Cultures of Order: Leadership, Language, and Social Reconstruction in Germany and Japan

Cultures of Order Leadership, Language, and Social Reconstruction in Germany and Japan

Katja Weber and Paul A. Kowert

State University of New York Press

Cultures of Order

This page intentionally left blank.

Cultures of Order Leadership, Language, and Social Reconstruction in Germany and Japan

Katja Weber Paul A. Kowert

STATE UNIVERSITY

OF

NEW YORK PRESS

Cover photographs of Konrad Adenauer, Kurt Kiesinger, and Helmut Kohl courtesy of the Archiv fuer Christlich-Demokratische Politik/KonradAdenauer-Stiftung; cover photographs of Kurt Schumacher, Willy Brandt, and Oskar Lafontaine courtesy of the Archiv der Sozialen Demokratie/FriedrichEbert-Stiftung; cover photograph of Shigeru Yoshida produced by the National Park Service, courtesy of the Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library. Portions of chapters 1, 2, and 3 are adapted from Katja Weber and Paul A. Kowert “Language, Rules, and Order: The Westpolitik Debate of Adenauer and Schumacher,” in LANGUAGE, AGENCY, AND POLITICS IN A CONSTRUCTED WORLD, ed. Francois Debrix (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2003). Copyright © 2003 by M. E. Sharpe, Inc. Used by permission. Published by STATE UNIVERSITY

OF

NEW YORK PRESS, ALBANY

© 2007 State University of New York All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. For information, contact State University of New York Press, Albany, NY www.sunypress.edu Production by Kelli W. LeRoux Marketing by Michael Campochiaro Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Weber, Katja, 1959– Cultures of order : leadership, language, and social reconstruction in Germany and Japan / Katja Weber, Paul A. Kowert. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7914-7211-8 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Political leadership—Germany—History—20th century. 2. Political leadership—Japan—History—20th century. 3. International relations. I. Kowert, Paul A. II. Title. JN3971.A58K69 2007 320.94309'045—dc22

2007002071 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Barbara, Eva, and Robert

This page intentionally left blank.

Contents Acknowledgments

ix

Abbreviations

xi

Chapter 1 Introduction Order in International Relations A German Debate Contributions of Constructivism Overview of the Book

1 4 7 13 18

Chapter 2 Language and the Problem of Order Constructing Order Towards a New European Order Conclusion

21 25 34 39

Chapter 3 The Westpolitik Debate Adenauer and Institutional Constraint Schumacher and National Rights The Westpolitik Debate Conclusion

43 47 51 55 64

Chapter 4 The Ostpolitik Debate Kiesinger and State Rights Brandt and Institutional Expansion The Ostpolitik Debate Conclusion

67 70 75 79 89

Chapter 5 The Deutschlandpolitik Debate Kohl and Institutional Achievement Lafontaine and European Rights The Deutschlandpolitik Debate Conclusion vii

91 93 96 99 108

viii

Contents

Chapter 6 Japan and the Problem of Order Yoshida and the Path from Realism to Rights Order and the Yoshida Doctrine A Debate Foreclosed Conclusion

111 113 116 128 134

Chapter 7 Conclusion The New World Order in Germany Constructing Order, Constructivist Theory

137 142 152

Notes

157

Bibliography

183

Index

199

Contents

ix

Acknowledgments Over the several years we spent writing this book, we benefited enormously from the critical advice and support of many colleagues and friends. Our greatest debt is to Nicholas Onuf, whose work is a starting point for our own and who offered splendid, perceptive critiques of each chapter as well as intellectual and moral support throughout. For his friendship and his help, we are deeply grateful. Many other scholars have lent a critical ear to improve this manuscript. We are indebted to François Debrix, Ted Hopf, Harry Gould, Patrick Thaddeus Jackson, Peter Katzenstein, Tahseen Kazi, Audie Klotz, Deborah Larson, Mohiaddin Mesbahi, Andrew Moravcsik, Randall Newnham, David Patton, Thomas Risse, James Sperling, Masaru Tamamoto, Cameron Thies, Christian Tuschhoff, and Brian Woodall. Our other colleagues in the Sam Nunn School of International Affairs at Georgia Tech, the Department of International Relations at Florida International University, and the faculty of International Management and Economics at Kansai University have also given us valuable support and constructive feedback. We benefited greatly from presenting portions of this work at several annual meetings of the American Political Science Association and the International Studies Association. We appreciate the insightful comments we received on these occasions. We also presented early drafts of this project to the Nunn School’s “Work in Progress Seminar,” to a research seminar sponsored by the Center for Transnational and Comparative Studies at Florida International University, and at a workshop on “Social Construction and International Studies” at Florida International University; we thank the participants in these seminars for their willingness to serve as sounding boards and critics. Portions of this book are adapted from “Language, Rules and Order: The Westpolitik Debate of Adenauer and Schumacher,” in Language, Agency, and Politics in a Constructed World , ed. François Debrix (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2003), pp. 196–219; used by permission. ix

x

Acknowledgments Contents

Dr. Willy Albrecht at the Friedrich-Ebert Stiftung, Engelbert Hommel at the Stiftung Bundeskanzler-Adenauer-Haus, and the staff at the Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, at Duke University’s Asian Studies Center, and at Cornell University’s Olin and Kroch Libraries all provided much-needed and much-appreciated assistance with our research. We are grateful, moreover, for the generous financial support we received from the Georgia Tech Foundation, the FIU Foundation, the FIU College of Arts and Sciences (for sabbatical research leave), and Kansai University (for a visiting scholar research grant). We would also like to thank Michael Rinella, senior editor at State University of New York Press, for his patience, his encouragement and his advice. Finally, special thanks go to our families, whose unwavering support and love mean everything.

