Nicholas Doumanis, ed., The Oxford Handbook of European History 1914–1945, Oxford
University Press: Oxford, 2016; 655 pp.; 9780199695669, £95.00 (hbk)
Neil MacGregor, Germany: Memories of a Nation, Penguin Books: London, 2016; 598 pp.;
9780141979786, £10.99 (pbk)
Jan Rüger and Nikolaus Wachsmann, eds, Rewriting German History: New Perspectives
on Modern Germany, Palgrave: Basingstoke, 2015; 336 pp.; 9781137347787, £89.99 (hbk)
Andrew Szanajda, The Allies and the German Problem, 1941–1949: From Cooperation to
Alternative Settlement, Palgrave: Basingstoke, 2015; 124 pp.; 9781137527714, £49.99
(hbk); 9781349506767, £49.99 (pbk)
Malte Zierenberg, Berlin’s Black Market: 1939–1950, Palgrave: Basingstoke, 2015; 292
pp.; 9781137017741, £79.99 (hbk)
The tidier Europe that emerged, blinking, into the second half of the twentieth century
had fewer loose ends. Thanks to war, occupation, boundary adjustments, expulsions,
and genocide, almost everybody now lived in their own country, among their own people.
The stability of the postwar Europe rested upon the accomplishments of Joseph Stalin
and Adolf Hitler. Between them, and assisted by wartime collaborators, the dictators
blasted flat the demographic heath upon which the foundations of the new and less
complicated continent were then laid.
1
Many, many comparisons have been drawn in recent years between the current rise of
(right-wing) populism and the financial crisis of 2008 that shook and continues to
shake Europe to its core, and the tumultuous and horrifying events of the 1930s, which
in the end resulted in the Second World War. A number of recent studies which (partially)
focus on this decade carry ominous titles like To Hell and Back, The Age of Catastrophe
and The Triumph of the Dark.
2
Referred to by some historians as the second Thirty Years’ War, the period from the
First World War to the end of the Second still continues to draw much academic and
indeed public attention. In many cases, Germany deservedly plays a central role in
the analysis, either in the form of the Kaiserreich or the ill-fated Weimar Republic
and, of course, Nazi Germany. The five books under review here discuss European history
between 1914 and 1950 in general, and that of Germany in particular, in this period.
What do these books tell us about Europe’s and Germany’s path in the first half of
the twentieth century, and what new insights do they provide?
When the First World War started in August 1914, many believed it would be over quickly.
Soon, however, the enthusiasm for war that had raged across Europe at the start of
hostilities was gone, smothered in the barbed wire, poison gas, drumfire and trenches
of the Western Front. The excitement with which the Continent went to war in 1914
is still, even over a century later, shocking.
3
The enthusiasm of going to war is also evident from the often-used picture on the
cover on The Oxford Handbook of European History 1914–1945, edited by Nicholas Doumanis,
Associate Professor of History at the University of New South Wales. In the jubilant
crowd, one person in particular stands out, the man who would plunge Europe and eventually
the whole world in a second global war: Adolf Hitler.
What is the point of view of Doumanis and the authors assembled by him on Europe’s
history between 1914 and 1945? Can we speak of ‘Europe’ as a clear unity and of a
general or common experience of this disastrous period, given the enormous differences
between the various regions of Europe, not least in socio-economic and cultural respects?
4
According to Doumanis, there was certainly one thing that was shared across the Continent,
albeit a very destructive and traumatizing one: war. Quoting Julian Jackson, ‘war
gives unity to this period’,
5
not just the World Wars, but also numerous smaller but no less deadly and gruesome
conflicts like the Balkan War of 1912–1913 and the Russo-Polish War of 1919–1920.
In Doumanis’ words: ‘Estimates of premature deaths caused by Europe’s conflicts, of
war-related factors like famine and disease, and of the victims of political persecution,
accounted for as many as 80 million people’ (3).
