24 Consequently, orderly mass exercises also came to represent the collective disciplined worker’s body. The stress on the gymnasts’ clean clothing was part of this interpretation counteracting bourgeois fears of dirt and filth.25 This focus on discipline, order and health was taken up by a banner greeting the visitors at the entrance gate of the stadium: ‘Workers, avoid alcohol.’26 A commemorative book on the sporting event concluded that ‘the first International Workers’ Olympics were a triumph in every respect: the attitude of the masses was great and the sense of order of the whole event was excellent.’ The gymnastic exercises of the Workers’ Olympics resembled exercises performed by bourgeois sports clubs but the playing of the International and the display of red flags provided a differing political framework for the event. Critical voices within the workers’ sport movement demanded that more attention should be paid to spontaneity and rhythm than to the perfection of previously practised exercises. The simultaneously performed mass exercises resembled drill and impeded personal liberation, the critique stated.27 From the mid-1920s onwards, youth organisations of left-wing sports associations intensified their demands to replace


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traditional mass exercises with more fluid movements shifting the focus from precision to rhythmic self-expression.28 However, the Frankfurt Workers’ Olympics still remained unaffected by these concerns, and it took the workers’ sports organisations until 1929 to put some of these ideas into practice. Mass exercises remained attractive far into the Nazi period. In addition to sporting competitions, one day was dedicated to the youth at the Workers’ Olympics. This was common for sporting events and the connection between youth and sports was generally stressed regardless of the political interpretation of the event. A children’s festive procession and children’s mass exercises were part of the day.29 Any organisation or movement stressed that its ideas and principles were carried on by the youth. Consequently, the working-class sports movement was keen to show that young as they were children had already understood their values and principles. Another activity, not related to sports competitions, but still characteristic of the political left took place in Frankfurt: the performance of the festive mass play Struggle for the Earth. Alfred Auerbach, a well-established member of Frankfurt’s theatre

Illustration 2.1 Workers’ Olympics 1925. Courtesy of Institut für Stadtgeschichte Frankfurt am Main

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house, wrote the play which was performed in Frankfurt’s stadium in front of 50,000 people. Mass choirs and acting groups of Frankfurt’s two theatres as well as Socialist youth organisations were part of the cast.30 A contemporary publication stated: This is the first short version of a modern play which, performed outdoors, speaks to the masses. Mass choirs bring to life the struggle of the masses [. . .] and our fighting for a fair distribution of the earth’s goods. Sport is a source for the struggle of all people to create a new and fair world that belongs to all [. . .] the powerful youth will dedicate its work to create a new and just earth.31 The play’s contents were reminiscent of a traditional left-wing narrative. Unlike the staging of spectacles in the late 1920s, concentrating more on evoking visual impressions, the focus on Struggle for the Earth remained on the actual plot and its political message. Different roles were allocated to several choir groups including for example ‘the Choir of the Powerful’ or ‘the Choir of the Diplomats’. Two groups fought for dominance and power on earth: the powerful political and financial elites against the working-class masses. Indeed, this constellation was also the premise of Fritz Lang’s iconic film Metropolis. Premiered in 1927 the film ended on the more hopeful note suggesting that a mediator could be found to reconcile these hostile groups.32 In Auerbach’s play the powerful had miscalculated and war broke out between the nations. After the war had exhausted and destroyed everything, the youth was presented as new hope for the future—a youth, who had learned to mistrust the glamour and the splendour of the old elites. The youth dedicated its work to rebuilding the country. The play concluded with the demand of unity between all of those who wanted to help shaping the future. Schiller’s Ode to Joy ended the play with the audience joining in.33 Thus, the mass play at the Workers’ Olympics finished exactly like the festive play at the 1936 Berlin Olympics a decade later. Indeed, the Workers’ Olympics, combining sporting events and a mass play, anticipated a trend reaching the ‘traditional’ Olympic Games under Hitler in 1936.34 In line with working-class ideology, in which the status of sports went far beyond physical training and should serve cultural and spiritual education, the Frankfurt games offered more than only sporting activities. According to the organisers, the training of the body should not simply mean muscular development but involved an education of the mind as well. Body culture should form the whole human being


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and eventually lead to political reforms and societal changes.35 Consequently, an exhibition on sports and body culture as well as theatre plays and concerts were as much part of the programme as sightseeing in Frankfurt. A festive procession through the city of Frankfurt was an entertainment and promotional tool alike for the working-class sports movement. Approximately 50,000–80,000 athletes participated. They were greeted by numerous Frankfurt citizens. Contemporary description in workers’ publications praised the procession, emphasised the enormous number of participants and spectators and paid particular attention to the international solidarity demonstrated. The Frankfurter Zeitung wrote: ‘This festive procession can’t be described but had to be experienced. The procession functioned as Masse Mensch, as a symbol of the organised working class everywhere under the sign of red and republican flags.’36 The newspaper stressed that the festive march through the city of Frankfurt used impressive visual and acoustic means, namely with colourful costumes and flags as well as drummers and pipers. Not surprisingly, the emphasis on the internationalism of the event, which allegedly represented one of the main differences compared to ‘bourgeois’ sporting spectacles, was also mirrored. According to several descriptions, sportsmen of all German areas participated in the procession including ‘our brothers from Austria’. Foreigners were particularly welcomed as French and German participants walked arm in arm, according to the Frankfurter Zeitung.37 The stress on numerous participants making an orderly overall impression was evoked once again. Clearly, the red flags, the International and the proclaimed working-class solidarity foregrounded so forcefully provided the political framework of the sporting event in Frankfurt. Most other means, from organisational to ceremonial ones, echoed similar developments applied in other large-scale sporting events. The reactions of the press to the Workers’ Olympics were diverse. Communist newspapers complained that the sporting event had been too tame in its political demands neglecting to emphasise the workers’ struggle and working-class solidarity. On the other hand, the bourgeois press, in particular the local newspapers in Frankfurt, covered the event surprisingly extensively but criticised the connection between sports and politics. This was a common reproach often made by nationalist newspapers and always directed at political opponents and never aimed at the sporting events staged by its own readership. But there was also praise coming from an unexpected side. Bourgeois sport journals expressed their admiration of the technical and organisational

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achievements of the Workers’ Olympics. The journal Der Fußball stated impressed: One might politically stand to these activities as one wishes but the first 1925-Workers’ Olympics has been such a generous event. Nobody should underestimate the strength of the working-class sports organisations. We still have a lot to learn from them [. . .] the depth of their ideas, the extraordinary comradeship and the true sport spirit of the participants.38

Cologne’s Kampfspiele in 1926: Sport and the nation The staging of sporting events was not limited to one political conviction. Planned to take place every four years in a different German city, the Kampfspiele were the ‘bourgeois’ response to Germany’s initial exclusion from the Olympic Games after the end of the First World War. Germany was allowed to participate again in the 1928 Olympic Games in Amsterdam. In consequence, bourgeois sports organisations and their representatives considered the Kampfspiele as ‘the German Olympic Games’. The first Kampfspiele took place in Berlin in 1922 followed by the ones in Cologne four years later and the event was continued in the Nazi period too. Although the name Kampfspiele (combat games) might suggest militaristic drill closely linked to soldiers’ exercises, this impression is misleading. The event was a typical sporting competition including football games, swimming, athletics and gymnastics. Carl Diem, one of the most influential representatives of Germany’s middle-class sports organisations, placed the Kampfspiele in an Olympic tradition. He stressed that, similar to the Greek origins of the Olympic Games, German sports combined culture, nationalism and popular festivities. In so doing, Diem interpreted the Kampfspiele in line with a German tradition of nationalist events, recalling the importance of sportsmen and gymnasts in the national-liberal movement of the nineteenth century.39 According to Diem, the Kampfspiele were not primarily a reaction to the exclusion of the Olympics, but a sporting event rooted in German tradition and history. The bulletin Kampfspiel-Nachrichten, edited by the city of Cologne, argued that the Kampfspiele had an educative purpose and expressed the ideas of its time. The games allegedly restored ‘the destroyed harmony of our individuals and our people’ and served as a reminder that self-respect and achievement stood above everyday worries and party quarrels. The journal concluded by connecting the metaphors of


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regeneration and hopefulness to the city of Cologne: ‘We see the dawn of a new time brightly shining over Cologne’s stadium. The flying flags are safe signs that the young Germany is rebuilding with its eternal power, filling its life with new ideals.’40 Similar to the Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt, the 1926 Kampfspiele depended on the co-operation between sports organisations and Cologne’s municipal officials. Indeed, most of the organisational issues as well as the financial risk of the event were taken over by the city of Cologne. Like Frankfurt and Berlin, Cologne possessed a modern stadium and the appropriate infrastructure for big sporting events.41 The city’s mayor, the Centre Party politician Konrad Adenauer, and his assistant Dr Billstein were the main organisers.42 Consequently, it should not come as a surprise that the Kampfspiele functioned also as a promotional tool for the recently liberated city of Cologne. After all, Cologne was not any German city in the summer of 1926. The withdrawal of foreign troops earlier in the year, who had been stationed in the city and the surrounding area since the end of the First World War, nourished the hope that also the rest of the Rhineland was to be ‘liberated’ in the near future. Chapter 4 will show that the eventual withdrawal of troops from the Rhineland in 1930 was not per se a right-wing dominated topic but offered scope for numerous political interpretations. For the Kampfspiele, the combination of the liberated city of Cologne, the call for the German youth and the stress on strength, struggle and physical achievements was already present in the official welcome. Mayor Adenauer greeted the visitors to his hometown with the words: Welcome to Cologne! Celebrate together with us the liberation of pain and pressure inflicted by foreign troops, the liberation of the separation from the German Heimat and from German blood. We want to celebrate a festival of German unity and we want to prove German strength to the whole world. We want to create trust and hope for the future and for those who suffer from the difficult economic situation. We hope that the German brothers, who are separated from the German fatherland, will find new strength here.43 Similar nationalist rhetoric was commonplace for many republican politicians when they spoke on the Rhineland. Konrad Adenauer was a conservative democrat, far from supporting the nationalist right, and he strategically combined his city’s appeal with the popularity of sporting activities. Indeed, the Rhine and Cologne’s main sights were

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well integrated into the event. Valmar Cramer summarised in his 1926 essay Magic of the Rhine how the city of Cologne linked the sporting event to its municipal pride. This included fireworks over the Rhine, electric lightening of the Rhine bridges and of the cathedral, a torchlit march along the river banks, celebrations in Cologne’s medieval city hall and boat trips to Bonn and Königswinter along one of the most scenic Rhine routes.44 The boundaries between a sporting event and a municipal tourist promotion tour had become blurred. Cologne’s municipal authorities knew how to promote their city. They had acquired experience in staging festivities which, next to cultural and popular activities, stressed the city’s connection to the German Heimat. In the summer of 1925, Cologne and other Rhenish cities had celebrated their 1000th anniversary of belonging to the German Reich. This constructed historical tradition was based on the fact that in 925 the last areas on the left side of the Rhine had been united with the German Reich. Consequently, the festivities had had a strongly nationalist tone.45 By the time of the Kampfspiele, in the summer of 1926, Cologne had already experienced numerous festivities, including the visit of the Reich President Paul von Hindenburg, celebrating the city’s ‘liberation’.46 In some respects the Kampfspiele were the opposite of the Workers’ Olympics. The stress was not on internationalism or working-class solidarity but on the German nation and on participants from the ‘lost German territories’ as the Saar area, Silesia and East Prussia. The focus on this theme of national regeneration to be achieved through territorial unity in the recently liberated city of Cologne characterised the games. After Cologne, the Kampfspiele took place in Breslau in 1930. Similar to Cologne, Breslau was not just any city. Situated in Silesia, Breslau stood for the Eastern parts separated from Germany. The National Socialists continued this tradition by staging Kampfspiele in Nuremberg in 1934 and the German gymnastic and sports festival in Breslau four years later in 1938. While the event in Nuremberg placed the festivities in close connection to the National Socialist movement celebrating the ‘new’ Germany and its leader, the activities in Breslau in late July 1938 stressed again the issue of territorial unity. After the annexation of Austria, the foreign political focus of the Nazi state in the summer of 1938 was on the Sudetenland. Nazi propaganda stressed particularly that 15–20 per cent of the participants in the sporting festivity staged in Breslau came from this area.47 We have seen previously how urban space was politically charged and then linked to the event staged there. Sporting events were no exception to this rule. The choices for Cologne,


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Nuremberg and Breslau were clearly made to communicate political messages. In Cologne, the Kampfspiele dominated the city for a week during the summer of 1926. Planning, however, had started two years earlier. Municipal officials had to organise accommodation, transport and food for several thousand sportsmen and sportswomen as well as for visitors and spectators.48 The opening ceremony of the games followed the traditional pattern of ceremonial festivities at sporting events with the theme of territorial unity being at its centre. After the athletes had entered the stadium carrying flags and banners, representatives of the city of Cologne, of the Reich Ministry of the Interior and of several sports organisations addressed participants and spectators. Approximately 20,000 people witnessed the opening ceremony in Cologne’s stadium. The participants entered in groups including sportsmen from Danzig, the Saar area, Austria and Silesia. Afterwards a children’s choir sang Ernst Moritz Arndt’s What is the Germans’ fatherland? and a joyful song on the Rhine.49 Friedrich Körner described this moment as ‘sacred’ in his 1926 publication on the games.50 The singing of the national anthem concluded the official part of the ceremony. Daily sporting events dominated the week of the Kampfspiele. One day was reserved for the German youth as at the Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt. Pupils of Cologne’s schools presented their abilities in competitions but also in gymnastic exercises and festive games.51 The ‘Day of the German youth’ concluded with a festive reception for the Germans living outside the borders of the German Reich.52 Both themes, the importance of the German youth and the fate of the Germans outside the country’s borders, reoccurred repeatedly in sporting events and other festivities staged throughout the 1920s and 1930s. The ceremony at the end of the games was described as enthusiastically as the one opening them. The day included the honouring of the winners, undertaken by Reich Chancellor Marx who congratulated also on the behalf of Reich President Hindenburg. Hindenburg had supported the Kampfspiele but could not be present in person. Marx expressed in his speech an optimistic legacy of the events in Cologne. He stressed that the sporting activities had an importance far beyond physical fitness: ‘We look delighted and hopeful to our youth who is not divided anymore by social, economic or class differences but united in the thought: we are united and recover in sports, differences do not matter and we want to serve the German nation.’53 This idea that a sense of fair play and community could be projected upon society on a whole was a nice but unrealistic one. Indeed, the two big sporting events in

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1925 and 1926 illustrate, despite all similarities, the division between working-class sports organisations and middle-class ones. Part of the festive ceremonies at the beginning and the end of the games were gymnastic mass exercises. We have seen that the Workers’ Olympics had included them, although some had criticised mass exercises as being reminiscent of militaristic drill. This uneasiness did not seem to have concerned the bourgeois sports movement. On the contrary, the mass exercises at the Kampfspiele were described as very impressive.54 A contemporary publication wrote of the visual images of the performances: 2000 gymnasts entered in 12 rows. And now the green ground of the stadium was lined with the white dresses of the gymnasts [. . .] the impression was incredible: a sea of men perfectly performing their exercises to the music. The exercises are divided into several groups with strong and powerful movements as well as slower ones stressing posture and grace.55 Carl Diem considered the different sporting activities and, in particular, the mass exercises as proof of the German longing for ‘unity and order’. He believed that a quest for community differentiated German sports

Illustration 2.2 Kampfspiele 1926. Courtesy of Carl und Liselott Diem-Archiv, Cologne


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festivities from others elsewhere. The last factor of this organic wholeness, as expressed by German sports, was the connection between sport and nature captured in many of the modern buildings and sport stadiums of the time. According to Diem the stadium in Cologne exemplified this.56 We will find similar ideas formulated by the Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob describing the connection between sports, community, festivities and democratic ideas. Next to sporting activities, the Kampfspiele offered, like the events in Frankfurt, other festive elements. A torch-lit march, taking place at the evening before the games, was regarded as one of the highlights of the festive programme. Enthusiastic descriptions wrote of ‘the march of the ten thousand’. Approximately 300,000 citizens witnessed how schoolchildren and athletes walked to Cologne’s Cathedral, passed the old quarters of the city, continued over the Rhine bridges and walked back again. Boats on the river were decorated with lights too. Friedrich Körner described in his 1926 published book the impression of this sea of lights: ‘Whoever has seen our holy river, the Rhine, like this will treasure this memory forever [. . .] The towers of Cologne’s Cathedral rose above this fantastic image and expressed serenity and clarity.’57 The evening ended with fireworks. Photographs illustrate what another publication called ‘an enormous glowing snake’ when describing the visual impression of the march.58 Cultural events, as exhibitions, musical concerts and theatre performances, took place as well. Cologne’s cultural institutions and organisations seized the opportunity of so many visitors in the city to stage special performances. Unlike the Workers’ Olympics, the Kampfspiele did not include a mass spectacle as part of the stadium festivities. However, Friedrich Schiller’s play Wilhelm Tell was performed on an open air stage close to the stadium. Organisers of the Kampfspiele stated that the play expressed most clearly the ideas of unity and liberty.59 Needless to say, these themes were believed to be fitting for the city on the Rhine. Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell was the play par excellence for any peoples, states or societal groups suffering from occupation or suppressing and dreaming of liberty and independence. The 1926 performance in Cologne might have evoked memories of another Tell-performance a year earlier. In 1925 the occupied Saar area had seized the opportunity of the Rhenish festivities commemorating the connection to the German Reich since 925 to stress the region’s belonging to the German Heimat and in so doing protested against the area’s occupation. One of the highlights of the 1925 festivities in the Saar region, deeply rooted in the collective memory of the people there and mobilised again by the

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Illustration 2.3 Kampfspiele 1926. Courtesy of Carl und Liselott Diem Archiv, Cologne

Nazis in 1935, was the performance of Wilhelm Tell in Saarbrücken’s theatre. When the actor swore the oath on the Rütli—speaking of ‘a people of brothers’ that preferred death to serfdom—the theatre audience rose and joined this adherence to liberty and against foreign occupation.60 For municipal officials, the Kampfspiele offered the opportunity to present Cologne as a tourist attraction. Although also the bourgeois sports movement stressed the connection between sport and culture, light entertainment had its place in Cologne as well. Raffle tickets were sold—to cover some of the costs of the Kampfspiele—the city’s sights and ship journeys were advertised as complementing the days at the Rhine.61 Not just Cologne, the Rhineland in general lived from this combination of scenic beauty—a landscape romantic poets had praised in numerable works—and the claim that it was every German’s duty to visit the area. After all, the Rhine represented for many Germany’s national and cultural heritage. Sports, tourism, culture and nationalism were well compatible in the Rhineland. In the end, the Kampfspiele caused, like the Workers’ Olympics, a financial deficit. The most obvious reason for this was the slow ticket sale. Dr Billstein speculated in his concluding report that possibly the


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bad weather had kept people at home. A few newspapers came up with a different explanation stating that the ticket price had been too high.62 The financial losses for the city of Cologne were considerable. However, they did not prevent the continuation of the event. Preparations for the organisation of the Kampfspiele in Breslau in 1930 took place shortly after the activities in Cologne had come to an end. Of course, official publications neither reported a lack of spectators nor financial difficulties. Instead, they stressed that ‘the spirit of Cologne’, namely national strength, territorial unity and societal community, had to live on.63 Unlike the Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt, which remained a politically charged event in the public perception, the Kampfspiele were much more. Cologne’s Kampfspiele enjoyed the public support of ministers of the government in Berlin. Reich President Hindenburg had taken over the patronage, and Reich Chancellor Marx and Reich Minister of the Interior Külz spoke at the opening and closing ceremonies. The following part of the chapter will show that the republic did not only support sporting events, as in Cologne, but attempted to deliberately use them for state educative purposes.

‘Turnvater Jahn’ and republican festivities in August 1928 Sporting events were embedded into different political frameworks with specific messages allocated to them. When in 1928 Germany participated again in the Olympic Games in Amsterdam, this fact was not seized extensively by the republican state to present the face of the young German republic to the rest of the world stressing the country’s renewed inclusion in the community of nations. A few newspapers commented angrily when some German sportsmen made their round of honour in Amsterdam carrying flags in the colours of Imperial Germany. Berlin’s mayor Gustav Böss considered not welcoming the young German fencer Helene Mayer, winner of an Olympic gold medal, on behalf of his city because she had carried a flag with the Imperial colours celebrating her victory in Amsterdam.64 Mayer stated that a fan had given her the flag and that she had not intended to make a political statement.65 However, incidents like this ‘little flag conflict with Helene’—as a nationalist newspaper formulated— remained limited and local. Equally limited was the attempt to present the German participants at the 1928 games explicitly as representatives of the republic as this title page of the Reichsbanner journal IRZ tried to do.

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Illustration 2.4 Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung, 26.5.1928, no. 21. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf

In fact, the republican Reichsbanner, apart from relying on sports as an entertainment aspect at festivities, allocated a much more serious function to it. A Reichsbanner publication stated that its members conducted Schutzsport (literally ‘protective sport’) to enhance their physical fitness and protect themselves and the republic against attacks from anti-republican forces. Schutzsport, the Reichsbanner claimed, had nothing to do with the activities of nationalist organisations which only engaged in sports to rekindle the cherished memories of militaristic exercises.66 Both strands, sports as defence weapon to safeguard the republic or as a republican mass event, did not reflect the concept of those in charge of republican festivities. This is not to suggest that officials, among them the Reichskunstwart, were not aware of the popular appeal of sports and the possibility to use it as a promotional tool for the Weimar state. But instead of painting a sporting event in political colours, the republic relied on the opposite strategy: attempting to enhance


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the appeal of republican festivities through sports. Republican officials organising activities for Constitution Day celebrations realised quickly that—in addition to parades—the inclusion of sporting activities could help to create the atmosphere of popular festivals. Therefore, demands for games and sports competitions were among the first ideas suggested to broaden the appeal of state festivities. Before sporting activities and their aesthetic appeal were incorporated into mass festivities, republican officials began with their inclusion at local school celebrations. Previous parts of this chapter have illustrated that the connection between sports and youth, both standing for national regeneration, characterised sporting events in general. The Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob agreed with this notion and stated already in April 1923: ‘The youth should celebrate Constitution Day with dances, singing and sport competitions because this will help to root the commemoration of the republican constitution in their minds.’ Redslob suggested that celebrations should take place in all stadiums and sports fields in the country. Government representatives should attend and medals and sports awards signed by the president of the republic should be given to the winners.67 Most of these ideas were put into practice in co-operation with schools and sports clubs.68 For Redslob the importance of sports was strongly connected to a sense of community he wanted to create. According to him, sport stadiums, located in the urban infrastructure of cities, were locations that exemplified the dedication of the individual to the masses.69 Sports, dances and theatre, the Reichskunstwart believed, had to be linked to create this community. In 1929 Redslob summarised his ideas about sport and its importance for society, when he stated: ‘The highest form of body culture is its representation of community. This makes body culture especially important for our time and explains why it is so popular with the youth. Young people want to participate in the festive experience of community.’70 The Reichskunstwart considered the connection between sports and art as an expression of a festive culture representing societal wholeness. Even more importantly, Redslob interpreted sports as an essential part of popular folk culture.71 Many of these ideas and themes influenced Redslob’s staging of large-scale republican festivities. In stressing the cultural importance of sport and its significance for a festive community the Reichskunstwart neglected characteristics of sporting events which certainly were a main attraction for many, namely new technologies and the quest for new world records.72 Sports, in other words, was not an end in itself but was expected, from different political sides, to restore wholeness, community, health and national regeneration.

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A tradition for school sporting events was already in place. In 1920, based on initiatives by Carl Diem, the first Reichsjugendwettkämpfe (Reich youth competitions) were introduced in Berlin. These competitions consisted of an athletic triathlon and were an annual summer event. Some schools combined them with Constitution Day celebrations; others held them earlier or later in the summer. In 1929 the SPD politician Carlo Mierendorff outlined his ideas to increase the popularity of Constitution Day festivities in a report to Redslob. Mierendorff pointed out that it was of essential importance that the sports competitions actually took place on the day of Constitution Day celebrations. Only in this way could there be a direct link between the sporting activities and the republican celebrations.73 Most of Berlin’s schools located in the same district joined together to stage sports competitions, gymnastics and games on Constitution Day. In August 1929, the police reported from a sport festival of all schools from the Berlin working-class district Prenzlauer Berg with over 10,000 participants. The schools of Prenzlauer Berg already celebrated its Constitution Day celebrations traditionally at the common sports ground. Starting with 5,000 participants in 1926, the number had doubled in three years.74 Also schools of the Berlin-Neukölln district celebrated the republican holiday together. The ceremony included two pieces of music, a speech, a march with republican flags and the singing of the national anthem. Afterwards the sports competition started and the school’s report concluded that ‘the Constitution Day celebration in this way was certainly an unforgettable experience for the young generation and will only have strengthened the republican idea.’75 But not only schools were involved in sporting activities. As festivities increased in scope and scale all kinds of groups planned sports and games on this occasion. Youth games and festivals were organised by youth groups, political parties as well as municipal authorities attempting to accommodate as many people as possible by planning entertainment to their liking.76 Generally speaking, sporting activities were considered to successfully enhance the appeal of Constitution Day.77 Lists in which the police registered events on Constitution Days in Berlin illustrate the importance of sport competitions for these days. Whether in big cities or smaller communities, the common feature of many Constitution Day celebrations seemed to have been a sporting event.78 Indeed, the police force did not just report on sporting activities but also staged its own. From the mid-1920s onwards, the police combined its multiple tasks of securing order, presenting a friendly image and showing support for the republic at Constitution Day festivities. While


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Constitution Day celebrations of the police reminded police officers of their important role in protecting republican democracy, police sport competitions served entertainment purposes. Police officials in Weimar Germany were keen on presenting the police force as a reliable friend of the people and sport competitions were believed to help achieving this goal. They entertained the audience and offered at the same time the possibility to demonstrate the physical strength and achievements of the police officers. Police official Wessig stated in his publication in 1928 that ‘police sports competitions show the striving of the police force for popular form.’79 Police sports events occasionally included mass gymnastic exercises but mainly focused on football games, light athletic disciplines as well as shooting.80 Not everyone in the police considered sport festivals at Constitution Day celebrations as a good idea. Police officers complained that the day already demanded a lot of them without participation in sporting activities.81 But concerns also came from another side. The police president of Frankfurt am Main, a strong supporter of Constitution Day celebrations staged by the police to demonstrate the force’s commitment to the republic, pointed out that spectators who spent the afternoon at police sport competitions were too tired to join other celebrations later in the day.82 This danger, formulated by Frankfurt’s police president, of overemphasising the apolitical side of a date that should have made people feel part of the republican state had already become clear in 1928. An unintended peak of sports competitions at Constitution Day celebrations was reached in August 1928. The Prussian government suggested that sporting activities as part of the republican celebrations could commemorate the 150th anniversary of Friedrich Ludwig Jahn.83 Jahn was admired as the founding father of German gymnastics and stood for the combination of German nationalism, sports and youth. Certainly not a republican, Jahn had been a convinced nationalist believing in the necessity of a unified German state in the nineteenth century. Prussian civil servants had underestimated the problematic potential of this suggestion. Anti-republican schoolteachers, compelled by the Prussian Ministry for Culture and Education to honour the republican constitution, turned the gymnast Jahn into the motto of the day.84 Thus a combination of sports and nationalism dominated speeches of antirepublican civil servants and teachers in August 1928. They were not allowed to ignore the republican festivity altogether, but could now easily take revenge. Newspapers as well as republican parents brought these matters to the attention of the authorities.85

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The incident covered most extensively by Berlin’s newspapers regarding Constitution Day festivities in 1928, and even debated in the Prussian parliament, occurred at the Werner Siemens Realgymnasium in Berlin-Schöneberg. The school had connected commemorating Turnvater Jahn to its Constitution Day celebration, but republican pupils complained that the main speech by the school’s director had only centred on Jahn. Supported by republican organisations and the Prussian Minister for Culture and Education Carl Heinrich Becker, some of the pupils organised a second celebration. Republican newspapers stressed delightedly the dedicated spirit of the young people, who had organised the second celebration to honour the republic appropriately. Right-wing and conservatives newspapers regretted that political matters were carried out in schools and attacked Minister Becker for encouraging this development.86 Becker defended his position in a debate in the Prussian parliament and pointed out that the 25-minute speech in question focused heavily on Turnvater Jahn’s life neglecting to honour the occasion of the republican festivity.87 According to Becker, the positive outcome of this unpleasant story was that pupils had shown that they would not tolerate an indifferent speech on the anniversary of the Weimar Constitution.88 The Prussian school authorities for the area of Berlin-Brandenburg, the Provinzial Schulkolleg (PSK), reacted to complaints formulated by newspapers, republican organisations and parents and asked several of Berlin’s schools to provide more information on how its Constitution Day celebrations had taken place.89 Based on these reports the PSK commented on the ways the schools had staged the ceremonies.90 For Berlin’s Hohenzollern Gymnasium, the school authorities stated that for the Constitution Day celebration, a Jahn ceremony and a sports competition were elements that had to be connected to each other. Neither the speech by the sports teacher nor the one by the school director related to the Weimar Constitution. The PSK expressed its disapproval and stated that a connection of Constitution Day celebrations with Jahn ceremonies was only possible when the constitution was honoured in the main speech. Otherwise, the two events had to be celebrated separately.91 The replies to several other schools were similar. On the whole, the school authorities stated that the newspaper reports distorted the picture and that there had not been deliberate and widespread sabotaging of Constitution Day celebrations.92 To commemorate the 150th anniversary of Turnvater Jahn was not a bad choice as such. The journal of the Reichszentrale für Heimatdienst,


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Illustration 2.5 Der Heimatdienst, VII, no. 15, 1. Augustheft 1928, Friedrich Ludwig Jahn, 11.8.1778

a state office in charge of civic education in the 1920s, reminded its readers of the importance of Jahn by publishing this title page. This montage shows Jahn’s portrait on the background of scenes of mass sporting events. Sportsmen and sportswomen perform simultaneous exercises, march in rows and offer a very vivid impression of the Turnvater’s legacy. However, the fact that the admired personality of the German gymnastic movement was celebrated at the same date as the republic honoured its constitution was not mentioned. The journal Der Heimatdienst refrained from offering a republican interpretation of the event. Other republican newspapers stressed Jahn’s support for the unity of Germany under the black-red-gold colours, and, in so doing, tried to embed the nationalist Friedrich Ludwig Jahn into an explicit republican context.93 It was not that the topic could not be connected to the republic, bringing together the important elements of sports, youth

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and national commitment, but that it was not unambiguous. Jahn celebrations offered enough potential to avoid honouring the republican constitution. Indeed, Winfried Speitkamp illustrates that the public perception of Friedrich Ludwig Jahn had changed little from Imperial times to post-1945: ‘Jahn stood for national awakening, for popular customs and habits, for youth and sport, everyone from opponents of urban modernity to left-wing reformers could trace their ideas back to him.’ The Nazis relied on this established repertoire and added their own stress on race, national community and physical education. According to Speitkamp, they turned Jahn, the nineteenth-century nationalist, into an early National Socialist.94 The Prussian Ministry for Culture and Education refused to be held responsible for any of the unpleasant occurrences. Criticism from the PSK for a lack of guidelines for Constitution Day celebrations and for connecting Jahn to the festivities was rejected. The Prussian Ministry pointed out that the decree on the Jahn celebration only stated that the sporting activities at Constitution Day celebrations could be linked to celebrating the father of German gymnastics. This did not mean, according to the ministry, that the two celebrations should have been combined with an exaggerated focus on Jahn instead of the Weimar Constitution.95 Combining sporting events and Constitution Day celebrations also did not run smoothly for several schools in Goslar; a case that created headlines due to the stern reaction of the Prussian authorities. For the tenth anniversary of the republican constitution in 1929, Goslar’s schools had celebrated separate celebrations but decided to combine the Reichsjugendwettkämpfe with the Constitution Day. This sporting event was celebrated by all the schools of the city together. The winners received oak wreaths decorated with ribbons in the republican colours black-red-gold. Teachers, pupils, parents and part of the town’s population watched the competitions. After the awards had been handed out, several pupils removed the ribbons. Some threw them away, some put them into their pockets and others stepped on them. We have seen that flags were used to visually mark public space and that in particular in the Weimar years the colours of the German flag were a bone of contention; advocates of the republic supported the official national colours blackred-gold while many anti-republicans preferred the colour of the former Kaiserreich. The Prussian Minister for Culture and Education Becker considered the attitude demonstrated by Goslar’s pupils as a severe problem for the schools in the town. Becker temporarily removed the right of two schools to carry out school exams, a widely debated and very firm decision.96


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These examples reveal how difficult the inclusion of popular elements as part of state representation could be. In particular sports events had to be embedded in republican celebrations consisting of republican speeches and displaying black-red-gold flags,97 as the report of Neukölln’s school celebrations had stated. Otherwise the inclusion of popular elements helped little to create popularity and enthusiasm for the republic. Certainly, the pupils from Goslar’s schools had enjoyed the competitions, but this did not stop them from showing their disrespect for the republican colours.

3 Staging the Republic: Constitution Day Festivities in 1929

Community, masses and rhythm were key words in Weimar Germany characterising discourses on social, cultural and political life and expressing the Zeitgeist. Restoring territorial wholeness and national unity; overcoming societal differences and creating a better future for everyone were promises made by many in the Weimar years. Organisers of state festivities frequently alluded to them too. These catchphrases could be applied to opposing political factions as well as to new trends in dance and theatre. While sporting activities and parades were attempted to be incorporated into republican state festivities, the Berlin celebrations honouring the tenth anniversary of the Weimar Constitution in August 1929 brought together parades, sports and spectacles. Major changes in the staging of working-class festivities occurred in the 1920s including a greater emphasis on the creation of a collective community expressed through mass choirs or movement groups and a stress on moving bodies choreographed to create a visual impression of unity. In addition, the location of festivities had changed from indoors to outdoors.1 Similar developments can be seen in state festivities whose organisers paid increasing attention to the creation of festive aesthetics. This chapter focuses on key elements of republican representation. It will show that organisers of state celebrations in the Weimar Republic, most of all the Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob, used modern means of representation for the staging and performing of republican festivities. Visually occupying space and staging mass community were combined in a mass spectacle organised by Redslob for the Constitution Day in August 1929. His mass play represented themes believed to reconcile and unify Weimar Germany’s society. The tenth anniversary of the republic was to be staged as representing the unity of its population with a particular focus on the youth. 58

Constitution Day Festivities 1929 59

But did festivities and spectacles staged actually possess ‘republican aesthetics’? And were the visual impressions offered by Constitution Day festivities embedded into a republican framework learning from the mistakes made at the Jahn festivities in the previous year? By analysing Constitution Day festivities in 1929, this chapter focuses on several themes. First of all, it examines the ideas, concepts and potential problems which were debated and discussed when the explicit demand of ‘staging the republic’ was formulated. The emphasis on popular involvement and inclusive participation was suggested by most organisers and planners of state festivities. However, the political context, namely the specifically republican character of the festivities, caused more problems and was less agreed upon. Furthermore, we will find our key themes of community, masses, rhythm and aesthetics again in numerous activities staged in August 1929. Whether they possessed a ‘republican’ character is debatable. Certainly, they successfully combined the main principles of modern means of festive representation and public performance culture: they were visual, inclusive and spectacular. Including mass dances and movement choirs, the spectacle in 1929 was indeed embedded into a republican framework. It has to be kept in mind, however, that the republican context needed to be constructed anew every time and was not inherent in the festive forms applied.

‘Staging the Republic’: Ideas, concepts, problems For republican festivities, the involvement of the masses through popular activities had been discussed even before the first Constitution Day celebration had taken place. In 1919, the Reich Ministry of the Interior received a letter from Hans Ostwald, who suggested how celebrations could be staged to promote a united community. Ostwald stated that festivities should be held in Berlin’s opera house including a speech by ‘the father of the constitution’ Dr Hugo Preuß as well as classical music, choir songs and poems. School and university celebrations should also take place. According to Ostwald, a brochure could be printed and distributed to schools, universities and churches with the text of the speech and information about the constitution.2 While the different festive elements proposed here breathe the air of a traditional festive culture, it has to be kept in mind that the suggestion as such, celebrating the Weimar Constitution, was extraordinary. After all, the first very modest Constitution Day celebration only materialised two years later in August 1921. Furthermore, Hans Ostwald also made more general demands and advised the participation of the whole

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population in republican festivities: ‘The people have to celebrate this occasion. They should not only be spectators but should actively create the celebration and participate in it.’3 In what follows, we will see that these suggestions anticipated many ideas on republican festivities in Weimar Germany which peaked with Constitution Day celebrations in 1929. For supporters of the republic, it was clear that the new state needed to be presented visually to create a feeling of community. How to achieve this was less agreed upon. In 1925 the Vossische Zeitung asked Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob, the theatre director Leopold Jessner and the left-wing writers Heinrich Mann and Kurt Tucholsky to express their opinions on republican representation. The newspaper published the replies under the headline ‘Staging the Republic’.4 Redslob and Jessner were directly involved in preparations for state celebrations. Mann and Tucholsky, on the other hand, commented from an outsider perspective. The answers differed substantially. The Reichskunstwart replied that republican representation needed to grow organically; it could not be forced upon the people. Redslob believed in a long-term unifying process relying on a development that ‘would make every citizen wanting to be part of the republic’.5 Leopold Jessner drew attention to the popular participation and enthusiasm, which should shape state festivals. For him, all public representations of the first German democracy had to stress the community of its people.6 Heinrich Mann and Kurt Tucholsky favoured a more rigorous approach suggesting that republican representation meant that the republic asserted its state authority instead of fussing over festive decorations. Both demanded the dismissal of antirepublican civil servants before the staging of large-scale festivities even needed to be discussed.7 Two years later, in 1927 Carl von Ossietzky, the editor of Die Weltbühne, made a similar point warning that first the constitution should be put into practice in all parts and on all administrative levels of the country, before it should be celebrated. Ossietzky stated: ‘One is afraid to fight for the republic and hopes that celebrating it is enough.’8 Kurt Tucholsky, like Ossietzky writing for Die Weltbühne, was generally critical of festive elements used by the republic. He commented on a ritual which had established itself as part of official Constitution Day celebrations. Each year, the festivities to honour the Weimar Constitution consisted of an official ceremony in the German parliament attended by the political, social and cultural elite of the country. Over the years, this ceremony organised by the government was complemented with other festive activities taking place throughout the whole day. Nevertheless, the parliamentary ceremony, following a rather traditional set-up in


which the main speech was framed by classical music, always concluded with the opening of the Reichstag doors and politicians stepping outside. Together with the crowds gathered in front of the building, they observed the Reich President receiving the military honours of a Reichswehr formation. Military and police bands played for the people outside the Reichstag. Films as well as photographs show an impressive turnout each year. The gesture of opening the parliament doors and celebrating together with the people was believed to stress the connection between the republican state and its citizens. Tucholsky ridiculed the ritual as timid and lukewarm.9 Not surprisingly, the Reichskunstwart interpreted this differently. Redslob considered it to be an essential characteristic of Constitution Day celebrations that the opening of the parliament doors linked the official ceremony to the people outside.10 In 1925 he stated satisfied: ‘The style [of Constitution Day celebrations] is sober and serious, but at the same time the celebration is connected to music and to a military spectacle for the people gathered in front of the Reichstag who have shown their wish to participate in the event.’11 In fact, Redslob as well as others believed that the ritual of opening the parliament doors to combine political representatives and the people, who had elected them in celebrating the democratic constitution, was only the beginning. The architect Hugo Häring suggested in his drafts for the reorganisation of the area around the parliament that tribunes should be placed in front of the building to enable the populace to participate better in festivities. Häring wanted to illustrate that the people possessed a position that was as important as the Reichstag in the new democratic state. This should be architecturally shown. Redslob supported this idea, but the plans were never put into practice.12 Most discussions, however, focused on the question how the republic could stage popular festivities. The inclusion of sporting activities was one way believed to increase the popularity of the event especially among the young. From the very beginning of his work for the republic, the Reichskunstwart had a vivid and passionate interest in popular festivities. Numerous of his essays, articles, notes and lectures focused on this field.13 Redslob believed that state celebrations needed to be a combination of political, cultural, popular and sport elements to create genuinely popular festivities. Thus, the Reichskunstwart linked Constitution Day celebrations to the tradition of popular folk culture.14 ‘The advertising chief’ of the republic also strongly believed that state festivities needed to offer mass experiences for a new people’s community who regarded state representation as the expression of their position within and towards the state.

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Comparisons to festivities in Imperial Germany should make clear that there was a difference between the people’s position in a monarchy and in a democracy. We will see this differentiation again in the press’s interpretation of the mass spectacle in August 1929, but already earlier this aspect was stressed and commented upon. In 1925 the Reichsbanner published the following title page ironically comparing the festive styles of the Weimar Republic and the Kaiserreich. The Reichsbanner journal entitled its two photographs ‘Once and Nowadays’ suggesting that a military parade was ‘once’ considered to be a ‘popular celebration in Berlin in 1913’. Ordinary citizens were absent. The ‘Constitution Day celebration of republicans in Berlin in 1925’, on the other hand, was illustrated through citizens celebrating together. Republican celebrations, so the message conveyed, were not just inclusive but represented a festive community of equals and thus visualised the main principle of the young German democracy. This notion has already been presented in

Illustration 3.1 Illustrierte Reichsbanner Zeitung, 22.8.1925, no.34, Einst und Jetzt: Ein ‘Volksfest 1913’ in Berlin, Verfassungsfeier der Republikaner 1925 in Berlin. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf


discussions on republican parades and the newspapers’ praise of having witnessed the whole nation taking part. The newspaper Neue Leipziger Zeitung, welcoming Reichsbanner members to festivities in Leipzig in 1927, reminded its readers of the fact that pompous celebrations were characteristic of right-wing nationalists. Naturally, the festive style of the Reichsbanner, so the newspaper, was different: ‘. . . the Reichsbanner meeting in Leipzig will be sober and without military decorations and pompous gentlemen. This gives the day its dignity and strength. No divisions or differences, but equal citizens next to each other with the same spirit.’15 Redslob agreed with the Reichsbanner on this issue. He found that a new sense of community characterised the republic. Despite Redslob’s interest in folk culture, his approach to the staging of state festivities was not outdated or old-fashioned. On the contrary, the Reichskunstwart’s stress on the visual, the inclusive and the spectacular fitted well into discussions on festive performances in the Weimar years. Unlike other intellectuals, Redslob did not consider new technologies as a threat to German culture.16 Radio, film as well as other technological improvements, for example loud speakers and stadium technique, were means the Reichskunstwart used for staging festivities.17 Redslob believed that film could help to give the state a representational form in which everybody could be involved.18 In fact, he traced the fascination of film back to ideas of popular culture. In August 1925 the Reichskunstwart stated: ‘The fascination of film is much older than the film itself. It lives in the wish for rhythmic and festive movements and intensive moments, just as people experience them at cultic festivities or sports competitions.’19 According to Redslob, the search for a festive cult expressed through rhythm and movements could be linked to film and cinema.20 Indeed, Redslob was involved in the production of a Goethe film in 1932 commemorating the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death. Apart from the original film, in which scenes from places of Goethe’s life were combined with acted scenes from his plays, Redslob pointed out that a silent version of his Goethe film should also be produced and distributed to German schools. Schoolchildren could then recite texts, poems or scenes when the film was being shown. According to Redslob, the children should ‘flow through the silent pictures to turn the film into a lively spectacle . . . in which the pupils participated themselves’.21 Similar ideas characterised the Reichskunstwart’s work when he staged mass spectacles for the republic. His ideas on rhythm and movement echoed notions discussed by theatre directors, dance choreographers,

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playwrights, actors and stage designers alike in the Weimar years. In fact, the playwright Bertold Brecht expressed his support of moving theatre plays to sport stadiums in 1926 with the words: ‘Our hope is based on the sports audience. Our eyes look — we can’t disguise it—to the enormous cement stadiums filled with 15,000 people from all classes; the cleverest and fairest audience of the world . . . the old theatre, on the other hand, has no face anymore today’.22 The Reichsbanner also attempted to convey its main ideas visually. But it was not done through the performance of a coherent play or a mass spectacle. The Reichsbanner staged ‘living images’ (lebende Bilder) at its local gatherings. In so doing, the republican organisation continued a Social Democratic tradition rooted in the Imperial period. We will see more on local Reichsbanner celebrations in Chapter 7, but a short look at a Reichsbanner collection of ‘living images’ provides some insight into the local staging of the republic. As part of a series published by Leipzig’s workers theatre publishing house, Felix Renker wrote a booklet describing the staging of seven scenes to be used at Reichsbanner festivities.23 To be performed at a picture-frame-stage, the scenes focused on an educational message and memorable symbols rather than on innovative staging. Already the titles provide a sense of the historical narrative portrayed. The first scene, called ‘Armistice’, was followed by ‘Home coming’ and ‘Hatred’ to portray the conditions in Germany after the First World War. The changes brought about in the young republic were depicted in the fourth scene ‘Democracy’ followed by ‘Constitution Day Celebration’ and ‘The man of 1848’. The seventh and last scene was entitled ‘Liberty in all countries’. A speaker provided the essential explanations. For example, after the speaker of the third scene ‘Hatred’ had talked about the enemies of the republic, the stage should show sculptures of the late Weimar politicians Friedrich Ebert, Walther Rathenau, Matthias Erzberger and Gustav Stresemann with Reichsbanner men standing on each side lowering their republican flags.24 The Reichsbanner commemorated the four politicians as having died for the republic on the hands of enemies of the state.25 In reality the politician Matthias Erzberger and Foreign Minister Walther Rathenau had been assassinated by antirepublican forces while Reich President Friedrich Ebert and Foreign Minister Gustav Stresemann had passed away due to illnesses. However, for the Reichsbanner Friedrich Ebert’s death was caused by the vicious attacks of the nationalist press that reinforced his illness. In the fifth scene, ‘Constitution Day Celebration’, the speaker reminded the audience of the proud occasion, of a ‘holy’ day that needed to be joyfully greeted with black-red-gold banners. The scene accompanying


the speaker’s words showed a woman, ‘the allegorical figure of the republic’ as the booklet explained, sitting on stage and holding a book with the inscription ‘Constitution of the German Republic’ in her hands. ‘A wall of republican flags’ and two men who had their hands raised to an oath on the constitution provided the background.26 The sixth scene was dedicated to an old fighter of the March revolution 1848. The old man with a black-red-gold flag was surrounded by young lads who swore their loyalty to the republican idea.27 Themes and symbols used in this short representation of republican history echoed the ones taken up by Reichsbanner publications and speeches. The legacy of 1848, the republican heroes who had allegedly died for democracy like Walther Rathenau, Friedrich Ebert and Matthias Erzberger, and the female figure symbolising the republic were well-known elements of a republican narrative.28 The performative style, however, was traditional and characteristic of local festivities. The speaker explained the images which visually underlined the educative message(s) of his words. There was no combination of scenes and text and no attempts to include the audience in the performance. Social Democratic visions of the future had been presented in similar ways in Imperial Germany. Local festivities, despite official efforts to influence them, actually changed very little from the time of the Kaiserreich to the end of the Nazi regime. These seven scenes for Reichsbanner festivities, with very limited demands on the spatial environment in which they could be performed, fitted the circumstances of local celebrations. There were also more elaborate plays for Reichsbanner celebrations. The youth organisation of the Reichsbanner, the Jungbanner, used a play with an individual speaker, a drummer and a choir group for its promotional festivities.29 Instead of representing a republican narrative, this play aimed at demonstrating the active role of Reichsbanner men in defending the republic. It included a scene that brings to mind images from Leni Riefenstahl’s screening of Nazi Party Rallies at which individual participants called out the names of their home regions.30 The Reichsbanner play did something similar. It presented the different geographical regions of Germany to be marching towards the city of Weimar – the birthplace of the constitution. Four Reichsbanner members stood on stage and called out one after the other that the Reichsbanner Gaue of the republic had arrived. The first Reichsbanner man reported: ‘The Reichsbanner Gaue of the republic are marching. The Gaue of the North are arriving in Weimar.’ The remaining three men used exactly the same phrase and reported from the Reichsbanner Gaue of the West, the East and the South, about to arrive in the city of the constitution.31 Despite the more innovative performing style of the play, it remained

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in a tradition of political festive culture—brought to new heights by Communist political agitation plays in the 1920s—that focused on communicating an explicit message rather than turning its festive staging into part of this message. The mass spectacle organised by Edwin Redslob represented a different way of ‘staging the republic’ in which the performative means of the spectacle were closely linked to the message it wanted to convey.

