The essays in this special issue all focus on the city of Berlin, in particular, its relationship with its margins and borders over the longue dureé. The authors—Kristin Poling, Marion Gray, Barry Jackisch, and Eli Rubin—all consider the history of Berlin over the last two centuries, with special emphasis on how Berlin expanded over this time and how it encountered the open spaces surrounding it and within it—the “green fields” (grüne Wiesen) referred to in the theme title. Each of them explores a different period in Berlin's history, and so together, the essays form a long dureé history of Berlin, although each of the essays in its own way explores the roots of Berlin's history in deeper time scales, from the early modern period, to the Middle Ages, and even to the very end of the last ice age, more than 10,000 years ago.

In 1898, the year before his death, the German missionary Ernst Faber reflected on his forty-year career in China. The account of his early missions work was suffused with a tone of failure and disappointment. He wrote openly about his difficulties in adjusting to the climate and environment of southern China, the diminutive numbers of converts to Christianity, his frustrations with learning Mandarin and the local dialects used in Guangdong, and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that he encountered working in rural parishes.

The idea of publicly recognizing an important milestone in the life of Mack Walker's book German Home Towns, which appeared in 1971, goes back to January 2011 when David Luebke and Yair Mintzker put out a call for papers to discuss “German Home Towns—Forty Years Later” at the upcoming meeting of the German Studies Association (GSA) in Louisville, Kentucky. The robust response to their call confirmed the wide-ranging impact of Walker's book and validated their hunch that the fortieth anniversary was the right time for a critical celebration of this influential text.

Located on the Alpine frontier between Bavaria and Austria, Reichenhall was once a secluded town, historically defined by its salt industry. Its reputation began to change in the mid-nineteenth century, after a number of enterprising locals opened “cure facilities,” thereby establishing the foundations of a modern health resort. By the end of the century, the spa town drew over 10,000 guests per season. The local community accommodated these visitors with an expanding hospitality industry and a growing number of pleasurable activities. By 1900, the recently renamed Bad Reichenhall had become more than a spa: it was a multifaceted and modern tourist destination, offering progressive medical treatment and cosmopolitan entertainment, along with easy access to the Alpine environment. The following article argues that the marketing of these diverse attractions provides insight into how German society thought about modernity at the turn of the century.

In 1783, Friedrich Gedike wondered whether the city of Berlin was growing disproportionately to the rest of the country. Like any good enlightened observer of the city, Gedike praised the open vistas of newly planned suburbs over the cramped streets of the medieval city core. But, though a spacious city allowed for healthy use and recreation and Berlin remained much smaller than great capitals such as Paris and London, Gedike feared that Berlin's growth was becoming too rapid to control. Something, he worried, was out of proportion. Hundreds of buildings had been erected in place of the city's now demolished ramparts. This newly won land had not sufficed, however, and new suburbs with thousands of new buildings arose, streets irregularly placed, without adequate linkages to the inner city. This immoderate growth was evident in the failure to overcome the boundary between the city core and newly developed suburbs. The number of streets broken through the former fortifications land proved inadequate. This continued division, Gedike feared, would impede the city's ongoing development.

We have loved this book for more than forty years. Age cannot wither its intellectual charms, nor custom stale its endless teachability, especially in graduate seminars. As in any long relationship, there have been moments of vexation and irritation, but we return to this book over and over to be nourished anew by its originality, its insights, and its capacity not just to evoke a certain kind of German community but also to convince us that the values of such communities shaped much of German history right into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

In 1903, Elisabeth von Oertzen, a widely read author and one of the founders of the Society for the Protection of Children from Mistreatment and Exploitation, exhorted her fellow protectionists in the pages of her organization's newsletter to push for greater legal protections for children from abusive adults. The occasion for her admonition was the infamous Bavarian child abuse case in which a young male tutor, Andreas Dippold, had beaten his young charges so badly that one had succumbed to his mistreatment. The case demonstrated, von Oertzen wrote, that while torture had been abolished for adults, it was still widely practiced on children. One of the chief causes of child abuse, according to von Oertzen, was the claim to the so-called Züchtigungsrecht, the right to use corporal punishment. “Because of [the] defenselessness of children it has become customary to exercise on them the right to use corporal punishment, even where it does not exist,” she wrote. A host of people, including tutors, governesses, and babysitters claim the right, but “how far the right to corporal punishment is transferrable is entirely an open question!” Curiously, von Oertzen asserted both that there was an objectively existing “right” to use corporal punishment and that there was no consensus on where that right lay.