The ones who suffered the most were, apart from soldiers, ordinary men, women and
children, who were subjected to state terror, indiscriminate bombing, (state-induced)
famine and genocide. More and more, historians analyze the consequences of ‘the age
of catastrophe’ on the ordinary life of Europeans. In that respect, they refer to
‘History’. According to Doumanis, Europeans were quite aware that their conditions
were anything but normal (7), as Timothy Snyder has so vividly and chillingly shown
in his masterpiece Bloodlands.
6
The day-to-day experiences of ordinary people play a central role in The Oxford Handbook
of European History. As always with edited volumes, the topics and analyses offered
range widely, from societies at war to social policy, to the nationalization of the
masses to European sexualities in the Age of Total War. All the chapters emphasize
the influence of European but certainly also global developments such as the Great
Depression on the personal, ‘micro-history’ of individual people. For example, in
her fascinating contribution ‘Family, Community, and Identity during the First World
War’, Tammy M. Proctor from Utah State University points to the enormous influence
of World War I losses on family life, a truly European-wide experience. More than
a third of all German men aged 19–22 in 1914 died before the armistice, with Russia
losing some 1400 men a day. Thirty-seven per cent of all Serbian men mobilized were
killed, for Germany it was 15 per cent, in the Ottoman army 27 per cent. The First
World War was indeed a traumatizing event for the whole of Europe. As Proctor states:
‘These mortality rates, when combined with high levels of physical and psychological
trauma, wreaked havoc on family life in Europe’ (69 and Table 3.1 on the same page).
What applied to Europe as a whole perhaps applied specifically to Germany. Although
that country of course figures prominently in The Oxford Handbook of European History,
much more attention is paid to it in the books by MacGregor, Rüger and Wachsmann,
Szanajda and Zierenberg respectively. Rüger and Wachsmann’s Rewriting German History:
New Perspectives on Modern Germany (the title is a bit misleading as it contains relatively
few contributions on post-1945 German history) provides succinct yet very interesting
and well-researched chapters, often offering much new information.
A telling example is Jan Rüger’s analysis of the history of the small island of Heligoland,
a strategic German outpost in the North Sea prior to the First World War. Europe as
a whole and Germany in particular saw many (forceful) border changes after the conflict
ended. After 1918, there were indeed more states in Europe than before 1914, with
the demise of Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, and the loss of sizeable German
territories as a result of the Versailles Treaty of 1919. Well-known examples of that
are of course Alsace-Lorraine and parts of Germany going to the new Polish state –
including the ‘free city’ of Danzig under the protectorate of the League of Nations.
However, the history of Heligoland – ‘Germany’s Gibraltar’ (54) – is far less known.
The armistice of 1918 stipulated that the island had to be comprehensively demilitarized.
Although the ‘de-militarization of Germany’s North Sea outpost turned the island into
a powerful symbol of defeat’, it did not result in much resentment, it seems, among
the Germans, especially not among the islanders themselves, who basically refused
to become ‘Germanized’, this in contrast for example to the loss of territories to
Poland and the Germans living there. In fact, the islanders often asked Britain to
defend their interests, forcing Weimar Germany to grant a number of privileges to
the Heligolanders.
Rüger questions whether it is true that a collective trauma existed in Germany, at
least in the sense of a common psychological state. In Rüger’s words:
Rather, defeat resembled a process in which personal experiences, political allegiances
and public discourse intersected. Just as there had not been one coherent August-Erlebnis
or one shared front experience, there was not one uniform reaction to the armistice
and the peace treaty. (62)
Much indeed seems to support this argument, although it has to be recognized that
the resentment about the Versailles Treaty – the Diktat as Germans referred to it
– and the humiliation and injustice felt because of it in all sections of the Weimar
Republic, played an important role in the Nazis’ and Hitler’s rise to power in the
early 1930s.