Flags, masses and parades: August 1929 The celebration of the tenth anniversary of the republic in August 1929 was an opportunity for festivities on an unprecedented scale. The republic celebrated itself and it did so with gusto. Carl Severing, the Social Democratic Minister of the Interior, managed to obtain most of his financial demands for the 1929 celebrations. Hence he spent more money on the festivities than any other minister before or after him.32 Publications attempted to write the history of the ten years of the republic and a commemorative coin was distributed showing Reich President Hindenburg on one side and a hand raised in an oath on the constitution on the other. Some Berlin schools celebrated together the police counted 25,000 participants at the school celebration in Berlin-Schöneberg.33 Sport competitions, Reichsbanner marches, public concerts, car races, air shows and celebrations of political parties and of many other organisations took place in Berlin and elsewhere.34 The journal Das Reichsbanner entitled its descriptions of celebrations for the tenth anniversary of the republic ‘The Victory of the Reich Constitution. Impressive people’s celebrations everywhere.’35 The journal described celebrations in Hanover, Hamburg, Magdeburg, Essen, Düsseldorf, Heidelberg, Kassel, Darmstadt, Bremen, Cologne, Duisburg, Koblenz, Bochum, Stettin and Nuremberg to name but a few of the cities listed. Everywhere there was something extraordinary to report. Either a well-staged parade, frequently, according to the journal, the biggest that a particular city had seen, or a brilliant ceremony and an inspiring speech by the local mayor. With the exception of Munich, which according to Das Reichsbanner did not bother to hold an official celebration, everywhere else the festivities were successful. But a closer look at the descriptions reveals differences. Sometimes only the programme of the official ceremony was mentioned, sometimes the large number of participants in a parade was praised. Nevertheless, for bigger cities there was a routine for Constitution Day Celebrations developing, also outside Berlin and Prussia. The activities, the Reichsbanner journal described,


resembled the ones in Berlin, though not in its density and scale. Many of the cities mentioned relied on parades and torch-lit marches. Concerts and sports competitions also took place in several cities.36 Similar to the importance of municipal support for Reichsbanner festivities, also the festive scale of Constitution Day celebrations was shaped by the willingness of local elites to put official guidelines into practice.37 However, it was in the German capital the republic celebrated most visibly and Berlin’s citizens should demonstrate that they were part of this republican spirit. It has already been illustrated for Reichsbanner festivities that an essential way of occupying urban space was through the display of flags and banners. Constitution Day celebrations were, of course, the prime occasion for this visible act of support. The Berliner Tageblatt reminded the capital’s population a week before the celebrations: ‘Berlin’s citizens have to make sure that the republican colours dominate the city at Constitution Day Celebrations. Those who are away at the festivities should ensure that their houses and flats are decorated with flags.’38 As much as the republicans were keen to demonstrate their strength, making it seen and felt; the republic’s opponents wanted to make their voices heard as well. Indeed, the republican interpretation of urban space, whether in Berlin or elsewhere, did not remain uncontested at Constitution Days. Stealing or damaging of black-redgold flags frequently occurred. The attention of local authorities, the press and citizens to the display of republican flags was never greater than on Constitution Days. Consequently, it was exactly on those days when damaging or stealing of these flags caused most excitement and maybe even made a newspaper headline. Clearly, Constitution Day celebrations were seized as opportunities to show disapproval as well as support of the republic. Republican flags were taken away from the decoration of Berlin’s trams and buses, from school buildings and public squares.39 For the festivities in Berlin in August 1929, the police force managed to keep the situation under control but did report that numerous smaller fights in the city began with alleged insults of flags or badges. A brief look at a few police reports from different quarters of Berlin for the Constitution Day weekend (10-11.8.1929) provides us with a sense of these, mostly small-scale, incidents. In the Communist area of BerlinNeukölln, a member of the SPD carrying a small black-red-gold paper flag was beaten up outside a Communist tavern. In Berlin-Steglitz a Reichsbanner man demanded of a National Socialist to take off his Nazi badge. When the Nazi refused to do so, both men started arguing loudly

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and only the involvement of the police prevented an escalation of the situation. Also in Berlin-Steglitz, four young lads, able to escape on their bikes, allegedly stole a republican flag from a front garden. A more serious incident occurred in Berlin-Tiergarten where the police used rubber batons to break up a fight between members of the Reichsbanner and the nationalist Stahlhelm. In Berlin-Kreuzberg 40 people, some in Nazi uniforms, cheered for Hitler and in the West Berlin area of Charlottenburg, a man was taken to the police station for molesting a group of Reichsbanner supporters and insulting the national colours of the republican state.40 Despite these local incidents, a festive atmosphere in Berlin—aided by the enormous number of activities carried out at the occasion— seemed to have dominated the mood. The optimistic description of the Vossische Zeitung offers an insight into what the newspaper perceived as significant of the 1929 festivities: Two days have passed quickly and were filled with a tremendous storm of colours and sounds. There was a dignified happiness [. . .] one impression followed after another, scenes after scenes, and it takes some time to combine the numerous images of these festive happy hours to a whole. Every impression, every sound remains piecemeal [. . .] the incredible wave that rose suddenly and swept everyone with it, can hardly be described but can be summarized like this: it was a people’s festival.41 While the Vossische Zeitung concentrated on a vivid description of the festive atmosphere stressing its visual, acoustic and rhythmic impressions, the Deutsche Republik focused on the civic education it considered present in the festivities. According to the republican journal, the youth had dominated the days.42 Furthermore, the journal wrote delightedly that ‘republican people’s festivities’ had been successfully staged. The framework provided by state and municipal authorities as well as by private organisations had been used well. The journal concluded: ‘The tireless pedagogical efforts with which the republicans promote their state have born fruit on this Constitution Day.’43 The republican press might have been over-optimistic but conveyed a sense of the excitement attributed to the festivities in August 1929. In Berlin the Reichsbanner celebrated with, among other events, an impressive parade along the familiar route for Constitution Day festivities: past the palace and Lustgarten, along Unter den Linden and to the Brandenburg Gate. However, the number of participants turned into a


bone of contention, reminding us that republican festivities and representative forms were publicly debated by supporters and opponents alike. The Reichsbanner and republican newspapers claimed that 150,000 people had participated while anti-republican newspapers wrote of only 34,000 participants.44 In this heated debate, the police reported probably the most reliable figure with approximately 75,000 participants. The police also pointed out that many spectators wanted to see the parade.45 Before the actual event, the Reichsbanner published a little booklet providing information and practical guidelines for the celebrations in Berlin. The cover by Fritz Gottfried Kirchbach, an artist who had designed several posters for the SPD, combined republican colours with Social Democratic symbols and visualised impressively how the Reichsbanner wanted its parade to be perceived.46 The colours blackred-gold—the national state colours of the Weimar Republic—dominate the cover and the rising sun symbolises that a new republican era has commenced.47

Illustration 3.2 Festschrift zur Bundesverfassungsfeier Reichsbanner Schwarz-RotGold 10-11. August, Berlin 1929 (Berlin, 1929) cover

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The Vossische Zeitung noted that the actual Reichsbanner parade in Berlin took four hours and included men from the Saar area, Austria, the city of Danzig and East Prussia among people from other areas of Germany and from abroad.48 This stress on welcoming participants from ‘lost’ or occupied territories has already been illustrated in sporting activities in Frankfurt and Cologne. It was a reoccurring theme in festivities of the 1920s and 1930s. At the same occasion, the Reichsbanner presented one of its most spectacular projects with which the organisation linked the dead of the First World War to a republican cause and pushed its occupation and interpretation of urban space a step further to a performative dimension.49 For the celebrations of the tenth anniversary of the republic, the Reichsbanner constructed a temporary commemorative monument located in front of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. The wooden construction, on which the monument was standing, was decorated with cloth in republican colours. Three tall black pillars rose from this into the sky. The inscriptions on the pedestal of the monument read: ‘To the First World War dead’, ‘To the ones who died for the republic and for work’, ‘To the dead of the Reichsbanner’.50 With these inscriptions the Reichsbanner remembered all the dead under a republican heading. The monument was 17 metres high and 14 metres wide.51 Berlin’s local authorities and its police force helped to put it up.52 Reichsbanner members passed it with their parade to honour Constitution Day. The Berliner Tageblatt stated: ‘The monument will show the republican colours and 150,000 Reichsbanner men will march past it. This is a nice, festive idea as every nationalist has to admit.’53 Also, the Vossische Zeitung wrote enthusiastically about the monument.54 In contrast, the National Socialist Joseph Goebbels, the future propaganda minister under Adolf Hitler, expressed his strong contempt for the republican inscriptions in his diary.55 This Reichsbanner monument was exceptional, not only for its set-up and size. The celebration of the tenth anniversary of the constitution was the biggest and most attended Constitution Day celebration throughout the existence of the Weimar Republic. On this weekend of festivities, the Reichsbanner had put up its monument at one of the most populated squares of the German capital. When Reichsbanner groups passed it as part of the Constitution Day parade, the visual impressions created conveyed a much stronger message than the staging of an ordinary parade. The occupation of urban space was given a more permanent character with the actual erection of a republican, although only temporary, sight that suggested a republican interpretation of the urban environment. When Reichsbanner members marched past the


monument, the performative and spectacular characters of the event were stressed even more. A republican monument in the background and men in uniforms and with black-red-gold flags in front of it, offered the impression of a spectacle. It turned an otherwise fleeting moment of republican dominance of urban space into something potentially longer lasting.

A republican mass spectacle: Performing unity Parades, sports competitions, public concerts and folk festivals had been one way of including more people, but many of these festive activities were carried out by private organisations. Although the Weimar state supported Reichsbanner parades or sporting activities, it was not directly linked to these popular events. This changed with the staging of a mass spectacle in Berlin’s stadium in August 1929 organised by the Reichskunstwart. For the first time, a stadium was used as the location for part of the official ceremony complementing the traditional celebration in the Reichstag with afternoon activities. The festivities in the stadium consisted of a mass movement play including large movement groups and mass choirs. Its director and playwright Josef von Fielitz had had experience in directing mass spectacles. In 1921, he had staged, together with others, the Leipzig mass play Der arme Konrad. The Leipziger Volkszeitung was impressed by it: ‘It is amazing how the directors Josef Fielitz, Herbert von Hau and Emma Grondena have formed the huge mass of 1,800 participants to one organic body . . .’56 Eight years later, Fielitz worked on a mass play commissioned by the republican state to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Weimar Constitution. The development from sober Reichstag ceremonies to mass spectacles performed in a sport stadium should not surprise us. After all, discussions on Constitution Day festivities had always included demands to enhance their popular appeal. Frequently, these suggestions came from the Reichskunstwart. In addition to these efforts, by 1929 the republic had witnessed several, often left-wing, mass plays as well as sporting events with a stress on performative elements. In 1921 mass spectacles in Leipzig had included approximately 3000 actors, singers and dancers. Plays and spectacles had become established parts of Social Democratic First of May festivities and annual celebrations staged by working-class organisations. This trend continued far beyond 1929. Nowadays, however, mass plays involving large choirs and movement groups are generally associated with the political aesthetics of totalitarian regimes. In Germany, simultaneously orchestrated masses often

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rekindle collectively stored images of Nazi Party Rallies. As deep as these images might be imprinted in national memory, they constitute a one-sided focus which distorts the often left-wing roots of these mass performances.57 Contemporary discourses in the Weimar years used the words community, masses and rhythm for numerous fields. Exercises at sports events as well as simultaneous steps at parades have been described as rhythmical experiences. However, for dancers and dance theorists in Weimar Germany, rhythm was connected to continuous flowing movements. Parades and sport exercises, on the other hand, represented cadence rather than rhythm due to their more static nature.58 Although 1920s’ discourses did not always differentiate between these categories, it is important to keep this distinction in mind. Parades and sport exercises give the public space different connotations than mass groups performing a stream of flowing movements. As illustrated working-class youth organisations had voiced criticism on the mechanic and ‘soulless’ gymnastic exercises performed at the Workers’ Olympics in 1925. Unlike flowing movements, parades and sporting exercises were seen as dominating public space without inviting the involvement of others. Movement groups and mass choirs, however, were believed to achieve a feeling of involvement because rhythm, as understood in dance theory, suggests a less strict difference between participants and spectators.59 In addition, dance and sports stem from different body concepts too. Many dancers and choreographers, especially of expressive dance, considered sports activities and gymnastic exercises as ‘goal-orientated’ to achieve strength, health and muscles while dance movements were to bring about the harmony of body and soul and to create organic wholeness.60 The division, however, was not always as clear-cut as dance theorists saw it. Also the working-class sports organisations considered their sporting activities and gymnastic exercises as much more than simply training physical fitness. Nevertheless, these concepts influenced the mass spectacle commissioned by the republic and performed at Constitution Day in August 1929. The involvement of the youth into the play was an essential pillar and deliberately stressed. Redslob saw the main goal of the celebration in the fact that young people were to participate actively.61 The Vossische Zeitung enthusiastically reported that 11,000 schoolchildren participated in the mass play, although at the beginning only 7,000 had been envisaged. The enormous number of applications had led the organisers to increase the number of participants.62 This suggests an attractive appeal of the mass event not only for the audience but for


the potential participants as well. Redslob co-operated with the school authorities of the area Berlin-Brandenburg to communicate with schools and co-ordinate rehearsals.63 To secure the support of teachers, several meetings were scheduled with them. The Reichskunstwart pointed out that singing and gymnastics had always been school subjects and that they were the key elements of popular festivities. He expressed his belief that a sense of community could be formed through the play and that it was important for the German people to achieve a joyful selfrepresentation.64 As a member of the organising team the schoolteacher Roethig formulated even wider goals. He stated that the pupils needed to understand the relation between the individual and the masses.65 Indeed, dance teachers and choreographers considered the involvement of children in mass choirs or movement groups as character building. In this way, an egalitarian principle of community could be practised that was based on the experience that community only worked when also the wishes and demands of others were taken into account. The dance teacher Ilse Loesch described this effect in 1932 with the words: ‘Now they [the children] were in a movement choir and had experienced that it was impossible to dance in a group, indeed, to do anything in a group, when every one insisted on his opinion.’66 One of many discussions amongst the organisers of the Constitution Day play reveals how many different offices were involved in the event. The meeting was attended by Redslob, his assistant Kurt Biebrach, the play’s director Fielitz, the schoolteacher Roethig and representatives of the Reich and Prussian Ministry of the Interior, the Prussian Ministry for Culture and Education, Berlin’s city council, the Berlin-Brandenburg school authorities and the police force.67 The involvement of the police was needed to accompany the children to the sports grounds and to protect the loudspeakers in the stadium.68 A look at Berlin police’s outline of Constitution Day activities throughout the capital shows the enormous logistical challenge of the festivities. In particular the rehearsals for the mass play, with always at least 6,000 children in the Berlin stadium, were not easy to co-ordinate.69 Despite detailed planning, not everything went smoothly. The school authorities of Berlin-Brandenburg strongly criticised the behaviour of the teachers at Berlin-Lichtenberg’s Realgymnasium where 100 schoolchildren, who had volunteered to take part in the play, did not attend in the end because there was no teacher to lead the group to the stadium. This was considered as unacceptable behaviour on behalf of the school.70 Also other things did not work out for the best. The relationship between Redslob and Fielitz deteriorated and remained

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frosty.71 The decoration of the stadium caused problems as well. To stress the notion that the people’s community represented included the German population living outside the borders of the country, Redslob had envisaged that flags of ‘the lost territories’ could be shown in the stadium including banners of the city of Danzig, Silesia, Posen, West Prussia, Memel and possibly Austria. The Reich Ministry of the Interior rejected this suggestion.72 As we shall see in the next chapter, the stress on territorial unity and national wholeness represented the key theme for the festivities a year later, in August 1930. When the play was performed in the afternoon on Sunday 11 August 1929, approximately 50,000 people came to see it. Its choir groups consisted of 7,500 schoolchildren and the movement groups of 3,500. Altogether, 12,000 people participated of whom 11,000 were children.73 Compared to previous mass plays and spectacles, these numbers were extraordinaryly high. A male choir, a police band and other dance and gymnastic groups completed the cast. The play commenced with approximately 500 workmen entering the stadium. They attempted to connect 10 golden poles to each other in order to represent the country’s unity. They shouted simultaneously: ‘Brother at the other side listen/ We are the people/ We create a piece of work/ the living Reich’ The men failed to connect the poles and called upon the German youth for help: ‘Faith of our youth/ Purity of our youth/ Power of winning of our youth/ complete the work.’ The youth entered colourfully dressed and formed a star in all colours of Germany’s state flags. Then they proceeded successfully to connect the poles bringing together the youth and the workers. More young people entered the stadium, some dressed in black, some in red and some in gold. They were placed so as to represent the republican flag. The poles served as one big flagpole for the pupils’ flag. Redslob described the impression this moment should achieve in his notes for the play: ‘The carriers of the republican colours form a living flag, which takes possession of the stadium in swinging, flowing movements. The singers accompany these movements with waving their hands.’74 A children’s choir sang Freiheit, die ich meine while the ‘living flag’ moved through the stadium. Sport groups entered and the choir groups sang the popular song Wann wir schreiten Seit’ an Seit’. Sport exercises, games and dances were performed. Afterwards the workmen reminded the youth of the importance of the day and the youth swore an oath to the fatherland. In the end, the republican flag was raised and the national anthem played. Several planes flew over the stadium carrying black-red-gold banners.75


Thus, two crucial symbols expressing authority of the republic, its flag and the national anthem, were placed at the end of the Constitution Day celebration in the Berlin stadium. The impression of the play at the moment when the republican flag was formed is captured in this newspaper photograph. As the photograph illustrates, the spectacle stressed visual impressions and the appeal of mass community. But the play also included explicit political components. The staging of the republican flag and the joined singing of the national anthem provided the republican framework we found lacking in some of the 1928 festivities. In so doing, the Weimar Republic combined festive aesthetics with a political message suggesting that mass spectacles were a clear expression of democracy. Pamela Swett argues that the play offered a counterproductive founding myth in which, after ten years of democracy, the national community could still only be achieved with the help of the youth.76 Her criticism neglects that the creation of a national community was a catchphrase used by many groups in Weimar Germany and was always presented

Illustration 3.3 Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, NL Redslob, I,B-240, Das 12 Uhr Blatt, 12.8.1929, no.187. Courtesy of Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg

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as a wish for the future.77 In fact, the young people in the play who helped to create unity under the banner of the republic represented a positive symbol for the future.78 The Vossische Zeitung considered this moment as the most significant one when it wrote: ‘. . . and now the whole youth represents the flag, a storm of colours organised first to represent flags of the German states and then a new group in black-redgold presents the banner. Sports, games and dances change to festive oath and confession.’79 Indeed, the symbolic meaning of the play, already hinted at by the newspaper, is significant. Youth and workmen, the future and the foundation of the republic, were the main participants, and unity between them was the achieved goal at the end of the play. The singing of the popular song Wann wir schreiten Seit’an Seit’ was a clear reference to the working class. While the song was popular, it was frequently associated with the Social Democrats and working-class organisations.80 A Weimar audience certainly recognised this significance. In addition, there was the explicit display of the republican colours, made up by young people and suggesting that the republic consisted of individuals who together formed the state. This play was among the first ones in Germany in which the state symbol was represented using people, a device the Nazis later quickly incorporated into their own ceremonies by having the swastika represented in similar ways.81 A photograph in the Reichsbanner journal IRZ in 1926 showed an American stadium in which 6,000 children formed the flag of the USA to honour the state.82 It is not clear whether Redslob and Fielitz were inspired by it; however, the type of festive culture they attempted to make usable for the republic had an international dimension and was carried out at festivities in other countries too.83 In 1933 the spectacle The Romance of a People performed in Chicago in front of 120,000 spectators concluded with the ringing of ‘the bell of liberty’. Furthermore, thousands of the spectacle’s participants created the image of the US flag with silk banners.84 The aim to create a community including participants and spectators was, as Erika Fischer-Lichte states, ‘the promesse de bonheur’ of all mass spectacles in the interwar years. The joined singing of the concluding song of the event, whether it was the national anthem or something else, frequently came to symbolise this community.85 In Weimar Germany many contemporaries were impressed by the play staged for the republic.86 The Reich Ministry of the Interior congratulated Edwin Redslob to ‘the new way of celebrating in the stadium’.87 Due to the successful and impressive staging, a stadium celebration was planned for the Constitution Day festivities in the following year. The


Reich Minister of the Interior Carl Severing described in his memoirs, published in 1950, that the celebration of the Constitution Day in 1929 was the most uplifting festive event he had experienced. He praised the play in which schoolchildren and members of working-class organisations had performed together.88 The play conveyed a very clear message of a unified society under the republican flag utilising modern means of representation. The influences of theatre, sports movements and dance upon the play are obvious. They can be placed partly into a modern festive culture inspired by concepts of left-wing mass performances. Many dance choreographers in the 1920s, the extraordinary Rudolf von Laban among them, experimented with mass amateur choirs calling for unity of dance, sound and word. Unlike many of his pupils, Laban did not associate mass choirs and movement groups exclusively with left-wing ideas but rather with apolitical mass staging. He demanded, most clearly at the dancers’ congress in 1930, ‘apolitical art’ because he feared that political exploitations of the new festive culture were to impede its development.89 Redslob knew and admired Laban. In fact, both men had planned to work together on a play written by Redslob in the summer of 1931. The Reichskunstwart had entitled his play Das Jahresrad and divided it into seasons and months involving children, choir groups and speakers stressing particular characteristics of each month.90 Obviously, the play was highly inspired by Redslob’s keen interest in popular folk and festive culture. Correspondence with Laban illustrates the interest of the choreographer in Redslob’s work already contacting musicians at Essen’s Folkwang School to discuss possible music for it. In the end, however, the play was not performed.91 The Reichskunstwart believed in a new festive culture that should reflect developments of the democratic community. Ideally, this community should be inclusive without political party quarrels. Similar to demands made by choreographers and theatre directors, Redslob had already stated in 1919, ten years before his 1929 spectacle, that theatre needed to create a unity between space, sound, image and movement.92 While Redslob and Laban saw eye to eye in their demand that mass spectacles should not be politicised tools of propaganda and manipulation, it has to be kept in mind that Laban might have considered his choreographies as apolitical but he staged them in a political context. In the Weimar years they were often performed at Social Democratic events and supported by the left.93 Equally, Redslob’s spectacles were part of official Constitution Day festivities and while they aimed at being inclusive and uniting, the spectacles were meant as expression of the new democratic state.

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For a radio lecture shortly before the Constitution Day celebration in August 1929, the Reichskunstwart formulated some of his main principles regarding republican state representation. He pointed out: ‘One demands of the state that it is expressed in visual terms. But one does not demand this out of the feeling of the spectator who wants to be entertained but out of the feeling of the citizen who wants to be an active part of the state. ’ And he continued: ‘Consequently, the Constitution Day is not only a day to commemorate a historic event but the most important opportunity of the individual to express his commitment to the state within a festive framework.’94 Here Redslob connected the artistic concepts which formed the basis of many mass spectacles in the Weimar years, namely the blurring of boundaries between participants and spectators, to a state political principle. At the same time, the Reichskunstwart strengthened the position of the individual within the community suggesting that the German population consisted of emancipated citizens who wanted to be involved in their state and not just occupy the role of entertained bystanders. Redslob stressed the importance of community and togetherness; both factors, he believed, characterised the new state. Pompous parades that divided people into participants and spectators belonged to the time of the Kaiserreich. The Reichskunstwart concluded: . . . the Constitution Day is a popular celebration aiming at overcoming the sharp division between participants and audience. It has developed a form that represents the people’s state. It is a commitment of all to the republican state. It serves the feeling of community, which is a key principle of this new epoch.95 Redslob linked his preference for popular celebrations to the republican state. In another essay the Reichskunstwart stated that the former Imperial tradition of pompous self-representation had been replaced by a serious confession to state and people with the main aim of visualising the people’s community. Redslob summarised: ‘Dedicated people come together, display the banner, find a rhythm and find a symbolic form.’96 The Reichskunstwart believed that this was the essence of a new festive culture which had developed in the young republic. The idea that the boundaries between spectators and participants became blurred was an essential principle of mass spectacles. However, this was not always achieved easily. The dance choreographer Martin Gleisner, working in the 1920s and 1930s, pointed out that the audience still had to be educated to actually create an inner feeling of involvement and participation when witnessing a mass spectacle.97


Liberal newspapers praised the 1929 Constitution Day celebration in Berlin as a true expression of popular festivities.98 The Deutsche Republik stated that the celebration had shown that republican ideas had found their way into the hearts of the population.99 Stressing the involvement of the youth as essential for the festive style of the republic, the journal compared it to the celebrations in the Kaiserreich: The Imperial state borrowed from the colourfulness of the military for its celebrations; the republic asks, and this question honours the state, the young people to bring the brightness of their festivities to state celebrations. Games and sports of healthy youth surround the celebration of the constitution and this is more humane and honourable than parades with tools of destruction.100 According to the journal, the festive play in the stadium was the highlight of the state-organised celebrations.101 Its phrase ‘parades with tools of destruction’ was most certainly directed at Reichswehr parades in the Kaiserreich. As over-optimistic as the Deutsche Republik’s description probably was, it showed that the Reichskunstwart’s play had incorporated trends and ideas that were perceived as guiding republican festivities in the right direction. In fact, the direction Constitution Day festivities had been steered to was an impressive and spectacular one. A mass spectacle commissioned by the Weimar state and directed by an experienced director of left-wing mass plays with an enormously high number of participants as well as spectators was a clear and explicit commitment to the Weimar Republic. Elements of left-wing festive culture were taken up and deliberately incorporated, but at the same time the spectacle kept an inclusive republican character. Unlike its Communist and Socialist predecessors, the spectacle in August 1929 did not call for revolutionary change but stressed community and wholeness. Republican state representation had offered an aesthetic piece of political festive culture at this tenth anniversary of the Weimar Constitution. Avoiding mistakes made at Constitution Day festivities in 1928, the mass spectacle visualised community and involved the youth within an unambiguous republican setting.

4 Republican Nationalism: The Rhineland Celebration in 1930

Inspired by the success of the state-organised mass spectacle in 1929, a second one was planned for the republic’s Constitution Day festivities in 1930. With successful mobilisation and popular participation, the republic could claim it mirrored the crucial importance of its people for the democratic system within its state representation. Thus, for the republic’s creation of a sense of community, visible mass participation in state-organised festivities was an important aspect. State officials in charge envisaged a mass spectacle linked to every annual Constitution Day celebration from 1929 onwards. In practice, the republic staged only two plays, the other to commemorate the tenth anniversary of its constitution and one to celebrate the ‘liberation’ of the Rhineland, as the withdrawal of troops from the area in August 1930 was called. Advanced plans for a mass spectacle focusing on the nineteenth-century Prussian reformer Freiherr vom Stein for republican festivities in 1931 were jeopardised by financial cuts.1 However, in early 1930, when plans for the August celebration of the same year took shape, hopes were high that the republic had successfully enhanced the popularity of its celebrations with the inclusion of spectacles. There were also other reasons to be optimistic. The ‘liberation’ of the Rhineland offered the opportunity to connect a foreign political event to a republican festival. In so doing, the republic tried to present the end of the area’s occupation as a republican success. Combining Constitution Day festivities and Rhenish enthusiasm, hoping to benefit from a national consensus, was more than simply republican opportunism. The matter of occupied territories had been part of discussions on state representation long before 1930. Indeed, parades, festivities and sporting activities of different political groups addressed the theme of territorial wholeness with particular attention to visitors from ‘lost’ or 80

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occupied areas. The Weimar state was no exception. In fact, the stress on events of national, historical and cultural importance was a deliberate strategy to embed the young democracy into a tradition of German culture and history. In this context, the use of the Rhine, promoted as a symbol of German national identity by the republican state, should not surprise us. It was a rather obvious choice. When the nationalist theme was perhaps predictable given the political circumstances, the mass spectacle performed in Berlin’s stadium in August 1930 was extraordinary. It combined the theme of the ‘Rhineland liberation’ with most innovative representational forms. A stress on visual images, mass involvement of children in choirs and dancing groups, and few individual speakers had already illustrated in 1929 that the republic made use of trends, ideas and concepts characteristic of 1920s public performance culture.2 However, the spectacle to honour the end of the occupation of the Rhineland was not only a remarkable piece of republican state representation; it can also serve as a bridgehead to plays staged similarly in the early years of the Nazi period. Topics concentrating on national regeneration through territorial wholeness ran through other festivities in Weimar Germany and continued well into the Third Reich.

The republic and nationalist themes Although the republic had linked festivities in 1929 to its tenth anniversary reminding the population of the signing of the Weimar Constitution in 1919, this explicit reference to most recent republican experience was an exception rather than the norm. Planners and organisers of state festivities and representational matters tried to link the republic to themes rooted in German history and culture. The Reichskunstwart was, among others, an important advocate of this strategy. Redslob believed that the state had to be embedded in the history and culture of the German nation.3 Apart from creating a tradition for the republic, this could also counteract anti-republican arguments claiming that democracy was alien to the German people. Constitution Day celebrations were to show that the young state possessed a new form of representation, distinctly different from the allegedly pompous and self-centred style of the monarchy. For the Reichskunstwart the involvement in Constitution Day festivities belonged to the tasks of his office. He deliberately used the symbols of the republic as centrepieces, including the black-red-gold flag, the German Eagle or the introduction of the constitution, when he oversaw

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the decoration of the German parliament for festive ceremonies.4 After the celebration in 1922, the Reich Minister of the Interior Adolf Köster expressed his gratitude to Redslob: ‘Every participant at the Constitution Day celebration has experienced a new style and will connect this style with the republican state. This is an enormous benefit for our new state.’5 However, these festivities were to be more than official ceremonies with republican symbols. They had to provide reference points for the new democratic state. Sometimes a particular theme was chosen or important German personalities were linked to the festivities. While not binding, they offered the possibility to place the republic into a historical and cultural framework. This concept backfired, or could at least be easily misused, as in 1928 when the 150th anniversary of Friedrich Ludwig Jahn was commemorated alongside the Weimar Constitution. Three years later, in 1931, the Prussian reformer Freiherr v. Stein was remembered. And in 1932 the 100th anniversary of the death of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe not only provided a topic for Constitution Day celebrations, but dominated festivities for the entire year.6 The themes and personalities selected carry Edwin Redslob’s and other cultural politicians’ trademark. They hoped to unite the nation by showing that the republic honoured cultural and historical German traditions. Clearly, they also attempted to find broadly appealing themes as means of national reconciliation for a politically and socially divided Weimar society.7 At the same time some republicans were concerned that explicit republican reference points were missing in the Weimar state’s representative efforts. They found that, despite good intentions, the republic’s reliance on traditional themes proved to be counterproductive because anti-republicans could misuse these topics.8 In fact, a Constitution Day celebration in Cologne in August 1932, at a time of severe crisis for Germany’s democracy, exemplified these clashing attitudes regarding state representation. The speaker at the ceremony held a lengthy speech concentrating on Goethe, while members of the audience loudly demanded to hear more about the republic.9 Cologne’s SPD newspaper Rheinische Zeitung asked its readers afterwards whether the republic needed ‘Goethe coffee circles or republican fighting days’. The newspaper stated that the republic had to be actively protected and defended. Speeches on Goethe were not appropriate in this difficult situation when republicans had to be mobilised.10 The republic did not just rely on important personalities of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, also themes of territorial unity were


referred to, some more explicitly than others. References to heroes of Germany’s national-liberal movement of the first half of the nineteenth century were always also statements on the importance of territorial unity. After all, a unified Germany, including the German-speaking areas of the Austro-Hungarian empire, was a long cherished dream with roots in the early nineteenth century. The peace negotiations after the First World War and especially the 14 points of the American President Woodrow Wilson, who stated that Europe’s frontiers should be re-established according to the principle of national self-determination, led many Germans to believe that an old dream could still come true. Eventually, the Versailles Peace Treaty, demanding annexations in the East and West of Germany and preventing the unification with Austria, left many disappointed. The political reality the republic was faced with undermined the legitimacy of the republic’s claim that it was to improve the territorial solution achieved under Bismarck and to put the demands of the 1848 revolution into practice. In the end, the republican state had to settle for much less than it had hoped for.11 In fact, the Reichsbanner, presenting itself as the true representative of the democratic ideas of 1848, frequently included Austrian participants in its festivities stressing the vision of German-Austrian unification under the democratic colours. Occasionally, Austrian and German participants tore down border posts to symbolically proclaim their unity at Reichsbanner festivities.12 In 1922 the republic’s president, Friedrich Ebert, had proclaimed the Deutschlandlied as Germany’s national anthem. This was a step, which provided a popular and well-known song as national anthem and again reinforced the republic’s link to Germany’s national liberalism.13 Heinrich Hoffmann von Fallersleben, a convinced national liberal, wrote the song in 1841, and it quickly turned into a popular song for students and other supporters of the national liberal movement. Staying with the theme of unity, Edwin Redslob decorated the parliament for the 1922 Constitution Day celebration with the coats of arms of Germany’s Länder, including the ones in which areas were still occupied. They were placed around the German Eagle, the state symbol of the republic. As much as Redslob, with his keen interest in state symbols, wanted to present the reshaped emblems, he also used the line ‘unity and rights and liberty’ from the national anthem as the motto for the celebration. Combined with the coats of arms, this was a strong message aiming for a sense of community and togetherness within German society as well as for territorial unity.14 The Reichsbanner captured many aspects regarding the representation of territorial unity in the cover page of its weekly journal in August

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1930. To celebrate the withdrawal of troops from the Rhineland, the title page presented the ‘goddess of liberty’ with a black-red-gold flag wrapped around her shoulders. She was surrounded by the coats of arms of the German Länder and the text underneath the picture read: ‘The Weimar Constitution, the saviour of German Unity!’ In smaller print the text stated that the constitution had saved the country from the French politician Clemenceau’s plan to destroy its unity. Cleverly, the Reichsbanner used a symbol that had its roots in French republicanism, the goddess of liberty and the French Marianne are very similar allegorical figures, and played it out against the former head of the French government.15 Territorial unity, with reference to the Rhineland, was linked to the republic suggesting a clear connection between the two. The following two parts will illustrate in more details how links between the Rhineland and the identity of the republican state were constructed in Weimar Germany.

Illustration 4.1 Illustrierte Republikanische Zeitung, 9.8.1930. Courtesy of Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachf


The Rhineland as part of festive representation When nationalist themes were nothing new as part of republican representation, the Rhine had a long established place within this set-up. Ever since Ernst Moritz Arndt’s 1813 battle cry against Napoleonic occupation stating that ‘the Rhine was Germany’s river and not its border’, the river had acquired a mythical importance closely linked to a range of images and slogans evoked whenever the German fatherland seemed to be in danger. Ranging from nationalist, geopolitical and cultural to republican and pacifist interpretations, the Rhine meant different things to different people. France and Germany alike considered the river as part of their national heritage. In fact, the Rhine was as much a symbolic issue as it was a political one. The river was a treasure trove of national and cultural folklore, heavily relied upon by the tourist industry,16 as Cologne’s promotional efforts have illustrated in 1926. Throughout German history the Rhine remained Erinnerungsort—a location capturing the collective memory of the nation.17 The political reality of Weimar Germany turned the Rhineland once again into contested territory between the Germans and the French. With the Rhineland occupied by foreign troops after the First World War as part of the Versailles Peace Treaty, mythical images of the Rhine as an embodiment of Germaness possessed clear political connotations. Although the war was over, foreign troops occupied German territory and remained to do so throughout the Weimar years. At the beginning of 1923, this tense situation deteriorated when French and Belgian troops occupied the Ruhr area as response to delayed German reparation payments. The ‘Ruhr struggle’ lasted the entire year and the strategy of passive resistance to the foreign occupation, applied by the German government, only worsened the country’s economic and financial situation. In addition, worrying signs of Rhenish separatism had become apparent in the early 1920s, a trend the French encouraged hoping to split the Rhineland from Germany. Hence, many of Weimar Germany’s politicians found it essential to stress the connection of the Rhineland to the rest of the country. Claims that the republic would only be whole again once the Rhineland was returned were part of the rhetoric repertoire of most political parties in the 1920s. Naturally, republican state representation also made use of the Rhine. The choice for a theme linked to Constitution Day celebrations in August 1923 showed this most distinctively. Wondering which theme should be connected to the festivities; Edwin Redslob made two suggestions in April 1923. He pointed out that the commemoration of the 75th

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anniversary of the Frankfurt parliament in the Paulskirche or ‘a Rhine and Ruhr day’ would be suited for the upcoming celebration. Redslob recommended waiting to see which theme proved to be more important by August 1923.18 Not surprisingly, the Rhine and Ruhr day was chosen.19 Although commemorating the anniversary of the Paulskirche would have stressed the connection between Germany’s first attempts of democracy in 1848–1849 with the Weimar Republic, it was not taken up.20 The Constitution Day in 1923 was dedicated to the population of the Rhine and Ruhr.21 The programme of the state-organised ceremony reflected the indignation over the French occupation. Professor Anschütz, rector of the University of Heidelberg, delivered the festive speech at the ceremony praising the achievements of the Weimar Constitution. Anschütz’s speech was succeeded by the one given by Dr Jarres, the mayor of Duisburg, a town situated in the Ruhr area. Jarres spoke as a representative of the Rhine and Ruhr area and painted a vivid picture of the people’s suffering there. He demanded loyalty from the rest of the country to the occupied area.22 The ceremony concluded with the national anthem and the song The German Rhine by Nikolaus Becker. Becker’s 1840 song, dating back to the heydays of German national liberalism, was a call to arms to defend ‘the free German Rhine’.23 The year of 1923 had already seen another event in which the republican state had commemorated and saluted the people of the Rhine and Ruhr area. In March 1923, the French occupied parts of Essen’s Krupp factory and killed 13 workers who had resisted the occupation. On the day of the funeral in Essen, a memorial ceremony was held in the Berlin parliament since the French government did not allow for a state ceremony in the occupied area.24 Chancellor Cuno connected his speech in the parliament to the funeral, taking place in Essen. Cuno stated regarding the workers: They will stay unforgotten in our hearts as German heroes who have loved their fatherland more than their lives. With the same sentiment we commemorate all those at the Rhine and Ruhr who have preceded them in sacrificing their lives, their health, their liberty [. . .] how impoverished our words sound in contrast to what these martyrs have done for Germany!25 By collectively commemorating the men and stressing their will not to yield to the French, the republic seized the opportunity to show its support for the area. Clearly, the portrayal of the workers as having died


for the German nation was made much easier by virtue of the presence of the French oppressor.26 Nevertheless, as the year ended, negotiations with France became a political option. Consequently, the republic attempted avoiding obvious anti-French sentiments. In late November 1923, Edwin Redslob suggested the staging of ‘a Rhine and Ruhr commemorative day’ for the following year reminding the population of the beginning of the Ruhr struggle. Redslob had bitterly condemned the French action; he considered the Rhine as Germany’s cultural cradle and the occupation as violent and destructive. The Reich Ministry of the Interior rejected the suggestion of its cultural expert fearing that it would upset the French government at a time when political compromises and negotiations had started to take shape.27 These cautious actions by the German government did not mean that the Rhine was not referred to anymore after 1923. On the contrary, the Ruhr struggle in 1923 might have made references to the Rhine and Ruhr area almost inevitable, but the Rhine remained a much-used symbol in matters of state representation for years to come. In 1925, Professor Platz of the University of Bonn described in his festive speech for the annual Constitution Day ceremony the German youth and the Rhine as the two sources Germany should gather strength from.28 Also in 1925, several cities in the Rhineland took the initiative and staged exhibitions, festivals and popular celebrations to commemorate the 1000th anniversary of the cession of the Rhineland to the Eastern Frankish kingdom as we have seen in Chapter 2. An event that certainly would have stayed unnoticed in any other political context turned into a manifestation of the Rhineland’s loyalty to Germany. And not only the Rhenish areas had seized this opportunity, but also the people at the Saar used the festivities to demonstrate their protest against the occupation of the area as the Wilhelm Tell performance in Saarbrücken’s theatre had powerfully illustrated.29 The German foreign office hastily had to reassure the irritated French diplomats that the celebrations in the area were by no means planned by Berlin but purely a regional matter.30 This was a rather dubious excuse for it was clear that anything concerning the Rhineland was more than a regional issue and that the republican state had provided financial support for the festivities.31 Throughout the years of the Weimar Republic, the Rhine and the Rhineland were presented as sacred grounds. This notion was most obvious in discussions on the Rhineland as location for a monument in honour of the First World War dead. A national monument for the war dead had already been discussed during the First World War but it was

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Reich President Ebert who turned it into an official project in 1924. The debate around the project lasted longer than the republic itself. Numerous proposals from small communities, towns and cities pointing out that their area was predestined to be the location for Germany’s national monument swamped the Reich Ministry of the Interior from 1924 onwards.32 Proposals favouring the Rhineland as the preferred location for the national monument generally drew on the nationalist and mystic connotations connected to the area.33 The First World War was mainly portrayed as the trench warfare at the Western Front and the Rhine could be easily connected to personal memories of passing the river while travelling to the battlefields in the West. The Reichskunstwart Redslob suggested that the monument should be a bridge over the Rhine with an unknown soldier buried in the river. He also connected the river to his own memories pointing out: ‘Who ever hurried to the battlefields in the West . . . he swore an oath of loyalty to this stream [the Rhine]’.34 Politicians in the Rhineland applauded this idea; it could be easily linked to older myths and legends about guardians in the Rhine.35 In fact, the writer and teacher, Leo Weismantel, criticised Redslob’s suggestion precisely because of its mythical message. He wrote: ‘The grave in the Rhine is not a symbol for the people; it is a magic garden with ghosts of temptations. Who ensures that these dead won’t become the seed of something else.’36 Indeed, references to the Rhine were never clear-cut. While the republican state kept anti-French feelings at bay from 1924 onwards, others were less inclined to follow suit. After the troops had been withdrawn from the Rhineland, the city of Koblenz experienced two mass gatherings in 1930 and 1931 capturing opposing interpretations of the event. Koblenz is situated in the West of Germany where the river Mosel flows into the Rhine. A promontory with a statue of Wilhelm I marks this spot. In early October 1930, the right-wing war veteran organisation Stahlhelm held its annual meeting there. Similar to most celebrations of the organisation, marches, parades and oaths of loyalty to the German nation characterised the day.37 The Stahlhelm left no doubt concerning its nationalist message stressing that Germany’s former soldiers had gathered in Koblenz to defend the area.38 The French, so the organisation, could not be trusted. A right-wing newspaper described the day with the following words: ‘The area that used to be full of foreign soldiers, was now filled with the thunder of disciplined steps of former German soldiers and healthy youth.’39 The title page of the Stahlhelm’s journal, announcing the event in Koblenz, showed a soldier with a torch under the caption ‘Germany, we are on guard’ and next to it a quotation


from Nikolaus Becker’s 1840s piece on the Rhine: ‘They shall not have the free German Rhine, until its waves burry the last man’s remains.’40 A year later in August 1931, the republican Reichsbanner staged its Constitution Day celebration in Koblenz and presented a more peaceful message.41 The organisation’s journal wrote: ‘When German men are meeting at the liberated Rhine to swear an oath of loyalty to the republic, we want to look westward. We are not seeking revenge but brotherhood and we reach out for the hands of the French people.’42 Republican newspapers stressed the different kind of political demonstration Koblenz had experienced this time.43 Both organisations incorporated the same important landmarks and connected their events to the ‘liberation’ of the Rhineland. But the Stahlhelm used the city for anti-French propaganda, when the republican Reichsbanner presented Koblenz as a symbol of European peace and future Franco-German friendship. Once again we are reminded of the interpretative scope of urban space. In addition to the opposing perception of what the city of Koblenz stood for, there was a diverse interpretation of the legacy of the First World War obvious in these two events. The Stahlhelm clearly stressed that there was still the need to defend German soil, or, at least to be on the look out. The Reichsbanner suggested that soldiers, whether on the French or the German side, had learnt their lessons and aimed for peace and friendship. In 1925, the playwright Fritz von Unruh had his play Heinrich aus Adernach performed in Cologne. In his play Unruh presented the figure of ‘the Unknown Soldier’ reconciling a fight between a German and a Frenchman. Set in 1925, Heinrich, a winegrower from Adernach, wanted to take revenge on a Frenchman. Instead of doing so, Heinrich saw the Unknown Solider, who had risen from his grave and warned that seeking revenge was the basis for future wars. Heinrich understood and buried the Unknown Solider in the Rhine as a symbol of peace.44 The Reichskunstwart had the inspiration for his war memorial from Unruh’s play. In his diary, Redslob noted that he considered the bridge over the Rhine as a symbol of peace between Germany and France much in line with Fritz von Unruh’s interpretation.45 The topic interpreted so differently by the Stahlhelm on the one hand and by the Reichsbanner on the other was not just about transforming a former enemy into a friend, a transgression the nationalist organisation was not willing to make. But there was an underlying discourse on the question of borders that, according to the Stahlhelm, needed to proceed further. As much as selecting Koblenz as location for the Stahlhelm event was not a coincident, the choice for the city of Breslau in Upper Silesia

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where the nationalist organisation gathered in the following year, in 1931, continued this notion of defending borders. The liberal Vossische Zeitung acknowledged the nationalist organisation’s strategy of staging its events in emotionally charged locations. At the same time, the newspaper played down the importance of the Stahlhelm calling it ‘a group of old men’.46 While intellectual discourses in the Weimar years on the problems of German borders, hoping for revisions of the territorial status quo in the East and West, differed from the actual foreign policy of the German government, the Nazis made foreign policy and discourses compatible again.47

The Rhineland mass spectacle in 1930 The importance of the Rhine in numerous representational matters was extraordinary. The river was omnipresent in poems and songs of the first half of the nineteenth century with the struggle against French occupation and for a united Germany as the main source of inspiration behind most of these works. Recited at celebrations and festivities, songs and poems on the Rhine lost some of their appeal after Bismarck had united the country in 1871.48 In the 1920s, however, many of these pieces experienced a revival. After all, parallels between the Napoleonic occupation in the nineteenth century and the situation after the First World War were readily drawn in Weimar Germany. Historical reality, showing that the two situations were very different, mattered little. While there seems to be a less distinct literary tradition regarding the use of the Rhine in theatrical works and spectacles than in poetry, it was, nevertheless, not an invention of the 1920s. Clemens Brentano wrote his short romantic Rhine play Am Rhein, am Rhein in 1813 and Richard Wagner’s Ring is probably still the most spectacular adaptation of the Rhine theme to the stage.49 The apparent lack of a tradition for Rhine plays is not to suggest that the theme was not taken up. Very likely members of the local elites, namely schoolteachers, wrote Rhine plays for a local audience. Unlike Rhine poetry, these pieces would not have been widely distributed. Generally, however, the tradition of the festive play ended in Imperial Germany.50 In the 1920s, collections of songs, poems, speeches and plays for school celebrations in honour of the Weimar Constitution also included numerous pieces on the Rhine. While some of them concentrated on romantic Rhine imagery, others used the river as a symbol of German identity forged against foreign occupation.51 School plays in the 1920s focusing on the Rhine tended to be staged rather traditionally with


different rivers being represented by individual speakers demanding the liberation of the Rhine.52 The fact that Edwin Redslob staged a Rhine play for the republic, Redslob being an important figure in the field of state representation but not a famous poet or playwright, supports the idea that perhaps also earlier plays on the Rhine had less well-known authors, and, therefore, did not receive the same distribution as Rhine poetry. Presenting the withdrawal of troops from the Rhineland as a republican success was not a surprising move on the part of the republic. After all, foreign political events creating a positive consensus were a rare occasion in Weimar Germany, and once they occurred, they needed to be used with gusto.53 Cologne’s mayor Konrad Adenauer had already demonstrated with the festivities in his city in early 1926 that the occasion had potential for emotional celebrations embedding municipal pride within a republican framework. When the withdrawal of foreign troops was celebrated, Adenauer had made sure that Cologne showed the flags of the city and the ones of the republic. In his speeches, he had stressed the city’s position within the German republic.54 The festivities in the summer of 1930 should combine republican and national themes based on a foreign political consensus. But, one of the difficulties was the fact that the Rhineland had been occupied as a consequence of the defeat in the First World War. The negative outcome of the war was an event anti-republicans blamed on supporters of democracy in the first place, perpetuating the stab-in-the-back-legend in which they claimed that the home front had betrayed the bravely fighting soldiers.55 Regardless of these interpretations, the ‘liberation’ of the Rhineland was celebrated as a national event at the beginning of July in 1930. Numerous festive activities, including parades, torch-lit marches and sporting events encouraged by local authorities, took place. According to the Reich Minister for the Occupied Areas these local celebrations ‘should offer an opportunity for the population to express its joy after the long period of suffering under the occupation’.56 At the end of March in 1930, more concrete ideas regarding celebrations in the summer were discussed on ministerial level. It was agreed that celebrations supported by the Berlin government were of essential importance, despite critical voices stating that joyful celebrations with the Saar area still occupied would not be suitable for Germany. Guidelines given out by state ministries took this point into account and reminded planners that local festivities should be kept simple and dignified, above party politics, without chauvinistic exaggerations, and emphasise the connection between the border regions in the West

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and the East of the country. Furthermore, the Reich Minister for the Occupied Areas strongly supported the idea of a connection between Constitution Day celebrations and Rhineland festivities. He suggested that Constitution Day celebrations in Berlin in August could mark the closing point for festivities that were to honour the occasion throughout the country over the summer.57 Inspired by the success of the previous year, the staging of a mass spectacle was envisaged. Preferably it should be included in one of the numerous locally organised celebrations, which many Rhenish towns planned for the summer, and it should be performed again as part of the official Constitution Day festivities in the Berlin stadium in August 1930. Hence, two versions of a mass spectacle were proposed, one written by Edwin Redslob, the other by Josef Fielitz. While the two men had already worked together on the mass play in 1929, and would eventually do so again for the Rhineland spectacle, there was little sympathy between them. The Reich Ministry for Occupied Areas stated that the last discussion on this issue saw the tightening of the competition between Redslob and Fielitz, both stressing the advantages of their own play and the disadvantages of their opponent’s. In the end they could be persuaded to work together.58 Edwin Redslob entitled his work The Rhine—Germany’s River in which the different German rivers were represented through large movement groups who eventually liberated the Rhine. Josef Fielitz’s play Young Germany placed a greater emphasis on visual images than on language. Less well-structured, different rivers also came into the stadium and took away the chains of the Rhine. What Fielitz’s play lacked in structure, it made up for in representation: a black-red-gold border of the country consisting of children to frame the play was an idea from his draft.59 The final version of the play combined Redslob’s text and Fielitz’s ideas for visual representation. The mass play was first performed as part of the Rhineland festivities in Wiesbaden. Its advertising postercard, however, already clearly illustrated the national importance allocated to the event. Showing a red bridge with a black eagle placed on it before a golden background, the postercard was kept in the colours black-redgold, the national colours of the republic. In so doing, different images and symbols were deliberately connected to each other. The bridge, representing the Rhine, was linked to the republic’s state symbol, the German Eagle, and to Weimar Germany’s national colours. The message visually expressed here was quite clear; the withdrawal of troops from the Rhineland and the play to celebrate the event were of national importance for the entire country.