Contents

xi

Abbreviations CDU CSCE CSU EU ECSC EDC FDP FRG GDR INF JSP LDP NATO OSCE SPD PDS SALT SCAP SDF SDPJ SED WEU

Christian Democratic Union (Christlich-Demokratische Union) Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe Christian Social Union (Christlich-Soziale Union) European Union European Coal and Steel Community European Defense Community Free Democratic Party (Freie Demokratische Partei) Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland) German Democratic Republic (Deutsche Demokratische Republik) Intermediate-range Nuclear Forces (Treaty) Japan Socialist Party (Shakaitø) Liberal Democratic Party (Jiy¨ Minshutø) North Atlantic Treaty Organization Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe Social Democratic Party (Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands) Party of Democratic Socialism (Partei des Demokratischen Sozialismus) Strategic Arms Limitation Talks Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers Self-Defense Forces (Jieitai) Social Democratic Party of Japan (Shakai Minshutø) Socialist Unity Party (Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands) West European Union

xi

This page intentionally left blank.

Chapter 1

Introduction

Leadership is again in vogue. In part, and especially when viewed from the perspective of contemporary American politics, this phenomenon owes much to the facile equation of national leaders with their states, and states with moral purpose. Because powerful individuals can do evil things, it has seemed like a relatively short step to speak of an “axis of evil” comprised of states. This tendency is abetted by something that the “age of terror” shares with its ironic predecessor, the “new world order.” Both terms emphasize possibility rather than constraint. The former denotes the most dangerous consequences of freedom, while the latter holds out hope for the constructive application of human energy to build new institutions of peace. Either term might be appropriate in an era when the Cold War constraints of an older generation have fallen away. So leaders have again taken center stage, freed for the moment from assumptions that their performance is merely puppetry, and emboldened to believe that there might not even be a script. In time, Americans no doubt will tire of crusading, as they always have.1 Yet history suggests that crusaders are never in short supply. In their moments of ascendancy, including the present, social scientists tend to emphasize the possibilities of human agency. In their moments of disappointment, theories of structural constraint and the grand patterns of history return to prominence. Machiavelli’s The Prince was written in the years immediately following the collapse of the Florentine republic in 1512, as absolutist monarchies were resurgent throughout Europe, and only a decade before Martin Luther nailed his ninety-five theses to the church door in Wittenberg. This was a moment of sweeping change, and it produced a treatise that remains the classic statement on the importance of skillful leadership in a permissive environment. A more recent classic in the same genre, Sidney Hook’s 1943 book The Hero in History was written in the midst of a world war that 1

2

Cultures of Order

was also a crusade for most who took part in it.2 Hook had the misfortune to write only a few years before the bipolar competition between capitalism and communism would lock international relations into a condition of apparent stasis for nearly half a century. Perhaps this is one reason why leadership studies has been an academic backwater ever since. Even as the Cold War gave birth to social science, and departments of political science sprang up to replace departments of politics or government, the vibrant wartime interest in political leadership gave way to structural theories of bipolar constraint and market forces.3 Economics became the queen of the social sciences, and leadership became an object of study only for pundits and a few psychobiographers.4 Today, two trends run counter to the preference for grand designs and structural analysis. The first is the emergent tendency of the United States to assert its power on a scale that was impossible in the late twentieth century. Accompanied by the crusading Manichaeism of which we have already taken note, this tendency is perhaps inevitably linked to a new unilateralism that rejects the multilateral designs of the previous decades as poorly suited to new, activist agendas. This is a fitting time for scholars to draw attention to leadership, regardless of whether its consequences are seen as benign or malign. A striking example of the new leadership studies is Richard Samuels’ book, Machiavelli’s Children.5 Samuels’ scope is not limited to the post-Cold War era, or to the United States. Instead, focusing on Italy and Japan, he begins with the state-building, wealth-building, and ultimately empire-building efforts of Camillo Benso di Cavour, Hirobumi Itø, and Aritomo Yamagata. He traces Italian and Japanese politics from the late nineteenth century to the present, giving a compelling account of how the sometimes similar and sometimes widely divergent choices of leaders in these two “catch-up imperialist” states have shaped their destinies.6 Samuel’s book is a sophisticated and meticulously researched tribute to historical contingency and the importance of leadership. Like Machiavelli’s Children, this book is a study in historical contingency. Its primary focus is postwar Germany, which we have chosen because it is a relatively “hard case” for proponents of leadership studies. If leadership seemed to matter less during the years of the Cold War, it should have been particularly irrelevant in Germany, constrained as it was by powerful allies and rivals alike. We will show that German politicians had more room to maneuver than is widely assumed. In developing this argument, we follow the path taken by another exemplary work in the leadership studies genre, David Patton’s incisive study of Cold War Politics in Postwar Germany.7 Like Samuels,