The Empress Theophanu, wife of Otto II and regent for her son Otto III, was by all accounts a woman skilled at maneuvering through the complicated world of Ottonian politics. When she died in 991 CE, around the age of thirty, she had accomplished much: after arriving in Italy from Constantinople in 972 at around the age of twelve, she became Otto II's queen and was crowned empress of the Western Empire. During her lifetime, she was among the wealthiest women in Europe and one of the continent's most powerful people. After her husband's death, she secured the succession of her son, Otto III, and actively ruled as regent, successfully navigating the dangerous political world of the Western Roman Empire. Her activities included building churches, placing her daughters in positions of power in key nunneries, issuing acts as imperator and imperatrix, receiving ambassadors, waging war and negotiating peace—essentially doing everything expected of a male emperor with the exception of personally engaging in battle. Thietmar of Merseburg, writing around 1013, praises her rule as regent, stating that she held the kingdom for her son “in a manly fashion,” clearly intending this as a compliment. And yet, after her death and the premature death of her son a few years later, Theophanu seems to disappear from the historical record. Despite the great number of contemporary sources in which she figured during her lifetime and immediately after her death, including charters and donations, letters, chronicles, and annals, we know almost nothing about her. The few sources that do mention her in the period following her death have little good to say about her. Why did this woman fall into disfavor?

On May 23, 1908, Frau Treppens, the proprietress of a Gasthaus near the agricultural estate Klein Ziethen contacted the governing council of Steglitz regarding an urgent concern about water damage. Steglitz was five kilometers south of Berlin's southern boundary; Klein Ziethen was twelve kilometers southeast of Steglitz. Writing on the advice of attorney Georg Hillman, Frau Treppens urgently inquired what the council was going to do about the water on her property, which had already caused “enormous damage.” Like many other property owners near Klein Ziethen, she had been battling water in her basement; for some this had been going on for two years. Frau Treppens inquired what steps Steglitz was taking against Rixdorf, another rapidly growing suburb, located on Berlin's southeast perimeter sixteen kilometers from Klein Ziethen. Why was Frau Treppens turning to the officials of Steglitz, and why did she and her attorney assume that Steglitz and Rixdorf bore responsibility for her water-soaked cellar?

German Home Towns is a very forward-looking book. I say that not because it proved so influential—although it certainly had a profound impact on my generation of historians. My point is more prosaic, namely that German Home Towns occupies a set point in time and social milieu, the inaugural moment of an attenuated phase of stability for a peculiar type of human community in central Europe. That moment, of course, is 1648; the milieu is that of walled and privileged towns—large and differentiated enough for self-sufficiency in most economic functions, but not so large or so differentiated as to generate the degrees of stratification and anonymity that characterized larger commercial or manufacturing cities. In contrast to metropolitan centers, “home towns” embraced all inhabitants in a web of face-to-face relations, at once integrating, enabling, and controlling all inhabitants through guilds and the political systems built around them. Usually, almost all hometown inhabitants were citizens, too—again in contrast to larger cities, with their substrates of noncitizen residents. From the vantage of 1648, and within the stream of early modern German history, German Home Towns peers into a future of confrontation with “movers and doers”—those vanguards of the “general estate,” as Walker called them, who trampled idiosyncrasy, leveled difference, and, with some help from Napoleon, replaced both local corporatism and the imperial “incubator” with provincial and national systems of general, liberal delegation.

Even as recently as 2011, in the wake of Otto Habsburg's death, Austrians have contested the place of the monarchy in Austrian identity. For many, the Habsburg monarchy represents a defining feature of Austria's past glory. Dating from late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the earliest examples of an “Austrian myth” stressed the unifying function of the Habsburgs in Mitteleuropa and the importance of German and Catholic traditions for the advancement of European culture. This nostalgic view tended to overlook the myriad problems of the late imperial period—ethnonationalist tensions, declining imperial might, undemocratic government, social unrest. Not surprisingly, many of the earliest proponents of a distinct, pro-Habsburg and non-German Austrian identity—which emerged after the Great War—were Catholic conservatives who wished to create an animating myth for Austrian Germans that would distinguish them from Prussians. This became increasingly important after the establishment of the Austrian Republic, when many of these individuals pressed for a restoration of the Habsburg Kaiser and a return to the prewar status quo.

