German-Jewish women are elusive figures in the current literature on World War I. Looking at the complexity of their wartime experience and its consequences for the Weimar years, this article deals with Jewish middle-class women's tripartite motivation as Germans, Jews, and females to make sacrifices for the war. To that end, it traces their efforts to help Germany to victory, to gain suffrage, and to become integrated into German society. At the same time, the article shows how these women not only transformed the war into an opportunity for greater female self-determination but also responded to wartime and postwar antisemitism. The experience of the war and the need for reorientation after 1918 motivated them to become more involved in the affairs of the German-Jewish community itself and to contribute significantly to shaping public Jewish life in Weimar Germany—but without giving up their German identity.

The quintessential Berlin artist Heinrich Zille, while remaining almost unrecognized outside Germany and certainly neglected in art historical circles on both sides of the Atlantic, nonetheless offers an important way to understand the modern city in late-nineteenth-century Europe. Zille, I argue, represents a proletarian modernism, a way of viewing and embracing a vibrant working-class domesticity—a milieu—that the Großstadt itself had created. In so doing, he offered intimate representations of Berlin for Berliners; he was decidedly grounded in the local and telescoped Berlin from its districts to its neighborhoods to its streets. What reemerged at this insider level, however, were glimpses of the wider world into which Berliners had been cast. Zille thus blurred distinctions between public and private spaces that marked the social boundaries of the city and drew from both the local and the global in ways that have gone unrecognized in his work. His perspective on the new capital, in other words, was accomplished by embracing the liminal, and he ultimately offered a kind of palatable social protest—a vision of reform without socialism—that was itself quite remarkable.

Johannes Kepler's most important publication on questions of religion and confession, his Profession of Faith appeared in 1623 when the universal scholar Matthias Bernegger had an edition of one hundred copies printed in Strasbourg — at Kepler's expense — under the title: Glaubensbekandtnus vnd Ableinung allerhand desthalben entstandener vngütlichen Nachreden. With this booklet, Kepler intended to demonstrate that his religious convictions did indeed stand in harmony with the Bible; in addition, he strove to refute the accusations of heterodoxy brought against him, the “gossip” or “Nachreden” as he called it. His argument peaks in the next passage: “It is indeed quite an irksome matter, and one very much a matter of great agitation for the average, uninformed man, that someone could be so foolhardy, proud, and swollen-headed as to join no [religious] party. But I swear by God that I have not found joy in the situation nor found any peace therein. It causes me great grief that the three large factiones have torn the truth so terribly among themselves that I am forced to search and piece the truth together where I find it.”

On 6 December 1800, a courier galloped through the gates of Vienna, rushed to the Hofburg, the winter palace of the Habsburgs, and presented to Emperor Francis II a bitter message from Archduke John, the emperor's brother and commander of the Austrian armed forces in Germany. The message read that three days earlier the archduke's troops had engaged the French army under Jean Moreau at Hohenlinden, had suffered serious losses, and were falling back to Salzburg with the officers struggling to maintain order in the ranks while they did so. The news was a crushing blow to Francis. In 1799 the Austrians had begun the War of the Second Coalition with high hopes of reversing the years of defeat at the hands of Revolutionary France. Russia and Britain had agreed to cooperate closely with Austria; France seemed weaker than ever domestically; and Napoleon Bonaparte, who had caused Vienna such grief in 1797, was far away in Egypt trying to inflict damage upon the British Empire. But these hopes turned to ashes. Russia abandoned the Coalition after its army suffered serious losses in Switzerland—indeed, in their wake the Russian ruler, Tsar Paul, had thundered so vehemently against what he saw as Austrian treachery that he had broken relations with Vienna—; Britain had been able to provide much needed funds but not more-needed soldiers; and Bonaparte had returned to work his magic on both the French army and the French people. The result was Hohenlinden, Austrian defeat, and in February 1800 the Treaty of Lunéville that ceded to France primary influence in Germany and Italy.

During the past decade and a half there has been considerable interest shown by economic and social historians in the problems of unemployment in the Weimar Republic, although we still await a work with the comprehensiveness and mastery of W. R. Garside's British Unemployment 1919–1939. Much of the literature on Germany has been devoted to the controversy over government studies of unemployment insurance and business and trade union attitudes toward work creation schemes. Social historians have engaged in a good deal of history from below and history of everyday life dealing with the unemployed themselves and have demonstrated, among other things, the devastating consequences of long-term unemployment and the welfare system on labor solidarity. Such historians are understandably more inclined to work on, and sympathize with, those who are fired rather than with those who do the firing, and are unlikely to lose much sleep about the effects of bad business conditions on capitalist behavior and solidarity. Nevertheless, I would argue that the everyday problems and decisions of Germany's bankers and industrialists have suffered from undeserved neglect.