Introduction

3

Patton makes a strong case that leadership matters. German chancellors did not have the range of options available to American leaders, but they did have options. To help illustrate these alternatives, we contrast the German experience with that of another state occupying a similar international position: Japan. As in Germany, Japanese Prime Ministers often made skillful use of their limited freedom to play off the interests of their American occupiers against other forces, both international and domestic. They did not, however, always make the same choices as their German counterparts. The argument of this book does not stop with the assertion that leadership mattered, however, or that even the leaders of second-tier states during the Cold War had real choices to make. Instead, it seeks to integrate its analysis of leadership with a theory of the available choices. Leadership studies, as a body of scholarship, has suffered not only because bipolar stability rewarded structural theory in the late twentieth century, but also because of its apparent indeterminacy. Its best practitioners, like Samuels or Patton, are sophisticated enough to avoid the trap of suggesting that anything goes. Clearly, it was not possible for Japanese, Italian, or German leaders to do anything they pleased. Nor, for that matter, has this ever been possible for American leaders. In general, however, those bent on demonstrating the relevance of leadership have not been equally intent to show the limits of the possible. The second trend that has worked against grand structural theorizing offers a way to integrate leadership analysis with a theory of limits. The emergence of constructivist scholarship emphasizing human agency has been aided considerably by the decline of Cold War constraints. But the pioneering constructivist texts appeared before the breakup of the Soviet Union.8 They emphasized human agency and the possibilities for the construction of alternative political arrangements. Yet these scholars were not simply preparing for the latest historical swing in what psychologists call the person-situation debate. As a group, constructivists rebelled against the agent-structure dichotomy rather than taking sides. They were also motivated by frustration with the materialism and rationalism that typifies much social science research.9 They challenged the former by stressing differences in the ways people understand the material world, and they criticized the latter for its inability to understand the identity and goals of the people who make means-end calculations. By placing ideas and identities in a social context, however, constructivists also viewed agency as problematic. People are in a position to matter, according to constructivists, but they do not invent ideas or identities in a vacuum, without regard to the

4

Cultures of Order

social milieu in which they arise.10 It would thus be deeply misleading to view constructivism simply as another manifestation of the latest swing toward the position that leaders (or other agents) matter. It would also be a missed opportunity. Constructivism is positioned, in principle, to do what leadership studies cannot: to develop integrated theories of choice within constraints. Scholarship on leaders and leadership speaks effectively to the problem of change, to dramatic initiatives and pivotal decisions. It does not contribute with equal ease to studies of persistent order and historical patterns. And yet this is a book about order as well as leadership. It is a book about patterns in the choices that German and Japanese leaders have made in their efforts to help build a postwar international order and to find their own place within it. To identify such patterns does not nullify the claim that their leadership mattered. Their choices were real. In fact, they made different choices. But as elites in both of these countries deliberated over the choices they faced, their debates took on a pattern that constructivism can help to make familiar. This is a book, then, about leadership and order. It is not another volley in the interminable ping pong match between those who see power in human agency and those who see only impotence confronting the forces of history and destiny. Constructivism is an approach in social science that awkwardly, uncomfortably, and often unsuccessfully tries to position itself between agent and structure. In principle, constructivists embrace both, although most efforts to do so are trivial. Often, they tilt decisively in one direction or the other. When they achieve a balance, it is usually only by applying agency to one problem and structure to another. This book seeks a more integrated approach to the problem of international order. ORDER IN INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS One of the rites of passage for students of international relations is mastering a scholarly vocabulary that treats anarchy as something closer to a synonym than an antonym for order. If anarchy is defined, as it usually is in this field, as the absence of legitimate authority to establish order, this in no way prevents the emergence of patterned behavior. These patterns are just another kind of order—one produced without an orderer.11 The student of international relations learns to look for these patterns, and to attribute them to underlying structures of the balance of power, to recurring strategic dilemmas, or perhaps to the enlightened self-interest of states that coordinate their actions to produce public goods. But there is no need, one is reassured, to look

Introduction

5

for anyone or anything with the authority to create order. And if some entity does claim such authority, an intergovernmental organization perhaps, it is easily enough dismissed as the mouthpiece for the interests of whatever states dominate it. In this standard portrait of international relations (standard particularly at American universities), order is a by-product rather than itself a subject of analysis. Orders do not constrain or inform; they simply emerge. Students of international relations may take a certain pleasure in discovering these patterns, but there is no need to do anything with them analytically. For many people around the world, of course, there is little pleasure or comfort to be found in recognizing this particular pattern: the preeminence of a liberal economic order over other redistributive alternatives (what was once called the “new international economic order”). The “new world order” likewise seems to many nothing more than a fig leaf for American self-interest. But again, whether one praises or criticizes a particular form of order, the order itself is all pattern and outcome. If it is to be changed, we look elsewhere for the necessary tools, and not to the idea of order itself as a tool. This book puts order in the middle of its analysis rather than at the end. To understand why, it may be helpful to begin by considering another common use of the term. An order is not only a pattern, but also a command. It is a rule, issued by some, to tell others how to behave. No wonder the term is not often understood by international relations theorists in this way. What anarchy assumes about international relations is precisely that no one has the authority to issue orders of this sort to states. Or, even if such authority is gradually emerging in the fora of international organizations, it still seems to carry little weight when truly important matters are at stake. The ease with which rule-giving is often dismissed in international relations stems in part from a misunderstanding of what rules are and of what they do. Some rules convey information about an agent’s desires. If the agent in question is endowed with a measure of authority, then expressions of desire may be interpreted as commands. Given sufficient authority, the commands may even be obeyed. To the degree that legitimate authority is lacking in international relations, on the other hand, so is the basis for legitimate commands. Yet placing emphasis on legitimacy, which is central to the definition of anarchy as the absence of legitimate authority, leads us away from an important point about rules. Illegitimate commands are nevertheless commands. The ability to issue commands depends not on power or legitimacy, but rather on the ability to convey meaning. The first question we should ask about rules, therefore, is not whether they are