The history of post-1918 Heligoland also says something about the efforts to erase
parts of history, sometimes literally from the face of the earth. This not only happened
after World War I, the Interbellum and especially after the Second World War, which
saw a ‘cleansing of culture’ on a massive scale. A telling example happened in Austria
after the Anschluss with Germany of March 1938, when the Nazis destroyed that state
and instigated a period of statelessness and lawlessness, albeit a short one, which
led to disastrous consequences for the Jews: the result was humiliation, pain and
death. As Timothy Snyder has pointed out in his masterful Black Earth: The Holocaust
as History and Warning:
That first night [11 March 1938] was more dangerous for Jews than the preceding two
decades of Austrian statehood. Their world was gone… Jews were cleaning the streets
at certain places, working with acid, brushes, and their bare hands to remove one
sort of mark. They were erasing… ‘Austria’, a name of a state of which they had been
citizens.
7
After that, they were no longer citizens. It was a gruesome sign of far worse things
to happen to the Jews during the Second World War.
What happened in Vienna, i.e. the cultural cleansing of Jewish life in one of Europe’s
capitals, happened to the territories lost by Germany to the East after the Second
World War. When the Germans fled the vengeful Red Army in the last months of World
War Two or were forcibly expelled from Poland, Czechoslovakia and other Eastern European
states – the so-called Heimatvertriebenen – much effort was put into erasing German
culture from the face of the earth.
As Hugo Service shows in his contribution to Rewriting German History, in Czechoslovakia
at first German road signs and street names were removed. However, ‘this campaign
soon radicalized into an attempt to eliminate every single word of German from the
borderlands, including German books and even German inscriptions on gravestones’ (83).
Although these sort of actions were not limited to Eastern Europe – in the Netherlands
in May 1945 for example, abolishing German as a course in secondary school was suggested
to defend the Dutch people against ‘mental contamination’
8
– it was far more extreme there than elsewhere on the Continent. However, this cultural
cleansing of German culture was not entirely successful. First of all, there was ‘simply
too much of it to eradicate it all’ (94). Moreover, in Upper Silesia, the measures
that were taken to convince the former bilingual Germans to adopt a Polish cultural
identity had an opposite effect: ‘The attack on German material culture and cultural
institutions provoked profound feelings of estrangement towards the Polish state,
Polish society and Polish culture’.
Be that as it may, Eastern European states did succeed in forcibly expelling millions
of Germans, in the process of which hundreds of thousands more were killed, although
the actual numbers are still hotly debated, especially in conservative German circles.
It was, as Neil MacGregor aptly puts it in his justifiably much-lauded Germany: Memories
of a Nation, Europe’s ‘worst refugee crisis ever, possibly the biggest forced population
movement in history’ (478). The paradoxical fact is of course that the Nazis themselves
before and during the Second World War had the intention of doing the same to people
they saw as ‘racial’ enemies, i.e. gypsies, Slavs and, above all, the Jews. When the
Wehrmacht invaded the Soviet Union on 22 June 1941, the idea was that tens of millions
of Slavs would be starved to death and/or expelled, so that Germany’s armies could
be fed and German farmers could colonize these regions, with the fertile soil of Ukraine
providing enough food to make Germany self-sufficient.
MacGregor has an original approach to writing Germany’s history, in his case from
Roman times to the present day. Using coins, paintings, pictures, art, buildings,
(propaganda) posters and the like, MacGregor presents a highly readable account of
German history, allowing all readers (his book has been translated in many other languages)
to easily familiarize themselves with the complexities of Germany and its past. His
account is highly readable, enticing the reader to keep on reading. MacGregor correctly
describes the history of Germany as ‘so damaged that it cannot be repaired but, rather,
must be constantly revisited’ (xvi). It is the history of a country giving the world
an impressive culture and great poets and thinkers like Goethe and Kant, but also
being responsible for arguably the most horrendous crime in the history of mankind:
the Holocaust, a past that ‘still refuses to go away’,
9
although especially younger Germans feel that burden far less strongly.