Since the turn of the millennium, major political figures around the world have been routinely compared to Adolf Hitler. These comparisons have increasingly been investigated by scholars, who have sought to explain their origins and assess their legitimacy. This article sheds light on this ongoing debate by examining an earlier, but strikingly similar, discussion that transpired during the Nazi era itself. Whereas commentators today argue about whether Hitler should be used as a historical analogy, observers in the 1930s and 1940s debated which historical analogies should be used to explain Hitler. During this period, Anglophone and German writers identified a diverse group of historical villains who, they believed, explained the Nazi threat. The figures spanned a wide range of tyrants, revolutionaries, and conquerors. But, by the end of World War II, the revelation of the Nazis' unprecedented crimes exposed these analogies as insufficient and led many commentators to flee from secular history to religious mythology. In the process, they identified Hitler as Western civilization's new archetype of evil and turned him into a hegemonic analogy for the postwar period. By explaining how earlier analogies struggled to make sense of Hitler, we can better understand whether Hitler analogies today are helping or hindering our effort to understand contemporary political challenges.

During the nineteenth century, Jews in the German lands received, in exchange for their religious, cultural, and political transformation, civic liberties. Viewing the national as the realm of cultural interaction, production, and contestation has underlined the tortuous and conflicted process of German Jews' integration. Yet, at the dawn of modernity, Jewish communities in Germany grew out of temporal and spatial networks that the emerging nation-state absorbed only in a very limited fashion. As Stuart Hall has observed, for diasporic communities, memories about the past homeland and the interaction between overlapping communities continued to have a decisive impact upon their formation and maintenance. Indeed, the still largely unexplored German Jewish traveling culture acquired a new importance during the first decades of the twentieth century and formed a cultural practice that involved transcending cultural, political, and national boundaries.

Universal suffrage is a commonplace in today's political world. In modern Western states it seems self-explanatory that there should be a general right to vote, or at least the pretense of such a right; and it is rather the exception to universal suffrage that requires explanation—at best as a quaint local peculiarity, at worst as a sign of pigheadedness or paranoia. In our era of bland populism, it is easy to forget the nineteenth century's passion over suffrage matters. But passion there was: from the sanscullottes of the 1790's to the suffragettes of the 1910's, no decade of the nineteenth century, no part of the Atlantic world was entirely free from this all-important question. Indeed suffrage issues erupted regularly whenever and wherever internal political tensions ran highest. Anti-Bourbon agitation in Restoration France, Chartist demands in England, Negro emancipation in the United States, demands for reform of Bismarckian Germany's Prussian heartland—these issues spanned the century, and they all contained at least some taint of the suffrage question. The European revolutions of 1848–49 came roughly at the mid-point of this century-long suffrage debate, and these revolutions too raised in various ways the issue of the right to vote. And one of the most interesting discussions of the franchise question came in February and March of 1849, when Germany's abortive constitutional convention, the Frankfurt National Assembly, turned its attention to an Electoral Law for the lower house of the projected national representative body.

Much has been written about the events of 9 November 1918 at Spa, but little about the aftermath in Holland. Some studies present sketches, often inaccurate, of “the squire of Doorn”; others remark that answers to many questions must await the opening of Dutch archives. Since the Dutch documents have now been published in profusion, answers are for the most part available.

The Treaty of Belgrade, concluded in 1739, ended over fifty years of Austrian expansion at the expense of the Ottoman Empire. From the siege of Vienna in 1683 to the Peace of Passarowitz in 1718, the Austrians enjoyed almost absolute supremacy on the battlefield and at the peace table, forcing the Turks deep into the Balkan peninsula and adding to the Habsburg possessions such cities as Buda, Pest, Timişoara, Cluj, Debrecen, and finally Belgrade, guardian of the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers and bastion of Austrian might in southeastern Europe. Given these successes and the apparent decline of the Ottoman state, in the 1720's and 1730's Austria appeared capable of establishing its hegemony over most of the remaining Turkish possessions in Europe.

History preserves numerous images of workers' protests. Both contemporaries and later historians, inspired by fear or enthusiasm, have scoured the records of the past for examples of popular rebellion, workplace militancy, or class mobilization. Indeed, a large literature exists that seeks to explain collective behavior by puzzling out the links between class formation and collective protest as well as the relationships between the individual's “objective” class situation and thought and action. But this literature—like the subjects of its inquiry itself—is in transition. It was once assumed that protest had its own iron logic and that “radical” consciousness was the necessary end product of the changing labor process under industrial capitalism; all other behavior was easily dismissed as “false” consciousness.

A Literature designed to express discontent with political or social conditions, rally public support, and sometimes threaten revolution has as much of a tradition in Germany as in other countries, and it was not the German authors' fault that their efforts remained on the whole without decisive achievements. Until 1918, this genre of literature had been nearly exclusively the preserve of what may loosely be called the political Left. But with the establishment of the republic the forces of the Right appropriated to themselves this time-honored intellectual weapon in their efforts to destroy the hated "Weimar System." Under these circumstances, no responsible independent left-wing journal could afford to do more than criticize the new German state for its shortcomings, and while in this respect some of them were less restrained than others, all of them wanted to reform and strengthen, not overthrow, the republic.