6

Cultures of Order

obeyed or whether the agent issuing them has enough power to make them seem compelling, but instead whether they are understood. When we succeed in using language to convey meaning, we also succeed in producing order. This is exactly what language does. It is an ordering system for distinguishing one thing from another and for identifying connections among these things. Statements intended to convey meaning about such distinctions are rules. Commands are a special case of rules, but all speech is an order-producing activity. To the extent that we can understand states as agents, capable of speaking, then we must understand their speech as order-producing. This conclusion demands of the reader two considerable leaps of inference. The first is that language consists of rules giving rise, in turn, to order. The preceding discussion sketches out this claim only in a very limited and perfunctory way. The next chapter will develop it more rigorously, drawing on the work of both linguists and international relations theorists, and placing special emphasis on the emergence of constructivist scholarship investigating the relationship between language and order. The remainder of this chapter will concern itself with the other inferential leap: that it is meaningful to think of states as corporate agents endowed with the capacity to “speak,” to enter into debates, and ultimately to take policy positions. It may seem far less of a stretch to say that states enact policies than it does to say that states speak. But it should not, for policies are merely statements (of intentions, with implicit reference to interests).12 An account of states as “speakers” is thus eminently practical as a way of making foreign policy a useful term. The state we are primarily concerned with in this book is the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) in the Cold War era. This is a challenging case, as already noted, because even if Cold War Germany were endowed through anthropomorphic magic with the faculty of speech, one might suspect that it would have had little to say. It is easy to suppose that all of its lines were scripted in committee by officials of NATO, the European Community, and the occupation powers. The next section considers and rejects this claim. German policy makers engaged in lively debates about the options available to them. We will focus in particular on German Chancellors and their chief opposition party rivals. But the point of the debates was never merely what Adenauer or Kohl, for example, would agree to. Ultimately, it was what the FRG would agree to do—and what it would say—in “conversation” with other states in Europe. By keeping this point in mind, we hope to highlight the connections between leadership studies and international relations.

Introduction

7

A GERMAN DEBATE The bipolar Cold War system is widely supposed to have been the central feature of international politics in Europe during most of the twentieth century’s second half. As the United States and the Soviet Union squared off against each other, potential disagreements among Europeans in each bloc seemed, at worst, a noisy distraction from the real issues. The debate that sprang up in a defeated Germany about the proper basis for a more stable and peaceful European order turns out, however, to have had a longer life than the Cold War that supposedly made it moot. In the late 1940s, sharp differences of opinion could already be heard in the Federal Republic of Germany about how the West German state should orient itself toward the rest of Europe. On one hand, some Germans felt that their country would have to earn its independence and, in the short run, settle for institutional ties that would severely curtail Germany’s freedom of action. The nature of these ties— of European, American, or even Soviet design—was secondary to their role of placing German agency in an institutional context. Given the mistakes of the recent past, the FRG could not insist on immediate equality, so the argument went, but should instead tolerate and even foster external (most likely American) leadership while seeking to regain international trust. Close integration of German policy making with international institutions like the European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC) and the European Defense Community (EDC) would lessen European fears of a revival of German power. Over time, it was thought, close cooperation with other countries would restore trust and, eventually, allow the FRG to regain equality and authority. Of course, East-West politics also mattered. Since closer relations with the East might hinder the political and economic integration of Western Europe, a “policy of strength” toward the East and close ties with the West became an essential part of the institutional strategy. Yet this strategy was derivative of the “institutional” position in the German debate over Germany’s international role. Sovereignty was the ultimate goal, institutional constraint was (paradoxically) the means, and policies toward the East and unification were tertiary, though clearly important nonetheless.13 On the other side of the debate were those who disagreed not with the goal of reestablishing German sovereignty, but rather with the proposed means. Since many Germans spoke out against the Nazis and fought National Socialism from the outset, some voices within the FRG insisted that postwar Germany under the leadership of the Nazis’

8

Cultures of Order

former opponents had already earned political equality or that, in any event, it was an inalienable attribute of the German people. Recognizing Germany’s equal status as an agent would therefore be the sine qua non for entering into new political relationships with the West.14 The West German government should accept or enter into institutional commitments, therefore, only when doing so would guarantee equality and respect for German authority. Conversely, it should reject membership in institutions like the ECSC and the EDC that sought to discriminate against the FRG or to place it in a subordinate position. Adherents to this stance also argued, soon after 1945, that priority should be given to German unification and to a settlement with the East. Once again, this position followed from particular means—securing respect for German agency—that they considered essential to protecting German sovereignty. By placing the focus on German agency, they more naturally raised the question of German unification. Convinced that a solution would require Four Power negotiations, and that it would be counterproductive to alienate the Soviet Union by accepting close institutional ties with the West, they sought to reach out to the Soviets, to reject an anti-Soviet Western bloc, and to pursue a vision of an international Europe that would include the USSR. A debate over the FRG’s proper role in a stable European order, and over the necessary requirements for achieving this order, thus took root and flourished among Germany’s leading policy makers. A parallel debate also emerged in East Germany where the political elite was, if anything, even more strictly constrained than were leaders in the West. The debate divided those who saw close ties with Moscow as a precondition for stability from those who preferred a model of “socialism in one country.” This book focuses on the West German debate over European order, however, for two reasons. First, focusing on the West avoids the confounding effects of a revolutionary communist ideology on German normative pronouncements. Second, and more pragmatically, the documentary record of these debates remains much better for the West than for the East. These debates have in fact persisted beyond German unification, and their robustness belies claims that superpower bipolarity was the only significant feature of Europe’s international environment. This book argues that while the debates may have been animated by superpower relations and also by a variety of domestic concerns, they were nonetheless organized along lines that constructivist analysis is particularly helpful in clarifying. Bipolarity undeniably shaped the terrain on which the debate took place. So did the pragmatic concerns of everyday life in postwar Germany.15 Yet fundamental disagreements

