When we think about the Third Reich, the first images that come to mind are not those associated with buying and selling. Though an increasing number of studies have appeared on consumer habits and policies toward consumers, the literature on the Nazi period has been dominated by a focus on production, specifically war production. For every study of the consumer economy, there have been dozens on the Four-Year Plan, the use of foreign and slave labor, and heavy industry. In recent years a number of historians have begun to question this imbalance. Hartmut Berghoff and Wolfgang Koenig have argued that the regime encouraged “virtual consumption” through images of a future postwar era of peace and prosperity: the people's car, the people's refrigerator, and other products that would be available to all once victory had been achieved. Nancy Reagin and Irene Guenther have provided compelling material on the responses of female consumers to the decreasing availability of many household items, starting with the introduction of the autarkic Four-Year Plan. Nonetheless, this recent wave of interest in issues of consumption has tended to concentrate on the prewar years of the regime; after 1939, most historians merely emphasize the growing shortage of goods as the war dragged on. One exception is Goetz Aly, who has maintained that allegiance to the regime was secured through the dissemination of goods stolen from Jews and the occupied territories. But his arguments have not convinced everyone, and his focus on the distribution of goods merely as a means of generating political support says little about how it fit in with wider patterns of consumer expectations and long-term economic thinking.

Historians of East Germany often see the state as future-looking, but questions remain about the kinds of futures that East Germans expected. Youth space education provides one example of how East Germans thought about the future. Across the country, spaceflight formed an important part of youth education through books, the Jugendweihe, and places like cosmonaut clubs. Although these activities show how East German adults taught children about space travel, they also illuminate expectations for the future of spaceflight and the future of East Germany's children. In a state that continually proclaimed the imminent future of everyday spaceflight, East German adults, even party members, adopted a particular vision of the future. They taught children that the ideas of space travel would be important for their lives on Earth, while simultaneously questioning the state's optimistic vision for everyday spaceflight.

Wares are consigned to the Leipzig merchants year round from all corners of Europe and then sold during the trade fairs. Leipzig has three fairs: the first begins the Monday after New Year's and lasts two weeks counting the last week for the settling of accounts (Zahlwoche); the spring fair (Jubilate) begins the third Sunday after Easter and runs a total of three weeks; while the autumn fair (Michaelis), likewise three weeks long, begins the fourth Sunday of September. An indescribable wealth of goods is on offer at the fairs. With the foreign merchants and royal personages, the throngs of visitors are so great that it is usually difficult to find lodging in the city. The conflux of sellers and buyers is very advantageous, and during peacetime virtually every order is filled. Many thousands have never even considered provisioning their trade or selling their products other than in Leipzig, though the source of their purchases might lie closer to home. This is because of the commercial services and security provided by such a large fair, including the selection and quality of goods, the strong credit, a reliable circle of customers, a ready supply of bullion, and the efficient Exchange.

One of the first things that Hans Castorp, the protagonist of Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain, learned upon his arrival at Berghof Sanitarium in Davos, was that there was a “good” Russian table and a “bad” Russian table. The bad Russians were characterized as barbarians, more or less uncivilized. Even the good Russians, while more polite, were considered to be an exotic and alien presence, quite different from anything that Castorp, the model of the German bourgeois class, had ever experienced. As Larry Wolff has noted, Russia was a place connected to the rest of Europe by postal routes, but which few Germans ever visited.

The nature and intentions of Nazi economic policy are once again being hotly contested, although on a new set of terms. No longer is the German bourgeoisie's complicity in the Nazi “seizure of power” or the capitalist underpinnings of Hitler's subsequent aggressions at the center of the discussion. Rather, recent scholarship has chosen to grapple more carefully with the dynamic interplay between economics, race, and social policy in the Third Reich. As David Schoenbaum contended forty years ago, the Third Reich's apotheosization of “national community [Volksgemeinschaft]” led to an array of welfare programs, educational reforms, and “meritocratic” values that may in fact have produced a modern “social revolution.” To be sure, a number of subsequent studies have highlighted longer-term continuities, suggesting that the Nazi Sozialstaat was indebted in some part to the legacy of the Weimar Republic and in other respects presaged the social policies of the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG). Historians likewise continue to debate the relative improvement in living standards experienced by the average German under Hitler. Virtually all scholars agree, however, that, regardless of its efficacy, the underpinnings of Nazi social policy are to be located in the Third Reich's drive to construct a racial utopia at home while securing popular support for wars of conquest abroad.

