Enquêtekomission
), with specialist testimonies and
heated debates about how best to interpret and ‘overcome’ this recent past. While
it proved remarkably difficult to bring individual leaders of the SED regime to
trial, the much wider witch-hunt of those who had acted as unofficial informers
for the Stasi (
Stasi IMs
), and the loss of professional occupations and prospects
for anyone in any way tainted by having been an ‘accomplice’ of the SED
regime, was seen by many as disproportionate in comparison with the relatively
lenient treatment of Nazi ‘fellow travellers’ (
Mitläufer
) after 1945, following the
collapse of the far more evil Third Reich with its responsibility for organised
genocide and world war.
This preoccupation with the GDR did not mean that the Nazi period fell out
of view. If anything, it became the subject of even more heated debates, as a
younger, ‘third’ generation – on both sides of the former historic divide – started
to address the challenges posed by the actions and inaction of their grandparents,
even while the latter remained still alive to talk about their experiences. Massive
controversies were occasioned by a travelling exhibition displaying Wehrmacht
involvement in Nazi atrocities, entitled ‘The Crimes of the Wehrmacht’, which
opened first in 1995 and was subsequently reopened in a revised version
following disputes about the attribution of some images. Using photographs
taken by ordinary soldiers, this exhibition brought to the attention of a wider
public something that had long been evident to historians: that the notion of a
‘clean’ army was a convenient myth. At the same time, the contested thesis of
Daniel Jonah Goldhagen that an alleged longterm German mentality of
‘eliminationist anti-semitism’ provided the key to explaining the Holocaust led
to renewed confrontation with the complicity of many ‘ordinary Germans’ in the
exclusion and mass murder of Jews. Meanwhile, protracted debates over the
proposed construction of a Holocaust memorial in Berlin demonstrated just how
intently some sections of the German population sought to express their remorse
and identify with the victims of Nazi persecution.
However far it receded, the Nazi past remained present within families,
across generations and in German public culture. The 2013 television series,
‘Our Mothers, Our Fathers’ (
unsere Mütter, unsere Väter
), despite its portrayal
of some of the horrors of combat on the eastern front, still somewhat
unrealistically sought to depict the young men and women of Nazi Germany –
the parents and grandparents of the Germans of the early twenty-first century –
as misled idealists, essentially innocent despite being implicated in Nazi crimes.
While it remained difficult to undermine respect for individuals and families
with whom there were strong emotional bonds, the wider culture had
nevertheless shifted massively. While it was hard to address questions of
perpetration and complicity, it was possible to show immense remorse for the
sufferings of victims. In the centre of Berlin, in the Tiergarten close to the centre
of government and the Brandenburg Gate, the extensive Memorial to the
Murdered Jews of Europe was finally opened in 2005. In the following years it
was joined by other, smaller memorials remembering previously marginalised
groups who had been persecuted under Nazism: homosexual men, Sinti and
Roma (‘gypsies’), as well as victims of Nazi sterilisation and ‘euthanasia’
policies. These developments were never uncontested, always accompanied by
controversies; and recognition of these and other victims of Nazism, such as
forced and slave labourers, came so belatedly that for many of those who had
been persecuted it was far too late for any kind of material or symbolic
compensation for the wrongs suffered.
Even so, this landscape remembering the victims of Nazism, along with a
growing recognition of the need also to explore responsibility for perpetration,
signalled a significant and fundamental change in German values and culture
that went way beyond the memorial landscape itself. There was continued – if
continually contested – liberalisation in wider cultural attitudes, marking just
how far German society had changed since the days of Hitler. In September
2017, gay couples gained the right to marry, and the first same-sex marriage took
place in Berlin’s district of Schöneberg – which had been well known for its gay
scene in the 1920s, before Nazi homophobia took over and people were
subjected to persecution, often incarceration and death, for same-sex love. The
2017 parliamentary vote on legalisation of same-sex marriage, long a Social
Democratic aim, was even introduced by a conservative Chancellor – Angela
Merkel, whose unlikely emergence and extended period in power had in itself
symbolised the radical shifts in German politics and society.