Introduction

9

over the proper relationship between national agency and European institutions informed this debate in ways that both a Cold War historiography emphasizing East-West conflict and a domestic analysis of party conflict are likely to miss. For most people, and in most countries, the emergence of deep schisms and even the most vitriolic rhetorical exchanges among politicians are not cause for puzzlement. Rather, the willingness to enter into protracted debates would seem to be an important qualification for a career in politics. It is useful to keep in mind, therefore, that most observers have emphasized the extent of agreement rather than disagreements among postwar German policy makers. As David Patton points out, “the Federal Republic of Germany has long been known for its consensus politics.”16 The standard model of German politics— particularly after the Social Democrats dropped their demand for fundamental economic reform at a party congress in Bad Godesberg in 1959—emphasizes a corporatist entente among representatives of German society’s leading interest groups.17 In this view, debates are only for show, since government, business and labor leaders have already worked out a compromise on the next wage hike, plant closing, or interest rate policy behind closed doors. And it is precisely to these consensual arrangements that some observers attribute Germany’s postwar economic success.18 As already noted, moreover, the constraints of Cold War bipolarity should reinforce the tendency toward consensus in West Germany. According to one of the preeminent scholars of postwar Germany foreign policy, Wolfram Hanrieder, “everyone was aware that powerful and most likely irresistible outside forces were reaching into the untested domestic political system, that the range of domestic and foreign policy options was narrow, and that the opportunities for genuine selfassertion were severely limited.”19 Thus, he continues, “the history of the domestic political contest over Bonn’s foreign policy is the history of a ‘great compromise’ between the Left and Right. . . . This compromise, slowly forged over the decades, was effectively imposed by the shifting political, military-strategic, and economic realities of the European and global state system.”20 Now, at the dawn of a new century, German politicians are so accustomed to this pattern that a politics of consultation and consensus is almost second nature, even after Cold War constraints have disappeared. Peter Katzenstein calls this a “culture of restraint” that has caused Germans to eliminate “the concept of ‘power’ from their political vocabulary.”21 Simon Bulmer calls Germany the “gentle giant.”22 And Jeffrey Anderson puzzles over “Germany’s reflexive support for an exaggerated multilateralism.”23 To find evidence

10

Cultures of Order

of a persistent cleavage among German leaders—a division precisely over how Germany should relate to other states—thus runs against the grain of the received wisdom about German foreign policies, both during the Cold War and after. Even those who emphasize German consensus are not blind, of course, to the animosities and disagreements that occasionally disturbed the calm of the German political order. It is not their claim that Germans never disagreed, but rather that the disagreements never overturned the underlying corporatist consensus. And it is not our objective to place undue emphasis on the debates, but rather to point out that, when they occurred, they exhibited a pattern that does not reflect the party structure or other basic cleavages within German politics. In general, it is true that the Christian Democrats and the Catholic Church were more likely to support the structural-institutional position of policy linkage and careful coordination with the West, whereas members of the Social Democratic Party (SPD), the army, the diplomatic service, and the Protestant Church tended more often to emphasize respect for German agency and the desirability of openness to the East. By the time the SPD came to power, however, Germany had gone too far down the path to Brussels to rethink its basic postwar orientation. If the debate between institutionalists and proponents of sovereign German rights persisted—and it did—then it had to be about something else. In any case, neither vision of Germany’s role in Europe cleaved neatly to party lines. On the contrary, numerous individuals across the political spectrum felt that Adenauer’s “all-or-nothing policy” of Western alignment was a mistake. A case in point was his chief antagonist in the Christian Democratic Union (CDU), Jakob Kaiser, who proposed that Germany should seek to mediate between East and West.24 Kaiser was not alone. Adenauer’s Interior Minister, Gustav Heinemann, resigned in October 1950 to protest the Chancellor’s policies on rearmament, which he felt would diminish chances for unification. Karl-Georg Pfleiderer and Thomas Dehler—both members of the CDU’s coalition partner Free Democratic Party (FDP)—were also skeptical of the Chancellor’s policies of integration with Western Europe.25 They were joined in their skepticism by German intellectuals such as Golo Mann, Karl Jaspers, and Rudolph Augstein. Members of the Social Democratic camp were likewise split over the desirability of neutrality, to say nothing of replacing Westpolitik with Ostpolitik.26 After the horrors of the Nazi period, “neutralist and antimilitarist sentiments . . . were widespread in immediate postwar Germany, not least within the SPD itself.”27 Thus, the SPD generally opposed