Anyone writing on the recent history of Germany, however, cannot afford not to address
the Nazis’ murder of millions of Jews, either by Einsatzgruppen, Wehrmacht soldiers
or locals over large pits in the Soviet Union, or in the extermination camps like
Auschwitz, Treblinka, Sobibor, Chelmno, Majdanek and Belzec. Here, MacGregor also
uses a different approach, choosing Buchenwald as starting point. As in all his chapters,
he has a very keen eye for detail: ‘This place, charmingly set in the forest, is a
place of national shame and international reflection’ (459). Buchenwald was not an
extermination camp, although almost 60,000 people were murdered there. It is now ‘a
memorial to its victims, and to all Nazi Germany’s victims in camps everywhere’ (465).
However, as it was not an extermination camp, like most of thousands of larger and
smaller camps across Germany and occupied Europe, it was not the scene of the Holocaust
itself. That ‘honour’ befell parts of the Soviet Union occupied by Germany and occupied
Poland, where Germany’s extermination facilities were located.
The question of how the Holocaust could become possible has resulted in literally
piles of books and articles, and the discussion on its causes, perpetrators, victims,
bystanders and organization is by no means over. Both The Oxford Handbook of European
History and Rewriting German History have an excellent contribution on the Holocaust
and/or the Nazi concentration camps, both in a wider European and/or international
context. In ‘The Nazi Concentration Camps in International Context: Comparisons and
Connections’, Nikolaus Wachsmann gives a short yet very erudite description of the
uniqueness of the German camps, while at the same time pointing at similarities with
other genocides and mass murders.
10
What exactly, he asks himself, was ‘the place of the Nazi concentration camps in the
era of camps?’ (307).
While it is true, as Wachsmann points out, that there are some key similarities and
specificities, for example between the camps of the Nazis and those of the Soviet
Union, and that the Nazis temporarily considered using the Gulag to deport the Jews
to after the Wehrmacht had launched Operation ‘Barbarossa’ (318), the Nazis did not
copy the Soviet terror model. Wachsmann is quite outspoken in his judgement of the
uniqueness of the German concentration camps. Although transnational comparisons,
transfers between Fascist Italy and the Third Reich or the suggested colonial origins
of the Holocaust offer interesting perspectives, Wachsmann is convinced that all this
will not alter the fundamental understanding of the Nazi concentration camps. As he
puts it: ‘For all their international entanglements, these camps were largely made
in Germany, springing up on the ground of the bitter political battles of the Weimar
years and flourishing in the Third Reich’s climate of ‘cumulative radicalization’
(319). When it comes to the Nazi camps, Wachsmann believes transnational history will
only offer limited insights. In that sense, we can still speak of a Sonderweg – a
‘special path’ – in modern German history.
In his contribution to The Oxford Handbook of European History, Mark Roseman, who
has published extensively on the history of the Holocaust, deals at some length with
the same question as Wachsmann, pointing to a certain paradox in Holocaust research
and the uniqueness of it. While some scholars have come to see this moral claim as
untenable, at the same time it is absolutely clear that it has received far more attention
than other examples of mass violence (520). The Holocaust did not claim the most lives
and the twentieth century saw ‘all too many mega-murders and efforts to eliminate
entire peoples’ (520). And yet, Roseman states, ‘one of the oddities of the current
state of historiography is that while many scholars strongly reject the idea that
the Holocaust was unique, every effort to fit it into common pattern with other genocides
or mass killings has failed’ (521).