Illustration 4.2 Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, NL Redslob, Festspiel zur Rheinlandbefreiung. Courtesy of Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg

For Constitution Day celebration in Berlin the play was performed again in the capital’s stadium on Sunday, 10 August 1930. Although Constitution Day was the next day, the mass spectacle was staged on Sunday to enable as many people as possible to attend.60 Seven thousand schoolchildren from Berlin schools participated in choirs and movement groups. Like the year before, the organisers co-operated with the local school authorities of the area. The music was provided by the symphony orchestra of Berlin’s police force. Mass choirs spoke most of the play’s text aided by one individual speaker. Loudspeakers guaranteed that the audience could hear everything. The play lasted just under one hour and approximately 40,000–50,000 people came to see it. It began with the entry of the choir groups and children dressed in the colours black, red and gold. They positioned themselves to represent the borders of the country on the sports field creating a frame for the play in this way. The working-class song Wann wir schreiten Seit’ an Seit’ was

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played which presented, despite its general popularity, a clear message of inclusiveness to the workers. The main speaker of the play called the German rivers into the stadium consisting of movement groups, dressed in different colours. Groups representing the rivers Vistula, Oder, Elbe, Weser, Havel and Spree entered. When the river Danube entered the stadium, the choir groups sang Max v. Schenkendorf’s 1813 song Freiheit, die ich meine. Finally, the rivers called ‘the father Rhine’ and demanded its liberation. The Rhine, again a large group of children, appeared in chains and the emblems of its cities covered with black cloth were carried into the stadium. Eventually choir groups, representing the people of the Rhineland as winegrowers, peasants, workers and coal miners, freed the river from its chains. They shouted that the people had had to carry the burdens of the occupation and therefore had to destroy ‘the chains of serfdom’. Once this act of liberation had ended the republican flag was displayed in the stadium, bells were rung and the choir groups and the audience joined singing the national anthem. The play ended with Schiller’s Ode to Joy.61 Similar to the state-organised play in 1929, Redslob’s Rhine spectacle was full of symbolic images. It tried to combine republican symbols with

Illustration 4.3 Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, NL Redslob, Festspiel zur Rheinlandbefreiung. Courtesy of Deutsches Kunstarchiv im Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg


the national event of the Rhineland ‘liberation’. The repetition of components already used a year earlier, however expanded and perfected, is obvious: thousands of schoolchildren, the working-class song, the limited use of language and the visual impact of large movement groups. And again it was a stadium chosen for the performance; a location many considered as embodiment of a new festive culture. The shared singing of the national anthem at the end of the play deliberately broke the distance between participants and spectators. A combination of state symbols was cleverly put together to create an impressive symbolic whole. Only when the Rhine was liberated, the most important symbol of state authority, the black-red-gold flag, was shown accompanied by the singing of the national anthem. The last piece of festive music, Ode to Joy, represented, according to Redslob, the highest musical possession of the German people standing for reconciliation and unity.62 Territorial and societal wholeness was presented as being eventually restored in Germany. The calling of the Danube, the river representing the hope for unity with Austria, combined with the song Freiheit, die ich meine, made this most apparent. Schenckendorf’s lyrics, written at the wars of liberation, were a clear expression of German nationalism. However, the song did not make any explicit reference to which territories should be part of a unified and liberated Germany. But the organisers’ deliberate link to Austria reminded the audience that a unified Germany in the eyes of the national liberals of the nineteenth century had always meant the inclusion of Austrian territories. By combining the calling of the Danube and the song, the play repeated a demand that had a long tradition in German history. The republic was not mentioned in the text; it was presented through visual symbols as the republican flag and the national anthem. The play’s text, however, seemed timeless and had some characteristics of festive plays of the nineteenth century which were primarily staged to convey a sense of national identity.63 Although there was no established tradition for Rhine plays, the themes alluded to in Redslob’s piece and expressed visually through mass groups were widely known. The Rhine in chains representing the oppressed German nation, the suffering of the people of the Rhineland as surrogate for the suffering of the German Volk, and the presentation of different rivers to visualise territorial unity were images with a long tradition easily understood by a Weimar Germany audience.64 It was not the play’s text or themes, but the way it was staged—the mass involvement of children, the visual images, the location of its performance and its connection of nationalist and republican elements—that turned the republic’s Rhine play into a modern mass spectacle.

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Territorial wholeness of the republic was still an important issue after 1930. The Saar area remained to be occupied for another five years until 1935. Many Germans, regardless of their political convictions, found outlawing Austro-German unity and the separation of East Prussia from the rest of the country wrong and in breach of principles of national self-determination. In fact, already in August 1928, Dr Moldenhauer, the speaker for the German People’s Party (DVP), had suggested in the parliament that a national holiday in the republic should be the day when territorial unity of the country was restored. Moldenhauer stated: ‘The date for a national holiday should be the date of a big national event that is understood, felt and appreciated by everyone. That should be the day when the last Frenchman leaves German soil, the day when Großdeutschland comes into existence.’65 Although not all republicans would have agreed with Moldenhauer’s idea that this day should be turned into a national holiday, after all the republicans wanted Constitution Day to be the holiday of the republic, the notion that the day when Großdeutschland had been eventually achieved, including the Rhineland, the Saar area and Austria, needed to be celebrated was commonly held. The Reich Ministry for Occupied Areas’ suggestion to remember in all the joy over the Rhineland liberation that especially the East was still not part of the country and the Saar area still occupied was a clear indication of the problems that remained unresolved in the summer of 1930. Redslob’s play paid tribute to these difficulties by positioning children in republican colours in the shape of the country’s outer borders. After heated ministerial discussions, it was agreed that the borders of the country, presenting as visual frame for the play, should not include Germany’s ‘lost’ territories. The republic feared foreign political difficulties otherwise.66 Indeed, for some the withdrawal of troops from the Rhineland meant the starting signal for the successive return of other areas. After 1933, Adolf Hitler owed much of his early foreign political success to this notion. The journal Deutsche Republik commented on these underlying expectations and wishes with the words: ‘The nationalist prophets only have the Saar area in the West left for their distortion of history and their resentments. For the rest, they have to concentrate completely on the East.’67 The same ideas Redslob had formulated earlier for celebrations in general also applied to his Rhine play. He stated that after the difficult post-war period, current events, like ‘the Rhineland liberation’, should be used as motifs for celebrations. Consequently, the style of a modern festive play had to turn the whole population into carriers of the


action.68 According to Redslob, the new epoch needed new symbols and festivities, not in exaggerated form, as he believed characterised the festive style of extremist political parties, but genuine ones.69 For him, the Rhine represented such a genuine national symbol. New ideas from theatre, sports movements and dance tried out in Weimar Germany obviously influenced the republic’s Rhine spectacle as much as they had influenced the previous one. Sports and gymnastic performances were held outside. Amateur dancing and theatre groups used mass participation and the famous theatre director Max Reinhardt set up his ‘theatre of the 5,000’. Communist groups made use of mass choirs to mobilise support for the political struggle and the Social Democrats visualised their community with the help of mass plays and sport performances.70 This interest in creating an expression of community combined with a keen focus on aesthetic form, movements, music and speech to create a unified impression characterised modern staging and performing in Weimar Germany. Due to Edwin Redslob, it also characterised the state-organised spectacles in August 1929 and 1930. Different types of public representation in the 1920s had one key characteristic: they expressed their message through physical participation and collective experience. In this way, a body of the nation was created. Wolfgang Kaschuba sums up this concept when he writes: ‘The embodiment of the nation goes hand in hand with political aesthetics. In parades, marches, assemblies and sport competitions a nationalisation of the masses can be created.’71 Clearly, the underlying concept that influenced many who searched for new ways of expression was the relation between the individual and the masses.72 Feared as being synonymous with possible working-class uprisings or praised as the embodiment of a new collective community, different perception of ‘the masses’ were reflected not only in intellectual discourses but also in representational forms in Weimar Germany. August Nitschke interprets this focus on the promise of a true national community as the linking element of numerous representational styles in the 1920s and early 1930s. He states: ‘The Tiller Girls [a revue dancing group in the 1920s], mass plays, Communist mass choirs and the first Nazi plays [Thingspiele] all illustrate a similar turn away from the individual and towards the community.’73 Many of these trends were obvious in the republic’s Rhine spectacle. An article commissioned by the play’s organisers explicitly stated that ‘the play was performed outside because the theatres had become too small and only out in the open Germany’s liberation could be

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truly understood’. Furthermore, the article emphasised that Redslob had used ‘the impressive means of choral talking, singing, rhythmic movements, and symbolic representation’ for the play.74 Taking into account how school plays on the Rhine used to be staged in the 1920s, with different rivers being represented by individual speakers, it becomes clear that Redslob’s play distinctly differed from this technique. Naturally, Redslob had more possibilities open to him than were available to schoolteachers. After all, the play was funded by the republican state and he could rely on resources such as school authorities, the police force and the Berlin city council for help. Still it becomes obvious that Redslob attempted to create something new for the Weimar state and that he broke away from traditional staging of celebrations. Letters congratulating Redslob on the choreography of the Rhine spectacle displayed a general interest in this form of mass celebration. Dr Mayer, a civil servant of the Reich Ministry for Occupied Areas, wrote that the play had particularly impressed him because he felt that the audience had understood the creation of new national ideas. According to Mayer, the German rivers were highly suitable for the popular representation of a national idea.75 Another letter stated that the best of the play was the mass involvement of Germany’s youth representing the future of the country.76 Other letter writers wanted to know more about ‘the new festive culture’ they felt the Rhine play represented and asked whether it could be performed at other events as well.77 Republican newspapers reported enthusiastically on the play stressing the appeal of the event.78 The Vossische Zeitung concluded its article thanking the 7,000 young people involved who had shown their dedication to the republican state. According to the newspaper, the republic could not have hoped for anything better.79 Equally impressed was the Berliner Tageblatt’s description of the spectacle, pointing out that the estimated number of participants and spectators of 50,000 was probably too low. After words of thanks to the youngsters, the paper emphasised the play’s connection to the Weimar Constitution: . . . the people have suffered under the occupation and have eventually destroyed the foreign chains through the will of reconciliation. That is the deeper meaning of yesterday’s play and the reason why it was performed on Constitution Day. According to the Weimar Constitution, the will of the people represents the key authority of the state. And so it is clear that the play had the German people at its core tearing apart the chains of occupation.80


These examples illustrate how republican newspapers deliberately presented the spectacle as an embodiment of republicanism, although they clearly needed to make an effort to do so. It was the retrospective interpretation of the spectacle that allowed for its connection with the republic, not so much the play itself. Nevertheless, there was also criticism. Carl von Ossietzky described all Rhineland celebrations as a mixture of pathos and Kitsch. He reminded the readers of his journal Die Weltbühne that not only the people of the Rhineland had stayed loyal to the republic, the French had also kept their promise by withdrawing their troops. According to Ossietzky, the occasion had been manipulated to fit a nationalist purpose. He would have wished that any of the official celebrations and speeches had cared to reflect less on ‘nationalist drunkenness’ but more on the peaceful future relationship between France and Germany.81 We have seen that the Reichsbanner celebrations in Koblenz in 1931 fulfilled Ossietzky’s demand and spoke of peace with the French people. Official celebrations in the summer of 1930, however, concentrated less on the future with France. There was also criticism of a more fundamental nature attacking the style and contents of the play. The vice-president of the section for poetry at the Prussian Academy of Arts found the placement of children in the shape of a German map tasteless and embarrassing as he formulated in a reference on the draft version of Redslob’s and Fielitz’s plays.82 The journal Deutsche Republik complained: ‘Mr Redslob wanted to create symbols and he created metaphors [. . .] he combined them and put them into a collective shape, of which surprisingly many believe that this already expresses something new [. . .] It resembles the publication of patriotic oil paintings [. . .] just with a republican cloak’.83 The republic, this article claimed, did not need colourful images falsifying a political event. Political negotiations had led to the earlier removal of foreign troops; it had nothing to do with the population of the Rhineland as Redslob had presented it in his old-fashioned allegories.84 Nevertheless, the journal’s criticism that not every form of mass involvement represented a new expression of community seems outdated. After all, many of these ideas and concepts were widespread and tried out in theatres, dancing groups and political assemblies alike by the mid-1920s. Edwin Redslob’s stress on the importance of the visual impact of spectacles became again apparent when he criticised drafts for a play to be performed in August 1931. Although eventually cancelled due to a lack of funding, Redslob stated that the play, envisaged for festivities in August 1931, had severe shortcomings in its visual impression. According to the Reichskunstwart, the writers of the play had not paid

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enough attention to the fact that it should be performed in a stadium. People would perceive it first with their eyes and then with their ears, hence the visual impact had to be the main focus.85 After the staging of the Rhine mass play, two assistants involved in its planning, Dr Kniffler and A.J. Wenk, interpreted the event as the beginning of a new form of theatrical expression. In a short essay the two authors outlined that the theatre had always been an expression of the state of society. Kniffler and Wenk considered the experience of mass community as an essential characteristic of contemporary societal developments; consequently the only theatrical form appropriately expressing this principle had to be mass plays.86 The authors pointed to the combination of verbal and musical factors and the active participation of the masses. The republic’s Rhine play did not divide people into participants and spectators but into active and passive participants. According to the authors, this new theatre form, as the example of the Rhine play had shown, did not stress the individual but put all factors to the use of a Gesamtausdruckwillen. In so doing, the play only mirrored developments in society.87 It is debatable if mass spectacles in general, and the Rhine play in particular, can be considered as culturally reflecting dominant societal trends as the two authors claimed. What is clear, however, is that the republic’s mass spectacle used modern and innovative representational means. They included, among other aspects, the visualisation of community through bodies and movements. The play combined a traditional theme with modern staging and, in so doing, applied a key characteristic often attributed to mass plays performed in the Nazi period. Despite possibly interpreting the community expressed in spectacles as reflecting democracy and the equal status of individuals within the republic, it was the connection to Constitution Day festivities that placed the Rhine play into a republican context. The plot of the play as well as its choreography, apart from the rising of the black-red-gold flag at the very end, could have equally well been performed in the Third Reich. A stress on community, mass participation, visual impressions and often rather traditional plots characterised National Socialist ideas regarding a new theatre form, the Thingspiel. It was not just sports and spectacles the Nazis integrated in their festivities, but also one theme we have seen several times in Weimar representation: the claim for territorial wholeness. Naturally, this theme took different forms in Weimar Germany. It could be the joyful inclusion of the Rhineland within the republic as presented by Redslob, the welcoming of sportsmen from ‘occupied areas’ as at Cologne’s Kampfspiele or the militaristic warning staged by the Stahlhelm. In the


Third Reich, the representative manifestation of territorial unity, as for example at Nazi Party Rallies, reflected by and large the foreign policy of the regime and possessed a less reconciling character. Before we focus on National Socialist mass plays, it is important to pay attention to a major difference between state-organised plays in Weimar and Nazi Germany. While the staging and the festive aesthetics applied by both political systems proved to be similar, the intentions and messages connected to the spectacles were not. For the chief organiser of mass spectacles in the republic Edwin Redslob, celebrations and plays had to be more than mere entertainment. They should express community, show that the democratic state relied on the active participation of its citizens and embed the republic into a national tradition of German history and culture. In November 1931, Redslob formulated a key difference between his concepts behind festivities and the ones he had seen being staged by the National Socialists in a letter to his wife Charlotte. The cultural expert Redslob wrote: ‘ Celebrations as an end in themselves are Hitlerism. We need other motifs.’88 According to Redslob, the Nazis staged festivities in Weimar Germany as exaggerated entertainment, while the republic’s spectacles expressed much more than that. However, Redslob and other officials in charge of Weimar festivities and representational matters probably overestimated their audiences by allocating a clear political message to their works. It was less the educational message behind the spectacle if viewers actually realised that there was one, but its staging and aesthetic form that made it important. The festive aesthetics used in the republic were continued, expanded and developed in the Third Reich. Only one small example of this was a 1933 school celebration in the same Berlin stadium used three years previously for Constitution Day spectacles. The schoolchildren formed an outline of Germany’s borders on the sports field wearing the national colours of the Nazi state: black-white-red.89 Furthermore, the school play included a statement on territorial unity the republic had refused to make. After the injustice of the Versailles Peace Treaty had been lamented, groups of people representing the inhabitants of Germany’s occupied or annexed areas entered the stadium. They formed the outline of these territories on the sports field visually illustrating that they should be an integrated part of the German national map.90

5 Party Rallies and the Thingspiel in the Third Reich

Referring to the German borders presented on the sports field at the 1930 Rhine spectacle the Berliner Tageblatt wrote that ‘a bulwark of young bodies protects the Reich’.1 This description could have well been used to comment on festivities in the Nazi period which are frequently characterised as efforts striping away individual identities and creating an emotional, uniformed and militarised people’s community. Allegedly this manifested the principles of a totalitarian ideology.2 But as illustrated in previous chapters, the representation of the republic was influenced by ideas of community, occupying public space, territorial wholeness, mass experience and the creation of visual impressions, too. Some of these concepts apply to state representation in general. However, the explicit stress on community and mass involvement did not only distinguish the republic from the Kaiserreich but characterised the whole period from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s. Despite deeply rooted images of National Socialist Party Rallies, the effectiveness of Nazi propaganda has started to be questioned.3 As a reinterpretation of republican representation takes place, Nazi propaganda is being reassessed as well. Historians draw attention to the fact that the evaluation of National Socialist representation, based on staged events captured in photographs or films, simply perpetuates propaganda and overestimates its originality.4 Indeed, representational forms and festive trends in regards to mass staged events and spectacles developed rather independently of political state systems. The Nuremberg Party Rallies are at the centre of the first part of this chapter. In contrast to nowadays’ popular interpretation of them, the rallies did not create aesthetically original features. Instead, the festivities combined numerous well-known elements. Parades, sporting activities and—increasingly so—popular entertainment determined 102

Party Rallies and Thingspiel 103

the days in Nuremberg. Its organisers realised quickly that entertainment rather than political speeches sustained people’s interest. What had been envisaged as the political barometer of the Nazi Party’s pulse each year turned into festivities largely dominated by popular activities co-ordinated with the help of the Strength through Joy organisation (KdF).5 In addition, the party rallies provided a National Socialist interpretation of urban space in Nuremberg and stressed a theme we have encountered numerous times; the restoration of territorial unity. But the rallies’ aesthetic originality was limited. The chapter’s second part focuses on the Nazis’ unsuccessful efforts to develop their own original theatre (Thingspiel). The idea of involving large groups of people in mass spectacles performed outdoors, in arenas especially designed for these events, fascinated organisers of festivities in the early years of the Third Reich. In contrast to Nazi Party Rallies, the Thingspiel movement possessed an aesthetically more innovative concept. While its links with ancient and Germanic performing traditions were stressed, the Thingspiel made use of many concepts characteristic of the period’s public performance culture: the involvement of the masses, the choreography of bodies as well as the community of participants and spectators. Unlike the spectacles analysed for the Weimar years, the preferred venue for the Thingspiel was not the stadium but open-air stages embedded into scenic landscape. The Thingspiel arena on the Loreley rock at the Rhine is examined in the third part. This provides insight into the monumental ideas behind the project of a new National Socialist theatre. But in the mid-1930s a combination of fading popularity, the lack of adequate material and the recognition that the aesthetics of the Thingspiel had outlived its time brought the movement to a halt. Consequently, the Loreley Thingspiel arena, only completed in 1939, represented the failure of a movement that had lost its drive and official support by the time one of its most spectacular outdoor stages opened.

Nazi Party Rallies: Staging the Volksgemeinschaft Organisational and financial means the Nazis allocated to propaganda and representational matters were no match for what the Weimar Republic had made available for these areas. The National Socialist takeover of power in 1933 meant the reorganisation of propaganda matters.6 It spelled an end to the office of the Reichskunstwart, too. In February 1933, Edwin Redslob was dismissed and his office dissolved.7 His files were kept as part of the files of the Nazi propaganda ministry.8 The

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reasons for the dismissal of the Reichskunstwart were not as clear-cut as it might seem. There was some common ground between Redslob and the Nazis regarding concepts for festive representation and Redslob was not completely opposed to working for them.9 Nevertheless, the National Socialists did not employ the former ‘advertising chief of the republic’. The creation of the propaganda ministry at the beginning of the Third Reich centralised cultural and representational matters. This included the planning of state and party festivities. Although the Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels was not the only one dealing with matters of representation and culture, his ministry was the most powerful one and it grew in importance throughout the Nazi period. In the Weimar years, Edwin Redslob had repeatedly characterised Nazi festivities and spectacles as soulless with no deeper meaning.10 Not surprisingly, Goebbels formulated the aim of his work differently. Stating that propaganda was not determined by aesthetic factors but merely and only by success, Goebbels claimed that propaganda was never an end in itself. Indeed, it only mattered in order to unite the German people behind the ideas of the National Socialist state. According to the minister, the most modern means of representation and the most innovative propaganda techniques needed to be applied to achieve this goal.11 With regards to the staging of festivities, the Nazis created an annual festive cycle consisting of celebrations rooted in party activities, as commemorating the Hitler putsch of 1923; state festivities, as national holidays or the Olympic Games; and traditional festive ceremonies, as celebrating the good harvest.12 Some historians have interpreted this festive cycle as replacing, or at least deliberately competing with religious celebrations that structure and divide the year.13 The Nazi dictatorship blurred the boundaries between state and party, enabling the combination of ceremonial and symbolic features that had characterised different spheres before. While republican organisations and democratic parties carried out annually reoccurring commemorative activities, the Weimar state had, apart from Constitution Day festivities, refrained from creating a festive calendar for its citizens.14 The festivities of the Third Reich most frequently concentrated upon are the Nazi Party Rallies.15 Instead of focusing in detail on the organisation, planning and perception of the Nuremberg events, I will illustrate how the rallies fitted into long-term developments and trends.16 Nazi Party Rallies, taking place in Nuremberg until 1938, provided a National Socialist interpretation for the urban space in which they were situated. Festivities in Nuremberg—the city having been chosen for a variety


of reasons including the strong support of the Nazi party in the area, Hitler’s preference for medieval towns and its easy accessibility—could be linked to a medieval tradition. The Reichstag of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation had been frequently held there.17 This constructed tradition which with Nazi propaganda linked the Third Reich to its medieval predecessor was particularly pronounced at the Nazi Party Rally in autumn 1938. The annexation of Austria was celebrated by returning the imperial regalia of the Holy Roman Empire from Vienna to Nuremberg.18 In fact, the historian Heinrich A. Winkler argues that Hitler exploited the mythical connotations connected to the term ‘Reich’ particularly well. Winkler states: ‘The Reich stood for an European order determined by Germany [. . .] similar to the Volksgemeinschaft, the Reich was a vision used to promote unity between parties, social classes and religious affiliations’.19 The reinterpretation of urban space, despite the actual area of the rallies being located a few kilometres outside of Nuremberg’s centre, affected the whole city.20 Yvonne Karow examines Leni Riefenstahl’s films on the party rallies and finds that the city was depicted as a founding metaphor in which the ‘Nazi occupation’ of the urban environment was expressed through the display of swastika flags on houses, churches and municipals buildings.21 Unlike in the Weimar years, when urban space was interpreted and reinterpreted, the Third Reich did not allow for alternative views challenging its interpretative authority. But Nazi Party Rallies should achieve more than providing a National Socialist interpretation for the city of Nuremberg. In fact, the event served various purposes. It should raise the reputation of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) at home and abroad, support the regional and local Nazi leaders in their work, promote a people’s community and manifest the strength of the National Socialist movement. By 1935, Nazi Party Rallies had become a ‘normal’ part of the festive calendar in the Third Reich. This development was to be expected for an annually repeated event, but it caused controversies, too. After all, some Nazi leaders considered the party rallies as monumental political occasion.22 The alleged watering down of the ‘sacred’ character of the meetings progressed through the increased focus on entertainment festivities. In 1937 ‘a Day of Community’ with its main focus on games and dances was added to the programme.23 The KdF successfully initiated popular festivities as part of at the rallies. Fireworks, sports competitions, beer and Bratwurst selling, film performances and other popular entertainment activities reminiscent of fun-fairs or amusement parks complemented military parades and political assemblies in Nuremberg.24

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Although carefully staged filmic images of the rallies suggested otherwise, the event’s organisation was dominated by rivalry and conflicts between numerous Nazi offices and municipal authorities in Nuremberg. To add to this difficulty, there were problems relating to the logistics, particularly for the areas of traffic control and accommodation well until 1938. Furthermore, reports lamented that the parades were badly staged and that its participants did not march in the right pace.25 Even at the party rally in 1938, there were complaints about the chaos when the political leaders assembled on the Zeppelinfeld. The nightly torch-lit march of 29,000 participants was internally described as catastrophe. After it had taken place for the fifth time, people still did not know how to march properly, so the criticism.26 Despite modern techniques, attempts to choreograph the masses, and the innovative use of lighting, Markus Urban argues convincingly that the main characteristic of National Socialist Party Rallies remained the pre-modern meeting between the leader and his followers to convey a feeling of direct participation. Clearly, this could not be achieved on a one-to-one basis. It was stressed that Hitler walked through Nuremberg for people to see him. The time-consuming and exhausting parades including numerable Nazi organisations and party divisions marching past the Führer were part of this concept, too.27 Even at mass choreographies staged by the Nazis, the relationship between a people and its leader should be expressed. The subordination under the Führer was an essential element of official celebrations in the Third Reich.28 To counteract the reproach that the party rallies in Nuremberg had turned into a costly propaganda show deprived of any political value, spectacular—often rushed—political decisions were linked to them. In so doing, the party rallies could still be portrayed as keeping the original meaning as political barometer of the Nazi party. In 1935 the Nuremberg Race Laws were proclaimed and a year later, in 1936, it was the economic four-year plan. Both measures, taking into account their influential nature, were completed under improvised circumstances shortly before and during the party rallies.29 Party rallies also possessed an international dimension as foreign representatives and journalists were invited to attend and to report back to their respective countries. Consequently, the strategy of linking the festivities to a political cause was not only important for internal criticism on the all too light character of the event but communicated National Socialist policy to observers abroad. In September 1938—with European international politics in severe crisis—even diplomats and foreign journalists focused on the


connection between party rallies and the announcement of political decisions.30 Similar to many festivities examined previously, also the Nazi Party Rallies wanted to communicate a message of inclusiveness and popular unity. From 1934 to 1938, the rallies gradually included more and more people as spectators and participants alike. In so doing, the party rallies changed from an event dominated by Nazi groups to one in which state organisations were integrated as well. What used to be the gathering of a political party and its affiliated organisations should turn into a festive event blurring the boundaries between state and party in the Third Reich.31 Apart from symbolising the inclusive character of the Nazi regime, the creation of connections and loyal bonds with organisations and institutions that could not relate to having been part of a National Socialist founding narrative traced back to the Weimar years was achieved in this way. The police force, for example, was one of these organisations the Nazis needed to integrate. After the National Socialists had centralised the police in 1936, this development was visually presented at the Nuremberg rally a year later. The journal Die Deutsche Polizei offered the interpretative framework of the development and wrote: The Nuremberg Party Rally in 1937 was the confirmation and the completion of a development that has incorporated the police force in the protective forces of the Third Reich. The Führer consecrated the police’s flags with the Blutfahne of the movement and, in so doing, manifested to everyone that the police were part of the National Socialist community.32 In the following year, police formations participated again in the party rally.33 Consequently, inclusiveness was promoted not just to demonstrate the creation of a new people’s community to the populace but also to establish and strengthen a feeling of loyalty for recently incorporated organisations. In addition, the Nazi Party Rallies also frequently referred to the concept of territorial unity. Groups, clearly recognisable through flags, emblems and dresses as coming from specific areas in Germany, were always part of the festivities. Leni Riefenstahl’s film Triumph of the Will of the 1934 rally depicts a scene in which young lads from different German regions successively called out the names of their hometowns as they were being asked ‘comrade, where are you from?’34 It was the regional diversity of the country eventually restored and united as one

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nation under Hitler that was emphasised. The Weimar Republic’s Rhine play had, in a more timid way, illustrated the same idea by presenting regional diversity through Germany’s rivers which demanded the ‘liberation’ of the Rhine and celebrated it under the republican flag. However, the play never visualised explicit demands to reclaim annexed or occupied territories, although this issue had been touched upon when the contents of the play was debated. In September 1938, territorial unity was the key theme for Nuremberg’s Party Rallies as we will see in the following chapter. The themes of inclusiveness and territorial wholeness were combined for the radio coverage of the party rallies. While reports, compiled by the Social Democratic exile organisation, suggest that there was little enthusiasm for listening to the radio coverage of the party rallies within Germany, the radio played an important role in connecting Germans living outside the country to the Nuremberg events.35 In 1926 the organisers of the Kampfspiele had allocated the same importance to the radio coverage of the sporting activities in Cologne. And they had done so for the same reasons. The journal Kampfspiel-Nachrichten claimed that it had received numerous letters and postcards from people living at the German borders expressing their gratitude for the lively radio transmission. Quoting a letter from Breslau, the Kampfspiel-Nachrichten wrote: ‘What made the Kampfspiele so important for us in Silesia was the link created between the East and the West of the fatherland . . . We participate in any joy and sorrows reaching us from the Rhine; our wounds are still bleeding too.’36 Certainly, the radio coverage of the Nazi Party Rallies hoped to achieve a similar sense of connection and identification.

The Nazi Thingspiel: A National Socialist theatre form Unlike National Socialist Party Rallies, the Nazis’ attempts to create their own mass theatre have long been interpreted as an element of grandiose National Socialist propaganda that eventually failed spectacularly. After all, the Thingspiel idea was rapidly abandoned after only a few years. Indeed, focused on the Third Reich, the Thingspiel movement was a rather short-lived experiment. It created a considerable amount of attention but was surprisingly quickly forgotten again.37 But when we interpret the Thingspiel movement as a development linked to debates on reformed performance spaces, mass choreographies and the unity of different art forms, it comes to represent the concluding phase of concepts and ideas discussed much earlier than only from 1933 to 1936.


Examined within the context of previous debates, the Thingspiel movement was culturally and aesthetically more daring than the staging of Nazi Party Rallies. Jörg Bochow offers a short overview on theatrical developments in the 1930s linking the Thingspiel to wider discussions on reforming the theatre. He draws attention to the diverse background of people involved in it which ranged from expertise in expressionist staging concepts and modern dance to an interest in ‘Blood and Soil’ romanticism.38 In his 1977 study Henning Eichberg concentrates on Nazi Thingspiele, Socialist and Communist mass spectacles, and sporting events. According to Eichberg, the interwar years, including the Thingspiel movement, were heavily influenced by the representative style of political parties.39 In addition, previous chapters have illustrated that also the republican state had staged mass spectacles. Consequently, a combination of these elements influenced discussions on a new National Socialist theatre locating the Thingspiel in a framework in which it resembled a further development of contemporary discourses. This is not to say that the Thingspiel movement was not extraordinary in particular with regards to the architectural design of the theatre arenas. The advocates of the Thingspiel envisaged the constructions of massive open-air arenas throughout Germany. In practice, most of them were never built. From 1933 to 1935/36 the Thingspiel movement was strongly supported—financially and ideologically—by the propaganda ministry. It was institutionalised in the Organisation of Open-air Plays and Community Theatre (Reichsbund der deutschen Freilicht- und Volksschauspiele). In July 1933 Otto Laubiger, the head of the Reichsbund, formulated demands for the new mass theatre. He stated: ‘Our German playwrights need to know that we want new plays that express the rhythm of our time; the choral play—expressing the longing of our people—will blossom at our new people’s stages.’40 The Thingspiel tried linking alleged Germanic traditions to National Socialist festive practices. Tracing the term Thing back to Germanic gatherings to hold court, the Nazis connected it to their own mass festivities. Combining political, theatrical, festive and sacred rituals, the new mass theatre should visualise the ‘people’s community’ of the Third Reich.41 One of the main concerns was the creation of appropriate plays for the new National Socialist theatre. This proved to be more difficult than anticipated as only very few plays were considered as truly expressing the ideas of the movement. With his work Deutsche Passion (1933) Richard Euringer wrote the first Thing play. He used a familiar theme. In Euringer’s play the Unknown Soldier rose from his grave to help

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his people overcoming post-war societal divisions, foreign occupation and economic difficulties. He united the people as new leader. The play referred to the notion that Hitler frequently presented himself as the Unknown Soldier who had united the country.42 Chapter 4 has illustrated how Fritz von Unruh had used the figure of the Unknown Soldier in his play Heinrich aus Andernach to foster understanding and friendship between the Germans and the French. Clearly, legacies and allegories relating to the First World War and the Unknown Soldier could be interpreted in various ways. In contrast to intense debates about the staging and performing of the Thingspiel, discussions on its architectural challenges remained limited. This surprises when taking into account that the alleged shortcomings of the plays were often contrasted with the impressive architecture of the outdoor stages.43 Within only a few years the Thingspiel should have 400 places of performance creating one stage in every area or region. The intention behind this spread was to root these stages in the local fabric of National Socialist festive activities.44 Only a small fraction of the envisaged number was actually built. The constructions of the sites were co-ordinated with the support of the State Labour Service (RAD). Indeed, Thingspiel arenas and the Reichsautobahn were the most spectacular building projects of the RAD.45 Hasty decisions and over-ambitious plans created a situation in which many communities celebrated the laying of the foundation stone for their local Thingspiel stages with nothing ever happening afterwards.46 While the selection of the first 66 Thingspiel arenas in 1934 reflected the attempt of an even spread throughout Germany, the locations were also chosen due to their alleged historical importance and spectacular scenery.47 Frequently, Thingspiel locations were considered as an entire Thingspiel site including the arena stage and a monument to honour the dead. Indeed, sometimes the selection of the location was inspired by previous discussions and debates on a suitable location for the national monument for the war dead. The envisaged trinity of commemoration, performance and mass assembly was an important inspiration for the Thingspiel and should be reflected in the architectural set-up of the site. However, this was not a National Socialist invention. Several suggestions for a national monument commemorating the First World War dead in the Weimar years combined a commemorative site with an area to be used for games and sports by the youth.48 The construction of Thingspiel arenas developed unevenly. While, as the third part of this chapter will show, the Loreley Thingspiel project was a failure mainly due to its late completion, things developed much


better in Heidelberg.49 The location of Heidelberg’s Thingspiel stage was the Heiligenberg, a mountain which, apart from its scenic location, was claimed to have been a significant site of Germanic culture. Although traces of Germanic heritage were never found there, the open-air arena was still built.50 In March 1934 the construction began and eventually finished in the summer of 1935. The RAD worked with 800 men on the construction site, towards its completion even with 1200 workers in several shifts. The finished open-air arena could accommodate 15,000 people which made it to one of the biggest stages in Europe. The work carried out on site by the men of the RAD was exhausting physical labour. But the Nazi press presented the construction of the arena as happy and joyful community work of dedicated workers helping to build the Nazi state.51 Heidelberg’s Thingspiel arena became one of the most important ones in the Third Reich with a number of plays and spectacles staged there. From the mid-1930s onwards—mirroring the developments at other German stages—the plays staged in Heidelberg moved to more classical pieces with, for example, Friedrich Schiller’s Die Braut von Messina in 1939.52 When the foundation stone for the Heidelberg open-air stage was laid, speeches by National Socialist officials praised the building as the embodiment of everything the Thingspiel movement represented mirroring the principles of the Nazi state. Heidelberg’s mayor Neinhaus stated in his speech: This arena stands for the new theatre culture of the future that doesn’t know hierarchies, class struggles or societal divisions; the divisions between poets, participants and spectators don’t exist anymore. In the glow of National Socialist thinking we are united in one big, unique, political community [. . .] built from the soil and stones of this mountain the arena of National Socialist education will be created.53 Commenting on the scenic landscape in late January 1935, Neinhaus remarked that the location of the Thingspiel stage on the mountain offered a view on the Palatine and on the mountains ‘behind which we find the Saar area’.54 Shortly after the people of the Saar had voted to return to Germany, this mentioning of the area captured again the theme of territorial wholeness. The first Thing play in Heidelberg, entitled Der Weg ins Reich and written by Kurt Heynicke, was performed at the end of June in 1935. The cast was approximately 500 people including professional actors as well

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as amateurs. The choir groups consisted of police officers, men of the RAD, boys of the Hitler Youth and girls of the League of German Girls. Furthermore, workers of several factories in Heidelberg complemented the cast. The main choir in the play was situated in the audience.55 Critical voices commenting on the staging of the play illustrated the wider discussions on the Thingspiel idea. According to the critics, the lyrics had been spoken too staccato, the choir groups had been too static and the use of loudspeaker should only take place when there was a dramatic purpose for the louder volume.56 Despite the criticism, the Heidelberg Thingspiel arena staged several successful performances. It was an important location for the Thingspiel movement. Nevertheless, fading popularity and a lack of good quality plays spelled an end to the Thingspiel movement and to similar spectacles. In late 1935, Joseph Goebbels lamented that his propaganda ministry had been swamped with plays and spectacles written for National Socialist festivities. Many lacked artistic quality. According to the Propaganda Minister, opportunists who had produced plays for the Kaiser’s birthday now felt obliged to write pieces for Nazi celebrations keeping their traditional writing style.57 Indeed, already in 1933 the German Labour Front (DAF) had sponsored a Thingspiel competition, and had supposedly received some 10,000 entries, most of them written by amateurs.58 But it was not just opportunists who wrote poor plays. Goebbels knew well that many dedicated Nazi supporters produced festive Kitsch. The mid-1930s saw a change in the support the Thingspiel idea had enjoyed until then. In May 1936 Goebbels limited the use of mass choirs to the Nazi Party Rallies. Warning that the festive cult of the Thingspiel could be counterproductive, he shifted the attention back to traditional theatre staging.59 At the end of 1935, the propaganda ministry advised the press not to use the term Thing anymore. In addition, the press was not permitted to use other alleged old Germanic words. By linking the unsatisfactory results of the Thingspiel movement to the development of a Germanic cult and eventually abandoning both ideas, Goebbels attacked his competitors within the Nazi party in the field of propaganda and representation. Efforts of Alfred Rosenberg and Heinrich Himmler supporting the creation of a Germanic cult were targeted with Goebbels’ restriction to the press.60 Traditional theatre plays—heroic tragedies as much as light comedies—were brought back to the stages throughout Germany. The plays performed were mainly well-established pieces and their staging was equally traditional. Experimental and innovative reforms regarding the use of space or the involvement of the audience gave way to


a revival of the picture-frame stage. This was one of the most common and most conservative ways of staging plays.61 But the Thingspiel movement represented more than failed National Socialist aspirations. It continued trends present since the 1910s, exploding in the public performance culture of the 1920s, that reflected demands to rejuvenate modern theatre through overcoming dated spatial restrictions, stressing bodily expression and using rhythmic choral language.62 Despite the return to traditional theatre stages, small-scale open air festivities continued to exist. Local authorities tried to make use of the Thingspiel areas they possessed for numerous cultural activities.63 Frequently, these activities bore little resemblance to what the originally planned Thingspiel spectacles had been envisaged to look like.

The Loreley and the Thingspiel: Rhine romantic and spectacles The Loreley Thingspiel stage in the small town of St. Goarshausen, close to Koblenz, exemplified a number of key aspects of the Nazis’ mass theatre movement. Despite the scenic beauty of the place—on top of the Loreley rock spectacularly overlooking the Rhine—the open-air stage was only completed in 1939. By that time, the Thingspiel idea had long been abandoned by prominent Nazi leaders. Consequently, the opening play on the Loreley rock was not one of the recognised Thing plays but Friedrich Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell. Instead of symbolising the climax of a new National Socialist mass theatre, the Loreley Thingspiel arena came to represent a different strand characteristic of Nazi propaganda from the mid-1930s onwards; a stress on entertainment and tourism. Although six Thingspiel arenas had been initially planned for the region of Hessen-Nassau, the Loreley open-air stage remained the first and only one in the area.64 This reflected a general trend of the mass theatre movement with its unrealistically high number of potential locations and sites considered suitable for Thingspiel stages. Despite financial and logistical difficulties in the actual building phase, the location of the Loreley Thingspiel stage was exceptionally spectacular. This certainly helped in securing the belated completion of the project in the summer of 1939.65 We have already seen the significance allocated to the Rhine, often referred to as ‘sacred stream’, and connected to notions of Heimat, Germaness, national myths and popular legends. The Loreley rock at the Rhine, rising 132-metres, was the centre of numerous legends including those of hidden treasures in the river. It was presented as the home of Loreley, sometimes portrayed as a beautiful young maiden,

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sometimes as a female magician. In his poetry, Heinrich Heine immortalised the beautiful young girl Loreley sitting on the rock and combing her golden hair. In so doing, she fatally diverted the attention of the fishermen who, therefore, steered their boats into the rock. Romantic poets, as Clemens Brentano and Joseph von Eichendorff, presented Loreley as amazing beauty cruelly breaking numerable men’s hearts.66 By the middle of the nineteenth century, Rhine romantic—skilfully exploited by the tourist industry—had turned the Rhine into a culturally constructed landscape peppered with castles, stories of golden treasures and popular legends.67 The enormous propaganda efforts around the erection of Thingspiel stages in the first few years after the Nationalist Socialists had come to power also affected small towns and communities. Here local elites hoped to enhance the appeal of their respective towns through a Thingspiel stage.68 In the Weimar years, only one architectural project received a similar scale of local attention; the search for the location of the national monument for the war dead (Reichsehrenmal). A project initiated by the Weimar state to honour the dead turned into fierce rivalry over which area or city offered the best location for the monument. At the end of 1927, the Communist newspaper Die Welt am Abend commented ironically on this development: ‘The East Prussians want it [the national monument] in East Prussia, the fans of Hitler in Bavaria, the Rhinelander at the Rhine and the people of Hicksville in Hicksville.’69 The search for a suitable Thingspiel area was not quite as competitive since there was to be more than one Thingspiel arena. But the organisational set-up of local councils dealing with this matter was similar. A committee put forward the area’s advantages which generally included its beautiful landscape and national importance as well as good public transport facilities to reach the Thingspiel site. In fact, all these aspects had been taken into account when different cities and areas submitted their bid for the national monument in the 1920s to the Reich Ministry of the Interior or to the Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob. The municipal council of the small town of Niederlahnstein, situated between Koblenz and St. Goarshausen, remembered these proceedings and recycled its bid for the national monument when announcing its interest in possessing a Thingspiel stage. In June 1934, the mayor of Niederlahnstein wrote to the regional propaganda ministry in Frankfurt am Main stating that a suitable area for a Thingspiel stage would be on top of a massive rock close to the town. This location had already been suggested for the Reichsehrenmal. The mayor continued that the Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob had visited the area when he had evaluated


the suitability of different locations for the Reichsehrenmal in the 1920s and he had been impressed by it. To add weight to his suggestion, Niederlahnstein’s mayor included the small brochure the council had put together as application for the national monument for the war dead.70 Niederlahnstein never received its desired Thingspiel arena. This was probably due to the strong competition in the area. Koblenz and St. Goarshausen, both not far away, planned Thingspiel stages and put forward similar selling points: the scenic beauty of the Rhine, the attractive location and the easy access for people travelling to the area. In the summer of 1934, the Landrat of the region rejected Niederlahnstein’s request stating that construction work for the Loreley arena had already started and even for the Loreley project the funding was not completely secured yet.71 The city of Koblenz, Niederlahnstein’s other competitor, inaugurated its Thingspiel stage in March 1935. It was located in the middle of the city centre in front of the palace. The space was 100 metres long and 70 metres wide. More than 20,000 people could be accommodated there. But already in 1937 demands were made to abolish the Thingspiel stage in Koblenz and to replace it with an architecturally better structured space for marches, parades and assemblies. Eventually the Americans destroyed Koblenz’s Thingspiel arena, after the end of the Second World War.72 Nevertheless, the unrealistic conviction displayed by municipal authorities that these open-air stages could be filled, even when they were as close together as Niederlahnstein, Koblenz and the Loreley rock, provides insight into the chaotic planning behind many of these projects. At the end of April in 1934, a festive celebration marked the laying of the foundation stone for the Thingspiel arena on the Loreley rock. Speeches by local Nazi officials and the presence of a section of the RAD, responsible for most of the construction work, characterised the festivity.73 Five years later, in the summer of 1939, the stage was inaugurated. But the development of the project was neither smooth nor gradual. Financial, organisational and technical difficulties delayed its completion. While financial problems tended to characterise architectural projects on this scale in general, the equally challenging technical and logistical difficulties were due to the unique location. The space for the open-air arena was created by blasting through 17,600 square metres of the Loreley rock. The rocks gained in this way were used for the construction but were not sufficient. More material had to be bought and brought to the site. Several times small landslides impeded the progress of the work.74 Most of the physical labour at the construction site of the Thingspiel stage was carried out by a section of the RAD conscripting

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Illustration 5.1 Archiv

Loreley Thingspiel site 1935/36. Courtesy of St. Goarshausen

unemployed workers. The men of the RAD had to deal with difficult working conditions including the lack of a water pipe at the construction site until early 1938. This meant that water had to be brought to the site by trucks.75 When the building of the Thingspiel arena was completed in spring 1939, the press seized the opportunity to present the open-air stage to the public wetting the appetite for the festivities planned there. No newspaper article neglected to mention the scenic beauty of the location, the popular legends of the Loreley and the national importance of the ‘sacred’ Rhine. The Neueste Zeitung called the Loreley Thingspiel stage ‘magic in stone within the German landscape’.76 Hermann Senf, the Frankfurt architect of the arena, stated that his architecture should not compete with the surrounding landscape but should be an integrated part within it. According to Senf, trees, hills and the view on the Rhine provided the frame into which his arena had to fit without upsetting the well-known scenery of the Rhine panorama.77 Architect Senf also reassured the readers of the newspaper Volksblatt that his stage fulfilled one of the basic requirements of the Thingspiel, namely that spectators and participants were not restricted to separate areas of the arena. After all, the alleged blurring of boundaries between


Illustration 5.2 Archiv

Loreley Thingspiel arena completed. Courtesy of St. Goarshausen

spectators and participants to create a united festive community represented a key element of the Thingspiel. Consequently, Senf stressed that his arena offered the possibility to easily place choir groups in the audience. According to the architect, their participation in the play increased the notion of involvement for the audience.78 Previous chapters have shown that attempts to unite participants and spectators had been discussed and practised long before the Nazis’ Thingspiel. However, the inclusion of the natural environment in this concept had not been the essential characteristic of earlier debates on reformed performance space. While the stress on the beauty of the landscape reoccurred repeatedly in newspaper articles praising the Loreley stage, so did the statement that the arena had the most modern technological means essential for a large open-air stage. This included loudspeakers, lighting and other stadium equipment. Furthermore, the Thingspiel arena possessed changing rooms for actors and singers out of sight for the spectators.79 The emphasis on images of German Heimat combined with technological progress characterised Nazi propaganda for many other areas too, most notably in Nazi rhetoric and visual imagery regarding the building of the Reichsautobahn.80 At the end of June 1939—four years after its completion had been initially expected—the Loreley Thingspiel arena was inaugurated with

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a festive performance of Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell. Thus the newly created open-air stage relied on a German classic. We have already seen two prominent examples of Tell-performances, one in Saarbrücken’s municipal theatre in 1925—directed against the French occupation of the area—and the other one as part of Cologne’s Kampfspiele in 1926. Friedrich Schiller, the ‘poet of liberty’, could be easily incorporated into the cultural narrative of numerous political systems. In a brochure published for the inauguration of the Loreley stage, Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels offered the National Socialist interpretation of Friedrich Schiller. Goebbels turned the poet, who had been a contemporary of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, into an early National Socialist claiming that Schiller would have been the poetic voice of the Nazi revolution, had he lived in current times. According to Goebbels, Friedrich Schiller’s ‘heroic soul’, ‘his idealism’ and ‘his passion to create and to produce’ predestined him as ‘a poet of this revolution’.81 Despite Goebbels’ admiration for Friedrich Schiller, the fact remained that the Loreley open-air stage, originally constructed for the performances of Nazi mass theatre, opened with one of the most traditional pieces of German theatre. The play was staged by the artistic director of Frankfurt’s municipal theatre Hans Meissner. Meissner’s cast consisted of actors from his theatre house in Frankfurt but also included members of the RAD and citizens of the town of St. Goarshausen for mass scenes. This was praised as emotionally connecting the new stage to the people living in the area.82 Consequently, the press described the rehearsals of the play as inclusive and joyful festivals.83 Meissner was not the only director considered to be suitably qualified to stage a mass event. The Laban pupil Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard was mentioned as possible director for the opening play too.84 Although Niedecken-Gebhard did not stage the Loreley event in the end, he was a highly appreciated director in the Nazi period and chiefly responsible for staging the festive play at the Olympic Games in 1936. In charge of the Tell-performance at the Loreley, Hans Meissner stated that he had shortened Schiller’s piece and had made one fundamental change. At the end of the play, the actors re-entered the stage with the character of Wilhelm Tell in the middle and swore again the famous Rütli oath. In Schiller’s original version these words were only spoken in Tell’s absence. At the Loreley in June 1939, a choir repeated them and, according to the newspapers, the audience raised and joined the oath.85 Meissner stated that his staging of the play, especially the extra scene at the end, visualised ‘the struggle for liberty of a suppressed people’. According to him, this was the main theme of Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell.86


The Frankfurter Zeitung connected this final scene of the play to the location of its performance and wrote: ‘The theatrical illusion was dissolved. Everyone should remember at this moment that one was at the banks of the Rhine. The performance turned into a proclamation.’87 As Chapter 2 has shown the Tell-performance in Saarbrücken in 1925 had been described similarly. Not everything went smoothly at the five Tell-performances carried out over the summer of 1939 on the Loreley rock. The second performance was interrupted by a short shower, although the newspaper claimed that ‘nobody left his seat’.88 Whether this assessment was true or not is debatable, but rain was certainly not what the audience had hoped for attending an outdoor’s performance in the summer. There was also criticism on the choice of the play and its staging. After the General Anzeiger had praised the location of the Thingspiel stage which combined the myths of the Loreley, the massive rock and the importance of the Rhine, the newspaper referred to ‘the new festive culture’ created by the Nazis to represent national unity. The General Anzeiger noted slightly disapprovingly that the Loreley ‘festive arena’ had opened with ‘a drama of the traditional theatre’. But the newspaper reassured its readers: ‘The new festive locations are symbols of our community [. . .] and the festive actions associated with them are growing and developing’. Eventually, so the paper, a poet would find ‘new words’ for this new festive culture.89 The frustration with the limited results in the production of Thing plays became obvious in this article. However, in the summer of 1939 the Reich Propaganda Ministry had already given up on the idea of a new mass theatre for some time. Although theatre director Meissner had remarked enthusiastically that the arena stage was ‘framed by the landscape with the sky as the ceiling’,90 critical voices found that the play’s staging had not solved the difficult task of integrating the natural environment. While the scenic landscape could have been well incorporated, the fact that the actors referred to specific Swiss landmarks of the original setting of the play made it difficult for the audience to connect the environment they saw with the play.91 Despite critical remarks, the Frankfurter Zeitung pointed out that the Wilhelm Tell performance at the Loreley should be interpreted as the beginning of a new theatrical development. It did not yet have the benefits of learning from past experiences.92 An examination of the newspaper coverage of the performances reminds us that the completion of the Thingspiel stage had happened several years too late. The eagerly anticipated combination of spectacular landscape and Nazi mass theatre, so excitedly discussed in 1933 and

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1934, had long lost its drive. By 1939, the newspapers were not even allowed to refer to the newly opened Thingspiel location on the Loreley rock as Thing anymore. Goebbels had banned the term in 1935. Instead the newspapers wrote of ‘festive arena’ or ‘festival theatre’. The summer of 1939 saw five performances of Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell at the Loreley. While a ticket cost 1.00 RM per person, the Nazi organisation KdF offered inexpensive bus journeys to the area. The newspapers stressed that the transport to the Thingspiel stage worked smoothly and that the high number of buses arriving there showed the enormous popularity of the play.93 But it might have rather been the popularity of the area—being one of the most beautiful and romantic parts of the Rhine—that attracted people to the Loreley rock. After the last performance, the Volksblatt wrote that 25,000 spectators had seen the five Tell-performances. The newspaper tried to present this number as a successful beginning for the Loreley open-air arena.94 But approximately 5,000 spectators per performance in an arena that could accommodate 10,000 people was certainly not what had been hoped for. Notwithstanding, Frankfurt’s mayor congratulated his theatre director Hans Meissner to the success of the plays on the Loreley. He stressed that Meissner had created ‘a work that had been an elevating experience for our German people’s community and had again put the city of Frankfurt at the centre of this development’.95 Local prestige and municipal pride were important factors determining the development of the Thingspiel in Nazi Germany. While Nazi Party Rallies continued trends encountered in previous festivities with an increased focus on popular entertainment, inclusiveness and messages of territorial wholeness, the Thingspiel movement attempted to find a new theatrical form for the Nazis’ alleged creation of a people’s community. Based on concepts related to reforming the theatre and its performing space, the Thingspiel movement represented a progression of earlier ideas. Eventually, the Thingspiel did not survive longer than until the mid-1930s. The following chapter will concentrate on one of its last successes at the Olympic Games in Berlin in 1936.