Introduction

11

participation in a national defense program, although even the leftist element within the party did not categorically reject rearmament. More important, as Bundestag Deputy Paul Baade made clear, was that the SPD preferred rearmament to follow rather than precede German unification.28 Nevertheless, the Social Democratic mayors of Hamburg (Max Brauer), Bremen (Wilhelm Kaisen), and Berlin (Ernst Reuter) supported plans for a European Army and West German membership in the Council of Europe, arguing that it would be dangerous to alienate the Western powers. SPD Deputy Fritz Erler, apparently less worried about alienating the West than his colleagues, even labeled the FRG’s exclusion from NATO “blatant discrimination.” Erler stressed that “without access to the NATO Council the Germans would be nothing more than a ‘foreign legion’ at the disposal of the Western Alliance.”29 If both external constraints and political culture arguments lead us to expect consensus rather than debate in postwar Germany, and if domestic political divisions also fail to explain the character of the debate, then what does? At least two other possibilities remain. One of these is cynical: that the “debate” was merely an electoral tactic of German politicians. This explanation is not contradicted by the poor correspondence between party lines and opposing sides of the debate, since both are judged to be arbitrary. It is at least plausible that politicians chose positions on this issue merely as a way of distinguishing themselves from their opponents, or perhaps based on other shortterm political calculations that diverged from party orthodoxy. This explanation runs counter to a long-standing tradition in the analysis of party politics, exemplified by Seymour Lipset and Stein Rokkan’s classic studies of the relationship between parties and electoral cleavages. In brief, Lipset and Rokkan expect parties to reflect class, religious, or other basic divisions within society.30 And yet this does not ensure that all ideological divisions within society will be strictly and equally represented at the party level. As Karl Mannheim once observed, “parties do not represent totalitarian organizations of particular strata; party lines are not the only or the essential dividing lines through the entire life of the nation.”31 Thus, it is impossible to rule out the thesis that the debate over Germany’s relations with Europe represented more idiosyncratic divisions in German society, or purely pragmatic calculations on the part of politicians, that did not correspond to party platforms. Although this explanation cannot be dismissed out of hand, we nevertheless find it unconvincing. If it were true that German politicians chose foreign policy positions merely on the basis of short-term electoral calculations, then one would not expect to find an extended

12

Cultures of Order

defense of these positions over time in their speeches and writing. For this reason, chapters 3, 4, and 5 each begin by exploring the personal background and basic positions of these politicians. The chapters show that, without exception, these individuals had well thought out and strongly held convictions about the problem of order and about how Germany should relate to other nations. In view of this evidence, including their statements on the issue even before entering public life, it is difficult to sustain the argument that their policy positions were based mainly on strategic calculation and electoral circumstance. It would have been extraordinary, in fact, had leading politicians not worked out their convictions on this issue early in their careers, because it was arguably the central foreign policy problem Germans faced. For the same reason, because it was so central, it is true that German parties often incorporated statements that seem to reflect either an institutionalist or rights-oriented position into their platforms. Again, it would have been surprising had they failed to do so. In the long run, however, neither the personal convictions of politicians nor party politics are good predictors of the persistence and structure of the debate itself. There were compelling reasons for both politicians and parties to take positions on the issue, but over time these positions varied across party lines. If there was a structure to the debate, it was not purely or even primarily electoral. The explanation that remains is that the debate possessed its own structure. This book rejects the claim that either domestic or international politics offers a complete explanation of the German debate over order. This debate addressed a fundamental, normative problem faced by postwar Germany, and it was itself an important force shaping German foreign policies. At its core, the controversy over Germany’s proper role in Europe tended to pit those who believed that rights must precede obligation against those who expected the emergence of new institutional arrangements to generate new forms of agency, re-creating German authority within a broader European context. Although this debate weaves through both domestic and Cold War politics, it can be reduced to neither. This reflects a basic social problem for modern citizens who ask their government to provide ordering principles and a regulative structure that govern both internal relations (i.e., among citizens) and external relations (i.e., among states). It is also a basic ideological problem because the most prominent modern ideologies have emerged either in concert with (and in support of) this social contract, or else in opposition to it. If ideas and ideology have an extended impact on foreign policy, then ideas about order should be among the first subjects of study. That disputes over European order remain vibrant to

Introduction

13

this day, animating contemporary disagreements over German proposals for more federal structures within the European Union, further attests to the importance of the issues at stake. CONTRIBUTIONS OF CONSTRUCTIVISM Germany’s choice of foreign policy after its defeat in World War II— and the internal debate that occurred over these policies—ought to be an easy case for scholars who emphasize the importance of power politics and Weltmacht. The hard realities of the international distribution of power were never more in evidence than at the conclusion of this war, with most of the world’s major economies in ruins and with the United States having emerged as a preponderant force in world affairs. It is hard to imagine circumstances more likely to make West German policy the product of forces beyond Bonn’s control. Because Germany’s relationships with other European states were widely seen within Germany as crucial to the goal of establishing a lasting European peace, and to Germany’s eventual unification, this is also a case in which domestic politics should play a large role. There was no foreign policy issue that postwar Germans cared about more passionately than the problem of order, broadly construed. It is an intriguing puzzle, we argue, that neither the international distribution of power nor German domestic politics actually gives a good account of the evolution of the German debate over international order. It is not plausible to argue, conversely, that this is an especially hard case for a “constructivist” analysis emphasizing the independent role ideas, ideologies, and social conventions play in shaping policy. If a constructivist, normative analysis should apply to anything, it should apply to a debate over the ordering principles of international society.32 It is a hard case for constructivists only in the sense that, as many of those cited above would argue, a debate about values and order independent of existing partisan cleavages should not have emerged in the first place in postwar Germany. Since such a debate did emerge, constructivists ought to be able to explain it. The real challenge for constructivists has not, in fact, been finding suitable cases. Rather, it has been the difficulty of generating any empirically testable propositions at all. Postwar Germany is an eminently suitable testing ground for constructivist propositions about order if only such arguments can be devised. To explain why this has been so difficult, we should first say more about what constructivism denotes. Constructivism is a notoriously wooly, but nevertheless highly visible, trend in many fields of scholarship, ranging from law to