Ironically, as Britain narrowly voted to leave the EU – in a referendum called
in 2016 by the then conservative Prime Minister, David Cameron, in a gamble to
unite his own party – and as Donald Trump was narrowly elected to serve as US
President despite a lack of any previous political experience, survivors of Nazi
persecution and their descendants who had made new lives on other shores now
sought, in increasing numbers, to apply for German citizenship. This alone
marked just how far Germany had come in the decades since the end of the
Second World War in 1945, and in the shorter period since the unification of
West and East Germany in 1990. Many who knew from their own personal and
family experiences just how horrendous Nazi Germany had been now chose, in
the face of rising tones of nationalism, populism and racism elsewhere, Germany
as a place they trusted would uphold ideals about a more humane society within
the context of peaceful European integration. Germany had by now not only
demonstrated its capacity for strong economic performance but also its
commitment to facing the challenges – whether to do with racism, migration and
cultural diversity, or the environment, energy policies and climate change – of an
ever-changing wider world. Yet even so, the significant body of AfD politicians
taking up their seats in the German parliament, and the evident strains within the
governing CDU/CSU coalition about immigration policies, served to signal that,
in a context of rising right-wing populism and fears of terrorism across Europe,
nothing could be taken for granted.
In regional elections in Bavaria and Hesse in October 2018, voters signalled
growing dissatisfaction with the centrist parties of the governing coalition, and
rising support for both the rightwing nationalist party, the AfD, and the left-wing
environmentalist Greens. As the electorate increasingly abandoned the liberal
middle ground, it was clear that not only the CDU/CSU but also the SPD, the
junior partner in the governing coalition, would need to do some radical
rethinking. Taking responsibility for the poor showing of her party, Angela
Merkel announced her intention to step down as CDU leader in December 2018,
and not to stand again for the Chancellorship in the next national election. The
Merkel era, characterised by an emphasis on pragmatic solutions tempered with
morality, was now coming to a definitive end.
In early twenty-first century Europe, Germany had emerged as an apparent
beacon of stability, democracy and virtue. In an age of increasing globalisation,
the new Germany itself was a land incorporating contrasts, not only seeking to
overcome the internal divisions between east and west, but also taking up new
policies in a transformed international context, in a manner informed by its own
part in a tortured but now increasingly distant past. It had proved resilient in face
of the wider challenges of an increasingly interconnected world – but that world
itself was, in the post-Cold War era, highly unpredictable, the paths of the future
always contested.
9
Patterns and problems of German history
◈
After this brief summary of the main patterns of German history, we may turn to
the wider questions of overall interpretations of the ‘peculiarities’ of German
history.
The problems of German history have frequently been held to lie at least
partially in its ‘geopolitical location’: its position in central Europe, without
natural boundaries defining its frontiers, in contrast to the island kingdom of
England/Britain. Thus in Germany there was perpetual warfare, and a
concomitant militarisation, in contrast to the trading nation of England which
substituted a navy and control of the seas for a standing army. But this view is
grossly oversimplifying in its lack of consideration of detailed differences in
political, economic and social structures (even leaving aside the view of English
history it presupposes). The central European location of the German lands is not
in itself a particularly illuminating factor in seeking to explain the peculiar paths
of German history. The recently popular appeals to Germany’s mid-European
situation represent merely a superficially meaningful substitute for explanation:
they do not in fact take serious exploration of the range of diverse historical
factors involved at any time very far. On the other hand, it is also clear that it is
an international system with which we have to deal, and that interactions among
the different elements jostling for space, position, power and status in central
Europe must be taken fully into account in addition to internal factors in any
particular region or territory. While the same is in principle true of any ‘national’
history, the history of the German territories is perhaps peculiarly complex
because of the multiplicity of units and their curious interrelations.