6 The Death of the Spectacle in the mid-1930s

The mid-1930s were decisive years for the Nazi dictatorship as the regime had consolidated itself by this time. Resistance had been crushed while powerful organisations, including the army, the police force and the courts, had been brought under National Socialist control. Accompanied by open violence and terror, particularly in the first year and a half after Hitler’s seizure of power, the population had been given a taste of the consequences that awaited those who publicly disagreed with Nazi policy. However, by the mid-1930s some of the chaos, brutality and disorder people associated with the last years of the Weimar Republic and the early years of the Third Reich had died down. In fact, the National Socialists got credit for having brought under control much of the disorder and violence they were responsible for in the first place. The economic situation improved and many people remembered the mid1930s as the beginning of ‘the good days’ of the Third Reich.1 Needless to say, these memories were not shared by groups and individuals the Nazis had classified as enemies to their alleged ‘people’s community’. This chapter will explore how several festive trends came to an end in the mid-1930s. First, the focus will be on the Olympic Games in Berlin in the summer of 1936.2 Frequently called ‘Hitler’s games’, this term captures the notion that the games were a stage for National Socialist propaganda to convey a friendly image of the Third Reich to the rest of the world. As true as this interpretation might be, the representational forms applied, particularly at the festive spectacle staged at the opening ceremony clearly continued the tradition of mass plays of the 1920s. These continuities illustrate that the Nazi festive style was less innovative than often claimed and that so-called Nazi aesthetics were well grounded in the Weimar years. By the time the National Socialists came to power in Germany, the public had been well accustomed to the 121

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use of aesthetics in mass staged events by political organisations and the state alike. After the end of the Second World War, representative forms that can be broadly categorised as ‘mass choreography of bodies’ survived in limited form as ceremonial features at international sports events. The second part of the chapter continues examining the death of the spectacle in the mid-1930s with a look at the last official Thingspiel performed in 1936. We will see the change of Nazi propaganda policy from political mobilisation to offering entertaining leisure time activities and the emphasis on body politics. Part three extends the chronological framework of this study and focuses on the 1938 sports festival held in the Silesian city of Breslau. It illustrates the importance allocated to territorial unity and wholeness at a time when, unlike in the Weimar years, the first steps to creating Großdeutschland had already been taken. The Breslau sports event took place in the summer of 1938 after the annexation of Austria but before the issue of the Sudetenland had been resolved. It will become clear that the sporting event continued and extended traditional characteristic of sports festivities. No Thingspiel was included and other elements of 1920s and 1930s public performance culture faded into the background. This is not to say, however, that the sporting festival in Breslau was not popular. In fact, the tense foreign political situation concentrated attention on the event.

The festive play at the Olympic Games in 1936 Adolf Hitler’s chief filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl provided the visual interpretation of the most important sporting event in the Third Reich. Her film Olympia which depicts the 1936 Olympic Games celebrated the beauty of well-trained bodies, male and female, individually and as part of mass choreographies. With its premier in April 1938, Riefenstahl’s work claimed the games retrospectively for the Nazi state.3 However, mass exercises, also presented in the film, had been an important festive component of sporting events for numerous political factions as the 1925 Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt and the Kampfspiele in Cologne have illustrated ten years earlier. The film historian Rainer Rother writes on the difficulties when faced with Leni Riefenstahl’s work: The unease regarding Riefenstahl’s Olympia film arises from the assumption that any film welcomed by the Nazis and helpful to their cause must exhibit some form of fascist aesthetic [. . .] nobody could deny that many aspects of Riefenstahl’s work are extremely

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problematic: her fondness for beauty, strength, and particularly the male physique, her documentaries’ consistent failure to break free of the messages implied in the staging of the event they treated [. . .] None of this, however, necessarily produces fascist or Nazi aesthetics.4 Indeed, Michael Mackenzie illustrates that Riefenstahl’s film can be linked more convincingly to such cultural conservative ideals of body discourses as beauty, grace, health, organic wholeness and physical strength. He argues that these were characteristics of the modern dance movement of the 1910s and the 1920s rather than expressing Nazi aesthetics.5 In 1931, two years before the Nazis came to power, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) granted Berlin the Olympic summer games for 1936. As a highlight of sporting events during the Third Reich, the Berlin games have left a difficult legacy to date. National Socialist and Olympic flags flew side by side in the German capital.6 Unquestionably, the Olympic Games were an important mass staged event for the Nazi system. It is frequently interpreted as a success of Hitler’s propaganda ministry which perfectly organised the opening ceremony and other events complementing the sporting activities.7 The historian Christiane Eisenberg has challenged this view and suggests instead that the 1936 Olympics were still very similar to sport festivities held in the 1920s.8 It will become clear that the organisers of the festive play performed at the opening ceremony of the games drew heavily on spectacles performed in the Weimar years. Surprisingly, even scholarly studies that deal extensively with the ceremonial rituals utilised at the Olympics have paid little attention to this aspect.9 Apart from the style of the Olympic Games, Christiane Eisenberg points to the heavy involvement of Germany’s elite of sport functionaries, which allowed the propaganda ministry little room to develop its own ideas. Another important aspect, curtailing the influence of Nazi propagandists, was the fact that Olympic Games were never under the exclusive control of the hosting country and its government, as preparation, organisation and execution were controlled by the IOC, which had the right to postpone or cancel the games at any time when Olympic regulations had been violated or ignored.10 The list of representatives already involved with state representation or mass spectacles during the Weimar years included, among others, the sport functionary Carl Diem, the president of the German Olympic Committee Theodor Lewald, the dance choreographers Rudolf von Laban and Mary Wigman and the composer Carl Orff. These people were

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not young ambitious National Socialists but well-established bourgeois representatives in the fields of sport, administration, dance and music. Edwin Redslob’s former assistant Dr Kurt Biebrach organised the art competition and the art exhibition which accompanied the games.11 The Reichskunstwart had been involved in this aspect of the Olympic Games in Amsterdam in 1928, and, until his dismissal in early 1933, it was planned that Redslob should carry out the same function again in 1936.12 While a list with well-established names in the area of festive representation does not necessarily stand for continuities, a look at the mass staged play at the opening ceremony of the games supports the argument that the play can be rooted in a tradition of festive sporting events in the Weimar years. However, the play is even more significant, when placed in line of mass spectacles as means of state representation. The similarities and continuities with spectacles staged in the 1920s, in particular the ones organised by Edwin Redslob on behalf of the republican state, are striking and illustrate the development of representational form from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s. In fact, the list of dancers, choreographers and dance teachers involved in the play, including Mary Wigman, Gret Palucca, Harald Kreutzberg, Dorothee Günther and Maja Lex, reads like a who’s who of Weimar Germany’s most influential representatives of modern dance.13 Susan Manning summarises some of the possible reasons why many dancers and choreographers found it easy to come to terms with the Third Reich. She writes: Like Ausdruckstanz, fascism drew on the neo-romanticism, life reformism, and cultural pessimism of turn-of-the-century Germany [. . .] Many of the dancers heard in Nazi rhetoric an echo of their own beliefs. Had not they always believed that the body possessed a truth inaccessible to the mind? If so, then was it such a leap to embrace the cult of the irrational? Had not they always believed in dance as a way of creating community? If so, then was it such a leap to embrace the ideal of the Volksgemeinschaft?14 Of course, not all dancers and choreographers made this leap. Some had political reservations, others artistic ones. Yvonne Hardt draws attention to the fact that movement choirs as part of Nazi mass spectacles were often divided into male and female groups, a division that had not been distinctive in the Weimar years. Furthermore, there were spatial and bodily differences, too. Wild and chaotic movements, sometimes used in 1920s movement choirs, were not part of the orderly masses


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staged at National Socialist festivities.15 In fact, even the festive play at the Olympic Games, despite its bourgeois Weimar tradition, shows clearly gendered divisions in its scenes as well as very orderly masses. Carl Diem wrote the play for the Olympic opening ceremony entitled Olympic Youth (Olympische Jugend) and Dr Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard directed it.16 Niedecken-Gebhard was not an unknown director; he had also already worked in the 1920s, and, like so many at the time, was fascinated by the innovative ideas of modern dance and theatre regarding the staging of mass spectacles with amateurs. In addition, NiedeckenGebhard had been a pupil of Rudolf von Laban.17 Diem was a high ranking functionary of Germany’s bourgeois sporting elite and an internationally recognised advocate of the Olympic sport movement. In the 1920s, Diem had advised the republican state in the organisation of sporting events. His festive play for the Olympic Games was divided into four scenes. The first two showed games and dances of the youth. This included a feature familiar from the late 1920s: the Olympic flag, with its five rings standing for the five continents from which the athletes had come, was represented on the sports ground using children. Within the second scene the well-known modern dancer Gret Palucca performed a solo with dancing girls surrounding her. The Nazis press praised Palucca’s performance as absolutely stunning.18 Approximately 5,700 children, between 11 and 18 years old, were part of these two scenes. In the third scene several thousand boys carried the flags of the participating nations into the stadium, marching in festive procession around the tracks. A speaker stressed the games as a peaceful celebration in which the youth of all nations were called to compete for the honour of their countries. In the fourth and last scene a speaker called upon the youth to sacrifice their lives when the fatherland was in danger. A sword dance represented by the dancers Harald Kreutzberg and Werner Stammer and a group of 60 male dancers followed. Kreutzberg was one of the most charismatic male dancers of the 1920s and 1930s, celebrated by the New York Times in 1927 as ‘the new Nijinsky’.19 Kreutzberg choreographed and starred in the sword dance he had been asked to contribute to the Olympic play. The 60 dancers split into two opposing groups which moved towards each other. Kreutzberg and Stammer, representing the leaders of the groups, performed the fight.20 After the two opponents in the sword dance had died, Mary Wigman and her dancing group of 80 female dancers performed a dance of women mourning the dead. The ceremony ended on a more hopeful note with the piece Ode to joy and with all participants in the play being present on the stadium ground.21

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Performed in the evening the play required, unlike the ones staged by Edwin Redslob, the use of light; a medium the Nazis perfected as part of their festivities. The play ended with Ode to joy and the muchquoted ‘dome of light’, almost creating the impression of a roof of light above the stadium. In hindsight often interpreted as a typical feature of manipulative Nazi propaganda, this spectacular use of light at the end of the play was described as strengthening the community of participants and spectators. Therefore, it was understood as an embodiment of the Olympic idea.22 The publication Olympia 1936 stressed that due to the impression ‘the dome of light’ had created ‘hundred of thousands of people felt included in the rhythm of the most powerful idea of true comradeship . . . the Olympic idea’.23 Indeed, the creation of a community through the application of light, whether at the Olympic Games, at Nazi Party Rallies or Thingspiele, was not a National Socialist invention. Theatre directors, including Max Reinhardt, had used light to create a community for the staging of their plays at the turn of the nineteenth century.24 The Olympic play lasted two hours and was repeated on three other evenings in August 1936. Altogether 328,000 people came to see it.25 In total over 10,000 children participated, most of them from Berlin schools. Publications on the games described the festive play in the following way: At the Berlin stadium in the evening, the festive play Olympic Youth concluded the impressive circle of festivities of the day: . . . like a fairytale the play was filled with gracefulness and beauty. Girls and boys enchanted the absorbed audience with dances and games. The children formed the Olympic rings and created with their flag dance an unforgettable impression [. . .] they filled the hearts of the audience with a richness of joy and grandeur.26 A special issue of the Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung dedicated to the Olympic Games echoed this sentiment and called the play ‘a symphony of youth and beauty’.27 Carl Diem, the play’s author, outlined the main ideas behind it when he stated: ‘The spectacle has to enable the audience to continuously participate in it; the youth is surrounded by a festive community that frames and carries the play.’28 Based on the location and the theme, the play was mainly inspired by the choreography of movement.29 Diem stressed its friendly and peaceful meaning in which the scene of women mourning the dead was followed by the allembracing Ode to joy, asking for peace and understanding among all


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nations.30 In fact, to interpret the scene in which the youth was called upon to fight and die for the fatherland as clearly in line with Nazi ideas, perhaps even anticipating the Second World War, is to miss the point.31 On the contrary, the emphasis on youth and national sacrifices were universally usable themes. Indeed, the speaker’s call upon the youth to sacrifice their lives in case the fatherland was in danger in the fourth scene did not include a specific reference to Germany.32 The notion that in particular the young had to defend the country was widely accepted amongst most participating nations. Frequently, youth symbolised the bright future of the nation, as in the mass spectacle in 1929. By 1936, the most current memory Germans connected to sacrifices for the nation were the dead of the First World War. Commemorating the country’s dead in public ceremonies and rituals was commonplace and heavily practised in Weimar and Nazi Germany. Mary Wigman’s dance of mourning women had its roots in a spectacle, entitled Call of the Death (Totenmal), she had performed with a group of dancers in 1930. On that occasion, the spectacle had opposed a movement choir of men, representing the spirits of the fallen soldiers, with a movement choir of women standing for the soldiers’ wives, sisters and lovers.33 The rhetoric of sacrifice belonged to the festive tradition of the Weimar Republic.34 The director of the play Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard described the importance of correctly using the space in the stadium. He stated that the tempo and co-ordination of the participants were essential for the creation of images, which the audience should perceive as a whole.35 Niedecken-Gebhard, like Edwin Redslob had done in the republic, stressed that the stadium as a location of performance for festive plays naturally required very careful planning and staging. After all, the audience would judge any play on the general impression it made. Filling the enormous space provided in the stadium caused considerable problems for the dancers. Gret Palucca outlined in a newspaper article before the performance how the space had influenced the choreography for her solo in the second scene. Palucca wrote: ‘My main task was to structure the enormous space provided [. . .] only when I realized that the circle was the only spatial possibility I could develop my dance. But which movements were left then? Again only the simple ones: running, turning, jumping.’36 With reference to the training and co-ordinating of the dances of the girls in the first and second scene, the well-known modern dance teachers Dorothee Günther and Maja Lex stated that they wanted to create ‘an organic and fluid movement circle’ and by no means impressions of militaristic drill. Günther also wrote that her

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choreography for the joyful dances of the girls deliberately created a routine in which individual mistakes were very noticeable. Despite the large number of participants, she intended that all the girls should feel responsible for the success or failure of the piece.37 Günther’s pedagogical concept was an interesting one as she relocated responsibility to the individual within a mass spectacle. At the same time, she used the masses as control force registering and exposing individual mistakes. Unlike the spectacles staged by the republic, the play for the Olympics placed a deliberate emphasis on clear geometric shapes. According to its director, this was one way to visually structure the play.38 Another way in which it differed from republican spectacles was that the cast consisted of a well-balanced mixture of young amateurs and experienced professionals. Carl Diem and Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard intentionally shaped the play in this way, and Diem stated that although it was the festive play of the youth, it was formed by the best professional artists available.39 The cast of the Olympic play was also divided on the basis of age and gender. Scenes showing male and female groups alternated and while young girls played at the beginning, women lamented the death of their loved ones at the end. The staging of the play at the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games in 1936 revealed many elements already familiar from republican representation: mass involvement of young people, an emphasis on the community of participants and spectators, the stadium as place of performance, the ‘living flag’, the importance of visual effects and the limitation of language. At the end of 1935, Carl Diem sent a copy of his festive play, planned for August 1936, to the former Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob. He drew Redslob’s attention to the fact that he had taken up Redslob’s idea of using children for the creation of a flag on the grounds of the stadium.40 After Redslob had seen the play’s performance, he congratulated Diem on the well-staged and impressive ceremony. Diem, delighted by these kind words, replied that obviously many ideas for the spectacle were based on the celebrations Redslob had choreographed in the Weimar years, in particular the idea of a ‘living flag’ had been inspired by the Constitution Day spectacle in 1929.41 While the flag Redslob had presented, using children dressed in black, red and gold, was probably the first time in Germany in which the state symbol was represented through people, the Nazis incorporated this device into their festivities, having the swastika or the German Eagle represented in similar ways.42 It becomes clear how a typical element of mass spectacles, the creation of a visually appealing symbol through mass participation, can


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be reinterpreted in numerous ways according to the political context. For Edwin Redslob, the republican flag in his spectacle strengthened the ideas of unity and equality mirroring the key principles of Weimar democracy. Carl Diem relied on the same device to visualise the Olympic idea with a focus on friendship and comradeship. Swastikas could be interpreted as representation of the Nazis’ idea of their people’s community. Certainly, the Nazi state benefited from the well-organised opening ceremony and from the general impression made by the Olympic Games. But, as illustrated, the origins of the festive play concluding the celebrations of the first day, lay elsewhere.

The death of the spectacle in the mid-1930s In the early days of August 1936, Edwin Redslob noted down his impressions of the Olympic Games. He admired the efficient organisation but at the same time complained that there was a sense that the Nazi state was trying too hard to convey a joyful atmosphere.43 Indeed, this claim expanded the points of criticism Redslob had already expressed earlier when he had stated that National Socialist celebrations were ‘soulless’, in interpretation, whether accurate or not, which Redslob found incompatible with his own ideas for state representation. The Olympic Games of 1936 were one of the last events in Nazi Germany in which festive elements comprising mass involvement of people through mass choirs or movement groups, so characteristic of the 1920s and early 1930s, were still to play a disproportional important role. This type of performance did not have a future in the Third Reich. It was at the Olympic Games in 1936 when the Thingspiel movement celebrated its last official triumph. Carl Diem’s play Olympic Youth was performed in the sport stadium at the opening ceremony but Eberhard Wolfgang Möller’s The Frankenburg Dice Game (Das Frankenburger Würfelspiel) premiered on the newly built Dietrich-Eckart-Stage in Berlin. The stage had 20,450 seats and it had been built for the cultural programme of the Olympics.44 Originally, Rudolf von Laban’s dance production Vom Tauwind und der Neuen Freude should have been performed there. Scheduled to inaugurate the Dietrich-Eckhart-Stage, an open-air Thingspiel arena, Laban’s ‘festive dance-piece’ was banned by Goebbels after he had attended the dress rehearsal. Goebbels famously called it ‘too intellectual’ reminding us again of the openness of representative and performative forms.45 Perhaps Laban’s piece offered too many ways of interpreting it. The banning of the piece resulted in Laban’s loss of status in the Third Reich. By the end of 1937, the dance choreographer

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had left Germany and the term ‘community dance’ had been officially dropped;46 similar to the abandoning of the Thingspiel and the banning of mass choirs. Interestingly, Laban’s work was rooted in concepts characteristic of the works of many dancers and choreographers in the early and mid-1930s. The ideological background consisted of a keen interest in popular folk culture. Old customs, festivities and holidays played an important role in these theatrical ideas for new productions in which the Germanic ‘sun wheel’ was often seen as the central symbol of the play.47 Written in the summer of 1931, Edwin Redslob’s play Das Jahresrad with its focus on the annual seasons and the customs related to them would have partly fitted to this trend. However, Redslob’s play was never performed and it also lacked the important Germanic reference points.48 Laban’s festive play Vom Tauwind und der Neuen Freude fitted into these concepts. It was rehearsed by dancers and movement choirs in 27 cities in Germany before rehearsals in Berlin took place together. The play was divided into four scenes in which mass choreography and group dances should express ‘the four different moods combat, reflection, joy and consecration’, so runs the description of Laban’s piece.49 This seemed to be in line with Nazi ideology and Evelyn Dörr suggests that it was not the message conveyed in Laban’s work that caused the problems but possibly its staging. Dörr argues that Laban’s movement choirs did not reflected the hierarchical direction of the masses to the Führer.50 Eberhard Wolfgang Möller’s play The Frankenburg Dice-Game, replacing Laban’s piece, used a historical incident from 1625 as its framework when Protestant farmers were persecuted and killed during the counterreformation. They had to play dice against one another to decide their fate and Möller recreated this scene as part of a trial against those responsible for the executions. At the end, when the farmer who had thrown the lowest number was about to be executed, a figure in black armour entered the stage and the responsible had to throw dice against him. The black figure threw infinity.51 Paradoxically, while the Dietrich-Eckhart-Stage and the performance of Möller’s play on this occasion were considered as the exemplary solution for the staging of a Thing play and the architectural construction of its stage, it happened too late to decisively influence the fate of the Thingspiel idea.52 Indeed, the first Thing plays were written before the term and the great focus on it even existed and the last one, Möller’s The Frankenburg Dice-Game, was written after the banning of the term Thing.53 The Nazis stopped their unsuccessful attempts to develop their own National Socialist theatre in the mid-1930s due


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to several reasons. William Niven interestingly states that the similarities of the plays with expressionist and left-wing mass spectacles in the Weimar years might have spelled an end to them at a time when the Nazi regime had strengthened its control on society and secured its position.54 Despite the widespread belief that the Nazis invented, or at least highly favoured, mass spectacles, this was not entirely the case as Chapter 5 has illustrated. Henning Eichberg rightly summarises the fate of mass plays and spectacles in the interwar years when he writes: ‘In the long run, the function of the National Socialist state was less the support or even creation of mass spectacles, but rather controlling these plays and eventually bringing them to an end.’55 There is a great deal of overlapping concepts, themes, styles and ideas regarding forms of representation between the Weimar and the Nazi state, but many of them did not outlive the mid-1930s. In June 1936, Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels informed regional leaders, dealing with propaganda activities, that he wished the number of festivities to be decreased and better co-ordinated. Otherwise, so he feared, the population would become indifferent to the staging of important events.56 For Nazi propaganda, this assessment, based on Goebbels’ evaluation, meant a shift away from constant demands of political mobilisation. From the mid-1930s onwards, the Nazi staging of festivities took into account that people had grown tired off the perpetual mobilisation through mass events. Consequently, the organisation of leisure time activities with a less obvious political objective, a technique perfected during the Second World War with its emphasis on popular entertainment, became an important part of National Socialist propaganda.57 This was even applied to the organisation of the annually staged Party Rallies in Nuremberg, often hailed as one of the best pieces of propaganda. From 1937 to 1938, the rallies witnessed an increased emphasis on entertainment with dances, sports competitions and other activities of popular festivities. Siegfried Zelnhefer concludes from this development that the staging of rallies on a grand scale as it was tried out in Nuremberg had reached a dead end in 1938. The rituals were exhausted, and so was the capacity of the city of Nuremberg to cope with the enormous number of visitors. Furthermore, the party rallies constantly had to increase their entertainment programmes in an attempt to prevent the participants from becoming bored with the familiar format of political mass events.58 Yvonne Karow supports this view of ‘festive fatigue’ by the mid-1930s. A Sopade report from early September 1937 read:

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. . . the biggest manifestations of power become boring, the speeches are well-known . . . the divisions ordered to take part in the Nuremberg rally march silently to the train station . . . and at work nobody talked about the party rally and those who had to participate were not enthusiastic. Many said that they would prefer to stay at home because in Nuremberg they only get to stand around all day.59 While the aesthetics of mass community outlived its time, the representation of Nazi sporting events, and especially of the 1936 Olympic Games, was characterised by another key element: the presentation of the athlete’s body. Bodies, whether as collective carriers of a political cause, as components within a mass choreography or as examples of disciplined workers, have played an essential role in most of the festive and representative forms discussed so far. In the Weimar years, body politics entailed areas as different as sports and youth, technology and utopia or violence and order. National Socialist body politics used these various meanings; they were destructive and promoted order at the same time.60 Certainly, the contrast Nazi propaganda stressed between healthy, athletic bodies, presented as Aryan, and weak ones portrayed as Jewish seems to suggest that this emphasis on the perfect male body characterised the Third Reich. Representations of male and female bodies in paintings, films or sculptures only support this impression. Mischa Delbrouck suggests that during the Nazi period particularly sports served as an illustration of which bodies the regime approved and of which not.61 Thomas Alkemeyer agrees and stresses that the representations of ‘Aryan’ bodies, frequently the ones of sportsmen and sportswomen of the 1936 games, were directly contrasted to images showing dirty or crippled bodies. Most notoriously, art exhibitions in the Third Reich used this concept.62 While the stress on a national body, aimed at integrating the participants in a community, was common for festivities throughout the period considered, the race biological dimension of National Socialist body politics stood out. In fact, Paula Diehl writes: ‘The concept of the people’s body was not only based on the social inclusion of the individual in the Volksgemeinschaft but also on the race biological purity and homogeneity of the whole Volk.’63 Still body politics in various forms were not limited to Germany or even to totalitarian regimes. To be sure, the National Socialits created a cult around the body. The young men of the RAD (State Labour Service) perfectly exemplified this notion. Chapter 5 has shown that organisations such as the RAD were heavily involved in the construction work


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for Thingspiel stages. Nazi propaganda presented the unemployed men conscripted there as ‘soldiers of work’. Part of their training was physical exercises similar to the ones carried out by soldiers.64 The RAD aimed at promoting the ideal of the German male, leaving no room for alternative ideas about the body.65 Nazi Party Rallies helped spreading this ideal by including sections of the RAD as part of the groups marching past the Führer in Nuremberg. Frequently, the men did so with naked upper bodies.66 Kiran Klaus Patel draws attention to the fact that Germany was not alone in having a tradition of disciplining and politicising the body. The US Civilian Conservation Corps, established as part of the New Deal, also emphasised body politics in a similar manner as the RAD. Patel finds that it was the Zeitgeist of the time to use the male body as embodiment of different political and societal beliefs. The body of young men became an instrument of symbolic politics and this held true for democracies and dictatorships alike.67

Territorial unity in 1938: The sporting festival in Breslau The 1936 Olympic Games can not only be interpreted with an eye to the development of mass staging and festive culture. Having been one of the most important sporting events of the Third Reich, the games also possessed a foreign political dimension. With the stress on internationalism and pacifism, the National Socialist leaders used the Olympic Games ‘to show the world that the new Germany was—despite the remilitarization of the Rhineland—a decent, friendly, peace-loving nation’.68 Previous chapters have illustrated the importance allocated to territorial unity, frequently, but not exclusively, found in the staging of sporting events from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s. The stress on aspects of territorial unity in festive events always possessed political connotations, sometimes formulated more aggressively than at other times. For the Third Reich contemporary discourses on territorial unity were matched with the regime’s foreign policy, which aimed to revise the status quo. At the end of July 1933, the 15th German Gymnastic Festival took place in Stuttgart and included a special focus on the Saar area. While the staging of the sports festival remained in line with previously staged events, with limited National Socialist influence, political activities were part of the programme complementing the sporting dimension.69 One of the evening activities was an assembly in honour of the people from the Saar area. Following the miners’ music corps of the Saarland, the gymnasts from the Saar and from other regions assembled on Stuttgart’s market square. Songs and speeches stressed the Saar people’s

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commitment and loyalty to the German fatherland reminding everyone present of the plebiscite due to be held there in January 1935. The population of the Saarland could decide if the region should be part of Germany again.70 The assembly was followed by a festive ceremony in Stuttgart’s city hall dedicated to the Saarland and other ‘border regions’. Classical music and festive speeches were part of the programme as much as the carrying of banners that stood for different German border regions. To remind the audience of the ‘lost’ German territories, several flags were decorated with black ribbons.71 Edwin Redslob had used a similar device for his 1930 Rhine spectacle, when the emblems of the cities located in Rhineland had been carried into the stadium covered in black cloth. In Stuttgart’s city hall, the festive speeches demanded loyalty and commitment not only from the Germans outside the borders but also from the Germans within the Reich to the border territories.72 In fact, assemblies expressing the whole-hearted commitment of the Reich to the people of the Saar and vice versa were numerous before the decisive popular vote there in early 1935. Festive celebrations, often directly financed and co-organised by the National Socialist government, took place in Rüdesheim at the Niederwald monument in August 1933. The monumental 12-metre high statue of Germania, also called Wacht am Rhein, was one of the most impressive monuments erected in Imperial Germany to pay tribute to nationalist sentiments after the end of the Franco-Prussian war. Organised and steered by the NSDAP and Reich authorities in Berlin, the Saar proclamation consisted of sports and games. This included traditional dances of the Saar region and was followed by processions with flags, choirs and music corps to the monument where Hitler delivered the main speech.73 A year later, in August 1934, an assembly consisting of similar activities was organised at the Ehrenbreitstein in Koblenz.74 As part of the 1934 Koblenz festivities, a ‘Saar loyalty run’ was organised by the Reich sport leaders Tschammer and Osten. Due to the arrival in Berlin of three teams from East Prussia, Silesia and Upper Silesia, a gathering showing the capital’s commitment to the Saar population took place in Berlin’s Lustgarten including 40,000 gymnasts. The sporting event enabled organisers in other regions to use the occupation of the Saar area as the key theme relating it to their respective circumstances.75 Different from reminding the audience of territorial unity, as it was commonplace for many festivities in the 1920s and 1930s, was travelling to border regions to stage celebrations there. Elizabeth Harvey examines this ‘patriotic border tourism’ to the Polish or East Prussian borders as a form of political mobilisation for bourgeois women


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groups and nationalist youth organisations. Frequently, these travels combined political activities, the community of camp life and meetings with inhabitants of the area.76 Chapter 1 has pointed out that the nationalist war-veteran organisation Stahlhelm had organised its annual gathering in Breslau in 1931 and accompanied it with aggressive rhetoric of protecting the German border. In the summer of 1938, the Silesian city of Breslau was the location for one of the biggest sporting festivals ever staged there. In order to continue the tradition of previous sports festivals, the organisers of the event in Breslau encouraged visitors and participants to get to know the local area and even offered trips to German-speaking regions beyond the border.77 In July 1933, Breslau was chosen as the location of the sports festival due to be held in the summer of 1938. At this time the enormous foreign political importance connected to the region by 1938—the issue of the Sudetenland dominating discourses for most of this year until the area was annexed and incorporated into Germany in October—could hardly have been imagined. Nevertheless, already in the summer of 1933, the city was chosen to represent the trinity of the topics ‘BreslauEastern territories-Volksgemeinschaft’.78 Hartmut Lissinna has examined the Breslau festival in detail and characterises the event as the biggest sporting festival in the Third Reich. While its festive outline, including sports competitions as well as exhibition and theatre performances, still stood in a tradition of previous sports events, the financial and organisational support of the state had been unprecedented. Another novelty, compared to earlier festivals organised by Germany’s sporting organisations, was the inclusion of Nazi party organisations in the competitions and performances.79 In line with a tradition of sporting festivals, the event in Breslau also included a day dedicated to the youth and a festive spectacle. Again directed by Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard, the festive play depicted the connection between sports, politics and the German nation by providing an overview of the last 125 years. Approximately 10,000 people participated. In several scenes the festive play looked like a historical costume drama including one scene dedicated to the first gymnastic and youth sporting festivity in Coburg in 1860. It was a reconstruction, based on images and descriptions, of the historical festive procession.80 Similar to the Nuremberg Party Rallies which linked days to particular themes, the event in Breslau started its main sporting activities and competitions with a day dedicated to the German youth. Young people carried out competitions in more than 15 disciplines. The emphasis placed on the youth as the nation’s future, a rhetorical figure always

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relied on, turned ‘the Day of the Youth’ into one motto for the opening day in Breslau. It was followed by a day dedicated to the individual competitor, a day dominated by team contests as well as a festive procession as part of the closing ceremony.81 The festive closing ceremony illustrates how much the Breslau event, despite its impressive scale, resembled previously staged sporting activities. While the speeches at the ceremony stressed the importance of the Sudeten Germans, the festive components employed were, among dances and processions, gymnastic mass exercises performed by men in white dresses and women in blue ones. The motto for the performance of the men was ‘the white field filled with powerful exercises’. The exercises of the women were described as ‘the blue field in rhythmic movements’.82 More than ten years earlier, this gendered connotation of movements had characterised the Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt. Experimental attempts to move away from static exercises to other movement forms or reforms of the performance space to include the audience, so prominently applied also by the National Socialists in the early 1930s, were not tried out anymore. In fact, the journal Deutsche Turn Zeitung offered the justification for this return to traditional forms. It commented on the deliberate contrast between ‘the powerful male exercises’ and ‘the rhythmic female ones’ with the words: ‘The exercises of the men had to show the hard school every German has to go through again and again to remain the strong and powerful human being we need nowadays.’83 The most important aspect of the Breslau sporting event was not its financial or organisational scale, but its complete penetration by one dominant foreign political issue. While the inclusion of visitors and participants from German communities abroad was commonplace for many festivities, the participation of the Sudeten Germans, making up 15 per cent of the overall participants, was extraordinary.84 Already at the end of 1937, when the planning and organising of the sports festival were in full swing, governmental circles and Nazi party representatives were well aware that the event needed to be more than a sporting festival. It allegedly possessed ‘volkspolitische importance’. Reich ministries financed the attendance of Germans from abroad.85 After the annexation of Austria, the focus shifted to the group of Sudeten Germans numbering almost 30,000 participants. This was political will and financially sponsored by the National Socialist government. The Germans from the Sudetenland received 70 per cent of the available financial means for travelling and accommodation. The second largest groups consisted of Austrians.86 Hartmut Lissinna explains these numerical


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divisions as follows: ‘The participation of numerous grateful ‘comrades’ from Austria should serve as an example for the Sudeten Germans illustrating that their trust in the Führer is justified.’87 Not surprisingly, it was at the cultural and popular activities surrounding the sporting festival at which this stress on the Auslandsdeutschen was most visible. A ‘Silesian festive ceremony’ was held in front of Breslau’s castle with banners, processions, songs and speeches reminding the audience of the struggle of the Eastern territories, the suffering of the German people in these areas and the importance of the sports movement to unite all Germans.88 After the sporting festivities in Breslau, the next important mass staged event taking up the theme of territorial unity was the Nazi Party Rally in Nuremberg in September 1938: the ‘Party Rally Großdeutschland’. To hold true to its name, the rally’s programme was cluttered with references to territorial wholeness. The section of the RAD in Nuremberg held its festive procession including a ‘Confession to Großdeutschland’. Spoken by different speakers this ‘confession’ praised the incorporation of ‘the Führer’s Heimat Austria’ allegedly achieved without the use of armed forces or violence. Speakers called out that Austria wanted to belong to Germany and they proclaimed in a chorus: ‘Walls and borders invented by human beings/ could not destroy the Reich/ Blood is more powerful than foreign forces/ and what wants to be German must belong to Germany.’89 As much as this echoed the justification Hitler publicly gave for his foreign policy, only claiming for Germany what was hers, it described more than the Austrian Anschluß. It was a warning and a promise for other areas with similar circumstances. At the Nuremberg ceremony, a man of the RAD handed over his shovel—the shovel being the symbol of the RAD—to an Austrian ‘comrade’ who stressed the loyalty of Austria to the Reich and described the pain and suffering of his region before the incorporation into Germany.90 The linguistic metaphors used are similar to the ones applied to the Rhineland or the Saar area. The region and its people were ‘in chains’ tormented by foreign occupiers. While the 1938 Party Rally acquired enormous importance based on the tense foreign political situation, its style, as illustrated with this example of the ‘confession of the RAD’, was closer to political party assemblies than to mass performances. By the mid-1930s the National Socialists tried to win the battle for popular support by relying less on constant public mobilisation and more on offers of leisure time entertainment.91 Studies on popular reactions to Nazi propaganda suggest a certain fatigue by this time. The wish to return to ‘normal life’ enjoying the economic improvements and the longing for stability were strong sentiments.92 We have seen that

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the appeal of order and the promise of community characterised representational forms in the period under consideration. A parade, a mass spectacle or a gymnastic performance fascinated because a large number of people were moving in an orderly and simultaneous manner. It was this attraction of order, discipline, wholeness and shape that possibly compensated for a feeling of instability and insecurity in a changing society. The sociologist Siegfried Kracauer described this phenomenon in his 1927 essay The Mass Ornament. Using the Tiller Girls, a 1920s show dancing group, as example for his criticism on modern society, Kracauer pointed out that the girls mattered only in their small contribution to the bigger picture. He lamented: ‘Only as parts of a mass, not as individuals who believe themselves to be formed from within, do people become fractions of a figure [. . .] the end result is the ornament, whose closure is brought about by emptying all the substantial constructs of their contents’. Nevertheless, Kracauer acknowledged the aesthetic pleasure the audience gained from watching ornamental mass movements.93 But this appeal seemed to fade away in the mid-1930s. The experimental search for new forms of representation was coming to an end. A stress on entertainment, popular music and the enjoyment of economic recovery belonged to the key factors stabilising the Third Reich. Perhaps it was this idea of more stability that also made the appeal of being part of the masses less interesting. August Nitschke interprets the promise of a true national community as the linking element of numerous representational styles in the 1920s and early 1930s.94 These similarities do not only apply to entertainment culture, political parties and Nazi propaganda but include areas of republican state representation, too. Indeed, the Nazis showed that the inclusive, spectacular and visual representative forms tried out as part of visualising the republic could be easily extended and reinterpreted to reflect the structure of their own political system. As questionable as the idea of a distinct Nazi style with a characteristic aesthetic expression is for mass staged festivities, the lack of it becomes even more obvious in local festivities. A closer look at the staging of celebrations at regional level in the following chapter will illustrate that local festivities remained almost completely immune to suggestions aimed at enhancing their aesthetic appeal in Weimar and Nazi Germany.

7

‘Like 100 years ago . . .’: Local Festivities in Weimar and Nazi Germany

While previous chapters have concentrated on mass staged events, illustrating the development of festive aesthetics, this chapter shifts the focus to an overview of the staging of local festivities. Discussions on reforming the style and visual impact of festive ceremonies often centred on large-scale events, but we want to examine whether similar debates influenced local celebrations. After all, Rhine spectacles, Thingspiele or the Olympic Games were only tangible for a majority of the population through coverage in the newspapers or on the radio. How much of the proclaimed new festive culture—being visual, inclusive and spectacular—actually reached local celebrations? Research on local festivities is less numerous than one might expect. Frequently, it concentrates on celebrations in a particular town during a specific period or on festive activities of one societal group. Extending time frames beyond political turning points with a focus on festive continuities is rarely attempted. In other cases, the period under consideration covers several centuries which makes it too broad to trace continuities and discontinuities in the development of festivities. For a long time, scholarly research has concentrated on festivities in Imperial Germany with a particular focus on celebrations of the working class and its affiliated organisations. Less attention has been given to local festivities in the Third Reich while local celebrations in the Weimar years are often completely neglected.1 Rather than concentrating on one specific region, this chapter analyses whether ideas regarding aesthetic themes were suggested for local communities and, if so, whether they actually influenced festivities staged there. It will become clear that festivities at local level were difficult to alter. The Weimar Republic and the Nazi state alike attempted 139

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to influence the way their citizens celebrated. While the republic limited its efforts to the suggestion of topics and themes, as the first part will show, the Nazi dictatorship tried to reform the actual festive style. The National Socialists were not the only ones trying to influence celebrations. An examination of the demands and ideas of the Reichsbanner attempting to shape the local festivities will make this clear in the second part. The Reichsbanner repeatedly reminded its members of the importance of clearly structured celebrations and the visual impact these festivities should make. The efforts of the Nazis to reform local celebrations were far greater but also their suggestions were nothing new as the third part of this chapter will demonstrate. Their demands on clearly structured celebrations, a careful eye to the decoration of the venue and the avoidance of Kitsch and clutter echoed modernist ideas and concepts which the Social Democratic Party and the Reichsbanner had formulated earlier. This is remarkable because the Nazis promoted their reforms of festive styles as being directed against the alleged ‘bourgeois way of celebrating’ in Imperial and Weimar Germany. Perhaps surprisingly, National Socialists, Social Democrats and Reichsbanner members seemed to have been equally unsuccessful in their efforts to reform popular style and taste. Furthermore, local festivities remained immune to many of the suggested changes. It has to be kept in mind that local festivities were often constrained by financial and spatial limitations. These problems were generally left to local organisers to resolve, and were not usually addressed by recommendations on festive staging. Although interpretations of the Nazi state frequently presume that the political regime possessed a very good sense for popular wishes and demands, Nazi propagandists failed remarkably in their efforts to influence popular taste. This is not to suggest that celebrations in the Third Reich which followed a rather traditional style and set-up were not successful in mobilising the population or creating enthusiasm for the Nazi cause. On the contrary, many of these festivities might have affected local citizens precisely because they kept a traditional and familiar style.2

Constitution Day celebrations at local level Constitution Day celebrations occupied the thoughts and minds of republican civil servants and officials as previous chapters have shown. Indeed, the republic managed to stage most impressive spectacles in 1929 and 1930. However, Constitution Day festivities were also celebrated in towns and villages, and these festivities differed from

Local Festivities in Germany

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nationally staged events. First of all, unlike the subsequent Nazi dictatorship, the Weimar Republic could not dictate celebrations. Since Constitution Day was never established as a national holiday, it was the responsibility of the Länder governments to decide on festivities.3 Prussia, for example, wholeheartedly supported republican celebrations and demanded that Prussian schools and municipalities honoured Constitution Day with festivities. Bavaria’s government, on the other hand, had little interest in republican democracy and no interest in celebrating the republic. There was nothing the Reich government could do in this matter apart from insisting on Constitution Day celebrations by Reich civil servants stationed in these states.4 It was not more than a helpless gesture when Reich officials celebrated small Constitution Day celebrations in Munich, while employees of the Bavarian state did not celebrate the day at all. But regardless of the states’ attitudes, successful executions of celebrations highly depended on local representatives committed to the republican idea.5 Nuremberg, situated in Bavaria, regularly celebrated Constitution Day due to the support of its liberal mayor Hermann Luppe, a member of the DDP.6 The German nationalist mayor of Berlin-Zehlendorf, on the other hand, managed to avoid organising a celebration for his staff in August 1929 claiming that his civil servants were not interested.7 Studies on celebrations in middlesized towns like Hanover, Gießen and Wetzlar illustrate that successful festivities greatly depended on local support.8 Constitution Day celebrations organised by local authorities occupied a middle position between nationally staged ceremonies and festivities carried out by republican organisations. Republican organisations, as the Reichsbanner, sometimes participated in celebrations organised by cities or communities, sometimes there remained a clear distinction. The open nature of local celebrations produced a variety of festivities. Some explicitly stressed a republican character reflected in the choice of literary pieces recited and speeches delivered, while others were festive but attempted to remain apolitical.9 One way to connect the republic to the locality was the incorporation of local events into a republican tradition. Achim Bonte has shown how Mannheim’s mayor emphasised the democratic tradition of his city whilst Celia Applegate found similar attempts for areas of the Palatine.10 It was clear for most republican civil servants, officials and teachers involved that their celebrations should differ from festivities staged in Imperial Germany, but a blueprint did not exist. Schools and local administrations possessed a large amount of freedom regarding the staging and organisation of republican celebrations. Regulations and

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guidelines were limited, even in those German Länder where the governments demanded festivities. Thus, the Prussian government requested the display of black-red-gold flags, recommended sports competitions for schools and reminded schools and local administrations of specific themes chosen for the day. Everything else was left to individual schools and local authorities.11 This lack of regulations was not appreciated by everyone. At the end of 1925, the school authorities for the area Berlin-Brandenburg (PSK) urged the Prussian Ministry for Culture and Education to suggest more precise guidelines. In the summer of 1926, the PSK took the matter in its own hand and advised that the text of the Weimar Constitution offered good reference points for speeches to be delivered on the day by school directors or teachers.12 Frequently, schools in the same area used the opportunity to celebrate together. In August 1926, the schools of the Berlin working-class district Prenzlauer Berg did so, after each school had held brief individual celebrations. A year later in 1927, Berlin’s city council stated that mutual celebrations were well worth supporting. According to the city council, the previous experience had proven that ‘a way had been found through which the youth could be filled with respectful dedication to the republican fatherland.’ Several other schools in Berlin followed this example.13 The inclusion of sporting activities was generally carried out at school festivities, while many local municipal celebrations followed a festive set-up in which classical music framed the main speech and the celebrations concluded with the national anthem. In August 1930, the official celebration honouring Constitution Day by the administration of Berlin-Schöneberg followed a programme consisting of musical pieces by Haydn and Schumann, two poems by the romantic poet Joseph von Eichendorff, the main speech and the national anthem.14 Clearly, this programme revealed a typical Bildungsbürger style and differed little in staging and set-up from official celebrations before 1919. Nevertheless, organisers of festivities paid increasing attention to more active and popular participation,15 and local examples illustrate these efforts. Apart from the introduction of more contemporary pieces in the festive programme, including poems and songs by republican poets of the 1920s, attempts were made to enlarge the participation of the local community. This led to a mixture of different styles, neither breaking away from the traditional way of celebrating locally, nor repeating how celebrations had been staged in Imperial Germany. The official Constitution Day celebration in Hildesheim, for example, kept a traditional set-up with music, poems and the central speech but included a poem written by the republican poet Karl Bröger as well as


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the school orchestra and the local choir.16 The official celebration in Schwelm combined the ceremony with popular activities afterwards. It was followed by a torch-lit march to the local sports ground where popular songs and dances were played. The band of the fire brigade, the drummers and pipers corps, the free gymnastic society and the Catholic youth organisation participated and performed.17 Obviously, an attempt to enhance the inclusiveness of the festivities with a stress on locally rooted organisations and associations characterised the celebrations. In contrast to large-scale festive events in the Weimar Republic, demands to introduce a ‘new aesthetic style’ for local celebrations were rare. This is not to say that there was a lack of suggestions regarding the staging of republican celebrations. From the mid-1920s onwards, various publications suggested poems, songs, plays and speeches to be performed at the day. Most of the publications, written by teachers or school directors, were aimed at school celebrations.18 Naturally, they varied in quality. Some were obviously inspired by the idea of putting together a festive programme for children as though the occasion was no more than an annual spring festival. Others were more dedicated to communicate a republican message. In 1928 a publication entitled Republican School Celebrations was published in two volumes, which amounted to a total of almost 400 pages and set high standards.19 The material presented covered several key themes including the Weimar Constitution, the black-red-gold colours, civic state culture, Germany and Austria, the Rhine and the youth. All themes illustrated how historical aspects could be connected to the contemporary republican situation. Most publications on Constitution Day festivities focused on suggestions for programmes but not on festive decorations. This was an area largely neglected for local celebrations in Weimar Germany in stark contrast to the Nazi period in which the stress on festive decoration was omnipresent. One of the few exceptions was a 1922 publication by the Social Democrat Friedrich Stampfer. He presented two sample programmes of Constitution Day celebrations, one for a big town and one for a small town. Stampfer also reminded the organisers of the importance of festive decoration: ‘It is particularly important to decorate the venue of the festivities. The colours black-red-gold—the symbol of the republic—have to be present as much as possible.’20 However, Stampfer’s attention to decoration and visual impact was not the norm in the numerous publications for Constitution Day celebrations. Festive aesthetics played a subordinate role for official local celebrations.