14

Cultures of Order

psychology to international relations. No doubt, it owes some of its present cachet to a fashionable late-modern sensitivity to the ambiguities inherent in human knowledge and to declining faith in purely rational accounts of the scientific enterprise. At the same time, ironically, constructivism is optimistic in its emphasis on human agency and on the prospect that people make (and can re-make) the world in which they live. In World of Our Making, Nicholas Onuf introduced the term to the field of international relations and challenged both modern and postmodern conceptions of social science.33 Because knowledge is mediated by language (the mechanism whereby knowledge is produced and stored), and because language is impregnated with values (as suggested above in our brief discussion of rules), knowledge cannot be divorced from values. Onuf thus criticizes modern positivism on ontological grounds: knowledge of the world cannot occupy a domain separate from that of values. Instead, it occupies the intrinsically value-laden domain of language. At the same time, all knowledge-producers (speakers) are of the world and constrained by it. The limits of physics, chemistry, biology, and so on may not dictate unique scientific constructions, but it hardly follows that they are irrelevant. Onuf thus carved out for constructivism what Emanuel Adler later called a “middle ground” in debates over the prospect of advancement in social science.34 The same year that World of Our Making appeared, Friedrich Kratochwil’s Rules, Norms, and Decisions also rejected an objective domain of social life in favor of the position that reason, normativity, and language are inevitably bound up together.35 These two works set the stage for a trickle, at first, and then a flood of other self-described constructivist studies of international relations. Of these, perhaps the most influential has been Alexander Wendt’s Social Theory of International Politics.36 Like Onuf, Wendt has emphasized the plasticity of social constructions, as in his much discussed claim that “anarchy is what states make of it.”37 Social Theory of International Politics extends this argument but, at the same time, defends the demands of “scientific realism” that truth claims be subject to testing. Together, these books constitute one response to a crisis in the philosophy of social science. Each accepts the impossibility of viewing science as a value-free domain, and yet each rejects the skeptical postmodern position that the accumulation of knowledge is pure illusion or rhetorical artifice. Their considerable merit notwithstanding, the contributions of Onuf, Kratochwil, and Wendt to carving out a sophisticated, latemodern position in the philosophy of social science are probably not the main reason for the growth of constructivism’s popularity in

Introduction

15

international relations. Ultimately, as with any body of research, scholars have demanded that constructivism contribute something to an explanation of the subjects about which they care. In other words, they have demanded a contribution of theory rather than of meta-theory.38 Constructivism has gradually met this demand in two ways, both of which emphasize what Wendt has called an “idealist or social ontology” that seeks “to reclaim power and interest from materialism by showing how their content and meaning are constituted by ideas and culture.”39 First, constructivism has fostered new investigations of normative constraint in international politics. Some of these works specifically take on “hard cases” when national security is at stake. Martha Finnemore has shown, for example, that humanitarian norms cultivated by the International Committee of the Red Cross and embodied in the Geneva Convention constrain both the method and the likelihood of military intervention.40 Nina Tannenwald shows how norms against the use of nuclear weapons have shaped leaders’ willingness to use them, or even to threaten their use.41 Richard Price likewise argues for an emergent taboo against the use of chemical weapons.42 Other constructivists have shown that international norms act not only as constraints, but also as incentives. Audie Klotz’s exploration of the impact of global norms of racial equality on the apartheid regime in South Africa is a case in point.43 And John Ruggie’s nuanced analysis of multilateralism reveals an institution that simultaneously constrains, informs, and motivates state policies.44 Such concern for norms of international conduct is not without precedent. Its pedigree stretches back at least as far as Hugo Grotius, Samuel von Pufendorf, and Emmerich de Vattel, and perhaps even to their medieval predecessors such as Francisco de Vitoria and Francisco Suárez. But in an era that, until recently, has been so preoccupied with Spartan accounts of power distribution and microeconomic theories of choice, this body of constructivist scholarship comes as a welcome reminder that social and legal norms matter even to states. Largely distinct from this body of work emphasizing norms and social institutions, constructivists have also taken up a second ideational problem: the way agents ascribe social identities, both to themselves and to other agents. Wendt has been especially influential in urging more attention to state identity.45 For Wendt, identities correspond closely to social roles, and state identities thus to the roles it is possible for states to play in the international system.46 This is very different from the way the term national identity is typically used by specialists in comparative politics—as a measure of a nation-state’s