One particular peculiarity in the German case has to do with the non-
overlapping of certain political entities. This is particularly important in relation
to the existence of Habsburg dynastic territories outside the Holy Roman
Empire, which gave the Habsburgs a certain independence but at the same time
implied problems and interests which were separate from, and potentially at odds
with, those of the non-Habsburg territories in the Empire. This non-overlap,
while perhaps crucial for the Habsburg power base, probably also contributed to
the weakness of the Holy Roman Empire as a central force. At certain key times
of conflicts within the Empire, the emperor might be engaged elsewhere and
unable to intervene effectively at an early point, providing leeway for the
development of dissidence (as in the Reformation period). On the other hand, the
all-embracing existence of the Holy Roman Empire was just sufficient to protect
the system of states, some of them extremely small, and which, without the
protection of the Empire, might well otherwise have been rapidly gobbled up by
larger neighbours in a process of territorial aggrandisement in the early modern
period. Such processes as were at work did involve the enlargement of certain
states at the expense of others (although not all schemes were realised, as for
example Austria’s failed ambitions for spreading Austrian influence in southern
Germany, particularly Bavaria, in the later eighteenth century). The existence of
an overarching focus of identification also facilitated the development of
alliances and defensive leagues, similarly aiding the protection of the relative
independence of smaller territories. It was a curiously symbiotic system that
developed, with slowly changing balances between and among the different
elements. The problem of non-overlap also connected with that of the existence
of Prussian territories outside the Empire – which gave Prussia the possibility of
attaining royal sovereignty when Elector Frederick III crowned himself King
Frederick I, King in Prussia, in Königsberg, outside the Holy Roman Empire, in
1701. In the nineteenth century, the non-overlapping of territories and political
interests, states and supraterritorial organisations, with non-German ethnic
groups in some of the German states (notably Austria and Prussia, also
Schleswig-Holstein) in areas both within and outside the Confederation, was to
become perhaps more problematic, in the era of nationalism and attempts at
unification.
However, mention of nationalism and unification leads one to the question of
whether the distinctive German combination of decentralisation at the Imperial
level and centralisation at the territorial level actually also constituted a problem
with respect to state formation. It could well be argued that to view the
peculiarities of pre-nineteenth-century German history in this light, considering
differences from English and French history as aberrations from a ‘normal’
pattern of development of a modern nation state, would be quite anachronistic. It
would be imposing modern categories and assumptions about the normality of
the nation state as the obvious political unit to view German history as a
distortion. Had it not been for the rise of competitive nation states in the era of
modern industrial capitalism, the earlier German pattern of co-existence of a
multitude of smaller, weaker political units within a weak, broader overall
framework might have remained at least to some degree viable.
One may nevertheless wonder whether the peculiarities that have been
described above in any sense add up to some form of longterm determination of
the problems of late nineteenth and twentieth-century German history. As
mentioned at the outset, German history is frequently written in a disturbingly
teleological fashion, with identification of ‘failed revolutions’ (Engels pouncing
on the Peasants’ War for this purpose), ‘turning-points where Germany failed to
turn’ (A. J. P. Taylor’s characterisation of 1848), and accusations of ‘immaturity’
(the German bourgeoisie) and ‘belatedness’ (the German nation state). Even if
one jettisons all the biases and assumptions involved in such notions, one may
still, when considering the long-term conditions, circumstances and constraints,
as well as the shorter-term patterns of events of more recent German history, be
tempted to answer the question of Germany’s non-democratic route to modernity
with an adaptation of the Irish joke: when asked the best way to Dublin, the
Irishman replies to the traveller, ‘Well, if I wanted to go there, I wouldn’t start
from here.’ However, there is another game that German historians particularly
like to play, apart from the game of ‘identify the distortion’, and that is ‘identify
the real break’. The current most favoured candidate for ‘real break’ is 1945,
despite analyses of continuities across the myth of the
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