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Indeed, reactions to local celebrations to honour republican events were mixed but hardly ever concentrated on the aesthetic and visual impact of the festivities. Republican citizens criticised when black-redgold flags were lacking or when the main speaker failed to say something positive on the Weimar Constitution.21 Anti-republicans, on the other hand, complained that they had to participate in celebrations of a state form they disdained and that school celebrations in Prussia ‘dictated a political conviction’ to their children.22 None of these opposing groups had a serious problem with the festive staging but with the festivities as such. Complaints by republican organisations and newspapers that schools or city halls lacked republican flags to honour the day were aimed at the general presence of black-red-gold flags, rather than their arrangement.23 Republicans seemed to have been content when dignified celebrations without interruptions and disturbances by political opponents took place. In fact, this was already a difficult task. Not only did anti-republican nationalists, associated with right-wing parties or organisations, criticised republican celebrations, members of the Reichswehr did so as well because they had to attend ceremonies in the towns where they were stationed. Complaints, sent to the Ministry of Defence, generally criticised the ‘party political’ connotations of some celebrations. In 1924, the head of the military in Perleberg lamented that all Constitution Day festivities in the towns and communities of the area were ‘SPD party celebrations’ organised by the Reichsbanner. The main speech was, according to the military witness, ‘a Jewish Social Democratic slander speech’.24 Similarly, the Constitution Day celebration in Kolberg in the same year was not approved by the military there.25 In Frankfurt/Oder in 1925 the head of the military pointed out that Reichsbanner members framed the speaker’s podium with their flags and that the speaker only praised the achievements of the Reichsbanner.26 In September 1926 the Reich Minister of Defence requested from the Prussian Ministry of the Interior a guarantee that the celebrations would be apolitical, otherwise the army could not participate in the future.27 An event in Fischhausen, in September 1926, only increased the disapproval of the Reich Ministry of Defence. The speech at the ceremony, held by Landrat Hofer, was reported to have insulted the members of the Reichswehr. Hofer described the celebration quite differently, stating that Constitution Day festivities, when taken seriously, could never be apolitical and pointed out: When I promote the republic, I feel like I am carrying its flag and I would be a bad flag carrier, if tried to hide the flag or only half unfurl


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it. No, the flag has to be seen as a glittering symbol of celebration around which its friends assemble and intimidate its enemies [. . .] that is how I understand the sense of Constitution Day celebrations.28 In Jüterbog at the celebration in August 1926, Landrat Dr Usinger had to solve a difficult problem. The local Reichsbanner group wanted to bring its flags to the ceremonies, as it had done the previous year, but the Reichswehr refused to take part in a celebration in which a political organisation participated with its flags. Eventually, the ceremony took place without the Reichsbanner.29 This time, not the military, but the local Reichsbanner group of Jüterbog wrote a letter of complaint.30 The Prussian Ministry of the Interior and the Reich Ministry of Defence tried to reach a consensus after these events. Prussia pointed out that the celebration was a political event and could not be a neutral ceremony. In his reply the Minister of Defence stated that while a state celebration should educate the people about the republic; ceremonies insulting the country’s past were not suitable for his troops.31 Eventually, it was left to local authorities to find better arrangements.32 Generally, when such conflicts regarding the character and the participation in Constitution Day festivities flared up, representational matters of the festivities moved into the background. The Reichsbanner tended to concentrate more on festive elements when it came to its own republican ceremonies, as the following part will show. Similar to the National Socialists after 1933, the Reichsbanner was in the comfortable position of not having to worry whether festivities actually happened or what to do in case the main speaker insulted republican democracy instead of praising it. Consequently, the organisers of Reichsbanner ceremonies could afford to focus more on the aesthetic and visual impact of their festivities in Weimar Germany.

The Reichsbanner and its festivities Discussions on festive aesthetics for local celebrations staged by the Reichsbanner centred on concepts employed in events on much larger scale. This is not to suggest that national spectacles were re-enacted in smaller versions in towns and villages, but rather that debates on a reformed festive style were not limited to ministries and governmental offices. How much could be put into practice was a different matter as reforming local habits and customs, of which celebrations were an important part, proved to be a difficult task. The Reichsbanner and its members were essential for celebrations staged by the republic, on both a large and a small scale. The strength

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of the republican organisation was its federal structure which allowed for easy mobilisation of local groups. Consequently, the mayor or the local city council could always rely, if wished, on uniformed members of the Reichsbanner to enhance the colourfulness of municipal Constitution Day celebrations. However, the previous part has shown that such involvement was not always appreciated. The Reichsbanner as a private organisation had various options for staging festivities; it could be part of official ceremonies and could stage its own, too. For the republican organisation the year was structured by a festive calendar that included Constitution Day celebrations, commemorations of the First World War dead, founding festivities of the Reichsbanner and remembering the death of republican heroes. In addition, anniversaries of admired men of the 1848 revolution were part of the organisation’s annual festive cycle as much as the unveiling of local monuments for the politicians Friedrich Ebert and Walther Rathenau.33 Such annual events formed part of the Reichsbanner’s institutional identity, in a manner similar to other political organisations. One of the main features of all Reichsbanner festivities, large and small ones, was an explicit emphasis on republican themes in order to establish a narrative for the Weimar state. Consequently, it is not surprising that the Reichsbanner, together with other organisations, reflected on the necessity of a republican festive repertoire.34 Republican songbooks presented a collection of songs and poems dominated by pieces on the black-red-gold colours and the 1848 revolution.35 But the Reichsbanner also included more recent works especially by the well-known poet Karl Bröger who had written several pieces for the organisation.36 Citizens could participate in this creation of a festive repertoire by sending poems to the Reichsbanner’s journal. Many of these pieces centred on defending democracy stressing republican community and masculinity.37 In 1928 the journal of the Reichsbanner suggested that republicans should collect these poems and hand them over to local schools which could use the pieces for school celebrations.38 Clearly, this was not only to ensure that local schools used appropriate material for Constitution Day celebrations but also to actively engage citizens in shaping the republic’s festive culture. However, we want to concentrate on the aesthetic appeal of local celebrations rather than on their themes. The notion that celebrations and parades staged by the Reichsbanner should make a visual impact was a key point.39 The republican organisation claimed that it had spread the colours of democracy and this meant, in addition to promoting the republican idea, occupying public space with black-red-gold flags and


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other visual signs. Chapter 1 has offered a glimpse of this strategy. In July 1928 the Reichsbanner’s journal stated: ‘Constitution Day has to be a propaganda day for the republic. One cannot educate a people to become republican citizens with academic ceremonies and scholarly articles. The people want to see colours and want to experience something extraordinary on this special day.’40 The Reichsbanner linked the alleged popularity and success of its local festivities to the creation of a new festive style: ‘At republican popular festivities our symbols were publicly displayed: the bright colours of the republic, the rhythm of marching formations, the mass impression of songs, choirs and music, with all these elements the Reichsbanner fulfilled demands for new ways of representation.’ According to the Reichsbanner, the power of mass choirs, sounds and rhythm were at work at its celebrations. These powerful forces were effective because the participants recognised their own voice and soul in the festivities. They were an active part of them, so the Reichsbanner claimed.41 The similarity of these concepts to the ones discussed and suggested for nationally staged events is striking. The idea that people had to be actively involved in festivities and that mass unity offered an expression of the time characterised this description for local celebrations. Furthermore, the recognition of the importance of visual impressions but also of music and movement represents the basis for the Reichsbanner’s claim that the events possessed ‘a joyful rhythm’. In practice things were often more difficult. The Reichsbanner’s claim that it had brought republican celebrations to small communities and that many local sharpshooting festivals (Schützenfeste) had been replaced by Reichsbanner celebrations needs to be taken with a pinch of salt.42 Sharpshooting clubs often excluded members of Socialist, Social Democratic and republican organisations.43 Consequently, claims that these celebrations were replaced seem doubtful, and, in fact, David Imhoof illustrates how the conservative background of many of these clubs provided an ideal platform for the Nazification of local cultural activities.44 Festivities in small communities, similar to celebrations on larger scale, should occupy public space and publicly demonstrate a united front. But demonstrations, parades and festivities of different organisations and opposing political parties succeeded rather than replaced each other, particularly in small communities where the most prominent public space was often limited to the market square or one main street. Therefore, the nationalist Stahlhelm organised a celebration on one weekend and the Reichsbanner’s festivities followed the next weekend. Thus, although it was not a small town and the events were not held on successive weekends, the Koblenz celebrations in 1930 and 1931

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illustrate how different festivities in the same urban space could offer opposing interpretations of the same event. Competing, observing and, sometimes, learning from better organised events of political opponents characterised political life in small communities in the Weimar years.45 Also the Reichsbanner was well aware of the fact that its festivities were observed by the public and by political opponents. The republican organisation reminded its members of the implications this had and, of course, equally observed festivities and parades staged by others. In October 1930, as part of a number of articles focusing on festive improvements, the Reichsbanner’s journal pointed out that Nazi and Communist assemblies were more systematically staged than republican ones. Therefore, the article suggested a variety of guidelines to increase ‘order, discipline and impact’. The Reichsbanner’s journal stipulated that venues for assemblies and celebrations should be less elaborately decorated in order to create a clearer and more effective overall impression.46 Throughout the whole period of the Weimar Republic, the Social Democrats had suggested that their festive decoration should be ‘simple but dignified’ and the decoration of local venues should be appropriate to the occasion of the festivity. The Social Democrats attempted to distinguish themselves from bourgeois pomp and working-class crudeness alike. Putting these ideas into practice remained a difficult task. In 1930 Social Democratic newspapers formulated the same suggestions regarding the festive decoration of their venues as they had done ten years earlier.47 The National Socialists had similar ideas and equally experienced problems in their implementation. The Reichsbanner claimed that it staged ‘true people’s celebrations’. Many political organisations and parties in the 1920s wanted their celebrations, in particular local ones, to be popular and inclusive.48 After all, local festivities might be competing with other events. Next to popularity, organisers of festivities stressed another theme: a problem with discipline. The SPD and its affiliated organisations were the political force with most experience in the staging of local popular celebrations. Over time, the Social Democrats made increasing demands on the discipline and the behaviour of their fellow supporters. The stress on disciplined behaviour at parades and demonstrations had a long tradition in the Social Democratic movement as already illustrated. Also the Reichsbanner demanded discipline of its members and like the SPD, and later the Nazis, justified this with references to the impact and impression made by celebrations. The Reichsbanner stated in its journal that its festivities needed to be popular in order to reach as


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many people as possible in rural areas and small towns. On the other hand, the festivities should be more than just entertainment. According to the republican organisation, celebrations were political propaganda carefully observed by the public. Thus it had to be clear that inappropriate behaviour, such as excessive drinking, could not be tolerated.49 Unlike many other publications on the staging of republican festivities, the Reichsbanner’s guidelines did not only suggest songs, speeches or poems but offered concrete regulations for the planning of local celebrations. These included that celebrations needed to be organised in plenty of time ahead, that the venue was chosen carefully and that the programme should be appropriate and fitting for the festive purpose. Organisers should consider the inclusion of local choirs or theatre groups. Furthermore, the celebration should not last longer than an hour and the different elements of the programme had to increase the appeal of the whole ceremony. There should be a clear distinction made between the festive part and the social gathering afterwards.50 Despite these guidelines and demands, the Reichsbanner’s journal lamented that not much in the suggested direction had happened in small towns and villages. At the end of 1930, the Reichsbanner wrote that similar suggestions had been made two years ago but with little impact. It pointed out that festive programmes should follow a clear structure with a concrete theme. Also the festive decorations needed particular attention and the article in the republican journal concluded: ‘. . . and now to work, let’s clean our festivities of clutter and light entertainment’.51 The republican organisation wanted to increase the cultural and intellectual level of its celebrations. In so doing, the Reichsbanner aimed at achieving something the SPD had already unsuccessfully tried for its local festivities for two decades.52 . Nazi suggestions for local celebrations in the Third Reich echoed these concerns, ideas and problems. Social Democrats, Reichsbanner members and Nazi propagandists alike were preoccupied with demands to reduce clutter, light entertainment and to change the style of local festivities from social gatherings to cultural and educational celebrations. Perhaps surprisingly, they were equally unsuccessful. Apparently, the staging of local celebrations was hard to influence and even harder to reform. In 1929, the Socialist sports organisation lamented on rural festivities: They [the celebrations] look all so similar, the festivities of the gymnasts, the bikers, the sports clubs [. . .] the festivity never starts on time but lasts forever [. . .] there is a lot on offer, colourful and nice,

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mixed together, quantity is mistaken for quality. Most of all, the success of the festival will be measured by the consumption of beer and Bratwurst.53

Reforming popular taste: The Nazis and local celebrations Nazi suggestions for the appropriate staging of local festivities were embedded in the National Socialist anti-Kitsch campaign. This attempt to shape and reform popular taste promoted a sober, modern and clear style for all cultural aspects of National Socialist representation. While most large-scale events were planned and controlled by the propaganda ministry, and, therefore, directly influenced by aesthetic ideas which the ministry found fitting, it was the style of local festivities that troubled Nazi propagandists. Changes and reforms of the way local communities celebrated were, according to numerous articles on Nazi propaganda, essential. Before focusing on suggestions for the staging of local festivities, we will first look at the wider context of the National Socialist anti-Kitsch movement.54 After the appointment of Adolf Hitler as Reich Chancellor in January 1933, the swastika was employed on numerous merchandising products, such as plates, cups, bowls and vases. The symbol could also be found on tea towels, brushes, pens, necklaces, toys, lighters, cigarette cases and ties.55 The propaganda ministry was uneasy with this rapid application to everyday products because it feared losing control over the form, quality, timing and appearance of these objects. These concerns resulted in the Law for the Protection of National Symbols of late March 1933. According to this law, Nazi symbols should not be shown in a degrading way and should not be attached to other objects purely for decorative purposes. Local authorities, including the police, could confiscate these objects and a fine could be levied upon distributors and producers.56 Newspaper propaganda directed against Nazi Kitsch accompanied the new law.57 An article in the National Socialist journal Unser Wille und Weg stated in May 1933: ‘We haven’t fought and achieved a national revolution to enable materialistic retailers and opportunists to increase their profits with the production of Nazi Kitsch.’58 In addition to the focus on ‘unpatriotic’ retailers, some articles drew attention to the fact that these products were also bought by convinced National Socialists. In these cases, according to the newspapers, only ‘patient teaching would reach the comrades who misunderstood


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Nazi Kitsch for national art’.59 In Cologne in July 1933, an exhibition entitled Away with Kitsch contrasted pictures and objects of Nazi Kitsch on one side of the room with the appropriate application of National Socialist symbols on the other.60 Propaganda Minister Goebbels claimed that his anti-Kitsch measures were successful. But it seems doubtful that the Law for the Protection of National Symbols actually had significant effects on consumer habits in the Third Reich. As late as 1941, complaints about objects of national Kitsch were forwarded to the authorities.61 In fact, officials responsible for the drafting of the law seemed to have anticipated difficulties in its implementation. It was not the possession of Kitsch that was punished but its production and sale.62 Concerns were not limited to Nazi signs on everyday objects. A newspaper article in February 1934 reminded its readers of the importance of tasteful decoration in local Nazi offices because people would judge the party by what they saw in their communities. According to the article, party offices cluttered with Nazi symbols and pictures of Nazi leaders did not capture the spirit of the National Socialist movement that was characterised by clarity and beauty.63 The importance of local Nazi representation on which citizens in the Third Reich allegedly based their judgement and support for the regime became obvious in these admonitions to improve the decoration of local NSDAP offices. According to Nazi propaganda, untidiness, carelessness, clutter and Kitsch had to be replaced with order, structure, clarity and sobriety. This change needed to be communicated to the local population.64 Thus the decoration of party offices and festive decorations alike came to represent the changes the National Socialist claimed their movement had brought about contrasting them with the alleged chaos of republican politics during the Weimar years. However, the republic had promoted very similar concepts. The Nazis’ stress on sobriety and quality, their rejection of superfluous decoration and ornaments continued modernist developments in the fields of design and commercial art which had roots in the late Kaiserreich and flourished in the 1920s. The Werkbund and the Bauhaus stood for these modernist concepts.65 Indeed, the National Socialists were not the first ones trying to introduce a new style to their supporters. The SPD had also attempted to encourage its working-class members to get rid of ‘bourgeois Kitsch’, albeit with little success.66 Local Nazi propagandists had a hard time too. In 1936, a detailed account, which focused on the visual representation of propaganda at local level, suggested that little had changed.67 Sabine Behrenbeck blames the failure of the National Socialists to suppress

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Kitsch on the fact that while Nazi officials had made clear what they did not want, they did not offer alternatives.68 Attempts to introduce a new style of representation also applied to local festivities in the Third Reich. Familiar themes reoccurred in this field: the avoidance of Kitsch and clutter, a tightly structured festive programme and the focus on an aesthetic overall impression. As illustrated, publications and suggestions for the staging of republican celebrations in the Weimar years frequently focused on proposing songs, poems, themes or speeches. The Reichsbanner added practical guidelines dealing with matters of decoration, choice of venues and the duration of the programme. For the Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob, the introduction of popular elements to increase involvement and participation in republican celebrations had created a festive style that expressed the principle of democracy. Nevertheless, National Socialist publications placed unprecedented emphasis on decoration, style and the appeal of local festivities. A number of Nazi organisations and institutions, including the Reich Propaganda Ministry, the headquarters of the NSDAP in Munich, the Nazi youth organisations and its leaders as well as many others, wanted to be involved in influencing festivities in the Third Reich. But Goebbels and his propaganda ministry kept control of most of the issues dealing with festivities. The majority of official publications giving advice for local celebrations were published by the propaganda ministry. Nazi publications on local festivities also suggested speeches, songs and poems for the celebrations,69 but they placed a great emphasis on decoration and style. The aim of these publications was two-fold, first they wanted to exercise control on local matters and second they tried to introduce what was regarded as ‘a new Nazi style’ to small communities. A recurring theme was the demand to pay more and better attention to the organisation of local festivities. The tone of the articles was pedagogical and patronising similar to newspaper articles stressing that committed National Socialists acquiring Nazi Kitsch needed to be ‘re-educated’ in their cultural taste. This education should already begin with the careful selection of the person in charge of local festivities. According to the journal Unser Wille und Weg, published by the Propaganda Ministry, many people responsible for local festivities were committed and dedicated, but knew very little about new and effective propaganda methods.70 An article summarised one of the main principles behind Nazi celebrations stating that there was to be ‘no distinction between spectators and performers’. Both were one community of which some participated more actively in the celebration than others. Furthermore, the celebration should not consist


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of a series of individual performances but had to be linked by an ideological theme.71 Although similar concepts had been formulated by the Reichskunstwart and the Reichsbanner, they had suggested rather than demanded them. Informal gatherings of the NSDAP and other Nazi organisations posed a particular problem for propaganda leaders and officials as such festivities were often considered to be lacking in style and taste, but were too popular to be abolished altogether.72 Articles lamented that ‘the tastelessness of the bourgeoisie’ had taken over. According to one article, more thinking had to be put into the preparations of these festivities instead of relying on methods and persons who had always been part of local celebrations.73 SA celebrations received particular attention, and it was pointed out that they should be divided into only two categories: joyful people’s festivities or solemn commemorative ceremonies. However, according to the article, ‘the SA follows the outdated path of tasteless events characteristic of the petty bourgeois’ and the outline of a festive programme was used to illustrate the formulated reproach: ‘The brown shirt, light entertainment and club life [Vereinsmeierei] are incompatible contrasts . . . The SA man has to avoid, indeed, to fight these sorts of festivities.’74 Numerous Nazi propagandists identified as a problem for local festivities that the celebrations were not always fitting for the occasions or the local environment. Small communities should not try to imitate the festivities of big cities but use the possibilities they possessed, so the advice. The specific theme and the nature of a particular celebration should be reflected in the decoration, programme and venue. Commemorative ceremonies for fallen heroes of the Nazi movement required a different format than a summer festival.75 Implicitly, this reminder on fitting celebrations for the occasion, venue and local environment also meant that spatial and financial limitations were expected to be resolved. Potential financial and spatial difficulties were presented as challenges for local organisers which they should face by applying innovative methods for dealing with them. Careful and thoughtful planning, so numerous publications and articles, guaranteed dignified celebrations. Nazi propagandists put the responsibility for local celebrations in the hands of local organisers and, in so doing, suffocated demands for more useful support and help. The audience should be able to clearly identify a theme dominating the celebration and differentiating it from other festivities, or else the individual spectator experienced ‘an inflation of celebrations’ which only created boredom.76 Of course, certain themes of the annual

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calendar of Nazi festivities were irreplaceable and had to be celebrated on local as much as on national level: commemorating the dead of the Hitler Putsch of November 1923, the First of May and Hitler’s birthday to name but a few. However, local celebrations also happened at other occasions and their organisers were advised to avoid crudely connecting every celebration to a Nazi topic. ‘To revoke German idealism and to touch the German soul’, so ran an article, several topics could be used as motto for the celebration. The festive occasion could be dedicated to the poets Eduard Mörike or Theodor Storm. Other themes suggested were the anniversary of Goethe’s birthday and 1813 with a particular focus on the battle of Leipzig.77 The appropriate decoration of the venue was a constantly reoccurring aspect; the beauty of the meeting place should not be sacrificed to Kitsch and simple decorations should be used.78 In 1935, the author of an article lamented: Even worse are the conditions of some rooms which represent an insult to good taste and were characteristic of the past bourgeois epoch. I mean rooms in which the healthy taste of every National Socialist is deeply shocked because these rooms are cluttered and decorated with every possible object and ornament.79 The repeated insistence on the decoration seemed to suggest that very little had changed. According to the two authors of the 1938 published Handbuch der Gemeinschaftspflege, Nazi flags and symbols should only be used sparingly but, at the same time, had to be the central focal point of the room. If possible, a spotlight should be directed on the flag. Overcrowding had to be avoided. The stage, the authors pointed out, had to be decorated simply but in a dignified manner and on no account should festive decorations from previous celebrations still be visible or even reused. ‘Also our joyful hours and celebrations demand a clean and clear festive space. Everything that destroys the unity of the venue has to be taken away or covered.’80 After criticising old-fashioned decoration, including paper garlands and leftover props of the local theatre group, one author went further and demanded that it was the responsibility of National Socialist artists to change these festive spaces. Kitsch should be replaced with art. Venues for festivities should be spacious, painted in light colours and appropriately decorated.81 At the Nazi Party Rally in 1938, as part of the discussion on cultural issues, Hitler officially formulated the claim made for many years, when he demanded: ‘The characteristic of our assembly rooms is not the mystic darkness of


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a cult, but the brightness and light of a nice and functionalist room or hall.’82 Once again, this echoed modernist concepts regarding the decoration of buildings. The role of women was explicitly mentioned when seasonal flowers and greens were promoted as natural, hence healthy, and beautiful decoration for the festive space.83 We have already seen these demands on women when it came to decorating the republican home or mobilising the family to participate in festive events. The Third Reich, and later the German Democratic Republic (GDR), continued this gendered tradition for their respective festivities.84 Christoph Kühberger shows that although most large-scale festivities in the Third Reich allocated very limited importance to women as active supporters of Nazi politics, women were included more in small local celebrations to make up numbers and to prepare food and drinks.85 The organisers also had to take into account the expectations and attitudes of the audience. Hermann Roth lamented in his suggestions on Nazi celebrations that the audience had to be educated to behave appropriately as there was too much chatting at the beginning and at the end of the celebrations.86 Consequently, it should not surprise us that a stress on disciplining the behaviour of participants and spectators repeatedly found its way into National Socialist guidelines. The programmes should, by all means, start on time and should not be longer than forty minutes.87 If members of the audience showed up too late and the festivities had already started, they would come early enough the next time, so one of the pedagogical concepts. Smoking and drinking during the course of the festive programme should not be permitted, as they diverted attention and gave the festive event the character of a social pub gathering.88 Whether a dance followed the celebration depended on the kind of festivity staged and Nazi propagandists reassured local organisers that people would also come even if the event was not followed by dancing and drinking.89 Nevertheless, the combination of political and non-political festive elements was a feature of festivities in the Third Reich on all levels and, indeed, not just of festivities in the Nazi period. Adelheid von Saldern suggests that the character of municipal celebrations in the Third Reich can be divided into two periods: 1933–1934, during which the politicisation of the celebrations prevailed; and 1935–1939 when the visual representation of Nazi symbols at celebrations was already sufficient.90 This corresponds with wider trends we have already encountered demonstrating that political mobilisation was reduced in the mid-1930s. While negative examples of local celebrations were generally described without naming the exact location (though usually including

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suggestions for improvement), Nazi journals also published positive descriptions of well-organised festivities in small communities. In such cases, the emphasis was frequently on the fact that good and careful planning had led to impressive results, which were still financially feasible for villages and small communities.91 In December 1934 Unser Wille und Weg published the description of a thanksgiving celebration. Fritz Radeloff, the author of the article, offered a detailed outline of how he had staged these festive activities in his small village. He described the difficulties he was faced with at the beginning, in particular, concerns that the festivities would not attract the wider population and that his plans could be too costly for the small community. But Radeloff praised himself by pointing out how he had organised a tightly structured and successful event, despite these problems. He ascribed the supposed success to the fact that the programme fitted to the local conditions and involved numerous societal groups not just NSDAP members. The article concluded by asking others to follow this example.92 In the summer of 1934, it was announced that programmes of exceptionally well-staged celebrations should be sent to the headquarters of the Nazi party in Munich to establish an exchange of ideas for local festivities and to find out about ‘creative and committed National Socialists in the area of festive organisation’.93 Indeed, outlines of exemplary programmes were published and recommended even before this announcement.94 Similar to the Reichsbanner’s strategy of asking citizens to help in the creation of a festive repertoire, this way of praising and recognising local achievements should encourage popular participation. Whether all these suggestions created any changes in the way people celebrated in small communities is questionable. Numerous articles on local Nazi celebrations stated that the message was not getting across. As late as 1939, the journal Unser Wille und Weg complained that ‘celebrations in smaller communities still breathed the air of bourgeois festivities’ and were staged ‘as they had been for the last 100 years’.95 Clearly, propaganda leaders failed to introduce what they had proclaimed as ‘Nazi aesthetics’ on local level and revealed a misjudgement of popular taste and habits. But despite the old-fashioned style characteristic of many local festivities in the Third Reich, the celebrations offered opportunities for participating in their planning and staging. In so doing, these festivities still embedded and anchored the Nazi state in local communities.96 Werner Freitag shows in his edited study on numerous local festive occasions in the Third Reich for the area around Bielefeld, Hagen, Hoexter and Minden that there existed an enormous variety of festive styles. From the mid-1930s onwards, explicit political


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aspects seemed to have been replaced, if they had ever dominated, by entertaining elements.97 This chapter has illustrated that concepts on reforming the festive and aesthetic style were also formulated on local level in Weimar and Nazi Germany. Indeed, the fact that Social Democrats, Reichsbanner members and National Socialists had similar ideas for the staging of local festivities only reinforces the argument of continuities in festive aesthetics. It also illustrates that discussions for the staging of festive events on national level were partly mirrored in suggestions for the local environment. However, theory and reality were not always compatible. Unlike festive events on national scale, which underwent a considerable development from the early years of the republic to the end of the Nazi period, local celebrations seem to have changed little. Altering popular taste and local traditions was apparently much harder than many had expected. Financial and spatial difficulties were combined with the reluctance to change a locally rooted and familiar way of celebrating. It is striking that republicans and National Socialists not only formulated similar ideas but also encountered the same problems putting them into practice. While festive aesthetics were discussed for local celebrations, the practicality of new concepts and innovative ways of staging remained limited regardless of the political organisation advocating them.

Conclusion

Nowadays the choreography of bodies, so prominent in the interwar period, has been by and large confined to theatre stages or festive ceremonies of international sporting events. In Germany former Thingspiel arenas, as the Waldbühne in Berlin or the Loreley stage in St. Goarshausen, are used for open-air rock concerts and opera performances.1 The original purpose of these sites as home of ‘a new Nazi theatre’, based on mass staging and allegedly expressing the new ‘people’s community’ of the Third Reich, has been largely forgotten. In fact, the Thingspiel arenas, which still exist, are one of the few examples of National Socialist architecture. Mostly, Nazi architecture consisted of grandiose and spectacular rebuilding plans that never materialised.2 Accepted, and perhaps appreciated, as forms of representation for cultural, sports and entertaining events, mass choreographies and mass spectacles have lost their appeal as political representation of the nation in Germany. Already the memories of the Third Reich discredited the staging of mass events in the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) in the 1950s and 1960s. The GDR’s reliance on similar means, in particular, but not exclusively, for sporting festivals—the most prominent ones being staged in Leipzig—certainly reinforced West German rejection. Mass spectacles, including the presentation of orderly and disciplined bodies, were considered as inappropriate festive means for democracies and remained unacceptable for a long time.3 Indeed, a certain sense of unease is still present. While mass choreographies with a stress on bodily performances have become commonplace for international sporting events, for many the connection between these means of representation and dictatorial regimes remains a strong one. The opening ceremony of the Olympic Games in Beijing in August 2008 revealed these problems. An impressive ceremony, clearly using mass 158

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choreographies as its asset, caused difficulties for Western commentators who felt the need to state repeatedly that their praise of the well-staged ceremony should by no means be understood as support of the Chinese state system.4 In addition to mass spectacles, another important theme running through the time period under consideration seems alien to us today: the stress on territorial wholeness as expression of restored national community and German identity. Germany is a country with a strong federal structure proudly stressing its local habits and customs. Cultural and educational matters vary considerably in different German Länder and many citizens identify more strongly with ‘their’ city, town or region rather than with ‘their’ country. After the end of the Second World War, the topics of borders and border territories were important political areas and occasional minefields for politicians. Germany’s border with Poland, along the rivers Oder and Neiße, was only recognised by the FRG as part of Willy Brandt’s Ostpolitik in 1970; a much debated decision in German society. The German government renounced any efforts to reclaim territories in the East in 1990. But despite the importance of the issue and the staging of festive events by former inhabitants of these regions—often including elements of popular folklore—presenting the German nation as whole again only when Eastern territories were returned to Germany was not part of the country’s official political culture anymore. Another aspect changed considerably after 1945. The display of political symbols, in particular flags, as part of local political culture and confession to a political cause, commonplace in Weimar Germany, disappeared. Certainly, this was due to a general Symbolmüdigkeit and to the feeling that the National Socialists had discredited this form of representation. Although Germany’s national flag in the colours black-red-gold had no connection to the Third Reich at all, indeed, the former republican colours were forbidden after 1933; the state’s flag did not become a popular symbol anymore after 1945. In the mid-1950s, many Germans certainly would have found it difficult to imagine that only 30 years earlier, democrats had decorated their apartments, backyards and even sandcastles with black-red-gold flags. In the Weimar years liberal newspapers had asked their readership to make sure that these colours were visible in every window to celebrate republican festivities. Only the dramatic events of November 1989, leading to Germany’s reunification, made black-red-gold flags visibly again on a large scale and with positive connotations. But it took until the 2006 football World Cup in Germany for German newspapers to rediscover the questions

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of how much representational form a state needs, and, indeed, how its population could express its support for the country. Triggered by the unexpectedly numerous display of the national colours during the football World Cup, journalists, historians and sociologists noted with surprise that especially young Germans dealt rather playfully with their state symbols.5 The summer of 2006 even saw German newspapers asking its readers to display flags at their houses and apartments when the German football team was playing. How different was the situation in the Weimar years. We have seen that discussions on the representation of democracy in Germany are older than their renaissances in 1945, 1989 or 2006 might suggest and that the German population participated more visibly in the political culture(s) of the country. Debates and discussions on how to integrate the population in matters of representation—accompanied by demands on how the population should show its political convictions— dominated the 1920s and 1930s. Also the Nazis counted the swastika flags displayed by the population in the Third Reich drawing conclusions on the popular support of the regime from it.6 Suggesting a stronger connection between the areas of political and cultural history, Thomas Mergel has written that ‘cultural history can be more than describing celebrations and flags’ when used to examine the field of politics.7 Indeed, state institutions as the Reichskunstwart in the Weimar years and the propaganda ministry in the Third Reich as well as political parties, war-veteran organisations and individuals considered festivities, mass spectacles, parades and political rallies as much more than ‘festive decoration’. Organisers, propagandists, participants and, possibly, spectators allocated numerous qualities to state representation. Some believed state representation could reconcile a divided society; others presented it as mirroring political ideologies reflecting either democratic principles or the Nazi people’s community. Similar aesthetic forms were incorporated into different political frameworks and interpreted accordingly.8 For the Reichskunstwart Edwin Redslob the festivities of the republican state presented the new spirit and sense of community he found characteristic of the Weimar years. Redslob combined traditional and modern concepts in the area of state representation with a focus on visualisation and performance. His suggestions, exemplified by the two mass spectacles staged on behalf of the republic in 1929 and 1930, were well-choreographed interplays of symbols aimed at connecting the population with the republic. Spectacles, parades, sports and a stress on popular involvement were the elements Redslob found essential for the

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representation of the Weimar state. However, he generally put modern representative means into an educative framework. For the Reichskunstwart, republican state representation was linked to civic education and should integrate and unite the German people. The Reichskunstwart believed that the emancipated and educated citizen reflected upon his role in the Weimar state when witnessing a spectacle. Convinced that Weimar Germany’s society needed reconciliation, Edwin Redslob refrained from staging republican community in contrast to other political ideologies. Redslob presented the Weimar Republic as inclusive. His spectacles, unlike the ones staged by Communists, Socialists or later National Socialists, did not present the revolutionary overthrow of former regimes or the defeat of enemies but the creation of unity with the help of the youth. Furthermore, Redslob and others believed, perhaps over-optimistically, that the political message of republican mass staging was clearly communicated to the audience. The Reichskunstwart’s search for middle ground was not shared by everyone. Not everyone wanted to be part of the new republic, no matter how inclusively and openly the young democratic state presented itself. Others felt that the republic needed to elaborate a more distinctive message to win the support of the German public. Of course, these contested and unresolved issues of republican representation reflected the pluralism of Weimar democracy. Even within the republican camp, no unified blueprint existed, but different, and sometimes contradictory, opinions on how republican democracy should be presented.9 As illustrated, the republican war-veteran organisation Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold was less interested in integrating but in displaying the strength of the republican movement and, if necessary, fighting anti-republican opponents. The mobilising strategies of political organisations, taking into account the expectations of its members and including a clear division into friends and enemies, became apparent for the Reichsbanner and other republican organisations and political parties. Occupying public space and, in so doing, offering a distinctive political interpretation for it was one important goal of political festivities and parades of the period. Political interpretations of public space did not remain uncontested. The most public route through Berlin, leading from the city palace along the main street Unter den Linden to the Brandenburg Gate, was reserved for monarchical festivities in Imperial Germany and used for republican Constitution Day celebrations in the Weimar years. In the Third Reich the National Socialists staged their parades there too. While it is not surprising that the most important route through a country’s capital is used by the main political force(s), we have seen different

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interpretations of urban space also for other cities. Koblenz witnessed political rallies by the nationalist war-veteran organisation Stahlhelm in 1930 and by the republican Reichsbanner a year later in 1931. Celebrating the withdrawal of foreign troops, both organisations offered a completely different message. The Stahlhelm reminded its members to defend the country; the Reichsbanner, on the other hand, spoke of peace and friendship with Germany’s neighbours in the West. To create a ‘map of the nation’, republican organisations embedded different cities where festivities had taken place into a republican narrative. This sometimes meant stressing the allegedly republican character of particular cities, for example Frankfurt am Main as the home of the 1848 revolution or Weimar as the birthplace of the democratic constitution of 1919, as well as the incorporation of ‘enemy’ ground—for example Nuremberg in anti-republican Bavaria—into festive activities. The Nazi state used similar techniques, allocating different roles to different cities linking all of them to the Nazi cause. According to National Socialist interpretation, Munich became ‘the city of the movement’ due to the legacy of the failed 1923 Hitler Putsch staged there, while Nuremberg turned into ‘the city of the Party Rallies’. Unlike the Weimar Republic, the Nazi dictatorship did not allow for alternative or opposing interpretations of urban space. Spatial elements were not just addressed in relation to public routes through cities or by including urban space in founding narratives but also linked to the issues of borders and territorial wholeness. We have seen the enormous importance of territorial themes in numerous festive events staged in the 1920s and 1930s. Sportsmen and sportswomen from ‘occupied’ territories were particularly welcomed at the 1925 Workers’ Olympics in Frankfurt am Main and at the nationalist Kampfspiele in Cologne in 1926. Descriptions of Reichsbanner parades, including the one to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Weimar Constitution in Berlin, stressed the participation of ‘our Austrian brothers’. The Rhineland spectacle in 1930, commissioned by the Weimar government, extended the focus on territorial wholeness. However, the republican state refrained from promoting an aggressive tone related to these events. In contrast, the Stahlhelm with the staging of its annual gatherings in Koblenz and in Breslau communicated an aggressive message centred on defending and safeguarding borders and territories. After 1933 the National Socialists continued this strategy of underlining foreign political claims with festive events; most obviously with the sporting festival in Breslau and the Nazi Party Rally ‘Großdeutschland’ both in 1938.

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Adding to the importance of space and its political interpretations, we have seen the emphasis on disciplined bodies to fill this space. Once again interpretations of what a disciplined mass stood for varied considerably. At the turn of the nineteenth century working-class organisations wanted to show that orderly and disciplined participants in peaceful street demonstrations could express their dislike regarding the unjust Prussian voting system without violently disrupting order. In so doing, the demonstrators presented themselves as well-behaved citizens who could be easily integrated into the state. For the 1920s and 1930s, there existed various interpretations of disciplined bodies. Liberal newspapers described Constitution Day parades as expression of the republican nation in which everyone was equal. The mass exercises at the left-wing 1925 Workers’ Olympics were interpreted as illustrating the strength of the working class while similar exercises performed at the sports festival in Breslau in 1938 stood for healthy and well-trained Aryan bodies. Indeed, the aesthetics of sporting activities, including the performance of mass exercises, remained largely unchanged for the interwar years. Despite the very different political connotations, the socialist Workers’ Olympics in 1925, the nationalist Kampfspiele in 1926 and the Nazi sporting events were similar in their appeal. Well-trained bodies— male and female ones—dressed in sporting clothes and moving in sync were not an invention of Leni Riefenstahl, even when her images might come to mind. Rather than representing fascist aesthetic, they expressed the Zeitgeist of the 1920s and 1930s. Similarly, mass spectacles were by no means limited to the Nazi period but possessed a left-wing tradition. In fact, the use of them was not even restricted to the festive style of the political extremes. The republic commissioned two mass plays and their organisers promoted the events as expressing republican spirit and community. Generally, discourses on spectacles addressed the issues of community and the masses, of rhythm, inclusiveness and participation. In the Weimar years, festivities moved from indoors to outdoors taking place in stadiums or on sports grounds. The Thingspiel movement in the Third Reich attempted to place the staging of mass spectacles within spectacular landscape. Thingspiel arena stages were constructed on the top of hills (as in Heidelberg) or with view on the Rhine (St. Goarshausen), to name only two prominent examples. In the 1920s, ideas to change and reform the spatial dimension of spectacles had largely come from theatre directors, dancers, artists and choreographers who felt that their productions did not fit anymore on the small stages of theatre houses or other indoor

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venues. Not surprisingly, organisers of Weimar state representation took up these widely discussed themes and tried to create inclusive, visually appealing and spectacular festive events. Discourses on the spatial aspect of performances were closely linked to demands that they should be inclusive and blur the static division between participants and spectators. Venues as sport stadiums were believed to help achieving this goal. So was the involvement of mass choirs, movement groups and amateurs. In particular, trends in modern dance, involving mass movement groups, which performed fluid and swinging movements, in contrast to static gymnastics, were interpreted as creating a sense of rhythm that could involve spectators more actively. These connotations and interpretations sound perhaps too theoretical leaving aside that individual experiences of mass staged events differ according to numerous personal factors. Ideas on community, inclusiveness, space, bodies and movements were essential for discussion on public performances and state representation for the 1920s and 1930s. Nevertheless, it should not come as a surprise that the organisers and planners of festive representation for the Weimar Republic applied means that were not only continued and expanded by the Nazis but had their roots in innovations, reforms and aesthetic considerations of Germany’s public performance culture. Being observed, either by political opponents or by the public, heavily influenced discussions on festivities. The SPD, the Reichsbanner and Nazi propagandists alike demanded disciplined behaviour from the participants of their respective festivities. They reminded participants that the public would draw conclusions about the political movement from the festivities staged in local communities. Consequently, efforts to improve the style, the programmes and the contents of local festivities were promoted throughout the interwar period by all political factions. But the aesthetic appeal of mass staged events did not necessarily transcend to festivities at local level. This was partly due to local habits that proved difficult to alter but also because official suggestions on better structured festive programmes did not solve financial or spatial limitations local organisers encountered. Interestingly, the demands to reduce Kitsch and clutter in relation to festive decorations and programmes held true for the entire period. Social Democrats, Reichsbanner members and National Socialists tried to reform local festivities on very similar lines and were equally unsuccessful. Of course, differences between the Weimar and the Nazi years have become obvious too. The financial and organisational scale the Nazi state made accessible for the staging of festivities was extraordinary

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and no match for what the republic had made available. Already the enormous, however short-lived, support for the Thingspiel movement exemplified this aspect. The creation of the Nazi propaganda ministry, despite its rivalry with other offices, meant the centralisation of cultural matters on ministerial level. Many cultural politicians in the 1920s had demanded this centralisation for the Weimar state.10 The republic never possessed a monopoly on representational matters. In fact in a liberal pluralistic society various ways of staging festivities, occupying public space and presenting political ideologies coexisted. When the Weimar Republic suggested celebrations, the Nazi state demanded them. This difference did not necessarily mean that National Socialist festivities were more effective but the framework in which they were staged was a different one. Aesthetic differences existed too. Although the Nazis did not invent the use of light for spectacles and rallies, they perfected it. The use of mass choirs and mass movement groups became more structured, ordered and divided among gender lines. In addition, the rhetoric on movement choirs changed from the stress on integration and active participation in the Weimar years to subordination and duty in the Third Reich.11 Mainly, however, the National Socialists shifted the focus from innovative representative efforts to traditional forms of political choreography. Impressively staged parades, characteristic of Nazi Party Rallies, continuously grew in size in the Third Reich but remained uncreative in the use of space, bodies and symbols. The search for new ways of representation, public participation, and daring reforms of space, movements and staging came to a halt with the abandonment of the Thingspiel in the mid-1930s. The innovative influences of a public performance culture inspiring discourses on matters of state representation from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s, including new ideas on expressing community, staging inclusiveness or incorporating the performance space and the landscape, were abandoned. While the Nazi Thingspiel took up earlier trends in relation to the staging of spectacles, its end meant traditional staging of mass events exemplified with picture-frame stages and the increased focus on popular entertainment. These trends within National Socialist representation and propaganda can be found well before the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939. The experimental, sometimes hectic, search for new forms of representation was over by the mid-1930s at a time when the Nazi state had consolidated itself. Festivities in the Third Reich increased in scale, as the sporting festival in Breslau or the Nazi Party Rally in 1938 have illustrated, but returned to traditional forms of political representation.

Notes Introduction 1. See Thomas W. Kniesche and Stephen Brockmann (eds), Dancing on the Volcano: Essays on the Culture of the Weimar Republic (Columbia, 1994) and Eric D. Weitz, Weimar Germany: Promise and Tragedy (Princeton, 2007). 2. See Paul Betts, ‘Die Bauhaus-Legende: Amerikanisch-Deutsches Joint venture des Kalten Krieges’, in Alf Lüdtke et al. (eds), Amerikanisierung: Traum und Alptraum im Deutschland des 20. Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart, 1996), pp. 270–290. 3. Adelheid von Saldern, ‘Volk and Heimat in Radio Broadcasting during the Period of Transit from Weimar to Nazi Germany’, The Journal of Modern History, 76, no. 2 (2004), pp. 312–346 (here p. 312). See also Karl Christian Führer, ‘High Brow and Low Brow Culture’, in Anthony McElligott (ed.), Weimar Germany (Oxford, 2009), pp. 260–281. 4. The phrase ‘Bonn is not Weimar’ has been formulated by the Swiss publicist Fritz Rene Allemann in 1956 and captured the sentiments of creating a different political and legal framework for the Federal Republic of Germany than the one provided by the Weimar Constitution. See also Heinrich A. Winkler (ed.), Weimar im Widerstreit. Deutungen der ersten deutschen Republik im geteilten Deutschland (München, 2002); Sebastian Ullrich, ‘Im Schatten einer gescheiterten Demokratie. Die Weimarer Republik und der demokratische Neubeginn in den Westzonen 1945–1949’, in Heinrich A. Winkler (ed.), Griff nach der Deutungsmacht. Zur Geschichte der Geschichtspolitik in Deutschland (Göttingen, 2004), pp. 185–208; and Sebastian Ullrich, Der Weimar-Komplex. Das Scheitern der ersten deutschen Demokratie und die politische Kultur der frühen Bundesrepublik (Göttingen, 2009). 5. For this focus on Weimar culture, presenting it as embodiment of modernity see, for example, Peter Gay, Weimar Culture: The Outsiders as Insiders (London, 1969); Walter Laqueur, Weimar: Die Kultur der Republik (Frankfurt a. M., 1976); Keith Bullivant (ed.), Culture and Society in the Weimar Republic (Manchester, 1977); Jost Hermand and Frank Trommler (eds), Die Kultur der Weimarer Republik (München, 1978); Janet Ward, Weimar Surfaces: Urban Visual Culture in 1920s Germany (Berkeley, 2001). 6. Hagen Schulze, Otto Braun oder Preußens demokratische Sendung. Eine Biographie (Frankfurt a. M., 1977), p. 754; Lothar Kettenacker, ‘Sozialpsychologische Aspekte der Führerherrschaft’, in Karl-Dietrich Bracher et al. (eds), Nationalsozialistische Diktatur 1933–1945 (Berlin, 1986), p. 114; Gerhard Paul, Aufstand der Bilder: Die NS-Propaganda vor 1933 (Bonn, 1992), p. 54; Hagen Schulze, Weimar 1917–1933 (Berlin, 1994), p. 123. Often the negative interpretations regarding Weimar’s state representation and republican political culture are based on post-1945 personal accounts and memoirs of leading politicians reflecting on the republic’s failure and on the coming to power of the Nazis. See Ferdinand Friedenbsburg, Die Weimarer Republik (Berlin, 1946), p. 220; Ernst Lemmer, Manches war doch anders: Erinnerungen 166

Notes

7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

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eines deutschen Demokraten (Frankfurt a. M., 1968), p. 151; Otto Braun, Von Weimar zu Hitler (Hamburg, 1949), p. 181; Gustav Radbruch, Der innere Weg: Aufriss meines Lebens (Göttingen, 1961), p. 130. Anthony McElligott, ‘Introduction’, in Anthony McElligott (ed.), Weimar Germany (Oxford, 2009), pp. 1–25 (here pp. 4–6). Harald Welzer, ‘Die Bilder der Macht und die Ohnmacht der Bilder’, in Harald Welzer (ed.), Das Gedächtnis der Bilder: Ästhetik und Nationalsozialismus (Berlin, 1995), pp. 165–193. David Welch, ‘Nazi Propaganda and the Volksgemeinschaft: Constructing a People’s Community’, Journal of Contemporary History 39 (2004), pp. 213–238 (here p. 216). Similar to Welch, Thymnian Bussemer stresses the importance of including the recipient of Nazi propaganda into the analysis; see Thymnian Bussemer, Propaganda und Populärkultur: Konstruierte Erlebniswelten im Nationalsozialismus (Wiesbaden, 2000); and Rainer Gries, ‘Zur Ästhetik und Architektur von Propagemen. Überlegungen zu einer Propagandageschichte als Kulturgeschichte’, in Rainer Gries and Wolfgang Schmale (eds), Kultur der Propaganda (Bochum, 2005), pp. 9–35. In fact, more than two decades ago Ian Kershaw has drawn attention to the issue of popular reactions to Nazi propaganda that were not always in line with the propagandists’ intentions. See Ian Kershaw, ‘How effective was Nazi Propaganda?’, in David Welch (ed.), Nazi Propaganda: The Power and the Limitations (Kent, 1983), pp. 180–205. Walter Benjamin, Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit (Frankfurt, 1936). For one of the first historical studies examining political aesthetics long before it was fashionable to work on cultural issues but with a greater focus on nationalism see George L. Mosse, The Nationalisation of the Masses: Political Symbolism and Mass Movement in Germany from the Napoleonic Wars to the Third Reich (New York, 1975). Hans Ulrich Thamer, ‘Faszination und Manipulation. Die Nürnberger Reichsparteitage der NSDAP’, in Uwe Schultz (ed.), Das Fest (München, 1988) p. 354; Ulrich Herrmann and Ulrich Nassen (eds), Formative Ästhetik im Nationalsozialismus (Weinheim, 1994). The best and most influential of these studies is Detlev J. K. Peukert’s Die Weimarer Republik: Krisenjahre der klassischen Moderne (Frankfurt a. M., 1987). More recently see, for example, Wolfgang Schievelbusch, Die Kultur der Niederlage (Berlin, 2001) and Ursula Büttner, Weimar: Die überforderte Republik 1918–33 (Stuttgart, 2008). See Moritz Föllmer, Rüdiger Graf and Per Leo, ‘Einleitung: Die Kultur der Krise in der Weimarer Republik’, in Moritz Föllmer and Rüdiger Graf (eds), Die ‘Krise’ der Weimarer Republik: Zur Kritik eines Deutungsmusters (Frankfurt a. M., 2005), pp. 9–41; Rüdiger Graf, Die Zukunft der Weimarer Republik: Krisen und Zukunftsaneignungen in Deutschland 1918–1933 (München, 2008). The German Studies Association conference in St. Paul (USA) in October 2008 offered sessions directly questioning the crisis paradigm of the Weimar Republic as for example session 31: ‘Beyond the Failure Paradigm: Democratic Political Culture in Weimar Germany’ and session 59: ‘Weimar and Crisis’. For a short overview on new research trends for Weimar Germany see Andreas Wirsching, Die Weimarer Republik: Politik und Gesellschaft (München, revised edition 2008), pp. 119–138.