It may seem strange today to study aspects of the political sphere—from foreign policy to diplomacy and the military—in the context of sexuality. But the Belle Epoque (1871–1914) was an era of prestige politics, also with respect to the politics of sexuality. This article reveals how the Eulenburg Scandal of 1906 to 1909 used sexual morality as a way to explain and interpret the tensions that pervaded Germany's domestic affairs and international relations. The reliance on sexual mores as an explanation for large-scale political events was the result of an ever-intensifying chain of national and international complications—complications that later undermined Germany's sense of national honor. The Eulenburg Scandal is remembered today mainly as the first major homosexual scandal of the twentieth century, but contemporaries experienced it in a wider sense: it became Germany's counterpart to the Dreyfus Affair in France—two examples of political, social, and cultural conflict that threatened the foundations of their respective countries.

In the conclusion of his 1915 dissertation, the influential German urban planner Martin Wagner argued forcefully for a new approach to the role of green space in city planning. Referring to recent efforts to improve urban hygiene and general cleanliness in major German cities, especially the public bathhouse movement of the late nineteenth century, Wagner claimed that expansion and promotion of accessible green space constituted the next big challenge for those interested in improving urban living:

With the invasion of Poland on September 1, 1939, National Socialist Germany aimed to destroy the Polish nation and Polish national consciousness. The Nazi regime attempted to accomplish this in a variety of ways, including the destruction of Polish cultural institutions, forced resettlement, forced labor, incarceration in prisons and camps, random and systematic roundups of prisoners, and mass murder. To the German authorities in occupied Poland and to many Poles, it was obvious that the occupation would target the Polish Catholic Church with vigor and brutality. Catholicism was the religion of approximately 65 percent of interwar Poland's population: it dominated religious life, held tremendous wealth and political power, and its clergy were widely respected as members of the intelligentsia. More importantly for the Germans, the Catholic Church was a locus and symbol of Polish national identity.

On April 11, 1977, near a small village northeast of Berlin called Marzahn, construction teams from the Volkseigener Betrieb (VEB) Tiefbau Berlin began digging the first foundation for what became the largest construction site and the largest prefabricated housing settlement (Plattenbausiedlung) not just in the German Democratic Republic (GDR), but in all of Europe (see Figure 1). An army of more than 6,000 workers arrived, and over the course of the next decade, built more than 200,000 apartments in Marzahn and the surrounding areas of the northeast edge of Berlin. These came to house more than 400,000 residents, who moved there from the older neighborhoods of East Berlin and from all over the GDR.

A trend in studies about National Socialism and religion in recent years argues for a deliberate distinction between the Nazi Party (NSDAP) and the antisemitic völkisch movement of nineteenth-century Germany. This article challenges that contention. Several researchers have published comprehensive studies on the heterogeneous nature of Christian responses to the Nazis, but a comparable approach looking at how the Nazis viewed religion has not yet been undertaken. A study of the latter type is certainly necessary, given that one of the consistent features of the völkisch movement was its diversity. As Roger Griffin has argued, a “striking feature of the sub-culture . . . was just how prolific and variegated it was . . . [T]he only denominator common to all was the myth of national rebirth.” In short, the völkisch movement contained a colorful, varied, and often bewildering range of religious beliefs.

As far as visuality and materiality are concerned, Mack Walker's German Home Towns is a paradoxical work. In more than 400 pages of dense text about society, politics, and law in and around German towns from 1648 to 1871, the author devoted almost no space to the home towns' visual and material aspects. One would look in vain in this book for detailed descriptions of burghers' private and communal buildings; the layout of fortifications, streets, and public spaces; the location of civic and religious institutions; or the outward appearance of the townspeople, their fairs, rituals, and processions. Early in the book, Walker set the tone for his approach by dismissing as intellectually lazy the most common definition for a town in early modern central Europe—a settlement surrounded by physical walls—and in the entire book he included only one image of a German home town (and even that only on page 222).