During the 1660s and 1670s, the Ottoman Empire reached the peak of its expansion with military invasions of Ukraine and Habsburg Hungary, parts of central Europe that had traditionally been regarded as beyond the Porte's horizons. Many Ukrainians and Hungarians welcomed the Ottomans as liberators; they saw the sultan as a more benevolent ruler than the Russian tsar, the Polish king, and the Habsburg emperor. This article reconstructs the political, social, and religious dimensions of pro-Ottoman hopes as well as the popular revolts that resulted from these hopes. Comparing Ukrainian and Hungarian engagements with the Ottomans reveals the divergent and overlapping aspects of a largely forgotten historical reality, that is, the quest of many Orthodox and Protestant Europeans to consider a Muslim alternative to the Christian empires that oppressed them. The article draws on a treasure trove of little studied sources, both archival and published, in multiple languages.

This article examines self-disparaging representations of “the German man” in humorous middle-class visual and textual publications of the 1840s. Considering contemporary notions of German national character and the emergence of contradictory masculine ideals, the analysis traces the dual representation of the German man as either an emasculated philistine or a hypermasculine quixotic hero. Based on this analysis, it argues that just as a German national movement was acquiring unprecedented political potency, a highly gendered sense of German national ineptness was widespread among the German bourgeoisie. Both the philistine and the quixotic German were cast as inadequate in the face of a corruptive, feminized modernity that was unfairly advantageous to the French. These findings underscore how gender and national stereotypes in nineteenth-century Germany were mutually destabilizing and repeatedly negotiated, profoundly shaping contemporaries’ understanding of the world changing around them.

The article analyzes the contemporary material, political, and symbolic construction of Hamburg's free port, zooming in on its festive opening in 1888, when Kaiser Wilhelm II visited to perform this ceremonious act. Asking why the “Speicherstadt” (warehouse city) was right away dubbed a “city” even though this was an exclusively commercial space devoid of inhabitants, the article uses this case study to argue that process concepts like “urbanization” frame our perspectives in ways that eclipse how older ideas about urbanity still defined a late-nineteenth-century political imaginary. The article shows how the opening ceremony, staged as an imperial adventus, alongside the “Speicherstadt's” neo-Gothic red-brick architecture, made recourse to established cultural forms that historians and other commentators often deem premodern. To counteract the prospect that port expansion could turn Hamburg into a working-class city, Hamburg's bourgeois merchant elite tried to construct the free port as a global urban bourgeois space embodying the city's history and its longevity as a space of urban trade privilege. The latter had erstwhile been defined by Hamburg's city walls, which, as the article argues, were symbolically rebuilt in the form of the Speicherstadt. The latter was the “city” into which this modern-day imperial adventus led.

This article uses the example of Manoli Cigarettes and its product line, The Kaiser Cigarettes, to examine the concept of co-branding as applied to royal brand names in the German Empire. It reviews the broader networks of circulation that determined the production of royal brand names: commercial laws, business ties, advances in technology, advertising structures, tourism, and other sectors of the consumer economy. The article delves into how trademark law, the Imperial Patent Office's role in approving brand names, and case law contributed to the choice of royal brand names. The article also illuminates how manufacturers used royal brands to implement business strategies along a horizontal plane of market competition. The production of the monarchy as a cultural object was thus activated through a process of triangulation: not only through the bilateral relationship between monarch and subjects, but also lateral relations between producers who were concerned about their professional networks.

This article deals with the war crimes committed during the First World War. Whereas in historiography the presence of franc-tireurs, the new industrial warfare or the specific military and radicalised command culture of individual armies often served as explanatory patterns for the escalation of violence, this contribution attempts to introduce a different perspective into the discussion. The focus is on the specific violence of mobile warfare, which was articulated in the context of military “forward panics” (Randall Collins) on the Eastern and Balkan fronts and was responsible for a considerable part of the war crimes committed there. The article therefore deals with the nature and character of these military forward panics. Starting with a description of the spatial characteristics of the front as a specific space of violence, the role of military orders and the significance of the front as a soldierly space of imagination, the article analyses above all the structural violence of forward panics. In this context, the article discusses three factors that played an essential role in this escalation process: first, the special soldierly frame of reference of combat in mobile warfare, which continuously lowered the inhibition thresholds for the escalation of violence; second, the escalation-forcing dynamics that the swift advance or the flight-like retreat of the troops brought with it for the process of violence; and finally, third, the significance of soldierly group pressure for the process of escalation of violence.

This article uses reconstructions of the 1919 German LGBTQ+ rights film Anders als die Andern (Different from the Others) to consider the meaning of the Weimar Republic. It surveys Weimar's historiography, memorialization efforts, public commemorations, museums, and film reconstruction, drawing connections between these fields. The film as an incomplete document becomes a metaphor for incomplete histories. As such, it offers suggestions for engaging with fragmentary pasts.

This article offers a much-needed reconsideration of the Hitler Youth law's purpose and impact. It contends that Hitler's cabinet adopted the 1936 law for two reasons: first, to pressure boys and girls to join the Hitler Youth and the League of German Girls, and second, to compel municipalities to finance the construction of thousands of new Hitler Youth Heime (homes). The first part of the article focuses on the drafting of the Hitler Youth law and locates the origins of the Hitler Youth's Heimbeschaffung (home procurement) campaign. It argues that Nazi leaders deliberately inserted language into Article 2 of the final law that would pressure municipal and district authorities to fund the construction of new homes in their communities. The second part of the article documents Nazi leaders’ repeated efforts to persuade and compel municipalities to finance new construction, assume the costs of ongoing maintenance and, after 1939, pay rental and maintenance costs for temporary accommodations.