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Notes

15. Thomas Mergel, Parlamentarische Kultur in der Weimarer Republik: Politische Kommunikation, symbolische Politik und Öffentlichkeit im Reichstag (Düsseldorf, 2002). 16. The classic study focusing on anti-democratic political thinking in the Weimar Republic is Kurt Sontheimer’s, Antidemokratisches Denken in der Weimarer Republik (München, 1962). For more recent works on the right and the left see Robert Gerwarth, The Bismarck Myth: Weimar Germany and the Legacy of the Iron Chancellor (Oxford, 2005); Anna Menge, ‘The Iron Hindenburg: A Popular Icon of Weimar Germany’, German History 26, no. 3 (2008), pp. 357–382; and Riccardo Bavaj, Von links gegen Weimar: Linkes antiparlamentarisches Denken in der Weimarer Republik (Bonn, 2005). 17. Detlef Lehnert and Klaus Megerle (eds), Politische Identität und nationale Gedenktage: Zur politischen Kultur in der Weimarer Republik (Opladen, 1989); Gerhard Paul, ‘Krieg der Symbole. Formen und Inhalte des symbolpublizistischen Bürgerkrieges 1932’, in Diethart Kerbs and Henrick Stahr (eds), Berlin 1932: Das letzte Jahr der Weimarer Republik (Berlin, 1992), pp. 27–55; Richard Albrecht, Symbolkrieg in Deutschland 1932: Eine Historisch-Biografische Skizze (Siegen, 1986). 18. Bernd Buchner, Um nationale und republikanische Identität: Die deutsche Sozialdemokratie und der Kampf um die politischen Symbole der Weimarer Republik (Bonn, 2001). See the essays on Weimar Germany in Heinrich A. Winkler (ed.), Griff nach der Deutungsmacht (Göttingen, 2004). 19. Nadine Rossol, Visualising the Republic-Unifying the Nation: The Reichskunstwart and the Creation of Republican Representation and Identity in Weimar Germany (PhD thesis, University of Limerick, 2006); Christian Welzbacher, Die Staatsarchitektur der Weimarer Republik (Berlin, 2006); Manuela Achilles, Re-Forming the Reich: Symbolics of the Republican Nation in Weimar Germany (PhD thesis, University of Michigan, 2005). 20. Rossol, Visualising the Republic-Unifying the Nation, pp. 78–87, 110–121. 21. See Isabel Hull, ‘Prussian Dynastic Ritual and the End of the Monarchy’, in C. Fink et al. (eds), German Nationalism and European Response 1890–1945 (London, 1985), pp. 13–41. See the edited volume by Manfred Hettling and Paul Nolte (eds), Bürgerliche Feste: Symbolische Formen des politischen Handelns im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 1993) and the excellent study by Jakob Vogel, Nationen im Gleichschritt: Der Kult der ‘Nation in Waffen’ in Deutschland und Frankreich 1871–1914 (Göttingen, 1997). 22. Bernd Weisbrod, ‘Die Politik der Repräsentation. Das Erbe des Ersten Weltkrieges und der Formwandel der Politik in Europa’, in Hans Mommsen (ed.), Der Erste Weltkrieg und die europäische Nachkriegsordnung (Köln, 2000), pp. 27–28. 23. Ibid., pp. 31–33. 24. Wolfgang Hardtwig, ‘Einleitung: Politische Kulturgeschichte der Zwischenkriegszeit’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Politische Kulturgeschichte der Zwischenkriegszeit 1918–1939 (Göttingen, 2005), pp. 20–21. 25. Eve Rosenhaft, ‘Lesewut, Kinosucht, Radiotismus: Zur geschlechterpolitischen Relevanz neuer Massenmedien in den 1920er Jahren’, in Alf Lüdtke et al. (eds), Amerikanisierung: Traum und Alptraum im Deutschland des 20. Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart, 1996), pp. 119–143. For an examination

Notes

26. 27. 28.

29.

30. 31.

32.

33. 34.

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on the lack of politicians in Weimar’s visual culture see Thomas Mergel, ‘Propaganda in der Kultur des Schauens: Visuelle Politik in der Weimarer Republik’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Ordnungen in der Krise: Zur politischen Kulturgeschichte Deutschlands 1900–1933 (München, 2007), pp. 531–559. Cited in Hardtwig (ed.), Politische Kulturgeschichte, p. 20. All translations from German into English are my own unless stated otherwise. Ibid. The eminent historian Hans Ulrich Wehler, among others, puts forward a classification like this one. Critically, see Jörg Echterkamp, ‘1914–1945: Ein zweiter Dreissigjähriger Krieg? Vom Nutzen und Nachteil einer Deutungskategorie der Zeitgeschichte’, in Sven Oliver Müller and Cornelius Torp (eds), Das deutsche Kaiserreich in der Kontroverse: Probleme und Perspektiven (Göttingen, 2008). See also Anthony McElligott, Rethinking the Weimar Republic: Authority and Authoritarianism 1916–1936 (forthcoming, 2010). For a few standard works on cultural history and the ‘cultural turn’ see in particular Ute Daniel, Kompendium Kulturgeschichte (Frankfurt a. M., 2001); Ute Daniel, ‘Geschichte schreiben nach der kulturalistischen Wende’, Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 43 (2003), pp. 576–580. See also Wolfgang Hardtwig and Hans Ulrich Wehler (eds), Kulturgeschichte heute (Göttingen, 1996); and Thomas Mergel and Thomas Welskopp (eds), Geschichte zwischen Kultur und Gesellschaft (München, 1997). For the usefulness of a cultural history approach to the study of politics see Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger (ed.), Was heisst Kulturgeschichte des Politischen? (Berlin, 2005); and Thomas Mergel, ‘Überlegungen zu einer Kulturgeschichte der Politik’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28 (2002), pp. 574–606. Peter Burke, ‘Performing History: The Importance of Occasions’, Rethinking History 9, no. 1, March (2005), pp. 35–53, in particular pp. 39–44. See Jürgen Martschukat and Steffen Patzold, ‘Geschichtswissenschaft und performative turn. Eine Einführung in Fragestellung, Konzepte und Literatur’, in Jürgen Martschukat and Steffen Patzold (eds), Geschichtswissenschaft und Performative Turn: Ritual, Inszenierung und Performanz vom Mittelalter bis zur Neuzeit (Köln, 2003), pp. 1–32. Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Performance, Inszenierung, Ritual: Zur Klärung kulturwisschenschaftlicher Schlüsselbegriff’, in Jürgen Martschukat and Steffen Patzold (eds), Geschichtswissenschaft und Performative Turn: Ritual, Inszenierung und Performanz vom Mittelalter bis zur Neuzeit (Köln, 2003), pp. 33–54 (here p. 54). See the important study of Matthias Warstat on working-class festivities in the 1920s illustrating how approaches from the field of theatre studies enhance our understanding of Weimar Germany: Matthias Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften: Zur Festkultur der Arbeiterbewegung 1918–33 (Tübingen, 2005). Erika Fischer-Lichte and Gertrud Lehnert, ‘Einleitung’, Paragrana 9, no. 2 (2000), pp. 9–20 (here p. 11). Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Einleitung: Die Entdeckung des Zuschauers. Paradigmenwechsel auf dem Theater des 20. Jahrhunderts’, in Erika Fischer-Lichte (ed.), Die Entdeckung des Zuschauers. Paradigmenwechsel auf dem Theater des 20.

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35. 36. 37.

38.

39.

40. 41.

42.

43.

44.

45. 46.

47.

Notes Jahrhundert (Tübingen, 1997), pp. 15–23; Erika Fischer-Lichte, Ästhetik des Performativen (Frankfurt a. M., 2004), pp. 189–191. Erika Fischer-Lichte (ed.), Theater Avantgarde (Tübingen, 1995), pp. 1–14. See Reinhard Klooss and Thomas Reuter, Körperbilder: Menschenornamente im Revuetheater und Revuefilm (Frankfurt a. M., 1980). See Christoph Kühberger, Metaphern der Macht: Ein kultureller Vergleich der politischen Feste im faschistischen Italien und im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland (Münster/Wien, 2006). See also Emilio Gentile, The Struggle for Modernity (Westport, 2003). Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi, Fascist Spectacle: The Aesthtics of Power in Mussolini’s Italy (Berkeley, 1997). See also Mabel Berenzin, ‘The Festival State: Celebration and commemoration in Fascist Italy’, Journal of Modern European History 3, no. 1 (2006), pp. 60–74. For an interpretation of the fascist regime and its uses of symbols as part of the sacralisation of politics see Emilio Gentile, ‘Fascism as Political Religion’, Journal of Contemporary History 25, no. 2/3 (1990), pp. 229–251. George Mosse suggests something similar for Nazi Germany. For some of the works of Malte Rolf see Malte Rolf, Das sowjetische Massenfest (Hamburg, 2006); Malte Rolf, ‘Die schönen Körper des Kommunismus. Sportparaden in der Sowjetunion der dreißiger Jahre’, in Arie Malz, Stefan Rohdewald and Stefan Wiederkehr (eds), Sport zwischen Ost und West: Beiträge zur Sportgeschichte Osteuropas im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Osnabrück, 2007), pp. 309–325. Journal of Modern European History, special issue: Festival and Dictatorship, 3, no. 1 (2006). See Natalia Stüdemann, ‘Roter Rausch? Isadora Duncan, Tanz und Rausch im ausgehenden Zarenreich und der frühen Sowjetunion’, in Arpad von Klimo and Malte Rolf (eds), Rausch und Diktatur: Inszenierung, Mobilisierung und Kontrolle in totalitären Systemen (Frankfurt a. M., 2006), pp. 95–117; Hedwig Müller and Patricia Stöckemann, Jeder Mensch ist ein Tänzer: Ausdruckstanz in Deutschland 1900–1945 (Giesen, 1993). Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Massenspektakel der Zwischenkriegszeit als Krisensymptome und Krisenbewältigung’, in Henning Grunwald and Manfred Pfister (eds), Krisis! Krisenszenarien, Diagnosen, Diskursstrategien (München, 2007), pp. 114–141, 119. I am grateful to Henning Grunwald for drawing my attention to this piece. Exemplary for these difficulties is Sabine Behrenbeck and Alexander Nützenadel’s edited collection Inszenierungen des Nationalstaates: Politische Feiern in Italien und Deutschland seit 1860/71 (Köln, 2000). See Werner J. Patzelt (ed.), Parlamente und ihre Symbolik (Wiesbaden, 2001) and in particular Hans Vorländer (ed.), Zur Ästhetik der Demokratie. Formen der politischen Selbstdarstellung (Stuttgart, 2003). Inge Baxmann, Mythos: Gemeinschaft. Körper- und Tanzkulturen in der Moderne (München, 2000), pp. 206–207. For the first comprehensive biography on Edwin Redslob see Christian Welzbacher, Edwin Redslob: Biographie eines unverbesserlichen Idealisten (Berlin, 2009). Redslob wrote his own memoirs published as Von Weimar nach Europa. Erlebtes und Durchdachtes (Berlin, 1972). For studies on Edwin Redslob and his office mainly outlining the organisation structure and the main tasks of the office see Annegret Heffen,

Notes

48.

49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

54. 55.

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Der Reichskunstwart: Kunstpolitik in den Jahren 1920–1933 (Essen, 1986); and Gisbert Laube, Der Reichskunstwart: Geschichte einer Kulturbehörde 1919–1933 (Frankfurt a. M., 1997). For works connecting the Reichskunstwart to the creation of republican identity see Winfried Speitkamp, ‘Erziehung zur Nation: Reichskunstwart, Kulturpolitik und Identitätsstiftung im Staat von Weimar’, in Helmut Berding (ed.), Nationales Bewusstsein und kollektive Identität, vol. 2 (Frankfurt a. M., 1994), pp. 541–580; and Rossol, Visualising the Republic. For studies on political symbols in the Weimar Republic, including the symbols and emblems of the Weimar state see Alois Friedel, Die politischen Symbole in der Weimarer Republik (Marburg, 1956) and Wolfgang Ribbe, ‘Flaggenstreit und Heiliger Hain. Bemerkungen zur nationalen Symbolik in der Weimarer Republik’, in D. Kurze (ed.), Aus Theorie und Praxis der Geschichtswissenschaft: Festschrift für Hans Herzfeld (Berlin, 1972), pp. 175–188. More recent and less arguing that the republic failed to put through its symbols is Buchner’s Um nationale und republikanische Identität. On Constitution Day, see Fritz Schellack, Nationalfeiertage in Deutschland 1871–1945 (Frankfurt a. M., 1990); Rossol, Visualising the Republic, pp. 131–161; Achilles, Re-forming the Reich, pp. 233–304. For two pieces focusing on specific celebrations see Pamela E. Swett, ‘Celebrating the Republic without Republicans. The Reichsverfassungsfeiern in Berlin 1929–32’, in Karin Friedrich (ed.), Festive Culture in Germany and Europe (Lewiston, 2000), pp. 281–302; and Friederike Schubart, ‘Zehn Jahre Weimar-Eine Republik blickt zurück’, in Heinrich A. Winkler (ed.), Griff nach der Deutungsmacht: Zur Geschichte der Geschichtspolitik in Deutschland (Göttingen, 2004), pp. 134–159. Lehnert and Megerle (eds), Politische Identität und nationale Gedenktage; Verhandlungen des Reichstags: Stenographischer Bericht, vol. 423 (June 13, 1928–February 4, 1929), pp. 124–145. Still the fundamental study on the Reichsbanner is Karl Rohe, Das Reichsbanner schwarz rot gold (Düsseldorf, 1966). For the character of the Reichsbanner as a republican war veteran organisation see Benjamin Ziemann, ‘Republikanische Kriegserinnerung in einer polarisierten Öffentlichkeit. Das Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold als Veteranenverband der sozialistischen Arbeiterschaft’, Historische Zeitschrift 267 (October 1998), pp. 357–398. Rohe, Das Reichsbanner, p. 298. Ibid., p. 73.

1 Bodies and Urban Space: Parades, Marches and Demonstrations 1890s–1920s 1. Hans Mommsen, ‘Militär und zivile Militarisierung in Deutschland’, in Ute Frevert (ed.), Militär und Gesellschaft im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart, 1997), p. 270. 2. See Eve Rosenhaft, Beating the Fascists? The German Communists and Political Violence 1929–1933 (Cambridge, 1983); Pamela E. Swett, Neighbors and Enemies. The Culture of Radicalism in Berlin 1919–1933 (Cambridge, 2004);

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3.

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

Notes Carsten Voigt, Kampfbünde der Arbeiterbewegung, pp. 413–556; Gerhard Paul, ‘Krieg der Symbole. Formen und Inhalte des symbolpublizistischen Bürgerkrieges 1932’, in Diethart Kerbs and Henrick Stahr (eds), Berlin 1932, pp. 27–55; Sherwin Simmons, ‘Hand to the Friend, Fist to the Foe. The Struggle of Signs in the Weimar Republic’, Journal of Design History, 13 (2000), pp. 319–339. Exceptions are Dirk Schumann, Politische Gewalt in der Weimarer Republik (Essen, 2001) and Sven Reichardt, ‘Totalitäre Gewaltpolitik? Überlegungen zum Verhältnis von nationalsozialistischer und kommunistischer Gewalt in der Weimarer Republik’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Ordnungen in der Krise. Zur politischen Kulturgeschichte Deutschlands 1900–1933 (München, 2007), pp. 377–402. Very interesting on reciprocal influences between National Socialists and Communists see Timothy S. Brown, Weimar Radicals (Oxford, New York, 2009). Bernd Jürgen Warneken, Als die Deutschen demonstrieren lernten. Das Kulturmuster friedliche Straßendemonstration im preußischen Wahlrechtskampf 1908– 1910 (Tübingen, 1986), pp. 86–88. Thomas Lindenberger, Straßenpolitik. Zur Sozialgeschichte der öffentlichen Ordnung in Berlin 1900–1914 (Bonn, 1995), p. 11. Ibid., p. 55. See for a short overview Elizabeth Harvey, ‘Raum und Partizipation. Zum Verhältnis von Frauen und Politik in Deutschland im 20. Jahrhundert’, in Christine Hikel et al. (eds), Lieschen Müller wird politisch. Geschlecht, Staat und Partizipation im 20. Jahrhundert (München, 2009), pp. 13–21. Also Shirley Arderner, Women and Space. Ground Rules and Social Maps (Oxford, 1993). Lindenberger, Straßenpolitik, pp. 60–66. Ibid., p. 65. For the popularity of military parades see Jakob Vogel, Nationen im Gleichschritt. Lindenberger, Straßenpolitik, p. 328. For works on social protests and the role of the police in these events see Manfred Gailus (ed.), Pöbelexesse und Volkstumulte in Berlin. Zur Sozialgeschichte der Straße 1830–1980 (Berlin, 1984); Manfred Gailus and Heinrich Volksmann (eds), Der Kampf um das tägliche Brot. Nahrungsmangel, Versorgungspolitik und Protest 1770–1990 (Opladen, 1994); Herbert Reinke, ‘Armed as if for a war. The State, the military and the professionalisation of the Prussian Police in Imperial Germany’, in Clive Emsley and Barbara Weinberger (eds), Policing Western Europe. Politics, Professionalism and Public Order 1850–1940 (New York, 1991), pp. 55–73; Alf Lüdtke, ‘Protest-oder: Die Faszination des Spektakulären. Zur Analyse alltäglicher Widersetzlichkeit’, in Heinrich Volksmann and Jürgen Bergmann (eds), Sozialer Protest. Studien zur traditionellen Resistenz und kollektiver Gewalt in Deutschland vom Vormärz bis zur Reichsgründung (Opladen, 1984), pp. 325–341. Bernd J. Warneken, ‘Die friedliche Gewalt des Volkswillens. Muster und Deutungsmuster von Demonstrationen im deutschen Kaiserreich’, in Bernd J. Warneken (ed.), Massenmedium Strasse (Frankfurt a. M., 1991), p. 97. Warneken, ‘Die friedliche Gewalt’, p. 99. Lindenberger, Straßenpolitik, p. 334. Ibid., p. 352. For a detailed analysis of the body language in working-class demonstrations see Bernd J. Warneken, ‘Massentritt. Zur Körpersprache von Demonstranten

Notes

16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35.

36. 37.

38.

173

im Kaiserreich’, in Peter Assion (ed.), Transformation der Arbeiterkultur (Marburg, 1986), pp. 64–79. Ibid., p. 66. See Wolfgang Kaschuba, ‘Von der “Rotte” zum “Block.” Muster und Deutungsmuster von Demonstrationen im deutschen Kaiserreich’, in Bernd J. Warneken (ed.), Massenmedium Strasse (Frankfurt a. M., 1991), pp. 89–90. Kaschuba points to the works of George L. Mosse and Peter Friedmann who argue in this vein. See Warneken, ‘Massentritt’; Kaschuba, ‘Von der Rotte zum Block’, pp. 90–91. Kaschuba, ‘Von der Rotte zum Block’, p. 92. Lindenberger, Straßenpolitik, pp. 382–384, (here p. 384). Ibid., p. 397, p. 402. Marie Luise Ehls, Protest und Propaganda: Demonstrationen in Berlin zur Zeit der Weimarer Republik (Berlin, 1997), pp. 27–40, p. 436. For a detailed examination of demonstrations of different political groups for every year of the Weimar Republic see Ehls, Protest und Propaganda. Yvonne Hardt, Politische Körper. Ausdruckstanz, Choreographien des Protests und die Arbeiterkulturbewegung in der Weimarer Republik (Münster, 2004), p. 52. See Baxmann, Mythos Gemeinschaft, p. 219. Sitzungsbericht des Preußischen Landtages, vol. 8, session 135, 27.2.1930 (Berlin, 1930), p. 1599. For locations of demonstrations in Berlin see Ehls, Protest und Propaganda, pp. 46–47. For the importance of the area around the city palace and the Brandenburg Gate as centre of monarchical power in Imperial Germany see Lindenberger, Straßenpolitik, p. 65. LAB (Landesarchiv Berlin), A Pr Rep. 030, C Tit.90, 7530, p. 317. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit.90, 7531, p. 34. See also Verhandlungen d. Reichstags, vol. 423, stenographische Berichte 13.6.1928–4.2.1929, 7. session 10.7.1928, p. 124, p. 128. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit. 90, 7531, 6–10, 23.4.28. Ibid., p. 13. Berliner Tageblatt 13.8.1928 cited in Schubert, ‘Zehn Jahre Weimar’, p. 134. Das Reichsbanner, 28, 26.8.1928, ‘Nachklänge zum Verfassungstag’. Verhandlungen d. Reichstags, vol. 423, stenographische Berichte 13.6.1928– 4.2.1929, 7, session, 10.7.1928, pp. 129–130. For the Constitution Day parade in August 1929 republican newspapers reported of 150,000 participants. Anti-republican newspapers wrote of only 34,000 participants. AdsD (Archiv der sozialen Demokratie), Bonn, Reichsbannerfilms no. 381 Der Reichsbanner Gautag zu Dortmund 1925; no.382 Reichsbanner Tag in Magdeburg Mai 1929; no. 15454 Die Zehnjahrfeier der Deutschen Reichsverfassung. See Fischer-Lichte (ed.), Die Entdeckung des Zuschauers, pp. 9–38. See Peter Friedmann, ‘ “Wie munter und wie ordentlich wir unsere Feste zu feiern zu verstehen.” Gewerkschaftsfeste vor 1914’, in Dieter Düding et al. (eds), Öffentliche Festkultur (Reinbeck, 1988), p. 384 and for a historical overview Kaschuba, ‘Von der Rotte zum Block’, pp. 68–96. Sächsisches Staatsarchiv, Staatsarchiv Leipzig, 20031, PP-St.30, p. 69f, Programmheft: Republikanischer Tag am 3-4. Juli 1926 in Leipzig. Allgemeine Richtlinien.

174

Notes

39. Carl v. Ossietzky, ‘Zum Geburtstag der Verfassung’, Die Weltbühne, 32, 6.8.1929, p. 189. See generally for the journalists of Die Weltbühne Istvan Deak, Weimar Germany’s Left-Wing Intellectuals. A Political History of the Weltbühne and Its Circle (Berkeley, 1968). 40. Ossietzky, ‘Zum Geburtstag der Verfassung’, p. 190. Indeed, a difference between republican and nationalist parades was often discussed in the newspapers of the republic. 41. Friedrich Everling, Die Flaggenfrage (Berlin, 1927), p. 44. 42. BArch (Bundesarchiv) Berlin, R1501/125976, pp. 229–231, Stahlhelm Pressedienst, 29.8.1932, ‘Der Sinn des Stahlhelmaufmarsches’. Similar complaints regarding the Reichsbanner and its appearance were already formulated in 1924 by the local Stahlhelm group in Leipzig; see Sächsisches Staatsarchiv, Staatsarchiv Leipzig, 20031, PP-St.30, pp. 24–26. See generally on the Stahlhelm Volker R. Berghahn, Der Stahlhelm. Bund der Frontsoldaten 1918–1935 (Düsseldorf, 1966). 43. Friedrich Stampfer, Die 14 Jahre der ersten deutschen Republik (Karlsbad, 1936), p. 365. 44. For a discussion on militaristic parades and its connection to popular folk culture before 1914 see Vogel, Nationen im Gleichschritt. 45. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit.90, 7533, pp. 19–21. For a photograph of the police’s parade at the Constitution Day celebration in Berlin in 1932 see the title page of the journal Deutsches Polizei-Archiv, 17, 10.9.1932. 46. BArch Berlin, R1501/116872, p. 134, Telegramm 8.8.1924. 47. See pictures and photographs in Grzesinski’s private papers. LAB, Nachlass, A. Grzesinski, E-200-60, 3983, 12. 48. BArch Berlin, R1501/116872, p. 138, Notiz in den Akten RMdI 9.8.1924. 49. BArch Berlin, R601/633, pp. 36–37 (Braun’s speech); R601/203 (no page numbers, Ebert’s speech). 50. BArch Berlin, R601/633, p. 39, Programme of the celebration in 1924. 51. Cited in Hsi-Huey Liang, Die Berliner Polizei in der Weimarer Republik (Berlin, 1977), p. 95. 52. BArch Berlin, R43I/570, p. 240, Times 12.8.1924 ‘Verfassungstag in Berlin’. 53. Ibid., p. 241, Le Temps 13.8.1924. 54. Das Reichsbanner, 16, 15.8.1925, ‘Die Verfassungsfeiern im Reich’. For reports from other areas and cities but Berlin see the articles in Das Reichsbanner in August 1929. 55. 75 Jahre Reichsbanner Schwarz rot gold (Magdeburg, 1999), p. 50. 56. Das Reichsbanner, 27, 19.8.1928, ‘Und nun nach Berlin’. 57. Günter Bers (ed.), Rote Tage im Rheinland. Demonstrationen des Roten Frontkämpferbundes im Gau Mittelrhein 1925–1928 (Hamburg, 1980), pp. 29–33. 58. Der Stahlhelm, 5.10.1930, ‘Deutschland, wir wachen’. 59. Werner Bramke, ‘Der erste Reichskriegertag in Leipzig 1925’, in Katrin Keller (ed.), Feste und Feiern. Zum Wandel der städtischen Festkultur in Leipzig (Leipzig, 1994), pp. 220–222. 60. Achilles, Re-forming the Reich, chapter 2, pp. 69–88; Ludwig Richter, ‘Verfassungsgebung im Theatersaal. Weimar und die Nationalversammlung 1919’, Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, 45 (1994), pp. 626–637. 61. For the programme see Das Reichsbanner, 20, 1.7.1928, ‘Bundesverfassungsfeier 1928 in Frankfurt’.

Notes

175

62. IRZ, 33, 18.8.1928, ‘Verfassungstag-Volkstag’. 63. For the celebration in Frankfurt in 1923 see Dieter Rebentisch, Friedrich Ebert und die Paulskirche. Die Weimarer Demokratie und die 75 Jahresfeier der 1848er Revolution (Heidelberg, 1998). For the difficulties in commemorating 1848 see Daniel Bussenius, ‘Eine ungeliebte Tradition. Die Weimarer Linke und die 48er Revolution 1918–1925’, in Heinrich August Winkler (ed.), Griff nach der Deutungsmacht (Göttingen, 2004), pp. 90–114. 64. See a photograph of the national theatre in Weimar decorated with republican flags for the Constitution Day celebration in 1924, in Deutsche Einheit-Deutsche Freiheit. Gedenkbuch der Reichsregierung zum 10. Verfassungstag 11.8.1929 (Berlin, 1929), p. 137 and a painting of Friedrich Ebert by Emil Orlik (1922) showing Ebert standing in front of a republican flag and the national theatre with the Goethe and Schiller statue in the background in Kuhn, Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit, p. 76. 65. Georg Bollenbeck, ‘Weimar’, in E. Francois and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, vol.1 (München, 2001), pp. 207–224. See also Jürgen John, ‘Weimar als regionales, intellektuelles Reform- und Experimentierfeld’, in W. Bialas and B. Stenzel (eds), Die Weimarer Republik zwischen Metropole und Provinz (Köln, 1996), pp. 11–23. 66. Das Reichsbanner, 17, 1.9.1926, ‘Die Gewalt der Idee: Nürnberg’. 67. For Constitution Day celebrations in Nuremberg see Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, C7 I, 104. 68. See Achim Bonte, Werbung für Weimar? Öffentlichkeitsarbeit von Großstadtverwaltungen in der Weimarer Republik (Mannheim, 1997). 69. On conflicts with Bavaria see BArch Berlin, R1501/116873, 116864; R707/90, 101, 102. 70. Jean-Christoph Caron, ‘Stolze Erinnerungen an das Dritte Reich. Ein theatrales NS Gedenkfest im Gau Westfalen-Nord und seine Wirkungsgeschichte bis in die 1990er Jahre’, Westfälische Forschungen, 51 (2001), pp. 283–308. 71. See Horst Matzerath, ‘Versteckte Vergangenheit-Konzept einer Ausstellung und einer Publikation’, in Horst Matzerath et al. (eds), Versteckte Vergangenheit. Über den Umgang mit der NS Zeit in Köln (Köln, 1994), pp. 12–13. 72. See Ehls, Protest und Propaganda, p. 24. 73. See, for example, IRZ, 27, 7.7.1928, ‘Bundesverfassungsfeier in Frankfurt’; Sächsisches Staatsarchiv, Staatsarchiv Leipzig, 20031, PP-St, no. 30, p. 119. 74. Festschrift zur Bundesverfassungsfeier Reichsbanner schwarz rot gold 1929 (Berlin, 1929), p. 17, Ausflüge am 12. und 13.8.1929. LAB, A Pr Br Rep.030 C Tit. 90, 7531, p. 212, Orientierungsplan für die Reichsbannerkameraden zur Bundesverfassungsfeier Berlin 1929. Also the journal Deutsche Republik listed pubs and taverns for republicans to go to. 75. Vorwärts, 377, 11.8.1927, ‘Berlin unter schwarz-rot-gold’; Berliner Morgenpost, 296, 12.12.1928, ‘Die Reichsfarben am Verfassungstag’. Doubting the descriptions of republican newspapers Der Tag, 11.8.1927, ‘Flaggen-Aufruf ohne Echo; Der Tag, 231, 3.9.1927, Zahlen beweisen’; Berliner Börsen Zeitung, 429, 7.9.1928, ‘Erfreuliche Massnahme’. 76. Sächsisches Staatsarchiv, Staatsarchiv Leipzig, 20031, PP-St, no. 30, pp. 131–132; Vorwärts, 377, 11.8.1927, ‘Berlin unter schwarz-rot-gold’. 77. Kreuz Zeitung, 206, 05.05.1926, ‘Das Parteisymbol in Gefahr’; Berliner Börsen Zeitung, 4.6.1929, ‘Beflaggung zu Ehren des Reichsbanners’; Berliner Börsen

176

78. 79. 80.

81. 82.

83. 84.

85.

86.

87.

88.

89.

Notes Zeitung, 4.6.1930, ‘Staatliche Flaggengala zu Ehren des Reichsbanners’. See also Sitzungsberichte des Preußischen Landtages, vol. 1 (Berlin, 1929) session 21, 11.12.1928, p. 1352. Sächsisches Staatsarchiv, Staatsarchiv Leipzig, 20031,PP-St, no. 30, pp. 131– 132; also p. 119. Ibid., p. 105, Leipziger Volkszeitung, 10.6.1927, ‘Aufruf zur Verfassungsfeier des Reichsbanner. Stellt Freiquartiere bereit!’ LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030, C Tit. 90, 7531, p. 217. See also Nadine Rossol, ‘Flaggenkrieg am Badestrand. Lokale Möglichkeiten repräsentativer Mitgestaltung in der Weimarer Republik’, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft, 7/8 (2008), pp. 617–637. Das Reichsbanner, 27, 19.8.1928, ‘Aus den Bezirken Berlins’; Das Reichsbanner, 31, 3.8.1929, ‘Verfassungsfeiern in den Ortsvereinen’. Das Reichsbanner, 16, 15.8.1926, ‘Verfassungstag (Karl Bröger)’. Karl Bröger became famous for his First World War poetry. In the Weimar years he wrote several pieces for the republic and in particular for the Reichsbanner. For a biographical account see Gerhard Müller, Für Vaterland und Republik! Monographie des Nürnberger Schriftsteller Karl Bröger (Pfaffenweiler, 1986). See Wegweiser für Funktionäre und alle Bundeskameraden. Das Reichsbanner (Magdeburg, 1926), p. 29. C. Schwarte, ‘Die Mitwirkung des Elternhaus bei der Erziehung von republikanischen Menschen’, in Friedrich Dessauer et al. (eds), Wie erziehen wir republikanische Menschen? (Langensalza, 1929), pp. 24–25; Das Reichsbanner, 16, 15.8.1926, ‘Verfassungstag-Volkstag’. Not only in representative matters but also for the work of the Reichsbanner in general the organisation realised that it had neglected women for the republican cause. It targeted wives and families of Reichsbanner members with its journal Illustrierte Republikanische Zeitung. See also the particular attention to women in the following articles: Das Reichsbanner, 19, 7.5.1932, ‘Ein Dankeswort an unsere Frauen’, IRZ, 3, 6.12.1924, ‘Mitteilungen des Bundesvorstand’; IRZ, 35, 28.8.1926, ‘Die Frauen und die Flaggenfrage’. See Karen Hagemann, ‘Frauenprotest und Männerdemonstrationen. Zum geschlechtsspezifischen Aktionsverhalten im großstädtischen Arbeitermilieu der Weimarer Republik’, in Bernd J. Warneken (ed.), Massenmedium Straße. Zur Kulturgeschichte der Demonstration (Frankfurt a. M., 1991), pp. 204–208. For this hint to different gendered spaces in urban Weimar Germany in which women were more present in the local urban community see again Hagemann, ‘Frauenprotest und Männerdemonstrationen’. See, for example, the title pages IRZ, 33, 13.8.1927; IRZ, 53, 31.12.1927; IRZ, 7, 18.2.1928; IRZ, 19, 12.5.1928; IRZ, 2.7.1932; IRZ, 33, 13.8.1932. For the construction of masculinity in the Communist movement linked to fights and battles see Eric Weitz, Creating German Communism 1890–1990 (Princeton, 1997), chapter six. For examples, see the title pages IRZ, 31, 11.8.1928; IRZ, 32, 9.8.1930, IRZ, 6, 27.12.1924; IRZ, 45, 6.11.1926. See also Inge Marßolek, ‘Von Freiheitsgöttinnen, dem Riesen Proletariat und dem Aufzug der Massen’, in Inge Marßolek (ed.), 100 Jahre Zukunft. Zur Geschichte des 1.Mai (Frankfurt a. M., 1990) pp. 147–149. For the tradition of this representation see Eric Hobsbawm,

Notes

177

93.

‘Man and Woman in Socialist Iconography’, History Workshop Journal, 6 (1978), pp. 121–138. Das Reichsbanner, 19, 7.5.1932, ‘Ein Dankeswort an unsere Frauen’. Christoph Kühberger, ‘Von Frauen und Feiern. Die inszenierte Integration von Frauen in den NS Staat’, in Christine Hikel et al. (eds), Lieschen Müller wird politisch. Geschlecht, Staat und Partizipation im 20. Jahrhundert (München, 2009), pp. 63–72. Kaschuba, ‘Die Nation als Körper’, p. 297. More generally, see Adelheid von Saldern (ed.), Stadtraum und Geschlechterperspektiven, IMS (2004), no. 1, pp. 4–81. Carl Misch, ‘Mit der Windjacke’, Die Weltbühne, 39, 25.9.1928, pp. 477–479.

2


90. 91.

92.

1. See Adelheid von Saldern, ‘Cultural Conflict, Popular Mass Culture and the Question of Nazi Success: The Eilenreide Motorcycle Races 1924–1939’, German Studies Review, 15 (1992), pp. 317–338; see also Erik Jensen, ‘Crowd Control. Boxing Spectatorship and Social Order in Weimar Germany’, in Rudy Koshar (ed.), Histories of Leisure (Oxford, 2002), pp. 79–101. 2. Peter Gay, ‘Hunger nach Ganzheit’, in Michael Stürmer (ed.), Die Weimarer Republik. Belagerte Civitas (Königstein, 1980), pp. 224–236. 3. Also Bernd A. Rusinek interprets sports and parades with a particular stress on their militaristic style as especially appealing for the youth and links it with anti-republican ideas. Bernd A. Rusinek, ‘Der Kult der Jugend und des Krieges. Militärischer Stil als Phänomen der Jugendkultur in der Weimarer Republik’, in Jost Dülffer and Gerd Krumeich (eds), Der verlorene Frieden. Politik und Kriegskultur nach 1918 (Essen, 2002), pp. 171–197. 4. Anthony McElligott, The German Urban Experience 1900–1945 (London, 2001), pp. 123–124. See also Frank Becker, Amerikanismus und Weimar. Sportsymbole und politische Kultur 1918–33 (Wiesbaden, 1993). 5. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, p. 166. Also August Nitschke, ‘Der Kult der Bewegung. Turnen, Rhythmik und neue Tänze’, in August Nitschke et al. (eds), Jahrhundertwende. Der Aufbruch in die Moderne 1880–1930, vol. 1 (Reinbeck, 1990), pp. 259–260. 6. See, for example, Svenja Goltermann, Körper der Nation. Habitusformierung und die Politik des Turnens 1860–1890 (Göttingen, 1998). See also Kaschuba, ‘Die Nation als Körper’, p. 299. 7. As part of the concentration on working-class culture, numerous studies have dealt with working-class sports; see for example Horst Ueberhorst, ‘Die Arbeitersportbewegung in Deutschland 1839–1933’, in Dietmar Petzina (ed.), Fahnen, Fäuste, Körper. Symbolik und Kultur der Arbeiterbewegung (Essen, 1986), pp. 69–89. In more detail Horst Ueberhorst, Frisch, frei, stark und treu. Die Arbeitersportbewegung in Deutschland 1893–1933 (Düsseldorf, 1973); H.J. Teichler and G. Hauk (eds), Illustrierte Geschichte des Arbeitersports (Bonn, 1987); Horst Uerberhorst (ed.), Geschichte der Leibesübungen, vols. 3.1–3.2. (Berlin, 1980–82); W. van der Will and R. Burns (eds), Arbeiterkulturbewegung in der Weimarer Republik, vol. 1 (Berlin, 1982). For the involvement and the importance of the youth see Jörg Wetterich, Bewegungskultur

178

8.

9.

10. 11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

Notes und Körpererziehung in der sozialistischen Jugendarbeit 1893–1933 (Münster, 1993). For an excellent literature overview on German working-class sports, including collections of primary material, see Eike Stiller (ed.), Literatur zur Geschichte des Arbeitersports in Deutschland 1892–2005. Eine Bibliographie (Berlin, 2006). ‘Der Gedanke unseres Olympia’, Olympiade, 3, September 1924. See also Bürgerlicher Sport und Arbeitersport. Aufgaben der Arbeiter-Sportbewegung. 3 Vorträge (Berlin, 1924). Bernd Ph. Schröder, ‘Arbeitersport, Waldstadion und Arbeiter-Olympiade’, Archiv für Frankfurts Geschichte und Kunst, no. 57 (1980), p. 215; Fritz Josef Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925. Ein Kapitel aus der Geschichte der Arbeitersportbewegung (Examensarbeit PH Rheinland), Köln, 1978, pp. 43–45. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, p. 47. On Ludwig Landmann see Dieter Rebentisch, Ludwig Landmann. Frankfurter Oberbürgermeister der Weimarer Republik (Wiesbaden, 1975). See Schröder, ‘Arbeitersport, Waldstadion und Arbeiter-Olympiade’. See also ‘Das Olympia der Masse’, Olympiade, 3, September 1924. For the Nazi period see T. Bauer, ‘Sportfeld Frankfurt am Main 1933–45’, in T. Bauer (ed.), Frankfurter Waldstadion. 75 Jahre Sportgeschichte 1925–2000 (Frankfurt a. M., 2000), pp. 69–89. For a good overview on research and literature on municipal representation through festivities, although not covering the Weimar years, see Adelheid von Saldern (ed.), Inszenierter Stolz. Stadtrepräsentation in drei deutschen Gesellschaften 1935–1975 (Stuttgart, 2005). Hans Fenz, Das erste Arbeiter Olympia in Frankfurt a. M. 1925 (Graz, 1926), p. 20. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, p. 64. Ibid., p. 67. Fenz, Das erste Arbeiter Olympia, p. 23. For the text of some of the speeches see Fenz, Das erste Arbeiter Olympia, pp. 24–25. Festbuch. Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925 (Frankfurt a. M., 1925), p. 98. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, p. 108. Ibid., p. 107. Fenz, Das erste Arbeiter Olympia, p. 78. Erinnerungsschrift. Erste Internationale Arbeiter Olympiade 24–26. Juli 1925 (Frankfurt, 1925), pp. 98–103. See generally on the different notions connected to dirt and disorder versus order and cleanliness Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger. An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London, 1966). See Gerhard Hauk, ‘Kollektive Symbole, Mythen und Körperbilder in Filmen und Feste der Arbeiterkultur–und Sportbewegung’, in Hans Joachim Teichler (ed.), Arbeiterkultur und Arbeitersport (Clausthal-Zellerfeld, 1985), pp. 35–49 (p. 42) and Gerhard Hauk, ‘Rührt Euch, Links um, Stillgestanden. Die Freiund Ordnungsübungen der Arbeiterturner’, in Hans Joachim Teichler and Gerhard Hauk (eds), Illustrierte Geschichte des Arbeitersports (Bonn, 1987), pp. 131–139. For the international dimension of these concepts of disciplined workers’ bodies that in parades and festivities represented order and

Notes

26.

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

33. 34. 35.

36.

37. 38. 39.

40. 41.

42.

43. 44. 45. 46.

179

the image of ’the new man’ see Rolf, ‘Die schönen Körper des Kommunismus’, pp. 322–323. See the photograph in Franz Nitsch, ‘ “Wir erlebten, wie Frieden sein kann.” Die 1. Internationale Arbeiterolympiade 1925’, in Teichler and Hauk (eds), Illustrierte Geschichte des Arbeitersports (Bonn, 1987), pp. 203–205. For the sporting event, the article offers limited insight because it remains very descriptive. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, pp. 110–111. Wetterich, Bewegungskultur und Körpererziehung, pp. 295–296. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, p. 117; Fenz, Das erste Arbeiter Olympia, p. 80. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, pp. 119–122. Carl und Liselott Diem-Archiv, Mappe 539,b (Historisches Archiv der Stadt Köln) (VI 6.1.2) Festbuch. Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925 (Frankfurt, 1925), p. 58. For useful essays on the film see Michael Minden and Holger Bachmann (eds), Fritz Lang’s Metropolis: Cinematic Visions of Technology and Fear (Rochester, 2000). Festbuch Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925, pp. 74–76. See also for a copy of the lyrics of the play AdsD, Bonn, A. Auerbach, Kampf um die Erde (Frankfurt, 1925). Henning Eichberg et al. (eds), Massenspiele: NS Thingspiele, Arbeiterweihe und olympisches Zeremoniell (Stuttgart, 1977), p. 146, 150. Carl und Liselott Diem-Archiv, Mappe 539a, Olympiade, no. 2, August, 1924, ‘Die Olympiade als Zentrum einer internationale Kulturtagung’ and ‘Vom Wesen der körperlichen Erziehung’. Frankfurter Zeitung cited in Fenz, Das erste Arbeiter Olympia, p. 84. A similar description in Erinnerungsschrift. Erste Internationale Arbeiter Olympiade 24–26. Juli 1925. Ibid. Geisthövel, Die Arbeiter-Olympiade 1925 (here p. 132). For coverage of the newspaper reactions, see pp. 128–136. Carl Diem and Gerhard Krause, Deutsche Kampfspiele 1926 zu Köln am Rhein (Berlin, 1926), p. 1. Similar also Deutsche Kampfspiel-Nachrichten, 2, 15.12.1925, ‘Die deutschen Kampfspiele 1926’. Kampfspiel-Nachrichten, 9, 6.5.1926, ‘Was wollen die deutschen Kampfspiele?’. See, for example, Alfred Wilkens, ‘Das Kölner Stadion’, in Fritz Frommel (ed.), II. Deutsche Kampfspiele Köln am Rhein 4–11. Juli 1926 (Stuttgart, 1926), pp. 87–91. See in general for the Kampfspiele in Cologne Günter Schuldt, Die II Deutschen Kampfspiele 1926 in Köln. Ein nationales Fest und seine geschichtliche Entwicklung, Diplomarbeit, Sporthochschule Köln, 1986. Here Schuldt, Die II Deutschen Kampfspiele 1926 in Köln (Diplomarbeit), pp. 78–80. II deutsche Kampfspiele Köln am Rhein 4–11. Juli 1926. Festbuch (Köln, 1926), p. 6. Valmar Cramer, ‘Rheinzauber’, in Fritz Frommel (ed.), II. Deutsche Kampfspiele Köln am Rhein 4–11. Juli 1926 (Stuttgart, 1926), pp. 120–123. BArch Berlin, R1501/116877. See also BArch Berlin, R43II/1793, 1794. See for general works Peter Hüttenberger and Harald Molitor (eds), Franzosen und Deutsche am Rhein 1789–1918–1945 (Essen, 1989); Franziska Wein,

180

47.

48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61.

62. 63. 64.

65.

66. 67. 68.

Notes Deutschlands Strom-Frankreichs Grenze. Geschichte und Propaganda am Rhein 1919–1930 (Essen, 1992); Tilmann Koops and Martin Voigt (eds), Das Rheinland in zwei Nachkriegszeiten 1919–1930 und 1945–1949 (Koblenz, 1995). On Cologne see Matthias Herbers, ‘Die inszenierte Befreiung. Die Kölner Befreiungsfeiern von 1926’, Geschichte in Köln, 54, December (2007), pp. 167–195. Hartmut E. Lissinna, Nationale Sportfeste im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland (Mannheim, 1997), pp. 436–437. For a detailed description of the sporting event in Breslau in 1938 see Lissinna, Nationale Sportfeste, pp. 251–425. Deutsche Kampfspiele vom 4–11. Juli 1926 in Köln. Merkblatt für Teilnehmer und Besucher (Köln, 1926). Diem and Krause, Deutsche Kampfspiele 1926, pp. 30–36. Friedrich Körner, Die II deutschen Kampfspiele Köln 1926 (Stuttgart, 1926), p. 21. Ibid., p. 26. Ibid., p. 28. Ibid., pp. 31–32. Diem and Krause, Deutsche Kampfspiele 1926, pp. 41, 78–80. Joseft Schmitz, ‘Die deutsche Turnerschaft bei den deutschen Kampfspielen’, in Fritz Frommel (ed.), II deutsche Kampfspiele Köln am Rhein (Stuttgart, 1926), p. 35. Diem and Krause, Deutsche Kampfspiele 1926, pp. 2–3. Körner, Die II deutschen Kampfspiele Köln 1926, p. 12. Diem and Krause, Deutsche Kampfspiele 1926, p. 24. For photographs see the Carl u. Liselott Diem Archiv Cologne. See Kampfspiel-Nachrichten, 19, 23.6.1926, ‘Festspiel gelegentlich der deutschen Kampfspiele’; Ina Breuer, ‘Wilhelm Tell bei den deutschen Kampfspielen’, II Deutsche Kampfspiele in Köln am Rhein 4-11. Juli 1926. Festbuch (Köln, 1926), pp. 74–75. Ludwig Linsmayer (ed.), Der 13. Januar. Die Saar im Brennpunkt der Geschichte (Saarbrücken, 2006), pp. 35–36. See II Deutsche Kampfspiele Köln am Rhein (Köln, 1926) with advertising of sights and Deutsche Kampfspiele vom 4–11. Juli 1926 in Köln. Merkblatt für Teilnehmer und Besucher (Köln, 1926). Schuldt, Die II Deutschen Kampfspiele 1926 in Köln, pp. 115–117. Kampfspiel-Nachrichten, 25, 28.7.1926, ‘Der Gedanke muss bleiben!’. Deutsche Tages Zeitung, 366, 5.8.1928, ‘Ein Mädchen und ein Fähnchen’; Berliner Börsen Zeitung, 369, 13.6.1929, ‘Wann wird Dr. Böss pensioniert?’; Berliner Volkszeitung, 275, 13.6.1929, ‘Kleiner Konflikt um Helene’. Helene Mayer was classified as half-Jewish by the Nazis. She participated very successfully in the Olympic Games in Berlin in 1936. For a popular account of her life see Milly Mogulof, Foiled: Hitler’s Jewish Olympian. The Helene Mayer Story (Oakland, 2002). Sport und Leibesübungen im Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold (Magdeburg, 1932), pp. 10–11. BArch Berlin, R1501/116871, pp. 9–12. See AdsD, Bonn, film no.15454 Die Zehnjahrfeier der Deutschen Reichsverfassung. The film shows that gymnastic performances and sports were essential for the festive programme at Constitution Day celebrations.

Notes 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82. 83.

84.

85.

86.

87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93.

94.