Today genealogy enjoys a wide range of enthusiastic practitioners, and almost every extended family has a self-appointed family historian. Along with professional historians, genealogists are ubiquitous at archives both in Germany and the United States. Of course this was not always so; until about one hundred years ago genealogy was the almost exclusive purview of nobles and aristocrats who had rather immediate concerns driving their inquiries into their families' pasts. That changed around 1900 in Germany, when in the words of a “how-to” guide for amateur researchers written in 1920, genealogy underwent a transformation from a “nobleman's sport” to a bourgeois “science.” This meant that, “today the middle class constitutes four fifths, nay nine tenths, of the biggest genealogical societies.” According to the growing corpus of genealogical literature, the middle class had marked family research with superior values and a greater dedication to truth and knowledge. Beyond the rhetoric, the bourgeois acceptance of genealogy altered the ways that middle-class families saw and remembered the past.

In the history of the Burschenschaft published in 1939, Georg Heer wrote that with the coming of the National Socialists to power “the goals of the German Burschenschaft had been achieved; the National Socialist German Student Union had now taken over its tasks.” Of course Heer was not free to write what he wished about the 1935 dissolution of the Burschenschaft, but his interpretation is consistent with the ideas of many historians about this important organization within the history of German nationalism. Something had gone terribly wrong with this organization, despite its clear liberal and middle-class origins.

The February 2006 issue of the European edition of Time magazine contained a DVD dedicated to the subject of the genocide of the Armenian people. The text introducing the documentary, produced by the French-German TV network arte, said, “‘Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?’ Hitler posed this rhetorical question on August 22, 1939, before embarking upon his campaign to exterminate six million European Jews and other groups.” The introductory paragraph concluded, “His assumption that no one remembered the genocide of 1.5 million Armenians by Ottoman Turkey must have emboldened the Führer to perpetrate the Jewish Holocaust.”

World War I intensified antisemitism everywhere in Central and Eastern Europe, both at the level of public opinion, among right-leaning political parties and, often, in government circles. The war elevated the significance of the Jewish question in other ways as well, and not only because the Balfour Declaration of 1917 conjured up a Zionist triumph. The prospect of a German victory over Russia promised a reordering under German hegemony of the civil condition and citizenly status of the east European Jews, such as the Central Powers' creation in November 1916 of the Kingdom of Poland in the heartland of Russia's former Polish lands had already begun to bring about. Later, in the shadow of the German defeat, there arose the quite different question of the Jews' integration into the newly founded, nationally legitimized, nationalistically agitated successor states to the now vanished multiethnic monarchies.

Diaries justly rank among the most valuable sources for historians. Committed to paper soon after the events and thoughts they record, diaries are free of the knowledge about what occurs afterward or only later takes on significance that adulterate memoirs and render them far more problematic for historians. It is therefore worthy of a cautionary note when historians confuse examples of the two genres. That has frequently occurred in the case of Bella Fromm's Blood and Banquets: A Berlin Social Diary. Published nearly sixty years ago in the form of a diary; it has been used as such in numerous historical studies of the Third Reich. A more recent book that poses problems similar to Fromm's and that has also been used by historians as a source for the Nazi period, is The Berlin Diaries, 1940–1945, attributed posthumously to Marie “Missie” Vassiltchikov.

On Saturday, September 4, 1610, an urgent message arrived at the criminal court (Zentgericht) of Remlingen from the nearby rural market of Neubrunn: a dangerous criminal by the name of Georg Schmid, alias “Baker Georg,” had been apprehended the previous day, and the officials of the Zentgericht should come and get him. The chief magistrate (Zentgraf) Johann Müller, together with the court clerk and one of the jurors, accordingly rode out to Neubrunn, where the prisoner was handed over, but with the condition, as Müller subsequently reported,

There is perhaps no more fitting way to honor Vernon Lidtke than to demonstrate, in the form of this essay, that the questions he posed to his students years ago continue to provide a grid for contemplating and analyzing historical subjects, both familiar and new. One such question involved the impact of one concept's transformation upon another: would class persist as a crucial historical category once it had confronted the differences of gender? This question preoccupied me in previous work and I return to it here, taking stock of that which has changed since I first contemplated this question, in the fields of both German and European gender history. Another question that remains an object of debate is the longer-term trajectory of the history of women and gender: how might we define the point at which its work of subversion or revision is complete? What directions might this field take once “mainstream” histories have successfully incorporated its findings? This essay aims to compare the ways in which the keywords class, citizenship, and welfare state have been redefined, expanded, or circumscribed through the turn to culture, language, and gender. This comparative exercise allows me to expand Vernon's original questions to include citizenship, the critical concept in my more recent scholarship, and to review the potentials and promises of main-streaming across the so-called Atlantic divide.