What is particularly striking about the genocide perpetrated by the Nazis was that
it was the first and only ‘pan-imperial’ genocide. It was not limited to Germany itself,
but executed throughout all the countries that the Germans came to occupy. There,
they had extensive help from local collaborators, anti-Jewish measures becoming ‘an
implicit or explicit object of bargaining with the Nazis’ subalterns’ (532). In most
of the occupied countries, let alone those allied to Germany, that offer was eagerly
accepted, especially in the occupied parts of the Soviet Union and other parts of
Eastern Europe. Much has recently been written on these collaborators, who were at
the same time perpetrators and victims. In fact, the numbers of Germans present in
the concentration and extermination camps was extremely limited. In Treblinka, for
example, Ukrainian guards did most of the ‘work’, but, above all, the Jews themselves
undertook the greatest share of this. In the Dutch transit camps of Westerbork, from
which most of the over 100,000 Dutch Jews that were murdered were deported to the
extermination camps, between October 1942 and April 1945 on average only 10 SS-men
were present. They were helped by Dutch police and above all a Jewish unit that basically
ran the camp, including putting on the trains those that had been selected to be deported.
11
Both Wachsmann and Roseman provide a valuable and concise overview of the Holocaust,
although the role of German women is largely left untouched.
12
Roseman also points to the fact that the Jews were not passive towards the Nazi threat.
Moreover, the Holocaust was not in all respects an industrial, bureaucratic affair:
Eastern European Jews in particular knew of a chaotic world of wilful individual acts
of quite extraordinary savagery and sadism.… During the war, for many Jews almost
as painful as the prospect of death was the fact that their humanity was being denied
altogether. (534)
The only drawback of the mostly historiographical contributions by Roseman and Wachsmann
is that they are rather unpersonal. As a consequence, it is difficult to look beyond
the numbers, so to speak.
Odd as it may sound nowadays, the extermination of the European Jews would only really
come to academic and public attention in the 1960s and 1970s. Immediately after the
end of the Second World War in Europe, the main focus was on the reconstruction of
Europe and the place or future of Germany on the Continent. With Germany responsible
for two world wars and the extermination of millions of Jews, the question was how
to end the German menace once and for all. Some suggested sterilizing all Germans,
others shooting large numbers of German men to punish them collectively. Alternative
plans advocated splitting up the country into various smaller parts, while the American
minister of Finance, Henry Morgenthau, suggested destroying Germany’s industry, as
such pastoralizing and dismembering the country, so it could never again start another
war.
At the same time, there were those who advocated a far less harsh treatment of post-war
Germany. Reasoning that Germany was the most important industrial nation in Europe,
especially its economic heartland, the Ruhr area, they advocated a German integration
into the Continent. As such, the German military threat could be curbed, while at
the same time Europe could profit from Germany’s economic potential. Much has already
been written about the onset of the Cold War in general, and the role of Germany in
this process specifically. The same is true for the early post-war German history
between 1945 and 1949, i.e. from the unconditional surrender of the Third Reich in
May 1945 to the establishment of the Federal Republic of Germany and the German Democratic
Republic in May and October 1949 respectively.
And yet, Andrew Szanajda, Associate Professor at the Overseas Chinese University of
Taiwan, presents a very fine addition to this historiography. His The Allies and the
German Problem, 1941–1949: From Cooperation to Alternative Settlement is very nuanced
and broad in its coverage, and that in just 124 pages. Although during WWII there
were disagreements between the Western Allies and the Soviet Union on the post-war
treatment of Germany, they most of the time were of the same opinion. At their joint
conferences in Teheran and Yalta, in general the Allies agreed on reparation payments,
demilitarization, decartelization and dividing Germany into four occupation zones.
This meant that as of 8 May 1945, after Nazi Germany’s unconditional surrender, the
country no longer existed as an independent, sovereign nation.
However, the partnership between the Americans (and British) and the Soviets had been
‘a shotgun marriage forced upon them by World War II’.
13
Shortly after the end of the war, cracks began to appear in the wartime alliance.
At Potsdam (17 July–2 August 1945), many disagreements had already surfaced. Szanajda
makes it very clear that the Allied Control Council (ACC), which was supposed to rule
over occupied Germany, was from its inception incapable of action. As the commanders
of the various zones of occupation in practice held a veto in the ACC, ‘the inherent
differences in views concerning occupation objectives could undoubtedly sabotage uniformity
of action between the occupying powers that would and in fact became one of the causes
of the division of Germany as early as the summer of 1945’ (33–34).