This article explores the rise of international cooperation and policing in solving the so-called “Gypsy question” between 1870 and 1945. Situating this issue within a broader phenomenon of illiberal internationalism, it demonstrates how the central European powers often pursued international action to serve their own national agendas. In doing so, this study shows how the shared concern of cross-border Gypsy itinerancy and migration in central Europe prompted several international policing initiatives that eventually crystallized under the International Criminal Police Commission (or ICPC) in 1931 into a transnational framework for controlling Gypsies. Against this background, the article also investigates whether the role of Switzerland and Austria as major frontrunners for anti-Gypsy international measures changed once the ICPC was under Nazi control. By closely examining critical activities and antiziganist ICPC discourse between 1933 and 1945, it reveals how the ICPC created a matrix of surveillance that eased the way toward the Gypsy genocide.

The difference between the representation of German femininity in the 1920s and the 1930s is striking: while glamorous flappers with bob haircuts ruled the beginning of the interwar period, its end is characterized by serious and earnest—and often longhaired—young women. Rather than taking the obvious route of relating this change to the political changes in Germany, most importantly the rise of the Nazis, this article argues that the changing representation of interwar femininity in Germany was always embedded in a transnational, transatlantic process. The transformation of flappers into humble girls started well before the Nazis came to power and was fueled by a wide variety of voices, from communist to bourgeois actors.

This article explores the sudden rise in popularity and limited long-term impact of Rudolf Goldscheid's work around the time of the Great War. Goldscheid is remembered as a founder of central European sociology, a creator of fiscal sociology, and a fin-de-siècle feminist and pacifist. His reputation ranks behind many of his peers in the social sciences, however. A reevaluation of Goldscheid's position within the fin-de-siècle intellectual landscape of Vienna and central Europe reveals why his sudden success—which was really decades in the making—did not endure in the same way as that of Joseph Schumpeter or Otto Neurath, among others. Goldscheid's ideas seemed innovative in the revolutionary years 1918–1920, yet they were frequently misunderstood. His eccentric position in the socio-liberal sphere of fin-de-siècle Vienna seemed to mute his political impact after the war. A better appreciation of Goldscheid's work not only enriches our understanding of his innovative proposals but also illuminates a frenetic, experimental era in central European history.

This article delves into the transnational aspects of the “Two Cultures” debate initiated by the British chemist and writer C. P. Snow, and explores how Italian and West German intellectuals localized and translated aspects of the debate within their respective political landscapes. Snow described the relationship between science and the humanities, and attributed a unique social responsibility to science. Prominent leftist thinkers, including Gino Martinoli, Adriano Buzzati Traverso, Aldo Visalberghi, Giulio Preti, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Karl Steinbuch, Hans Mohr, Hilde Domin, Jürgen Habermas, and Robert Jungk, engaged Snow's ideas, each formulating their stance on the role of science. These intellectuals were divided in their response. Some concurred with Snow, viewing scientific advancement as a cornerstone of social progress and considering the scientific ethos as a model for political emulation. Others, however, were critical, questioning the very notions of scientific progress, rationality, and modernization. This intellectual discourse foreshadowed the New Left's critique of scientism in the 1970s, a movement that significantly challenged the longstanding marriage between socialism and science.

The Wehrmacht's stunning victories in the first three years of the Second World War produced a euphoric response among Nazi leaders. Suddenly, the East became a vast expanse of nearly limitless possibilities, and creating a new racial order topped the list. Although most historians have focused on the Volksdeutsche, the regime also planned to settle veterans after the war's conclusion to serve as model Germans, farmers, and a “living wall” to defend the East. As the war dragged on into 1942 and these men continued to fight, the regime turned to disabled veterans to garrison the East. The SS designed a racial selection process that proved too restrictive to generate enough applicants and, during 1943 and 1944, settlement officials revised standards. In the process, contingency, constrained practices, and contested ideology all cast the boundaries of race, gender, sexuality, able-bodiedness, and disability as much more malleable than Nazi propaganda projected.

Like other historiographical fields, that of German history has been defined through most of its existence by the things historians argued about. We could go back well over a hundred years to the Methodenstreit over Karl Lamprecht's efforts to write multidisciplinary history, follow the line through the work of Eckart Kehr, Fritz Fischer, Hans Ulrich Wehler, and the Sonderweg debate, and continue on through the Historikerstreit and the Historikerinnenstreit of the 1980s, and the Goldhagen and Wehrmacht exhibit fights in the mid-1990s, to recent debates over the relative weight of colonial and Holocaust memory.

By far the greatest number of photographs of Nazi sites of violence were taken by the perpetrators. Some Jews did work as official photographers in the ghettoes, but during deportations, in the camps and extermination centers, and at the sites of mass shootings, only Gestapo officers, SS men and women, or other authorized personnel were officially permitted to use cameras. In the Mauthausen concentration camp, for example, as Lukas Meissel explains in his contribution to the excellent collection of essays, Fotografien aus den Lagern des NS-Regimes. Beweissicherung und ästhethische Praxis, “only members of the so-called Erkennungsdienst (identification department) were allowed to take photographs.”1 These photographs “do not reflect the reality of the camp” (45). They seldom confront us directly with Nazi violence. Instead, these pictures offer (false) images of frictionless operations, visual testimony to the efficiency of the perpetrators, usually meant to impress their superiors.