Marcus Kreuzer's vigorously-argued essay on the progress of parliamentarization in Imperial Germany is an innovative intervention into a long-running scholarly debate about a central assertion of the Sonderweg thesis, namely the power or powerlessness of the democratically elected Reichstag of Imperial Germany. Plausibly dividing historians who have studied the topic into three groups: “optimists,” who perceive a steady increase in parliamentary power and a move toward democratic and parliamentary government, particularly in the Wilhelmian Era; “pessimists,” who deny the power of the Reichstag vis-à-vis the executive increased at any point in the history of the empire; and “skeptics” who point toward an increase in the power of the Reichstag, once again primarily in the Wilhelmian era, but deny that such an increase in power was leading toward democratic or parliamentary government. Kreuzer points out that underlying all three arguments is an implicit assumption of what a powerful parliament should be. Blinded by the “Westminster model” of British parliamentary government, he suggests, pessimists and skeptics have condemned the imperial Reichstag for not resembling the House of Commons. Yet the British governmental system represented just one possible form of parliamentarization. By systematically comparing the powers of the Reichstag with those of today's West European and North American legislatures, Kreuzer ascertains that the Reichstag was a politically influential parliament, thus demonstrating that the optimists have had the better of the argument about parliamentarization.

In March 1966, the German historian Fritz Fischer wrote to several American colleagues, announcing that he would soon send them a copy of his Assistent Helmut Böhme's dissertation Deutschlands Weg zur Großmacht and asking whether they would be willing to review it in one of the leading American journals. Böhme's study on socio-economic aspects of the German unification contained a strong ideological and methodological critique of the extant German historiography on the German Empire, which he—and Fischer—saw as dominated by old-fashioned diplomatic historians who revered the Iron Chancellor. Thus, Fischer apparently anticipated a negative reaction from the West German historical profession and attempted to rally American support.

According to a joke that made the rounds in the former Soviet Union, women from different countries held on to their husbands in different ways: the German by her skills as a housewife, the Spaniard by her passionate lovemaking, the Frenchwoman by her refined elegance—and the Russian by the party committee. This sexist quip was a not so oblique reference to the ways in which the communist party intervened in the private domestic affairs of its members. But—even leaving aside the obviously offensive—it was not entirely accurate, for the practice was just as common in other communist countries as well. This included the eastern half of postwar Germany, where, as in the Soviet Union, the wives of adulterous members of the Socialist Unity Party (SED) sometimes appealed to local functionaries for assistance with their straying husbands.

When Elector John Sigismund of Brandenburg converted to Calvinism in 1613 he became the second major German prince, with the elector of the Palatinate, to renounce Lutheranism in favor of Calvinism. Unlike Frederick of the Palatinate and the dozen or so other minor German princes in the empire who had opted for Calvinism, the Hohenzollern decided not to impose his new faith on his subjects, who had been Lutheran since the days of Joachim II in the early sixteenth century. John Sigismund decreed instead that the two Protestant churches were to exist together in peace and harmony in his domains.

Otto Weininger (1880–1903) is a notorious figure in European history.1 A Jewish intellectual of Vienna, Weininger committed suicide at the age of 23 after publishing a single book based on his doctoral dissertation, Geschlecht und Charakter (Sex and Character, 1903). The work was admired by some of the greatest intellects of our century—Franz Kafka, Ludwig Wittgenstein, James Joyce, Karl Kraus, August Strindberg. More recently, it has attained virtually legendary status among scholars as an exemplary text of European misogyny and antisemitism. While Geschlecht und Charakter is certainly unrivaled as a compendium of turn-of-the-century prejudices, stereotypes, and anxieties, it is not simply a deranged thinker's chronicle of personal nightmares. This fact has been obscured due to the failure of recent scholars to situate Weininger and his work in the intellectual and cultural contexts of fin-de-siècle Central Europe. This paper demonstrates that Geschlecht und Charakter is an intensely personal analysis of intellectual, political, and cultural themes that were of central importance to contemporary Viennese intellectuals.

The three papers collected here present important arguments concerning the gendered context and content of the Weimar welfare state. They unsettle our abilityto judge the origins, the efficacy, and the abstract political value of the welfare state and its democratic claims; they have much to say about twentieth-century women's history and the coordinates of feminist politics in the period between the early 1900s and the 1960s; they have vital lessons for a politics of democratic citizenship; and they all demonstrate the payoff of taking gender seriously as a useful category of historical analysis. In fact, gender seems to have acquired particular salience, in especially public and visible ways, in the period dealt with by these papers.