181

BArch Berlin, R32/418, p. 62. BArch Berlin, R32/170, p. 107, February 1929. BArch Berlin, R32/418, p. 61. Ibid., p. 52. BArch Berlin, R32/427, p. 18. Das Reichsbanner, 17, 1.9.1926, ‘Verfassungsfeiern im Gau’. BLHA (Brandenburgisches Landeshauptarchiv Potsdam), Rep.34/994, p. 254, report from 3.9.1928. See Das Reichsbanner, 26, 12.8.1928, ‘Verfassungsfeiern in Gleiwitz’. LAB, A Rep.040-08, 572, p. 445, city council Berlin to districts 10.5.1930. See LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit. 90, 7531. Wessig, Polizei, Körperschule und Sport (Berlin, 1928), p. 23. See also Grosse Polizei Ausstellung in Wort und Bild (Wien, 1926), ‘Polizei und Sport’ (Dr. F. Friedensburg), pp. 239–240. GStAPK, Rep.77, Tit.4003, IIA 63; GStAPK, Rep. 77, Tit.4003, IIA, 66-68. GStAPK, Rep.77, Tit.4003 IIA, 67. Die Polizei, no.14, 20.6.1931, ‘Winke für Verfassungsfeiern’, p. 321. BLHA, Rep. 34/994, p. 287; Schubart, ‘Zehn Jahre Weimar’, p. 142. She wrongly states that the Jahn celebrations were an idea from the nationalist right. On the complaints from republican parents see the files of the school authorities Berlin-Brandenburg, BLHA, PSK, Rep. 34; 994, 61. See A. Rolf, Turnvater Jahns Ehrentag. Gedenkfeier für den 150. Geburtstag 11.8.1928 (Berlin, 1928). The publication suggested programmes for school celebrations without any efforts to connect Jahn to the Constitution Day celebrations. Berliner Tageblatt, 381, 14.8.1928, ‘ Immer wieder Jahn . . . die Verfassungsfeiern der Schulen’; Berliner Tageblatt, 380, 13.8.1928, ‘Turnvater Jahn als Kulisse’. For more details on this incident see Thomas Koinzer, ‘Die Republikfeiern. Weimarer Republik, Verfassungstag und staatsbürgerliche Erziehung an den höheren Schulen Preußens in der zweiten Hälfte der 1920er Jahre’, Bildung und Erziehung, 58 (2005), pp. 89–93. Sitzungsberichte des Preußischen Landtags, 3. Wahlperiode, 1. vol., 18. session, 7.11.1928, p. 1070. Ibid., p. 1074. BLHA, Rep. 34, 994, p. 169, PSK to schools 22.8.1928. Ibid., pp. 174–180. Reports from several schools on their celebrations. Ibid., p. 294, PSK to Hohenzollern school, 12.1.1929. Ibid., p. 180. Frankfurter Zeitung, 15.10.1927, ‘Der Vater von schwarz rot gold’; Der Heimatdienst, 1.8.1928, ‘Zum Geburtstag des Turnvater Friedrich Ludwig Jahns am 11.8.1928’, pp. 258–259, Das Reichsbanner, 17, 1.9.1926, ‘Bernau: Verfassungsfeier des Reichsbanners’; Deutsche Republik, 45, 10.8.1928, H. Scharp, ‘Turnvater Jahn’, p. 1457. See also the Constitution Day speech by Arnold Brecht in Lübeck in 1928 in which he commemorated Jahn’s commitment to the republican colours in BArch Koblenz, NL A. Brecht, N 1089/107, p. 7. Winfried Speitkamp, ‘Friedrich Ludwig Jahn. Zur Rezeption und Verständnis der nationalen Symbolik in der Erinnerungskultur’, Beiträge zur Regional und Landeskultur Sachsen Anhalts, issue 34: Friedrich Ludwig Jahn und die

182

Notes

Gesellschaft der Turner. Wirkungsfelder, Verflechtung, Gruppenpolitik (Halle, 2004), pp. 130–131. 95. BLHA, Rep. 34, 994, p. 287. 96. See GStAPK, NL Becker. 97. See also Adelheid von Saldern, ‘Sport und Öffentlichkeitskultur. Die Einweihungsfeier des hannoverschen Stadions im Jahre 1922’, in Helmut D. Schmid (ed.), Feste und Feiern in Hannover (Bielefeld, 1995), pp. 196–208. She draws attention to the fact that the speeches at the opening ceremony of Hannover’s stadium in 1922 presented sport as uniting and apolitical. There was no clear connection to the republic. Hildegard Milberg’s assessment of celebrations in Hamburg schools is also pessimistic in Hildegard Millberg, Schulpolitik in der pluralistischen Gesellschaft (Hamburg, 1970), p. 344.

3 Staging the Republic: Constitution Day Festivities in 1929 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15.

16.

17.

Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften. BArch Berlin, R1501/116860, pp. 70–71. Ibid., p. 73. Vossische Zeitung, 173, 12.4.1925, ‘Die Inszenierung der Republik’. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Carl v. Ossietzky, ‘Nationalfeiertag’, Die Weltbühne, 27, 5.7.1927, p. 3. Vossische Zeitung, 173, 12.4.1925, ‘Die Inszenierung der Republik’. BArch Berlin, R32/273, p. 115. Edwin Redslob, ‘Die staatlichen Feiern des Reichsregierung’, Gebrauchsgraphik, 2, 1925, p. 54. Welzbacher, Staatsarchitektur der Weimarer Republik, pp. 158–161. To name but a few: E. Redslob, ‘Die staatlichen Feiern der Reichsregierung’, Gebrauchsgraphik, 2, 1925; GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, IB, 161, a/b, E. Redslob, ‘Feste und Feiern des Volkes’, Das Volksspiel July 1930; BArch Berlin, R32/169, E. Redslob, ‘Feiern als Ausdruck der Selbstachtung des Volkes’, pp. 114–116; BArch Berlin, R32/499, E. Redslob, ‘Feste und Feiern des Volkes’, pp. 252–258. BArch Berlin, R32/426, p. 81, p. 96, ‘Die Verfassungsfeier als Ausdruck deutscher Festkultur’, August 1929. Sächsisches Staatsarchiv, Staatsarchiv Leipzig, 20031, PP-Sr, nr.30, p. 14c, Neue Leipziger Zeitung, 223, 14.8.1927, ‘Reichsbanner Kameraden! Willkommen in Leipzig’. See for the connection between cultural and national identity for the middle classes Karl Christian Führer, ‘German Cultural Life and the Crisis of National Identity during the Depression 1929–1933’, German Studies Review 24 (2001), pp. 461–486. For the importance of modern mass communication for political mass spectacles in the 1920s and 1930s see Baxmann, Mythos Gemeinschaft, pp. 222–224.

Notes

183

18. BArch Berlin, R32/201, p. 98, ‘Der Film im Dienst der nationalen Repräsentation’ (E. Redslob). 19. GNM, DKA (Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Deutsches Kunstarchiv) NL E. Redslob, I, B-13 (no page numbers), ‘Der deutsche Film und seine Bildung durch die deutsche Kunst’, August 1925. 20. See also BArch Berlin, R32/167, p. 109. 21. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I,B-61 (no page numbers) Regiebuch. 22. Cited in Eichberg et al. (eds), Massenspiele, p. 69. 23. Felix Renker, Das Reichsbanner. Sieben lebende Bilder mit begleitendem Text (Leipzig, without date). 24. Ibid., pp. 8–9. 25. For Reichsbanner commemorations of these politicians as republican heroes through local monuments see Rossol, Visualising the Republic, pp. 224–229. The Reichsbanner journal Das Reichsbanner provides descriptions of numerous unveiling ceremonies for local monuments. 26. Renker, Das Reichsbanner, pp. 11–12. 27. Ibid., p. 14. 28. See Chapter 1, note 88. 29. BArch Berlin, Sapmo, Ry 12II 113, 7, Gau Berlin-Brandenburg, pp. 71–76. Unlike this Jungbanner play, the play Wenn das Reichsbanner wacht! Drama in einem Akt (Berlin, 1931) provides a more traditional narrative in which the Reichsbanner members manage to avoid a right-wing putsch. The play includes seven main characters and tells a story of betrayal, heroism and defence of the republic. It is set in a provincial town in 1924. 30. See Leni Riefenstahl’s film Triumph des Willens. See also Yvonne Karow, Deutsches Opfer. Kultische Selbstauslöschung auf den Reichsparteitagen der NSDAP (Berlin, 1997), p. 224. 31. BArch Berlin, Sapmo, Ry 12II 113, 7, Gau Berlin-Brandenburg, p. 76. 32. Gotthard Jasper, Der Schutz der Republik. Studien zur staatlichen Sicherung der Demokratie in der Weimarer Republik (Tübingen, 1963), pp. 252–254; AdsD Bonn, Nachlass C. Severing, Mappe 162, pp. 8–12. 33. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit. 90, 7531, p. 367 ff. Eintragungen aus den Meldebüchern. 34. Ibid., p. 210. 35. Das Reichsbanner, 34, 24.8.1929, ‘Der Sieg der Reichsverfassung. Imposante Volksfeiern überall’. 36. Ibid. For Cologne see Historisches Archiv der Stadt Köln, Best. 903/409; 417; 704. 37. See Bonte, Werbung für Weimar?, pp. 231–235. 38. Berliner Tageblatt, 36, 4.8.1929, ‘Schwarz rot gold am 11.August’. 39. See the files GStAPK Rep.84a. 40. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030, C Tit.90, 7531. 41. Vossische Zeitung, 12.8.1929, ‘Das Fest der Millionen’. 42. Deutsche Republik, 46, 17.9.1929, ‘Das Volk feiert seine Verfassung’ (G. Risse), p. 1434. 43. Ibid., p. 1433. 44. Vossische Zeitung, 12.8.1929, ‘Das Fest der Millionen’; Berliner Morgenpost, 35, 7.7.1929, ‘Aufmarsch der 150.000’; Der Tag, 193, 14.8.1929, ‘Saldo des Reichsbanners’; Berliner Tageblatt, 380, 14.8.1929, ‘Antwort an die Betrüger’.

184

Notes

45. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit (no page numbers), Pol. Inspektion Unter den Linden. 46. For political posters in particular for the SPD by Fritz Gottfried Kirchbach (1888–1942) see the poster collection of the German Historical Museum in Berlin. 47. For working-class imagery of the Imperial period which partly still influenced the Weimar years see Gerhard Hauk, ‘Armeekorps auf dem Weg zur Sonne. Einige Bemerkungen zur kulturellen Selbstdarstellung der Arbeiterbewegung’, in D. Petzina (ed.), Fahnen, Fäuste, Körper. Symbolik und Kultur der Arbeiterbewegung (Essen, 1986), pp. 69–90. 48. Vossische Zeitung, 12.8.1929, ‘Das Fest der Millionen’. 49. For the important connection between the constitution and the First World War, also exemplified with this project, see Nadine Rossol, ’Weltkrieg und Verfassung als Gründungserzählungen der Republik’, Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, no. 50–51, 8.12.2008, pp. 13–18. 50. For a picture of the monument see 75 Jahre Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold (Magdeburg, 1999), p. 49. 51. Vossische Zeitung, 370, 6.8.1929, ‘Feier des Verfassungstages’. 52. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit. 90, 7531, p. 314, 7.8.1929. 53. Berliner Tageblatt, 372, 9.8.1929, ‘Das Schandmal. Geschmähte Totenehrung’; Deutsche Zeitung, 199, 26.8.1929, ‘Partei-Reklame am Kriegerdenkmal’. 54. Vossische Zeitung, 375, 10.8.1929, ‘Die Verfassungsfeier beginnt’; Vossische Zeitung, 12.8.1929, ‘Das Fest der Millionen’. 55. Elke Fröhlich (ed.), Die Tagebücher von Joseph Goebbels, Teil 1, Aufzeichnungen 1924–1941, vol. 1: 27.6.1924-31.12.1930 (München, 1987) p. 409. 56. Cited in Baxmann, Mythos Gemeinschaft, p. 220. 57. Hardt, Politische Körper, p. 206. 58. Ibid., pp. 39–43. See, for example, Rudolf Bode, Der Rhythmus und seine Bedeutung für die Erziehung (Jena, 1920); and Hans W. Fischer, Körperschönheit und Körperkultur: Sport, Gymnastik, Tanz (Berlin, 1928). 59. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, pp. 288–291. 60. Baxmann, Mythos Gemeinschaft, p. 203. See also Michael Mackenzie, ’From Athens to Berlin: The 1936 Olympics and Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia’, Critical Inquiry, 29, no. 2 (2003), pp. 313–314. 61. BArch Berlin, R32/426, p. 94. 62. Vossische Zeitung, 311, 4.7.1929, ‘Berlin am 11. August’. 63. BLHA, Rep. 34, 995, p. 133; list with rehearsal plan, pp. 156–157. 64. BArch Berlin, R32/430, p. 30, Aktenvermerk: Besprechung mit den Lehrkräften 22.6.1929. 65. Ibid. 66. Hardt, Politische Körper, pp. 218–219. 67. BLHA, Rep. 34, 995, p. 194. 68. LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 030 C Tit. 90, 7531, pp. 144–145, 149. 69. BArch Berlin, R601/634, fiche 5, pp. 220–221. 70. BLHA Rep. 34, 997, pp. 12–14. 71. BArch Berlin, R32/430. 72. BArch Berlin, R32/434, pp. 35, 39. 73. BArch Berlin, R601/634, fiche 5, p. 221. 74. BArch Berlin, R32/430, fiche 2, p. 82.

Notes

185

75. Historisches Archiv der Stadt Köln, Best.6, 702, official programme of the celebration 1929; BArch Berlin, R32/430, pp. 81–83, Spielfolge 1929. 76. Swett, ‘Celebrating the Republic without Republicans’, pp. 288–289. 77. Thomas Mergel, ‘Führer, Volksgemeinschaft und Maschine. Politische Erwartungsstrukturen in der Weimarer Republik und dem Nationalsozialismus’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Politische Kultur der Zwischenkriegszeit 1918–1939 (Göttingen, 2005), p. 98. 78. Of course, the presentation of youth as symbol of the future was used by all political systems and parties. We will see the same for the Nazi period. For Imperial Germany see Derek Linton, ‘Who has the Youth, Has the Future’: The Campaign to Save Youth Workers in Imperial Germany (Cambridge, 1991). 79. Vossische Zeitung, 12.8.1929, ‘Das Fest der Millionen’. 80. As with many popular songs, and working-class symbols, the Nazis also used this song and recommended it in their suggestion for the staging of Nazi celebrations: Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur Festgestaltung, 1935. The Nazis also printed versions with different lyrics. See Alfred Roth, Das nationalsozialistische Massenlied (Würzburg, 1993), pp. 124–125. 81. See a photograph of policemen standing in the form of a swastika in Der deutschen Polizeibeamte, 7, 1.4.1934. 82. IRZ, 14.8.1926, no. 33, ‘Nationalfeiertag’ (photograph). 83. Baxmann, Mythos Gemeinschaft, pp. 202, 206–207. 84. Fischer-Lichte, ‘Massenspektakel der Zwischenkriegszeit’, p. 136. 85. Ibid., pp. 126, 141. 86. BArch Berlin, R32/427, pp. 22–23. 87. BArch Berlin, R32/426, p. 98. 88. Carl Severing, Mein Lebensweg. Im Auf und Ab der Republik (Köln, 1950) vol. 2, pp. 206–207. See also Vossische Zeitung, 12.8.1929, ‘Das Festspiel im Deutschen Stadion’. 89. Vera Maletic, Body-Space-Expression. The Development of Rudolf von Laban’s Movement and Dance Concepts (Bern, 1987), pp. 14–15; Hardt, Politische Körper, pp. 209, 245–246. For a collection of the plays choreographed by Rudolf von Laban see Evelyn Dörr, Rudolf Laban: Das choreographische Theater (Norderstedt, 2004). 90. For a copy of the play see GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I, B-159. 91. See his autobiographical account Redslob, Von Weimar nach Europa, pp. 162–163; BArch Berlin, R32/167, fiche 3, p. 109; GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I C 12 H. 92. Edwin Redslob, ‘Bühne und bildende Kunst in Weimar’, in Weimarer Blätter 1 (1919), printed in T. Neumann (ed.), Quellen zur Geschichte Thüringens 1919–1949 (Weimar, 1998), p. 40. Even earlier Redslob developed ideas concerning the use of space for the staging of theatre plays. See GNM, OKA, NL E. Redslob, I,B-13, Dramaturgische Blätter, Nov. 1915, 2, E. Redslob, ‘Bühne und Raumgestaltung. Inszenierung nach räumlichen Gesichtspunkten’, pp. 27–28. 93. Hardt, Politische Körper, p. 248. 94. BArch Berlin, R32/426, pp. 79–80, E. Redslob, ‘Die Verfassungsfeier als Ausdruck deutscher Festkultur’. 95. Ibid., p. 96.

186

Notes

96. BArch Berlin, R32/169, fiche 3, pp. 114–115, ‘Feiern als Ausdruck der Selbstachtung des Volkes’ (E. Redslob). 97. Hardt, Politische Körper, p. 221. 98. Das Reichsbanner, 33, 17.8.1929, ‘Der Tag der deutschen Nation’; Das Reichsbanner, 34, 24.8.1929, ‘Der Sieg der Reichsverfassung. Imposante Volksfeste überall’. 99. Deutsche Republik, 46, 17.8.1929, p. 1434, G. Risse, ‘Das Volk feiert seine Verfassung’. 100. Ibid. 101. Ibid.

4 Republican Nationalism: The Rhineland Celebration in 1930 1. BArch Berlin, R43I/573, p. 173; BArch Berlin, R32/438a, p. 4. 2. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften; and Thomas Rahn, ‘Masse, Maske und Macht. Psychologie des Zeremoniells im 20. Jahrhundert’, in Bernd Jahn (ed.), Zeremoniell in der Krise (Marburg, 1998), pp. 129–148. 3. BArch Berlin, R1501/116983, p. 69. Berliner Tageblatt, 13.2.1931, ‘Zu Besuch beim Reichsreklamechef’. 4. BArch Berlin, R32/168, pp. 82–83. Berliner Tageblatt, 355, 11.8.1922, ‘Die Verfassungsfeier im Reich und Berlin’; Vossische Zeitung, 8.8.1923, ‘ Die Feier des Verfassungstages’. 5. BArch Berlin, R32/2, p. 29,15.8.1922. 6. See, for example, F. Gebhardt, Johann Wolfgang Goethe zum ehrenden Gedächtnis. Feiern für Schulen und Vereine zum 100. Todestag (Berlin, 1932); Die Veranstaltungen von Goethe-Feiern. Anregungen, Ansprachen, Festpläne (Wien, 1932). 7. Critically on these attempts see Friedensburg, Die Weimarer Republik, p. 220. 8. Several complaints about teachers and their speeches on Constitution Day can be found in the files of the school authorities BLHA, Rep. 34/59, 60, 61. 9. Kölner Lokal Anzeiger, 187, 13.8.1932, ‘Republik ohne Goethe? Das ist hier die Frage’; Rheinische Zeitung, 189, 12.8.1932, ‘Sturm in der Kölner Messe. Schluss mit der Heuchelei-republikanische Verfassungsfeier oder keine’. 10. Rheinische Zeitung, 189, 12.8.1932, ‘Sturm in der Kölner Messe’. See in contrast how the journalist Werner Thormann combined Goethe and the republic in his speech concluding with the demand to fight for the existence of the democratic state in Petra Weber, ‘Goethe und der Geist von Weimar. Die Rede Werner Thormanns bei der Verfassungsfeier in der Paulskirche am 11.8.1932’, Vierteljahresheft für Zeitgeschichte, 46 (1998), pp. 131–135. 11. Robert Gerwarth, ‘Republik und Reichsgründung. Bismarcks kleindeutsche Lösung im Meinungsstreit der ersten deutschen Demokratie’, in Heinrich A. Winkler (ed.), Griff nach der Deutungsmacht, pp. 124–125. 12. Erin Hochman works on a PhD thesis (University of Toronto) comparing issues of representation and symbols between Weimar Germany and the First Austrian republic. See Rohe, Das Reichsbanner, p. 240; Das Reichsbanner, 2, 15.5.1924, ‘Nach der Schlacht’.

Notes

187

13. See Ursula Mader, ‘Wie das Deutschlandlied 1922 Nationalhymne wurde’, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft, 38 (1990), pp. 1089–1100. 14. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I,3B-g/h, Reichskalender 1924, E. Redslob, ‘Die Staatsfeiern der Reichsregierung’, p. 54. 15. We have already seen other examples of gendered imagery used by the Reichsbanner. One important female figure not used in republican representation because she stood for Imperial Germany was the Germania. See Lothar Gall, ‘Die Germania als Symbol nationaler Identität im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert’, Nachrichten der Akademie der Wissenschaft in Göttingen, 2 (1993), pp. 3–54. For France see Daniel Schulz, ‘Republikanismus und demokratische Ästhetik. Zur symbolischen Repräsentation der Republik in Frankreich’, in Hans Vorländer (ed.), Zur Ästhetik der Demokratie, pp. 73–94. 16. Numerous stories and legends about the Rhine are part of a collective memory. Romantic poetry stressing its landscape and castles, Heinrich Heine’s Loreley or the idea of a golden treasure hidden on the ground of the river are just some examples. 17. Hagen Schulze and Etienne Francois (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, vol. 1–3 (München, 2001). See, for example, the entry for Heinrich Heine and his poem ‘Die Loreley’. 18. BArch Berlin, R1501/116871, p. 9. 19. Ibid., pp. 72–73. 20. Not connected to Constitution Day celebrations there were festivities commemorating the anniversary of the 1848 revolution in March 1923; see Rebentisch, Friedrich Ebert und die Paulskirche. 21. BArch Berlin, R1501/116871, July 1923. 22. RfH (ed.), 10 Jahre Weimarer Verfassung. Die Verfassungsreden bei den Verfassungsfeiern der Reichsregierung (Berlin, 1929), pp. 39–44. 23. BArch Berlin, R1501/116871, p. 299. 24. See a short part on this event in Volker Ackermann, Nationale Totenfeiern in Deutschland. Von Wilhelm I bis Franz Josef Strauß (Stuttgart, 1990), p. 93. 25. Cuno’s speech printed in In Memoriam. Den Opfern des französischen Militarismus in Essen (Berlin, 1923), p. 13. 26. Also the speeches held at the funeral ceremony in Essen stressed the collectiveness of the men. See the booklet In Memoriam. 27. BArch Berlin, R1501/116865, pp. 140–141. 28. BArch Berlin, R1501/116873, p. 48. 29. See Gerhard Paul, ‘Schwarz-weiß-rot am Hundeschwanz. Die Rheinische Jahrtausendfeier 1925’, in Klaus Michael Mallmann et al. (eds), Richtig daheim waren wir nie. Entdeckungsreisen ins Saarrevier 1815–1955 (Bonn, 1995), pp. 113–116; Linsmayer (ed.), Der 13. Januar, pp. 35–36. 30. Wein, Deutschlands Strom-Frankreichs Grenze, p. 123. 31. BArch Berlin, R43I/1793, fiche 3; BArch Berlin, R1501/116877, p. 106. 32. See in general Rossol, Visualising the Republic, chapter 7. For numerous suggestions of projects see BArch Berlin, R1501/11621, Sept. 1925; BArch Berlin, R601/732, pp. 84–94; BArch Berlin, R601/723, pp. 153–159; BArch Berlin, R32/353a, pp. 81–93. 33. BArch Berlin, R601/725, Der Ehrenbreitstein als Reichsehrenmal 1928; BArch Berlin, R601724, Das Reichsehrenmal auf der Insel Hammerstein im Rhein, 1926; BArch Berlin, R43 I/714, p. 231, Das Reichsehrenmal am Rhein, 1926.

188

Notes

34. BArch Berlin, R1501/116929, Berliner Tageblatt 302, 28.6.1925, ‘Das Soldatengrab im Rhein’ (E. Redslob). 35. BArch Berlin, R32/361, fiche 1–2. 36. Kölnische Volkszeitung, 580, 8.8.1925, ‘Das Soldatengrab am Rhein. Eine Entgegnung’. 37. BArch Berlin, R1501/125976, p. 116. 38. Der Stahlhelm, 5.10.1930, ‘Reichsfrontsoldatentag’. 39. Berliner Börsen Zeitung, 29.9.1930, ‘Der Stahlhelm am Rhein’. 40. Der Stahlhelm, 5.10.1930, ‘Deutschland, wir wachen’. 41. Das Reichsbanner, 16, 27.6.1931, ‘Auf nach Koblenz!’ 42. Das Reichsbanner, 30, 25.7.1931, ‘Republikaner am Rhein’. 43. Vorwärts, 10.8.1931, 370, ‘Verfassungsfeier des Reichsbanner. Der Tag am Deutschen Eck’. Frankfurter Zeitung, 11.8.1931, ‘Die Reichsbannerkundgebung am Rhein’. AdsD, Bonn, Reichsbanner, Reichsbanner schwarz rot gold Verfassungsfeier in Koblenz im August 1931. 44. For the co-operation between French and German pacifists after the First World War see Otmar Jung, ‘Unterschiedliche politische Kulturen: Der Redneraustausch zwischen französischen und deutschen Pazifisten 1924’, in Detlef Lehnert and Klaus Megerle (eds), Politische Teilkulturen zwischen Integration und Polarisierung. Zur politischen Kultur in der Weimarer Republik (Opladen, 1990). For Fritz von Unruh’s play see H.M. Elster and B. Rollka (eds), Fritz von Unruh. Sämtliche Werke. Dramen IV (Berlin, 1991), pp. 9–64. 45. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I,A-2, diary (no page number, no date). See also Benjamin Ziemann, ‘Die deutsche Nation und ihr zentraler Erinnerungsort. Das Nationaldenkmal für die Gefallenen im Weltkrieg und die Idee des Unbekannten Soldaten 1914–1935’, in Helmut Berding et al. (eds), Krieg und Erinnerung. Fallstudien zum 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 2000), pp. 67–92. 46. Vossische Zeitung, 2.6.1931, ‘Der ewige Parademarsch’. 47. See Vanessa Conze, ‘Unverheilte Brandwunden in der Außenhaut des Volkskörpers. Der deutsche Grenz-Diskurs der Zwischenkriegszeit 1919–1939’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Ordnungen in der Krise (München, 2007), pp. 21–48. 48. Susanne Kiewitz, Poetische Rheinlandschaft. Die Geschichte des Rheins in der Lyrik des 19. Jahrhunderts (Köln, 2004), pp. 124–156. 49. For Brentano’s play and a few other examples around 1813 see Peter Sprengel, Die inszenierte Nation. Deutsche Festspiele 1813–1913 (Tübingen, 1992), p. 57. 50. Ibid., p. 16. 51. Karl Mueller and Albert Wagner (eds), Republikanische Schulfeiern. Eine Handreichung, vol. 2 (Langensalza, 1928), pp. 1–10. 52. Florentine Gebhardt, Der freie deutsche Rhein (Berlin, 1930). 53. For the difficulties of national consensus created through foreign policy in the Weimar Republic see Klaus Mergerle, ‘Elemente nationaler Integration und politischer Konsensstiftung. Zum Stellenwert der Aussenpolitik für die politische Kultur der Weimarer Republik’, in Detlef Lehnert and Klaus Mergerle (eds), Politische Teilkulturen in der Weimarer Republik (Opladen, 1990), pp. 219–249. 54. Herbers, ‘Die inszenierte Befreiung’, pp. 167–195.

Notes

189

55. See generally Boris Barth, Dolchstosslegende und politische Desintegration. Das Trauma der deutschen Niederlage im Ersten Weltkrieg 1914–1933 (Düsseldorf, 2003). 56. BArch Berlin, R1601/1433, p. 49. 57. Ibid., pp. 145–156. 58. BArch Berlin, R1601/1434, (no page number). 59. See the two different first drafts in BArch Berlin, R1601/1434, pp. 20–26. 60. BArch Berlin, R43I/573, p. 15. 61. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I, B-3c, programme of the celebrations. See also Schellack, Nationalfeiertage in Deutschland, pp. 250–252. 62. BArch Berlin, R32/281, p. 129, E. Redslob, Die Rheinische Befreiungsfeier als Ausdruck deutscher Festkultur. 63. Sprengel, Die inszenierte Nation, pp. 17–19. 64. Ibid., p. 57. 65. Verhandlungen d. Reichstags, vol. 423, stenographische Berichte 13.6.1928– 4.2.1929, 7. session, 10.7.1928, p. 145. 66. BArch Berlin, R1601/1434, p. 44. 67. Deutsche Republik, 40, 5.7.1930, ‘Politik der Woche’, p. 1217. 68. BArch Berlin, R1601/1434, p. 124. 69. GNM, DKA, NL E.Redslob, I,B-161 a/b, Das Volksspiel. Blätter für Laienspiel und Volkstum, 1930, Juli, E. Redslob, Feste und Feiern, p. 221. 70. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, pp. 307–361. 71. Kaschuba, ‘Die Nation als Körper’, p. 297. 72. A classic is Siegfried Kracauer’s article ‘Das Ornament der Massen’, in Siegfried Kracauer (ed.), Der verbotene Blick (Frankfurt a. M., 1977), p. 173. 73. August Nitschke, ‘Der Abschied vom Individuum. Kulissen und Kolonnen’, in August Nitschke et al. (eds), Jahrhundertwende. Der Aufbruch in die Moderne 1880–1930, vol. 2 (Reinbeck, 1990), p. 237. 74. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I B 240, Festkultur! (die Festspiel-Leitung). 75. BArch Berlin, R32/280, p. 1. 76. GNM, DKA, NL E.Redslob, Selbesterlebtes aus den Hindenburgtagen in Mainz und Wiesbaden. 77. BArch Berlin, R32/274, pp. 1–2, A. Auerbach to Redslob; GNM, DKA, NL E.Redslob, IB I, letter from K. Wittenberg 20.8.1930 to Redslob. 78. BArch Berlin, R32/542, newspaper articles on the Wiesbaden celebrations. The play was first performed in Wiesbaden and then again in Berlin for the Constitution Day celebrations. The play, however, was not changed. See Werner Krämer, ‘Siegreich wollen wir sein . . . als der Rhein in Ketten lag’, in Rudolf Pörtner (ed.), Alltag in der Weimarer Republik. Kindheit und Jugend in unruhiger Zeit (München, 1990), p. 446. 79. Vossische Zeitung, 375, 11.8.1930, ‘Das Volksfest im Stadium’. 80. Berliner Tageblatt, 375, 11.8.1930, ‘Die Jugend im Stadion’. 81. Die Weltbühne, 28, 8.7.1930, Carl v. Ossietzky, ‘Die Befreiten’, pp. 39–40. 82. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I,B-240, Gutachten, 29.5.1930. 83. Deutsche Republik, 44, 2.8.1930, ‘Das Befreiungstheater in Wiesbaden’. 84. Ibid. For criticism see also Berliner Lokal Anzeiger, 339, 21.7.1930, ‘Mainz und Wiesbaden feiern’. 85. BArch Berlin, R32/438a, p. 88. 86. BArch Berlin, R32/273, p. 64.

190

Notes

87. 88. 89. 90.

Ibid., p. 67. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, II C 1, Redslob to Charlotte 26.11.1931. Der Angriff, 213, 11.9.1933, ‘Das Fest der deutschen Schulen’. Ibid.

5

Party Rallies and the Thingspiel in the Third Reich

1. Berliner Tageblatt, 375, 11.8.1930, ‘Die Jugend im Stadion’. 2. Andreas Dornheim, ‘Emotionalisierung, Uniformierung und Militarisierung. Nationalsozialistische Feiern in Leipzig’, in Katrin Keller (ed.), Feste und Feiern, pp. 283–299 (here p. 299). 3. Welch, ‘Nazi Propaganda and the Volksgemeinschaft’, p. 216. See the footnotes on this aspect in the introduction. 4. Welzer, ‘Die Bilder der Macht und die Ohnmacht der Bilder’, pp. 168– 169; Peter Longerich, ‘Nationalsozialistische Propaganda’, in Karl Dietrich Bracher et al. (eds), Deutschland 1933–1945 (Düsseldorf, 1992), pp. 293–294. 5. For a detailed examination of Nazi Party Rallies see Markus Urban, Die Konsensfabrik. Funktion und Wahrnehmung der NS Reichsparteitage 1933–41 (Göttingen, 2007). 6. David Welch, The Third Reich. Politics and Propaganda (London, 1993), pp. 28–57. 7. Berliner Tageblatt, 99, 28.2.1933, ‘Reichskunstwart beurlaubt’; Vossische Zeitung, 28.2.1933, ‘Dr. Redslob beurlaubt’; Berliner Volkszeitung, 28.2.1933, ‘Reichskunstwart beurlaubt’. 8. See the introduction of the Reichskunstwart’s Findbuch R32 in the Federal Archives in Berlin-Lichterfelde. 9. BArch Berlin, R1501 PA/9886 (Redslob’s personal file), pp. 350–374; Welzbacher, Edwin Redslob, pp. 234–237. 10. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, II,C1, letter Redslob to Charlotte, 26.11.1931; GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I,B-161 a/b, Das Volksspiel. Blätter für Laienspiel und Volkskultur, July 1930, p. 221. 11. Berliner Börsen Zeitung, 126, 15.3.1933, ‘Nationale Propaganda’. 12. See the work of John William Wilson, Festivals and the Third Reich (Hamilton, 1994). Also in the GDR the year was structured through festivities see Rolf Rytlewski and Birgit Sauer, ‘Die Ritualisierung des Jahres: Zur Phänomenologie der Feste und Feiern in der DDR’, in Wolfgang Luthardt and Arno Waschkuhn (eds), Politik und Repräsentation. Beiträge zur Theorie und zum Wandel politischer und sozialer Institutionen (Marburg, 1988), pp. 256–285. 13. See for this interpretation, for example, Klaus Vondung, Magie und Manipulation. Ideologischer Kult und politische Religion des Nationalsozialismus (Göttingen, 1972); Hans Jochen Gamm, Der braune Kult. Das Dritte Reich und seine Ersatzreligion (Hamburg, 1962); Wolfgang Kratzer, Feier und Feste der Nationalsozialisten. Aneignung und Umgestaltung christlicher Kalender, Riten und Symbole (München, 1998). 14. For the differences between Reichsbanner commemorations of dead republicans and commemorative ceremonies organised by the republican state see Rossol, Visualising the Republic-Unifying the Nation, chapter 6, pp. 198–232.

Notes

191

15. For a critical review of works on Nazi Party Rallies see Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, pp. 16–24. 16. For detailed examination see Urban, Die Konsensfabrik; Karow, Deutsches Opfer; Siegfried Zelnhefer, Die Reichsparteitage der NSDAP (Nürnberg, 1991, new edition 2002). 17. Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, pp. 35, 58. 18. Karow, Deutsches Opfer, pp. 209–281, detailed programme of the Nazi Party Rally in 1938. 19. Heinrich A. Winkler, Der lange Weg nach Westen, vol. 1 (Bonn, 2000), p. 554; and Heinrich A. Winkler, ‘The Long Shadow of the Reich weighing up German History’, The 2001 Annual Lecture, GHI London, 2002, pp. 5–25. 20. Karow, Deutsches Opfer, pp. 62–63. 21. Ibid., p. 156. 22. Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, p. 73. 23. Karow, Deutsches Opfer, p. 148. 24. Ibid., p. 65; Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, pp. 65–68. 25. Karow, Deutsches Opfer, pp. 132–135. 26. Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, pp. 102–103. See generally on the gap between the ideological claim of a perfect propaganda machinery and the numerous flaws happening at the actual organisation of the party rallies Zelnhefer, Die Reichsparteitage der NSDAP. 27. Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, pp. 28–29, 419. 28. Wieland Elfferding, ‘Von der proletarischen Masse zum Kriegsvolk’, in Neue Gesellschaft für bildene Kunst (ed.), Inszenierung der Macht. Ästhetische Faszination im Faschismus (Berlin, 1987), p. 37; Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, pp. 381–382. Yvonne Hardt applies this concept to the use of movement choirs as part of Nazi festivities. She argues that movement choirs became more structured and organised in the Third Reich. See Yvonne Hardt, ‘Ausdruckstanz und Bewegungschor im Nationalsozialismus: Zur politischen Dimension des Körperlichen und Räumlichen im modernen Tanz’, in Paula Diehl (ed.), Körper im Nationalsozialismus. Bilder und Praxen (München, 2006), pp. 173–189 (here p. 185). 29. Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, p. 414. 30. Friedrich Kiessling, ‘Zur Einführung: Nationalsozialistische Außendarstellung und der fremde Blick. Die internationale Dimension der Reichsparteitage’, in Friedrich Kiessling and Gregor Schöllgen (eds), Bilder für die Welt. Die Reichsparteitage der NSDAP im Spiegel der ausländischen Presse (Köln, 2006), pp. 1–23 (here p. 19). Generally for the coverage of the Nazi Party Rallies in Great Britain, France, the USA, Austria, Italy and the Soviet Union see Kiessling and Schöllgen (eds), Bilder für die Welt. 31. Urban, Die Konsensfabrik, pp. 62–63. 32. Die deutsche Polizei, 3, 01.02.1943, ‘Zehn Jahre Bewährung: Die Wandlung der Ordnungspolizei seit der Machtübernahme’. 33. Die deutsche Polizei, 18, 20.9.1938, ‘Die Polizei vor dem Führer’. 34. Eichberg et al. (eds), Massenspiele, p. 109. Leni Riefenstahl’s film Triumph of the Will. For the party rally in 1938 see Karow, Deutsches Opfer, p. 224. 35. Urban, Die Konsenfabrik, pp. 205–206. 36. Kampfspiel-Nachrichten, 26, 20.8.1926, ‘Die II deutschen Kampfspiele 1926 im Rundfunk’.

192

Notes

37. Henning Eichberg and Robert A. Jones, ‘The Nazi Thingspiel’, New German Critique, no. 11, spring (1977), pp. 133–150 (here p. 137). The most detailed work on the Thingspiel is still Rainer Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft. Die Thing-Bewegung im Dritten Reich (Marburg, 1985). See also Hannelore Wolf, Volksabstimmung auf der Bühne? Das Massentheater als Mittel politischer Agitation (Frankfurt a. M., 1985). For a good overview on Thingspiele, with a particular focus on the structure of Thing plays, see William Niven, ‘The birth of Nazi drama?’, in John London (ed.), Theatre under the Nazis (Manchester, 2000), pp. 54–95. 38. Jörg Bochow, ‘Berliner Theater im Dritten Reich: Repräsentative Ästhetik oder/und “Bewahrer kultureller Werte”? Linien und Brüche der Moderne im Berliner Theater der dreissiger Jahre’, in Erika Fischer-Lichte et al. (eds), Berliner Theater im 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 1998), pp. 147–169 (here p. 152). 39. Eichberg et al. (eds), Massenspiele. 40. Meinhold Lurz (ed.), Die Heidelberger Thingstätte. Die Thingbewegung im Dritten Reich: Kunst als Mittel politischer Propaganda (Heidelberg, 1975), p. 21. 41. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 12–13. 42. Wolf, Volksabstimmung auf der Bühne? pp. 201–202. 43. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 165–166. 44. Ibid., pp. 12–13. 45. Manfred Seifert, Kulturarbeit im Reichsarbeitsdienst. Theorie und Praxis nationalsozialistischer Kulturpflege im Kontext historisch-politischer, organisatorischer und ideologischer Einflüsse (Münster, 1996), pp. 298–308. 46. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, p. 59. 47. Ibid., p. 170–171. 48. Ibid., p. 178. See for suggested sites combining the commemorating of the war dead and facilities for sports in the Weimar years Albert Maennchen, Das Reichsehrenmal der Eisenbolz am Rhein (Boppard, 1927); BArch Berlin, R1501/11621, vol. 3, 18.9.1925 Vorschläge für ein Ehrenmal am Rhein; GStAPK Rep. 77, Tit. 1215, 3c, vol. 1, pp. 196–202. 49. For an overview on the planning, building and plays at the Heidelberg Thingspiel area see Lurz (ed.), Die Heidelberger Thingstätte, pp. 42–172 and Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 103–114. 50. Lurz (ed.), Die Heidelberg Thingstätte, pp. 42–62. 51. Ibid., pp. 72–75. 52. Ibid., p. 85. 53. Ibid., p. 95. 54. Ibid., p. 105. 55. Ibid., pp. 161–163. 56. Ibid., p. 172. 57. BArch Berlin, NS 5 VI, 574, p. 38, Berliner Börsen Zeitung, 350, 11.11.1935, ‘Keine Konjunktur für Festspiel-Kitsch. Eine Bekanntmachung des Reichspropagandaministers Dr Goebbels’. 58. Eichberg and Jones, ‘The Nazi Thingspiel’, p. 137. 59. Bochow, ‘Berliner Theater im Dritten Reich’, pp. 152–153. 60. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 122–125. 61. See Boguslaw Drewniack, Das Theater im NS Staat (Düsseldorf, 1983) and London (ed.), Theatre under the Nazis, see also Eichberg, Massenspiele, p. 158. 62. Bochow, ‘Berliner Theater im Dritten Reich’, p. 155.

Notes 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70.

71. 72.

73.

74. 75. 76. 77.

78.

79.

80.

81. 82.

193

Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 147–164. Ibid., p. 215. Ibid., p. 153. For a short overview see Katja Czarnowski, ‘Die Loreley’, in Hagen Schulze and Etienne Francois (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, vol. 3 (München, 2001), pp. 488–502. See Kiewitz, Poetische Rheinlandschaft. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 191–258: Katalog der Thingplätze. BArch Berlin, R72/1165, p. 87, Die Welt am Abend, 3.12.1927, ‘ReichsEhrenhetzmal’. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt.6.09, no. 1.07, letter of the mayor of Niederlahnstein (12.6.34) to the propaganda ministry in Frankfurt a. M. and the brochure ‘Das deutsche Grabmal des unbekannten Soldaten’. Landeshauptarchiv Koblenz, Best. 502, no. 1291, letter 19.6.1934. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, pp. 213–214. See also Peter Brommer, ‘Etablierung nationalsozialistischer Macht. Koblenz und der Mittelrhein im Jahre 1935’, Jahrbuch für westdeutsche Landesgeschichte, 24 (1999), pp. 513–550 (here pp. 513–521). St. Gorshausen, Abt.6.09, no. 1.01, Bronich (Chronik); Paul-Georg Custodis, ‘ “die Wellen verschlingen am Ende Schiffer und Kahn.” Die Loreley in der NS-Zeit’, in Marion Kramp and Matthias Schmandt (eds), Die Loreley. Ein Fels im Rhein. Ein deutscher Traum (Mainz, 2004), p. 140. Custodis, “die Wellen verschlingen am Ende Schiffer und Kahn”, p. 145. Ibid., p. 145. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Neueste Zeitung, 18.5.1939, ‘Steinernes Wunderwerk in deutscher Landschaft’. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Neueste Zeitung, 18.5.1939, ‘Steinernes Wunderwerk in deutscher Landschaft’; General Anzeiger, May 1939, ‘Besuch auf der neuen Loreley’. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Volksblatt, 13.6.1939, ‘Feierstätte Loreley: Zuschauer und Spieler sind eins’. See also St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, H. Senf, ‘Die Architektur der Festspiel und Feierstätte Loerely’, in Festspiel und Feierstätte Loreley. Freileichtsaufführung von Schillers Freiheitsspiel Wilhelm Tell, p. 437. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Volksblatt, 7.6.1939, ‘Die große Festspielstätte des Gaues’; General Anzeiger, 7.6.1939, ‘Die Feierstätte des Gaues’; General Anzeiger, May 1939, ‘Besuch auf der neuen Loreley’. See Eckhardt Schulz and Erhard Gruber, Mythos Reichsautobahn. Bau und Inszenierung der “Strassen des Führers” 1933–1941 (Berlin, 1996) and more generally on the combination of modern technology and romantic ideas Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernity: Technology, Culture and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge, 1984). St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Festspiel und Feierstätte Loreley: Joseph Goebbels, ‘Schiller und unsere Zeit’, pp. 437–438. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Bilderbuch der Woche, 1.07.1939, ‘Bericht über die erste Freilichtaufführung des Wilhelm Tell auf der Feierstätte der Loreley’, p. 2.

194

Notes

83. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Volksblatt, 5.6.1939, ‘Festspiel auf der Feierstätte Lorelei. Generalintendant Meissner probt’; General Anzeiger, 6.6.1939, ‘Wilhelm Tell über dem Rhein. Die Proben auf der Loreley’. 84. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.01, letter 16.6.1934, HessenNassauische Spielgemeinschaft an Landrat Brunnträger. 85. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Bilderbuch der Woche, 1.07.1939, ‘Bericht über die erste Freilichtaufführung des Wilhelm Tell auf der Feierstätte der Loreley’, p. 2; Frankfurter Zeitung, 27.6.1939, ‘Tell auf der Feierstätte’. 86. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Volksblatt, 8.6.1939, ‘Ein Berg hat seine würdige Krönung gefunden’. 87. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Frankfurter Zeitung, 27.6.1939, ‘Tell auf der Feierstätte’. 88. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, General Anzeiger, 11.7.1939, ‘Gewitterstimmung über Wilhelm Tell’. 89. St. Goarhausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, General Anzeiger, 14.6.1939, ‘Heiligenberg-Loreley. Vom Sinn der Feierstätte’. 90. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.01, Generalindendant H. Meissner über die Freilichtbühne-Loreley. 91. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Neueste Zeitung, 27.6.1939, ‘Tell auf der Loreley’. 92. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Frankfurter Zeitung, 27.6. 1939, ‘Tell auf der Feierstätte’. 93. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, General Anzeiger, 11.7.1939, ‘Gewitterstimmung über Wilhelm Tell’; Abt. 6.09, no. 1.05, Volksblatt, 18.6.1939, ‘Loreley ist von allen Richtungen zu erreichen’. 94. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no.1.06, Volksblatt, 4.8.1939, ‘25000 besuchten die Loreley-Festspiele’. 95. St. Goarshausen, Archiv, Abt. 6.09, no. 1.06, Letter, 17.8.1939, mayor of Frankfurt to H. Meissner.

6

The Death of the Spectacle in the mid-1930s

1. See Lutz Niethammer (ed.), ‘Die Jahre, weiß man nicht wo man die hinsetzen soll.’ Lebensgeschichte und Sozialkultur im Ruhrgebiet 1930–60 (Berlin, 1983) and Ulrich Herbert, ‘Good times, Bad Times, Memories of the Third Reich’, in Richard Bessel (ed.), Life in the Third Reich (Oxford, 1987), pp. 97–110. 2. For a general bibliography on literature on sports in the Third Reich see Lorenz Pfeiffer (ed.), Sport im Nationalsozialismus. Zum aktuellen Stand der sporthistorischen Forschung: Eine kommentierte Bibliographie (Stuttgart, 2004). 3. On Leni Riefenstahl and her films see Rainer Rother, Leni Riefenstahl. The Seduction of Genius (London, New York., 2002), pp. 45–99. 4. Ibid., pp. 84–85. 5. Mackenzie, ‘From Athens to Berlin’, pp. 302–337. 6. Most recently on racism and the Olympic Games see David C. Large, ‘Hitler’s Games: Race Relations in the 1936 Olympics’, German Historical Institute London Bulletin, xxix, no. 1, May (2007), pp. 5–27.

Notes

195

7. Thomas Alkemeyer and Alfred Richartz, ‘Inszenierte Körperträume: Reartikulationen von Herrschaft und Selbstbeherrschung in Körperbildern des Faschismus’, in Ulrich Hermann and Ulrich Nassen (eds), Formative Ästhetik im Nationalsozialismus (Weinheim, 1994), pp. 83–89. 8. Christiane Eisenberg, English Sports und deutsche Bürger. Eine Gesellschaftsgeschichte 1800–1939 (Paderborn, 1999), pp. 409–413. Eisenberg entitles her chapter on the games ‘Später Triumph der bürgerlichen Moderne’. 9. See for example David C. Large, Nazi Games. The Olympics of 1936 (New York, 2007), Chapter VI: Holy Flame, Burn. The Ceremonial Games, pp. 190–226. 10. Eisenberg, English Sports und deutsche Bürger, pp. 412, 428. 11. BArch Berlin, R8077/46/169, 437 (no page numbers) Organisation der Kunstausstellung bei den Olympischen Spielen 1936. 12. For Redslob’s involvement in the Olympic Games in 1928 see Edwin Redslob, IX Olympiade Amsterdam 1928. Deutschland auf der Internationalen Ausstellung Kunst und Sport (Berlin, 1928). See also LAB, A Rep. 001-02, 478 (no page numbers) Sonderauschüsse Olympia 1936, 10.1.1933, Kunstauschuss: Leiter Dr Edwin Redslob. 13. Susan A. Manning, Ecstasy and the Demon. Feminism and Nationalism in the Dances of Mary Wigman (Berkeley, 1993), p. 194. 14. Ibid., p. 173. 15. Hardt, ‘Ausdruckstanz und Bewegungschor im Nationalsozialismus’, p. 189. 16. See Ralf Schäfer, ‘Ein Sportfunktionär als Figur der Zeitgeschichte: Carl Diem als Organisator der XI Olympischen Spiele von Berlin’, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft, 49 (2001), pp. 313–332. 17. See for an overview on Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard’s work Bernhard Helmich, Händel-Fest und Spiel der 10.000. Der Regisseur Hanns Niedecken-Gebhard (Frankfurt a. M., 1989); Baxmann, Mythos Gemeinschaft, p. 218, p. 240. 18. Katja Erdmann-Rajski, Gret Palucca. Tanz und Zeiterfahrung in Deutschland im 20. Jahrhundert (Hildesheim, 2000), p. 272. 19. Frank Manuel Peter (ed.), Der Tänzer Harald Kreutzberg (Köln, 1997), p. 5. 20. Patricia Stöckemann, ‘Tänzer ohne Widerspruch’, in Frank Manuel Peter (ed.), Der Tänzer Harald Kreutzberg (Köln, 1997), p. 126. 21. See the programme of the play in Olympische Jugend. Festspiel zur Aufführung im Olympia Stadion am 1.8.1936 (Berlin, 1936). 22. Eisenberg, English sports und deutsche Bürger, p. 427. 23. Olympia 1936, vol.II, Die XI Olympischen Spiele in Berlin (Altona, 1936), p. 13. 24. See Kathleen James-Chakraborty, ‘The Drama of Illumination. Visions of Community from Wilhelmine to Nazi Germany’, in Richard A. Etlin (ed.), Art, Culture, Media under the Third Reich (Chicago, 2002), pp.181–201. 25. Eisenberg, English sports und deutsche Bürger, p. 425. 26. Olympische Jugend. Festspiel zur Aufführung im Olympia Stadion (Berlin, 1936). For a description of the play’s impression see Olympia 1936, vol. II, Die XI Olympischen Spiele in Berlin 1936 (Altona, 1936), p. 13. 27. Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung, 2. Olympia Sonderheft, 1936. 28. Carl Diem, ‘Entstehung und Inhalt’, in Olympische Jugend. Festspiel zur Aufführung im Olympia Stadion am 1.8.1936, p. 28. 29. Ibid., p. 28. 30. Ibid., p. 30.