At the basis of this was the fact that the British and the Americans held totally
different views on Germany than the Russians and the French. Whereas at first the
radicals had held the upper hand in American policy making, especially in faraway
Washington, those on the ground, i.e. in the American zone of occupation, resisted
the harsh measures, as they reasoned thousands of Germans would die of starvation.
The paradoxical fact was that as soon as Germany surrendered, the Allies became responsible
for the Germans. As a consequence, the British and Americans already soon after the
Second World War reoriented their policy towards the reconstruction of a viable, economically
independent West German state. After years of resistance and hesitation – to the incredible
irritation of the Americans – in 1948 France joined ‘the Anglo-American alliance in
the restoration of Western Germany’ (83).
As the Russians – understandably, given the enormous destruction and death inflicted
on the Soviet Union by the Germans between 1941–1945 – had one overriding policy towards
Germany, i.e. to keep it weak and small, the eventual division of Germany into the
FRG and GDR with hindsight seems inevitable. Szanajda makes that perfectly clear in
his concise study, which is very well suited to serve as an introduction to Allied
policy towards Germany in general and its consequences for the early Cold War in particular.
The former capital of Germany, Berlin, was in many respects the focal point of the
Cold War. Here, both large, external events and their influence on the individual
came together, literally dividing peoples psychically and ideologically into East
and West, especially with the building of the Wall in 1961. In Berlin’s Black Market,
1939–1950 Malte Zierenberg analyses the clandestine market under the Nazis and in
the early post-war period, i.e. understanding the economic history of the Berlin market
as a cultural history (3). According to Zierenberg, the black market was important
to the National Socialists, and especially ‘well suited to exploitation by Nazi propaganda
for establishing and reinforcing a whole series of stereotypes of enemies of the people’
(20–1). Economic bartering transactions were seen as a crime of the few at the expense
of the many, ‘as the greedy transactions of a “Jewish”, “eastern-backward” or “western-capitalistic”
minority at the expense of the German Volksgemeinschaft’ (21). At the same time, despite
all the Nazis’ efforts, the black market was extensive during the Third Reich, coming
explicitly into the open in the last months of the war and becoming a new sort of
public space (111).
That was equally true for the early post-war period. With a worthless Reichsmark and
monetary and financial chaos, Germany as a whole fell back into a state of barter
trade, in which the going currency was American cigarettes, ‘forming the top of the
hierarchy of means of payment’ (180). At the black market, barter trade was the most
important payment method, jewellery, leather, watches, tapestry, silver, antiquities
and china being traded for food.
14
Zierenberg provides a strong corrective to the long-held view of the black market
of Berlin, i.e. that it suddenly disappeared with the currency reform of 1948. The
black market endured into the early 1950s, but ‘the currency reform in East and West
did represent the most significant break in the Berlin barter culture since the beginning
of the war.… As the restrictive measures were lifted, they gradually marginalized
the illegal markets’ (187).
Although Zierenberg is correct here, he seems to overestimate the importance of the
currency reform. That all of a sudden shop windows were full of products can mean
only one thing: one part of this was caused by real economic growth, the other by
legalizing black production. However, after the currency reform and the end to the
enormous amount of money in circulation, the German economy was ready to act independently.
15
As a consequence, a rapid economic recovery started. From the beginning of the 1950s,
it was only a matter of time before West Germany would retake its position as Europe’s
most important economy.
However, as Zierenberg points out, the black market era would resonate as ‘a consensus-generating
reference point for public interpretations of the new economic beginning that helped
as a subtext until recently to shape many fields of discourse in the postwar period
– even in the two states’ perception of one another’ (214).
The five books discussed here add immensely to our understanding of Europe and Germany’s
‘age of catastrophe’ between 1914 and 1950. Let’s hope this period remains what it
is: history.