196

Notes

31. The interpretation of Müller and Stöckemann, linking the play to Nazi policy, cannot be share. See Müller and Stöckemann, ‘. . . jeder Mensch ist ein Tänzer’, p. 176. 32. Olympische Jugend, p. 11. 33. Manning, Ecstasy and the Demon, pp. 148–153. In more detail Susan Manning, ‘Ideology and Performance between Weimar and the Third Reich: The case of Totenmal’, Theater Studies, 41, no. 2, (May 1989), pp. 211–223. 34. Eisenberg, English sports und deutsche Bürger, p. 427. 35. Niedecken-Gebhard, ‘Die Gesamtgestaltung des Festspiels’, in Olympische Jugend. Festspiel zur Aufführung im Olympia Stadion am 1.8.1936, p. 31. 36. Berliner Tageblatt, 15.7.1936, ‘Eine Tänzerin trainiert für das Olympische Festspiel’ (G. Palucca) cited in Erdmann, Gret Palucca, p. 273. 37. D. Günther, ‘Die Reigen der kleinen und grossen Mädchen’, in Olympische Jugend. Festspiel zur Aufführung im Olympia Stadion am 1.8.1936, p. 39. 38. Niedecken-Gebhard, ‘Die Gesamtgestaltung des Festspiels’, in Olympische Jugend. Festspiel zur Aufführung im Olympia Stadion am 1.8.1936, p. 31. 39. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I B241; C. Diem, Der olympische Gedanke (1967), p .81. 40. Carl und Liselott Diem-Archiv Köln, film 5128/00377, p. 7, Diem to Redslob (Nov. 1935). 41. Ibid., p. 6, Diem to Redslob 4.9.1936. 42. A photograph of police officers standing in the form of a swastika in Der deutsche Polizeibeamte, 7, 1.4.1934. 43. GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, Olympia Bericht 7.8.1936. 44. Niven, ‘The birth of Nazi drama?’, pp. 84–86. 45. Dörr, Rudolf von Laban, pp. 459–460. 46. Carole Kew, ‘From Weimar Movement Choir to Nazi Community Dance: The Rise and Fall of Rudolf von Laban’s Festkultur’, Dance Research, 17, no. 2 (1999), pp. 73–96 (here p. 82). 47. Dörr, Rudolf von Laban, pp. 448–450. 48. For Redslob’s play see GNM, DKA, NL E. Redslob, I,B-159, Das Jahresrad. 49. Dörr, Rudolf von Laban, pp. 451–456. 50. Ibid., pp. 464–468. 51. Niven, ‘The birth of Nazi drama?’, p. 86. 52. Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft, p. 137, pp. 140–141. 53. Niven, ‘The birth of Nazi drama?’, p. 87. 54. Ibid., p. 82. 55. Eichberg , Massenspiel, NS Thingspiel, p. 158. 56. LAB, A Pr Br Rep.042, 237, Goebbels to all Reich ministers and Gau leaders, 7.7.1936. 57. Stommer, “Da oben versinkt einem der Alltag . . .”, p. 172. 58. Zelnhefer, Die Reichsparteitage der NSDAP in Nürnberg, pp. 194, 258. 59. Sopade report cited in Karow, Deutsches Opfer, p. 150. 60. Sven Reichardt, ‘Gewalt, Körper, Politik: Paradoxien in der deutschen Kulturgeschichte der Zwischenkriegszeit’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Politische Kulturgeschichte der Zwischenkriegszeit, (Göttingen, 2005) pp. 205–239 (here p. 239). 61. Mischa Delbrouck, Verehrte Körper, verführte Körper. Die Olympischen Spiele der Neuzeit und die Tradition des Dionysischen (Tübingen, 2004), pp. 186–187.

Notes

197

62. Thomas Alkemeyer, ‘Ausgrenzende Vor-Bilder: Images des männlichen Sportler-Körpers in der Staatsästhetik des Dritten Reiches’, in Volker Gerhardt and Bernd Wirkus (eds), Sport und Ästhetik (Sankt Augustin, 1986), pp. 53–76. 63. Paula Diehl, ‘Körperbilder und Körperpraxen im Nationalsozialismus’, in Paula Diehl (ed.), Körper im Nationalsozialismus. Bilder und Praxen (München, 2006), pp. 9–30 (here p. 20). 64. See in more detail Kiran Klaus Patel, Soldaten der Arbeit. Arbeitsdienst in Deutschland und den USA 1933–45 (Göttingen, 2003); here Kiran Klaus Patel, ‘Erziehungsziel Männlichkeit: Körperbilder und Körperpraktiken im Nationalsozialismus und im New Deal in der USA’, in Paula Diehl (ed.), Körper im Nationalsozialismus. Bilder und Praxen (München, 2006), pp. 231–233. 65. Ibid., p. 241. 66. See Karow, Deutsches Opfer, p. 224. 67. Patel, ‘Erziehungsziel Männlichkeit’, pp. 247–248. 68. Mackenzie, ‘From Athens to Berlin’, p. 302. 69. Lissinna, Nationale Sportfeste, pp. 80–108. 70. Ibid., pp. 109–110. 71. Ibid., p. 111. 72. Ibid., p. 113. 73. Frank G. Becker, Deutsch die Saar, immerdar! Die Saarpropaganda des Bundes der Saarvereine 1919–1935 (Saarbrücken, 2007), p. 334. 74. Ibid., pp. 347–354. 75. Ibid., p. 349. 76. Harvey, ‘Raum und Partizipation’, pp. 21–22. See also Elizabeth Harvey, ‘Pilgrimages to the Bleeding Border. Gender and Rituals of Nationalist Protest in Germany 1919–1939’, Women’s History Review 9 (2000), pp. 201–228. 77. Lissinna, Nationale Sportfeste, p. 272. 78. Ibid., p. 251. 79. Ibid., pp. 414–418. 80. Ibid., pp. 383–386. 81. Ibid., p. 314. 82. Ibid., p. 372. 83. Cited Ibid., p. 372. 84. Ibid., p. 421. 85. Ibid., p. 291. 86. Ibid., pp. 293–294. 87. Ibid., p. 294. 88. Ibid., pp. 305–306. 89. Karow, Deutsches Opfer, p. 227. 90. Ibid., p. 228. 91. For a closer focus on the more popular elements of Nazi propaganda see Peter Reichel, Der schöne Schein des Dritten Reiches. Faszination und Gewalt des Faschismus (München, 1991). 92. Ian Kershaw, Popular Opinion and Political Dissent in the Third Reich: Bavaria 1933–1945 (Oxford, 1983); Detlev Peukert, Inside Nazi Germany. Conformity, Opposition and Racism in Everyday Life (London, 1987), in particular pp. 187–196; and Anthony McElligott, Contested City. Municipal Politics and the Rise of Nazism in Altona 1917–1937 (Ann Arbor, 1998), pp. 229–235.

198

Notes

93. Siegfried Kracauer, ‘Das Ornament der Masse’, in Siegfried Kracauer, Der verbotene Blick (Frankfurt a. M., 1977), p. 173. For an English translation of the text see Siegfried Kracauer, ‘The Mass Ornament’, in Anton Kaes et al. (eds), The Weimar Republic Sourcebook (Berkeley, 1994), pp. 404–407. 94. Nitschke, ‘Der Abschied vom Individuum. Kulissen und Kolonnen’, p. 237.

7 ‘Like 100 years ago . . .’: Local Festivities in Weimar and Nazi Germany 1. For festivities in the nineteenth century see Gerhard Schneider, Politische Feste in Hannover 1866–1918, Teil 1: Politische Feste der Arbeiter (Hannover, 1995); Hettling and Nolte (eds), Bürgerliche Feste. For studies covering several centuries see Katrin Keller (ed.), Feste und Feiern. Zum Wandel der städtischen Festkultur in Leipzig (Leipzig, 1994); Uwe Schultz (ed.), Das Fest. Eine Kulturgeschichte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (München, 1988); Karin Friedrich (ed.), Festive Culture in Germany and Europe from the Sixteenth to ˝ the Twentieth Century (Lewiston, 2000); Dieter Düding et al. (eds), Offentliche Festkultur. Politische Feste in Deutschland von der Aufklärung bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg (Reinbek, 1988). 2. See Sabine Behrenbeck, Der Kult um die toten Helden. Nationalsozialistische Mythen, Rituale und Symbole 1923–1945 (Greifswald, 1996), p. 437; and for municipal celebrations see Adelheid von Saldern, ‘Einleitung’, in Adelheid von Saldern (ed.), Inszenierter Stolz. Stadtrepräsentation in drei deutschen Gesellschaften 1935–1975 (Stuttgart, 2005), p. 18. 3. See Karl Müller/Albert Wagner, Republikanische Schulfeiern, vol.1 (Langensalza, 1928), pp. 13–21, Amtliche Bestimmungen über Verfassungsfeiern. 4. For conflicts with Bavaria see BArch Berlin, R1501/116873, 116864, 125224 and R707/90, 101, 102. 5. See Bonte, Werbung für Weimar?, pp. 231–235. 6. Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, C7I, 104 (no page numbers). 7. LAB, A Rep. 060-08, 572, pp. 401–418. 8. Marlene Bloch, ‘Die Verfassungsfeiern in Hannover 1922–1932’, in Helmut D. Schmidt (ed.), Feste und Feiern in Hannover (Bielefeld, 1995), pp. 211–230 and Juliane Ossner, ‘Die Reichsgründungs- und Verfassungsfeiern in Wetzlar und Gießen 1921–1933, Hessisches Jahrbuch für Landesgeschichte, 49 (1999), pp. 150–177. 9. See for the nature of local celebrations and conflicts connected to them Schumann, Politische Gewalt in der Weimarer Republik and Peter Fritzsche, Rehearsal for Fascism. Populism and Political Mobilization in Weimar Germany (Oxford, 1990). 10. Bonte, Werbung für Weimar, p. 235 and Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials. The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley, 1990) p. 195. See for Imperial Germany Alon Confino, The Nation as Local Metaphor. Württemberg, Imperial Germany and National Memory 1871–1918 (Chapel Hill, 1997). 11. See LAB, A Pr Br Rep. 042, p. 56. 12. BLHA, Rep. 34, 59, PSK to the Prussian ministry 12.09.1925 (no page number); BLHA, Rep. 34, 994, p. 2.

Notes

199

13. BLHA, Rep. 34, 994, pp. 18–19. 14. LAB, A Rep. 040-08, 572, p. 46. See for a similar programme GStAPK, I HA Rep.77, Tit.4043, no.6, p. 4. 15. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, pp. 109–117. 16. Das Reichsbanner, 26, 12.8.1928, ‘Verfassungsfeier in Hildesheim’. 17. Ibid., ‘Amtliche Verfassungsfeiern in Schwelm’. 18. Some examples are Eduard Weitsch, 11. August. Zehn Reden zum Verfassungstag in Schulen (Berlin, 1928); Gerhardt Hellwig, Die Verfassungsfeiern in den Schulen (Berlin, 1926); Wilhelm O. Ullmann, Die Verfassungsfeiern in der Volksschule (Leipzig, 1926); Adolf Jung and Paul Klaaß, Mein deutsches Vaterland. Der Verfassungstag als vaterländischer Gedenktag (Berlin, 1927); Hermann J. Scheufgen, Verfassungsfeier (Paderborn, 1930); Heinrich Erdeler, Verfassungstag in der Schule. Reden, Ansprachen, Gedichte und andere Handreichungen (Mühlhausen, 1930). 19. Müller and Wagner (eds), Republikanische Schulfeiern, 2.vols (Langensalza, 1928). 20. Friedrich Stampfer, Republikanische Verfassungsfeiern (Berlin, 1922), p. 6. 21. BLHA, Rep. 34, 59; 60; 61; 3787. See also Koinzer, ‘Die Republikfeiern’, pp. 89–93. 22. Der Tag, 195, 15.8.1928, ‘Gesinnungsterror gegen Berliner Schulen’; Deutsche Zeitung, 190, 14.8.1928, ‘Erziehung zur Angeberei’; Deutsche Zeitung, 16.1.1930, ‘Schon das Schulkind Zwangsbürger?’; Rote Fahne, 6.8.1930, ‘Zwangsfeiern in den Schulen’; Berliner Lokal Anzeiger, 297, 26.9.1929, ‘Jugendbegeisterung auf Befehl’. See also material in BLHA, Rep. 34, 994 and GStAPK, I HA Rep. 77, Tit.4043, no. 6. 23. Rossol, ‘Flaggenkrieg am Badestrand’, pp. 617–637. 24. BArch Berlin, R1501/116872, pp. 234–235. 25. For further details on this incident see BArch Berlin, R1501/11682, pp. 239– 242; GStAPK, IHA Rep. 77, Tit. 4043, no. 6, p. 6. 26. BArch Berlin, R1501/116873, p. 127. 27. GStAPK, IHA Rep. 77, Tit.4043, no. 6, p. 5. 28. Ibid., p. 16, 28.9.1926 Landrat Hofer. 29. Ibid., pp. 47–48, report from Landrat Usinger, Jüterbog, 16.8.1926. 30. Ibid., pp. 38–39, letter. 31. Ibid., pp. 52–54 Minister of the Interior to Ministry of Defence, 30.12.1926/ p. 55 reply Feb. 1927. See also Carl v. Ossietzky, ‘Frohe Feste, saure Wochen’, Die Weltbühne, 33, 16.8.1927, p. 237. 32. Local compromises seemed to have worked. In 1930 the Ministry of Defence reported that there had not been any problems regarding local celebrations. BArch Berlin, R43I/573, p. 148. 33. See Rossol, Visualising the Republic – Unifying the Nation, pp. 225–229. 34. Deutsche Republik, 25, 14.4.1927, ‘Republik in der Kinderstube’, p. 89; Deutsche Republik, 45, 10.8.1928, ‘Das Vaterlandlied’, p. 1458. 35. Republikanisches Liederbuch (Hildesheim, 1925); AdsD Bonn, Das Reichsbanner, Liederbuch des Reichsbanner schwarz rot gold (Berlin, without year); and Sturmlieder der jungen Republik (Königsberg, without year). See also IRZ, 8, 20.2.1926, ‘Liederbuch des Reichsbanner’. 36. See Zum Verfassungstag. Eine Materialsammlung (Berlin, 1928) pp. 37–38; Das Reichsbanner, 29.4.1928, ‘Republikanisches Bannerlied’ (Karl Bröger).

200

Notes

37. See Das Reichsbanner, 15, 1.8.1925, ‘Republikaner’; Das Reichsbanner, 21, 1.11.1927, ‘Wir greifen an’; Das Reichsbanner, 9, 1.3.1930, ‘Rechte Kämpfer’; Das Reichsbanner, 32, 9.8.1930, ‘Am Verfassungstag’; Das Reichsbanner, 13, 28.3.1931, ‘Wir werden siegen’; IRZ, 42, 20.10.1928, ‘Dein Herz gehört der Republik’. 38. Das Reichsbanner, 20, 1.7.1928, ‘Verfassungstag und Schule’. 39. AdsD Bonn, Nachlass Otto Hörsing, Mappe 2, Taschenkalender des Reichsbanners 1929, p. 80. 40. Das Reichsbanner, 20, 1.7.1928, ‘Wünsche zum Verfassungstag’. 41. Das Reichsbanner, 27, 19.8.1928, ‘Über Reichsbannerfeste’. 42. Ibid. 43. Frank Bösch, ‘Militante Geselligkeit. Formierungsformen der bürgerlichen Vereinswelten zwischen Revolution und Nationalsozialismus’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.), Politische Kulturgeschichte der Zwischenkriegszeit 1918–1939 (Göttingen, 2005), pp. 160–161. 44. David Imhoof, ‘Sharpshooting in Göttingen: A Case Study of Cultural Integration in Weimar and Nazi Germany’, German History, 23, no. 4 (2005), pp. 460–493. 45. Peter Fritzsche has illustrated this for nationalist organisation in the Weimar years. See Fritzsche, Rehearsal for Fascism; Peter Fritzsche, ‘Presidential Victory and Popular Festivities in Weimar Germany: Hindenburg’s 1925 Election’, Central European History, 23 (1990), pp. 205–224. See also Benjamin Ziemann and Bernd Ulrich (eds), Krieg im Frieden (Fankfurt a. M, 1997), p. 173. 46. Das Reichsbanner, 40, 4.10.1930, ‘Vom Gegner lernen’. 47. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, pp. 69–71. 48. See for example Imhoof, ‘Sharpshooting in Göttingen’, p. 472. 49. Das Reichsbanner, 12, 15.6.1927, ‘Zu den Festen’. 50. Reichsbanner schwarz rot gold: Vortragsdisposition, Winke und Beispiele für die Gestaltung von Bundesgründungs- und 1848er Gedenkfeiern (Magdeburg, 1929), pp. 1–2; Das Reichsbanner, 44, 31.10.1931, ‘Feste und Feiern’. See also Das Reichsbanner, 29, 20.7.1929, ‘Örtliche Verfassungsfeiern’. 51. Das Reichsbanner, 52, 27.12.1930, ‘Unsere Feste und Feiern’. 52. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, p. 223. 53. Cited in Wetterich, Bewegungskultur und Körpererziehung, p. 308. 54. For the launching of Hitler pictures see Sabine Behrenbeck, ‘Der Führer. Die Einführung eines Markenartikels’, in G. Diesener and R. Gries (eds), Propaganda in Deutschland (Darmstadt, 1996), pp. 51–78; BArch Berlin, R43II/960, p. 218. For requests from schools, offices, clubs, associations and individuals asking for Hitler pictures see BArch Berlin, R43II/976. For the connection between the NSDAP and the business of the photograph Heinrich Hoffmann see Rudolf Herz, Hoffmann und Hitler. Fotografie als Medium des Führers (München, 1994). See also David Welch, ‘Working towards the Führer: Charismatic Leadership and the Image of Adolf Hitler in Nazi Propaganda’, in Anthony McElligott and Tim Kirk (eds), Working towards the Führer. Essays in Honour of Sir Ian Kershaw (Manchester, 2003), pp. 93–117. For the concept of the Hitler myth see Ian Kershaw, The Hitler Myth. Image and Reality in the Third Reich (Oxford, 1987). 55. See early entries in Reichsministerialblatt. Zentralblatt für das Deutsche Reich for 1934. For images of a variety of Nazi Kitsch items see Rudolf Steinberg (ed.),

Notes

56. 57.

58.

59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64.

65. 66. 67.

68. 69.

70.

201

Nazi Kitsch (Darmstadt, 1975). See also Helmut Heiber (ed.), Die Rückseite des Hakenkreuzes (München, 2001), pp. 123, 127, 132, 136, 138. BArch Berlin, R55/20749, p. 8, Law for the Protection of National Symbols 19.5.1933. BArch Berlin, R8034II/7892, Völkischer Beobachter, 203, 22.7.1933, ‘Gegen den nationalen Kitsch’; Deutsche Zeitung, 24.10.1933, ‘Was ist verboten und was ist erlaubt?’; Völkischer Beobachter, 10.1.1934, ‘Verkitschung nationaler Symbole’; Völkischer Beobachter, 97, 7.4.1933, ‘Die nationale Revolution duldet keinen patriotischen Kitsch’; Kreuz Zeitung 185, 19.7.1933, ‘Nationaler Kitsch und Einzelhandel’. Unser Wille und Weg, 5, May 1933, ‘Wider dem nationalen Kitsch’, p. 133. See also Unser Wille und Weg, 8, August 1933, ‘Schluss mit dem Kitsch’, p. 220. Sometimes Nazi accusations regarding alleged materialistic retailers had anti-Semitic undertones claiming that Jewish businessmen were involved in making money with Nazi Kitsch, see LAB, B Rep. 020, 7764. See for example Unser Wille und Weg, 10, Oct. 1933, ‘Nochmals nationaler Kitsch’, pp. 263–264. HAStK, 1386, no. 3 and Frankfurter Zeitung, 18.7.1933, ‘Anti-Kitsch Ausstellung in Köln’ cited in Steinberg (ed.), Nazi Kitsch, p. 82. BArch Berlin, NS 18/1358; 3000, 842 and Heiber (ed.), Die Rückseite des Hakenkreuzes, pp. 93–95. Die Polizei, 18, 20.9.1933, p. 240, ‘Der Schutz der nationale Symbole’. Unser Wille und Weg, 2, Feb. 1934, ‘Die Ortsgruppenstelle’, pp. 38–39; Der Hoheitsträger, XII, Dec.1938, ‘Das Dorfgemeinschaftshaus’, p. 33; Unser Wille und Weg, 9, September 1936, ‘Lebendige Schaukasten-Propaganda’, pp. 305–306. For the importance of local Nazi offices in stabilising the Third Reich and their tasks as educators see Carl-Wilhelm Reibel, Das Fundament der Diktatur. Die NSDAP-Ortsgruppen 1932–1945 (Paderborn, 2002). See Sabine Weißler (ed.), Design in Deutschland 1933–1945 (Gießen, 1990). Heinrich A. Winkler, Der Schein der Normalität 1924–1930 (Bonn, 1985), p. 147. Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur nationalsozialistischen Feiergestaltung (München, 1936) Zur Gestaltung von Jugendheimen, March 1936. Behrenbeck, Der Kult um die toten Helden, p. 396. For some examples see Hans Kraus, Um Feuer und Fahne. Eine Auswahl von Versen für Fest und Feiern der jungen Deutschen (Potsdam, 1939); Wiebke Petersen, Reden im nationalsozialistischem Geiste (Berlin, 1934); Friedrich Hupp, Wir tragen die Fahne (München, 1935); Hans Wagner, Dröhnend fallen die Hämmer. Eine Feierabendabfolge (Hamburg,1936); Harald Casper, Fahnen im Morgenwind. Flaggensprüche und Tageslosungen (Potsdam, 1941); Albert Krebs, Wir Jungen tragen die Fahne. Nationalsozialistische Morgenfeiern (Frankfurt a. M., 1939); Otto Fröhlich, Die Fahne haltet rein. Gedanken, Gedichte und Sprüche zur Ehrung und Weihe der Fahnen in Schule und Lager (Langensalza, 1938); G. Dohlhoff/ W. Schneefuss, Handbuch der Gemeinschaftspflege (München, 1938); Hermann Roth, Die Feier. Sinn und Gestaltung (Leipzig, 1939). Unser Wille und Weg, 3, March 1934, ‘Der Propagandawart’, pp. 82–83.

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Notes

71. Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur nationalsozialistischen Feiergestaltung (München, 1935) Feiern- nicht Konzert oder Dichterstunde. 72. Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur nationalsozialistischen Feiergestaltung 1935, Zur Kulturarbeit der Partei. Eine Warnung vor Stillosigkeit, July 1935. 73. Unser Wille und Weg, 8, August 1933, ‘Der Deutsche Abend’ (H. Richter), pp. 213–216. 74. Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur nationalsozialistischen Feiergestaltung, 1936, Ein Wort zu SA Veranstaltungen, June 1936. 75. See Wolfgang Schreckenbach et al., Die Totenfeier (Leipzig, without date). 76. Hermann Roth, Die Feier. Sinn und Gestaltung (1939), p. 62. 77. Unser Wille und Weg, 8, August 1933, ‘Der Deutsche Abend’ (H. Richter) p. 215; Unser Wille und Weg, ‘Der Deutsche Abend’ (H. Richter), p. 248. 78. Unser Wille und Weg, 6, June 1934, ‘Weihestunden’ (W. Schultze), p. 172; Unser Wille und Weg, 10, Oct. 1933, ‘Der Deutsche Abend’, (H. Richter), pp. 269–271. 79. Unser Wille und Weg, 6, June 1935, 5.Jhrg, ‘Die Kultur des Versammlungsraumes’ (W. Klaus), p. 192. 80. G. Dohlhoff and W. Schneefuss, Handbuch der Gemeinschaftspflege (1938), p. 64. Similar see Roth, Die Feier. Sinn und Gestaltung (1939), p. 66. 81. Unser Wille und Weg, 6, June 1935, ‘Die Kultur des Versammlungsraumes’ (W. Klaus), p. 194. 82. Cited in Bochow, ‘Berliner Theater im Dritten Reich’, p. 153. 83. Unser Wille und Weg, 6, June, 1934, ‘Weihestunde’ (W. Schultze), p. 173. 84. Adelheid von Saldern, ‘Sinfonie der Feststagsstimmung. Stadtrepräsentation in drei deutschen Gesellschaften’, in Adelheid von Saldern (ed.), Inszenierter Stolz. Stadtrepräsentation in drei deutschen Gesellschaften 1935–1975 (Stuttgart, 2005), (p. 419), pp. 409–459. 85. Kühberger, ‘Von Frauen und Feiern. Die inszenierte Integration von Frauen in den NS Staat’, p. 69. 86. Roth, Die Feier, p. 70. 87. Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur nationalsozialistischen Feiergestaltung, 1935, Feier und Zeit. 88. Unser Wille und Weg, 12, Dec. 1934, ‘Wie ein kleines Dorf den Erntedanktag feierte’ (F. Radeloff), p. 370. 89. Unser Wille und Weg, 8, Aug 1933, ‘Der Deutsche Abend’ (H. Richer), p. 216. 90. von Saldern, ‘Sinfonie der Feststagsstimmung’, p. 420. 91. Unser Wille und Weg, 2, Feb. 1937, ‘Stuttgart-Stadt und Land feiern gemeinsam Erntedank’ (H. Rieß); Unser Wille und Weg, 2, Feb. 1935, ‘Eine Dorfversammlung der NSDAP-ein Fest der Volksgemeinschaft’ (H. Lomberg); Unser Wille und Weg, 2, Feb. 1935, ‘Aus der kulturellen Arbeit in einer Kleinstadt’ (H. Krüger); Unser Wille und Weg, 11, Nov. 1935, ‘Aus der kulturellen Arbeit in einer Kleinstadt’ (H. Krüger). See also Der Hoheitsträger, March 1938, ‘Feiergemeinschaft in der Ortsgruppe’, pp. 20–25. 92. Unser Wille und Weg, 12, Dec. 1934, ‘Wie ein kleines Dorf den Erntedanktag feierte’ (F. Radeloff), p. 370. 93. Unser Wille und Weg, June 1934, 6, p. 174. Repeated a year later in Vorschläge der Reichspropagandaleitung zur nationalsozialistischen Feiergestaltung (München, 1935) Mitarbeit und Erfahrungsberichte.

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94. Unser Wille und Weg, 10. Oct. 1933, ‘Der Deutsche Abend’ (H. Richter), p. 271. 95. BArch Berlin, NS 5 VI, 19127, Unser Wille und Weg, Feb. 1939, ‘Schluss mit dem Pappendeckelzauber’ (H. Kremer), p. 43. 96. Behrenbeck, Der Kult um die toten Helden, p. 437. 97. See Werner Freitag (ed.), Das Dritte Reich im Fest. Führermythos, Feierlaune und Verweigerung 1933–1945 (Bielefeld,1997).

Conclusion 1. Bochow, ‘Berliner Theater im Dritten Reich’, p. 169. 2. Other examples of National Socialist architecture that still exist can be found on the Nazi Party Rally grounds in Nuremberg and on the Baltic Sea. On the island of Rügen the Nazis built the KdF holiday resort Prora. 3. Warstat, Theatrale Gemeinschaften, pp. 398–399. 4. Der Spiegel (online), Panorama, 21.8.2008, ’Choreograf der OlympiadeEröffnung’; Die Welt, 8.8.2008, Internationale Presse: ’China marschiert auf die Weltbühne’ (www.welt.de/sport/olympia); www.ard.ndr.de/peking2008, ’Show von fast beängstigender Perfektion’. 5. Die Welt, 14.6.2006, ‘Lob für Patriotismus deutscher Fans’; Die Süddeutsche Zeitung, 14.6.2006 (online), ‘Flagge zeigen: Ja’; Die Zeit, 25, 14.6.2006, ‘Magie der Heiterkeit. Deutschland feiert sich und seine WM Gäste: Patriotismus muss man gar nicht verordnen’; Die Welt, 14.6.2006, ‘Unbewusster Patriotismus’; Die Welt, 15.6.2006, ‘Die Deutsche werden normal. Interview mit Paul Nolte über Patriotismus’; Die Süddeutsche Zeitung, 27.6.2006, ‘Was man mit der deutschen Fahne machen darf’; Die Zeit, 26, 22.6.2006, ‘Innere Entspannung’. 6. Richard Koch, Die deutsche Reichsflagge in ihrer Entwicklung bis zum Jahre 1935 (Gießen, 1935), p. 44. See also Victor Klemperer, Ich will Zeugnis ablegen bis zum letzten. Tagbücher 1933–41 (Berlin, 1995), p. 162. 7. Mergel, ‘Überlegungen zu einer Kulturgeschichte der Politik’, p. 605. 8. See the excellent introduction by Hans Vorländer examining the relation between democracy and aesthetics: Hans Vorländer, ‘Demokratie und Ästhetik. Zur Rehabilitierung eines problematischen Zusammenhangs’, in Hans Vorländer (ed.), Zur Ästhetik der Demokratie. Formen der politischen Selbstdarstellung (Stuttgart, 2003), pp. 12–26 (here pp. 16–17). 9. Corey Ross, ’Mass Politics and the Techniques of Leadership. The Promise and Perils of Propaganda in Weimar Germany’, German History, 24, no.2 (2006), pp. 184–211 (here p. 208). I disagree with Corey Ross’ negative evaluation of republican propaganda but support the argument of a lack of unity amongst republicans. 10. See Konrad Haenisch, Neue Bahnen der Kulturpolitik. Aus der Reformpraxis der Deutschen Republik (Berlin, 1921) and in particular Carl Heinrich Becker, Kulturpolitische Aufgaben des Reiches (Leipzig, 1919), p. 42. For the importance of Prussia’s attempts in the area of cultural policy and arts in the Weimar years—excluding the area of representative matters—see Kristina KratzKessemeier, Kunst für die Republik: Die Kunstpolitik des preußischen Kultusministeriums 1918 bis 1932 (Berlin, 2008). 11. Karow, Politische Körper, p. 307.

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Index

Adenauer, Konrad, mayor of Cologne, 43, 91 aesthetics, political, 2, 8, 9, 17, 35, 41, 58–9, 71, 95, 101–3, 121–2, 126, 132, 138, 147, 157–8, 163 Anschluβ, 83, 105, 136–7 Arndt, Ernst Moritz, writer and poet, 45, 85 audience, 10, 21–2, 40, 64–5, 76, 78, 94, 98, 101, 112, 117, 119, 127, 136, 153, 155, 161 Austria, 41, 44, 45, 70, 83, 95, 96, 105, 122, 137 Bauhaus, 151 Bavaria, 29, 141 Becker, Carl Heinrich, Prussian minister, 54, 56 Benjamin, Walter, 2 Berlin, 15, 52, 67–70 Berliner Tageblatt, newspaper, 20, 67, 70, 98, 102 Biebrach, Kurt, assistant of the Reichskunstwart, 73, 124 bodies, 2, 6, 10, 13, 16, 34, 72, 123 body politics, 132–3, 136 disciplined, 8, 9, 38–9, 158, 163 border, 26, 44–5, 89, 92, 96, 134–5, 162 Braun, Otto, prime minister of Prussia, 23, 24 Brecht, Bertold, playwright, 64 Brentano, Clemens, writer, 90, 114 Breslau, 7, 44, 49, 108, 122, 135–7 Bröger, Karl, writer and poet, 32, 142, 146 chaos, see disorder choreography, 6, 9, 70, 128, 158 coats of arms, 83, 84

Cologne, 42–4, 48–9, 85, 89, 91, 151 communist, 14, 22, 30, 33, 41, 66, 67, 79, 97, 148, 161 community, 9, 10, 34, 45, 46, 49, 51, 58, 76, 97, 100, 132, 138, 159 people’s, 8, 56, 101, 105, 107, 109, 117, 119, 120, 126, 128, 158 republican, 8, 31, 50, 63, 73, 75, 77–8, 101, 161 constitution, 18, 26, 59, 98 Constitution Day, 11, 19, 32, 58–79 festivities, 19, 23–4, 25, 31, 32, 51, 58–61, 66–79, 81–2, see also mass spectacle/play, republican; Rhine, spectacle 1930 parade in Berlin, 19–20, 23–4, 25, 68–70 school festivities, 52, 53–4, 56–7, 66, 141–2, 146 crisis, 1, 3, 4, 9, 82, 106 cultural history, 3, 5, 160 DAF (German Labour Front), 112 DDP (German Democratic Party), 29, 36, 141 democracy, 7, 9, 14, 20, 23, 26, 32, 33, 100 1848, 26–7, 36, 64, 65, 83, 86, 146, 162 demonstration, 13–14, 18, 19, 32 peaceful, 15–18 route, 15–16 style, 16–17 Deutsche Republik, journal, 68, 79, 96, 99 Diem, Carl, 42, 46, 47, 52, 123, 125–6, 128–9 discipline, 13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 22, 24, 31, 148–9, 155

222

Index 223 disorder, 38, 106, 121, 151 DNVP (German Nationalist People’s Party), 22 DVP (German People’s Party), 96 East Prussia, 96, 114, 134–5 Ebert, Friedrich, president of the Weimar Republic, 23–4, 64, 83, 88 education, civic, 55, 64, 68, 101, 161 entertainment, 31, 48, 52, 102–3, 105, 113, 120, 122, 131, 138, 149, 201 Erzberger, Matthias, politician, 64–5 Fallersleben, Heinrich Hoffmann von, writer and poet, 83 Federal Republic of Germany, 158–9 festive culture, 2, 51, 121–2 ‘fatigue’, 131–2, 137–8 international, 8–9, 76, 122, 158–9 festivities, local, 7, 139, 147–9, 157, 164 Constitution Day, 141–5 Nazi, 140, 150–7, see also Kitsch Reichsbanner, 140, 145–9 style, 140, 142–4, 146, 148, 155–6 Fielitz, Josef, director of mass spectacles 1929 and 1930, 71, 92, 99 film, 21, 63, 102, 105, 107, 122 First of May, 32, 71, 154 First World War, 4, 18, 43, 70, 83, 87–8, 110 Fischer-Lichte, Erika, theatre historian, 9, 76 flag, 74, 134, 159 black-red-gold, 19, 24, 27, 30–1, 56, 67, 74–5, 94, 142, 145, 159–60 black-white-red, 49, 56, 101 conflicts, 30–1, 56, 67–8, 144 National Socialist, 105 Football World Cup, 159–60 foreign policy, 44, 80, 90, 101, 122, 133, 136–7 France, 23–4, 29, 84, 85–7, 89, 99 The Frankenburg Dice Game (Das Frankenburger Würfelspiel), Thing play, 129–30 Frankfurt am Main, 26–7, 35–7, 41, 118, 120

Gay, Peter, historian, 34 German Democratic Republic, 158 German Eagle, 81, 83, 92, 128 ‘goddess of liberty’ (allegorical female figure), 33, 64–5, 84 Goebbels, Joseph, propaganda minister, 10, 70, 104, 112, 118, 129, 131, 151 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 26, 28, 82, 154 film, 63 Großdeutschland, 8, 96, 122, 137 gymnastic exercises, 10, 37–9, 46, 72, 136, 163 Heine, Heinrich, writer and poet, 114 Hindenburg, Paul von, president of the Weimar Republic, 45, 49, 66 Hitler, Adolf, 96, 105, 110, 121, 123, 137, 154 Imperial Germany (festivities), 15, 62, 78–9, 140, 141, 161 inclusiveness, 4, 10, 19, 20–2, 62, 77, 94, 107, 143, 146–7, 165 Jahn, Friedrich Ludwig, 35, 53–6, 82 Kampfspiele, 6, 36, 42–9, 108, 118, 122 Kaschuba, Wolfgang, anthropologist, 17, 33, 97 KdF (Strength through Joy organisation), 103, 105, 120 Kirchbach, Fritz Gottfried, artist, 69 Kitsch, 112, 150–2 Kracauer, Siegfried (The Mass Ornament), 138 Kreutzberg, Harald, dancer, 125 Krupp factory (Essen), 86 Laban, Rudolf, von, choreographer, 77, 123, 129 Vom Tauwind und der Neuen Freude (mass play), 129–30 Landmann, Ludwig, mayor of Frankfurt am Main, 36 landscape, 103, 111, 113, 117 Lang, Fritz, (Metropolis), 40

224

Index

Law for the Protection of National Symbols, 150–1 light, use of, 44, 106, 126, 165 Lindenberger, Thomas, historian, 15, 17 Loreley, 113–14, 115, 116, 120 see also Thingspiel movement ‘lost territories’, 44, 70, 74, 80, 96, 101, 134–7 see also territorial wholeness Luppe, Hermann, mayor of Nuremberg, 29, 141 Mann, Heinrich, writer, 60 mass spectacle/play, 3, 6, 7, 9, 71, 76, 95, 100, 109, 128, 131, 158–9 Nazi, 101, 129–31, 135 republican 1929, 2, 7, 10, 58, 71, 74–9 republican 1930, see Rhine, spectacle 1930 working class, 71–2, 77, see also Struggle for the Earth (Kampf um die Erde), mass play see also Olympic Games, Berlin 1936 Meissner, Hans, theatre director, 118–20 Mergel, Thomas, historian, 3, 160 military, 24, 61, 63, 79, 105 militaristic appeal, 13, 17, 32, 34, 39 Reichswehr, 61, 144–5 modern dance, 9, 51, 71–3, 77–8, 97, 109, 123–30, 164 movement choir, 72, 73, 74, 77, 94, 124–5, 128 movement, physical, 6, 13, 14, 16–17, 37–9, 72, 127 Munich, 29, 66, 162 music, 59, 61, 95, 134, 142, 147 national anthem, 24, 45, 75, 76, 83, 86, 95 national holiday, 11, 96, 130, 141 nationalism, 34, 37, 42, 43, 44, 80, 91 Nazi festivities, 1, 2, 3, 104, 131 festive style, 81, 102–3, 104, 119, 164–5 see also Nazi Party Rallies

Nazi Party Rallies, 7, 29, 65, 72, 102–8, 112, 120, 131, 133, 137, 165 assembly, 106, 107, 137 international dimension, 106, 133 Nazi propaganda, 44, 102, 103–4, 108, 112, 113, 117, 121, 122, 126, 132, 137–8, 150–2 propaganda ministry, 103–4, 109, 112, 114, 119, 123, 150, 152, 165 Niedecken-Gebhard, Hanns, director of mass plays, 118, 125, 127, 128, 135 Niederlahnstein, 114–15 Nitschke, August, historian, 97 Nuremberg, 29, 44, 103, 104–6, 131, 141 Ode to Joy, 40, 94, 95, 125, 126 Olympic Games, 35, 42, 49, 123, 124, 158 Berlin 1936, 7, 40, 122–9 Olympic Youth (Olympische Jugend), mass play, 125–8 Ossietzky, Carl von, journalist, 22, 60, 99 Palucca, Gret, dancer, 125, 127 parades, 2, 6, 13–14, 15, 17, 161–2 route, 19–20, 23, 47, 68 style, 41 see also Constitution Day, parade in Berlin participant, 6, 14, 16, 17, 19, 21, 22, 23, 30 participation, 8, 10, 32, 59–60, 71, 79, 97, 100–1, 106, 128, 136, 142, 152, 156, 163, 165 Paulskirche, 27–8, 86 ‘performative turn’, 5 picture-frame-stage, 64, 113, 165 police, 15, 18, 23–5, 26, 31, 33, 52–3, 67–9, 107, 150 political culture, 1, 3, 4 political extremes, 3, 14, 19, 22, 25 political symbols, 3, 5, 9, 16, 18 mass participation, 74–5, 76, 93, 101, 128–9, 138, see also mass spectacle/play

Index 225 republican, 1, 10–11, 12, 19, 27, 92 swastika, 2, 150–1 popularity, 6, 34–5, 51, 56–7, 61 see also entertainment Preuß, Hugo, 59 Prussia, 14, 20, 53–4, 66, 73, 141–2, 144–5 Prussian Ministry for Culture and Education, 53, 54, 56, 142 PSK (school authorities), 54, 56, 73, 142 public performance culture, 5–6, 7, 9, 12, 58–9, 66, 81, 97, 113 RAD (State Labour Service), 110–11, 112, 115–16, 132–3, 137 radio, 63, 108 Rathenau, Walther, foreign minister, 4, 64–5, 146 Redslob, Edwin, 10, 124, 126, 129, 130 see also Reichskunstwart Reich Ministry of the Interior, 10, 20, 36, 59, 74, 76, 87, 88 Reichsautobahn, 110, 117 Reichsbanner schwarz-rot-gold, 11–12, 14, 19–23, 25–33, 50, 84, 146, 161 celebration, 25–33, 62, 66, 69, see also festivities, local celebration in Frankfurt am Main, 26–8 celebration in Koblenz, 29, 89, 99 celebration in Leipzig, 30, 31, 63 celebration in Nuremberg, 21–2, 29 celebration style, 31, 33, 64–6 monument, 70–1 Reichsehrenmal (national monument for the war dead), 87–8, 110, 114–15 Reichsjugendwettkämpfe, 52, 56 Reichskunstwart, 10–11, 50–2, 58, 60, 61, 63, 72–9, 81–2, 86, 87, 88, 92–100, 103–4, 114, 124, 128, 152–3, 160–1 Reichstag building, 20, 60–1, 71 Rhine, 25, 44–5, 47, 48, 81, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 92, 94, 95, 97, 108, 113, 116, 120 poetry/ plays, 90–1 spectacle 1930, 92–100, 102, 134

Rhineland celebration 1925, 44, 87 Rhineland ‘liberation’ 1930, 8, 43, 47, 80, 84, 88–9, 91, 94–5, 96 rhythm, 2, 13, 19, 32, 37, 38, 63, 70, 72, 98, 109, 136, 147, 164 Riefenstahl, Leni, 2, 65, 105, 107, 122 Ruhr struggle, 23, 85–6, 87 SA, 153 Saarland, 45, 47–8, 70, 87, 96, 111, 133–4 Saar plebiscite, 111, 134 Schiele, Martin, DNVP politician, 36 Schiller, Friedrich, 26, 28, 40, 111, 118 schoolchildren, 63, 72–3, 74, 77, 93, 101 Schützenfest, 147 Schutzsport, 50 Senf, Hermann, architect, 116–17 Severing, Carl, SPD politician, 23–4, 66, 77 Social Democrats, 11, 13, 14–17, 76, 97, 140, 143, 147, 148, 157, 164 space, performance, 6, 8, 103, 108–9, 127, 154 urban space, 7–8, 13, 15–18, 25–31, 44, 67–8, 69–71, 105–6, 161–2 SPD, 11, 15–17, 35, 67, 69, 148, 149, 151, 164 spectator, 6, 16, 19, 21, 23, 30, 70, 78 see also audience sports, 2, 6, 7, 14, 33–4, 40–2, 49–50, 122, 158–9 sports festival Breslau 1938, 135–7 sports and the police, 52–3 sports and the republic, 35, 51–7 sports and school celebrations, 53–7 see also Workers’ Olympics; Kampfspiele stadium, 36, 43–7, 64, 71, 74, 76, 81, 95, 101, 103, 127–8 Stahlhelm, 22–3, 25–6, 68, 135, 147 gathering in Breslau, 26, 89, 162 gathering in Koblenz, 25–6, 88–9, 162 Stampfer, Friedrich, 23, 143 state representation, 1–4, 10, 20, 56–7, 61, 78, 79, 80–1, 87, 102, 124, 138, 160–1, 164–5

226

Index

Stein, Freiherr vom, 80, 82 Stresemann, Gustav, politician, 64 Struggle for the Earth (Kampf um die Erde), mass play, 39–40 Sudetenland, 44, 122, 135–7 territorial wholeness, 7, 8, 41, 44, 70, 74, 83–4, 95–6, 107–8, 133–7, 159, 162 theatre, 6, 64, 97, 100, 112–13, 120 Thingspiel movement, 7, 100, 103, 108–20, 129–31, 158, 163, 165 architecture, 110–11, 116–17 arena stage, 103, 111, 114, 115, 120 Loreley stage, 113, 115–19 Thing play, 109–10, 111–12 Tiller Girls, 97, 138 tourism, 26, 41, 113, 120, 134 Rhine tourism, 44, 48, 85, 114, 120 Tucholsky, Kurt, journalist, 60, 61 Unknown Soldier, 88, 89, 109–10 Unruh, Fritz von (Heinrich aus Andernach), writer and playwright, 89, 110 Versailles, Treaty of, 83, 85, 101 violence, 16, 17, 18, 121, 132

visual representation, 20, 24, 28, 33, 58, 60, 67, 70, 95, 146–7 Vossische Zeitung, newspaper, 60, 68, 70, 72, 76, 90, 98 Wagner, Richard, 90 Wann wir schreiten Seit an Seit (song), 74, 76, 93 Warneken, Bernd J., historian, 14, 17 Weimar, city of, 26, 28, 58 Weisbrod, Bernd, historian, 4 Weltbühne, Die, journal, 60, 99 Werkbund, 151 Wigman, Mary, dancer and choreographer, 124, 125, 127 Wilhelm Tell (theatre play), 47–8, 87, 118–19 women, 15, 32–3, 134, 136, 155 Workers’ Olympics, 6, 35–42, 43, 44, 48 working class, 37–8 areas, 20, 30, 31 demonstration, 6, 8, 13, 15–18 festivities, 58 sports organisations, 34–6, 39, 72 youth, 34, 38, 39, 40, 45, 51, 58, 68, 74, 76, 79, 87, 88, 98, 112, 125–7, 135, 161

Performing the Nation in Interwar Germany: Sport, Spectacle and Political Symbolism, 1926-36

Flag, Nation and Symbolism in Europe and America

The Political Economy of Sport

Spectacle

Symbolism in Science and Philosophy

Sport and Physical Education in Germany (Iscpes Book Series.)

Mothers of the Nation: Right-Wing Women in Weimar Germany

Performing the Body Performing the Text

Freud, Psychoanalysis and Symbolism

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The Pan-German League and Radical Nationalist Politics in Interwar Germany, 1918-39

Japan, Sport and Society (Sport in the Global Society)

The Melodramatic Thread: Spectacle and Political Culture in Modern France (Interdisciplinary Studies in History)

Political Pluralism and the State: Explorations in political theory beyond the nation-state (Routledge Innovators in Political Theory)

Society of the Spectacle

Freud, Psychoanalysis and Symbolism

The Spectacle of Intimacy

Performing Science and the Virtual

Aftermath: The Clinton Impeachment and the Presidency in the Age of Political Spectacle

Towards an Urban Nation: Germany since 1780

The Symbolism of Freemasonry

Symbolism of the Cross

Spectacle and Society in Livy's History

Sport And the Law

Media Spectacle

Liberalism, Fascism, or Social Democracy: Social Classes and the Political Origins of Regimes in Interwar Europe

Sound Symbolism

The World Economy and National Economies in the Interwar Slump

The Society of the Spectacle

The Apocalypse in Germany

The State, the Nation & the Jews: Liberalism and the Antisemitism Dispute in Bismarck's Germany

Performing the Nation in Interwar Germany: Sport, Spectacle and Political Symbolism, 1926-36

Flag, Nation and Symbolism in Europe and America

The Political Economy of Sport

Spectacle

Symbolism in Science and Philosophy

Sport and Physical Education in Germany (Iscpes Book Series.)

Mothers of the Nation: Right-Wing Women in Weimar Germany

Performing the Body Performing the Text

Freud, Psychoanalysis and Symbolism

Symbolism and Belief

The Pan-German League and Radical Nationalist Politics in Interwar Germany, 1918-39

Japan, Sport and Society (Sport in the Global Society)

The Melodramatic Thread: Spectacle and Political Culture in Modern France (Interdisciplinary Studies in History)

Political Pluralism and the State: Explorations in political theory beyond the nation-state (Routledge Innovators in Political Theory)

Society of the Spectacle

Freud, Psychoanalysis and Symbolism

The Spectacle of Intimacy

Performing Science and the Virtual

Aftermath: The Clinton Impeachment and the Presidency in the Age of Political Spectacle

Towards an Urban Nation: Germany since 1780

The Symbolism of Freemasonry

Symbolism of the Cross

Spectacle and Society in Livy's History

Sport And the Law

Media Spectacle

Liberalism, Fascism, or Social Democracy: Social Classes and the Political Origins of Regimes in Interwar Europe

Sound Symbolism

The World Economy and National Economies in the Interwar Slump

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