16

Cultures of Order

internal cohesion—and other constructivists in international relations have generally followed Wendt’s lead, taking the cohesive state as a given and asking what sort of state it is.47 An impressive example is Ted Hopf’s compelling account of Soviet/Russian identity. Hopf weaves together documentary and literary evidence to show how Russians carved out for themselves a distinctive modern identity—or rather a series of related identities incorporating considerations of class, great power status, and ethno-regional difference. Tying these elements together is a “master narrative” portraying Russia as a modern, progressive state.48 Iver Neumann explores another account of identity and modernity, arguing that the East was pivotal in framing national and regional accounts of European identity.49 And Erik Ringmar argues, to take a third example, that Sweden entered the Thirty Years War neither primarily for conquest nor wealth (though these were undoubtedly among its objectives) but above all to demonstrate that it was a major power and member of the family of European nations.50 Participation in the war, in other words, was a symbol of Sweden’s status in Europe. As with the normative research discussed above, constructivist investigations of identity politics have certain precedents. Or perhaps more accurately, they typically ignore certain precedents that nevertheless seem relevant. In 1956, Kenneth Boulding proposed a new field of study—the study of images and identities, spanning the social sciences—that he dubbed eiconics. Its central idea will seem familiar to constructivists who treat identities as “social meanings” conferred upon agents. “Knowledge,” Boulding writes, “has an implication of validity, of truth. What I am talking about is what I believe to be true; my subjective knowledge. It is this Image that largely governs my behavior.”51 In a chapter on “the political process,” Boulding clarifies the relationship between political images, identities, and roles: Political images include not only detailed images of role expectations. They also include what might be called symbolic or personalized images of institutions themselves. A symbolic image is a kind of rough summation or index of a vast complexity of images of roles and structures. These symbolic images are of great importance in political life, and especially in international relations. We think of the United States, for instance, as Uncle Sam; of England as John Bull; or of Russia as a performing bear.52 Shortly before Boulding wrote, Henry Kissinger offered an analysis of Cold War foreign policy based on the distinction between “status quo”

Introduction

17

and “revolutionary” states. This is a more general form of the state images that Boulding had in mind, and a sufficiently compelling one that Richard Cottam took it as the point of departure for his own study of “foreign policy images.”53 Cottam’s argument was that a more nuanced account of national images is necessary to explain foreign policy choices. One of Cottam’s image categories—the enemy image— received particular attention during the Cold War.54 Yet as foreign policy image theorists are still at pains to point out, many different kinds of images are ascribed to states.55 States may be seen not only as enemies, of course, but also as allies, imperialists, pseudo-colonies, rogues, and so on. Some will object that these “images” are not the same thing as identities (national or otherwise), but the distinction is hard for constructivists, in particular, to defend. If identity is a social construction, then what makes an identity real is simply that people find it meaningful. Having rejected essentialist accounts of identity, constructivists see no difference in kind between identity and image. The foreign policy images discussed by Cottam are state identities, as understood by those states’ observers. Some identities may be more institutionalized, more visible, or more widely accepted than others. But this makes them no more “real” or “true” than other, contested identities. The real problem is not sorting out the difference between “true” and apparent identities. Rather, it is building mid-level theories that bridge the gap between the abstract work of language- or rule-oriented theorists and the pragmatic accounts of normative constraint and national identity. Constructivism has been a success story both as a workable ontological compromise and as an inspiration for accounts of international relations that treat ideational concerns as important in their own right, not as mere epiphenomena to be explained by underlying material constraints. A rapidly growing body of descriptive scholarship shows how the social norms that define and constrain agents matter greatly in the conduct of international relations. In general, however, this body of work has not generated broad theoretical statements. And when constructivists do issue broad theoretical statements, they have tended to emphasize philosophy of science rather than empirical research. This book is an attempt to bridge the gap between theory and description in constructivist scholarship by developing propositions specifically linking philosophical accounts of language and normativity to observable patterns of normative constraint in postwar German foreign policy. Put more simply, it seeks to apply empirically the somewhat abstract language-oriented theories of Onuf and Kratochwil to a

18

Cultures of Order

case in which policy hinged on fundamentally normative problems. At its core, the fundamental dilemma Germany faced after the Second World War was how it ought to be construed, as an agent, by the major international powers and how arrangements among European states ought to be structured to promote international order. The objectives of German policy—sovereignty and peace—were more or less widely accepted by German policy makers.56 The debate over how to achieve them was a debate over both the propriety and effectiveness of different ways of achieving these objectives. If language-oriented constructivism offers theories of anything, it offers theories of how language works to produce normative effects, to bind agents to orders. In the narrow sense, this means that what is (speech or text in constructivist ontology) gives rise to ought (normative constraint) in certain linguistically patterned ways. In a broader sense, it means that what it is possible to do with language shapes the sort of order it is possible to create in societies. This is no less true in societies of states. For constructivists who wish to advance generalizable arguments, it makes sense to start with the problem of how states advance normative claims. Making the problem of order central to the analysis of international relations does not imply, of course, that it is easy to produce a desirable order or that any order whatsoever can be produced if only people try hard enough. Indeed, it does not compel constructivists to take a position about whether any given order is desirable. Claims to the contrary are caricatures of the constructivist position. This book will have nearly as much to say about limits on the sort of international order Germany could embrace as it will about the possibilities at the heart of German debates. It is a story of constraints as well as alternatives. Yet however limited the options were—by the international distribution of power, by alliance requirements, or by domestic politics—Germany was never so constrained that the prospects for constructing a new European order were reduced to only a single, decisive path. Ultimately, German policies were constrained not only by the pressing, day-to-day contingencies of Cold War politics, but also by an underlying philosophical choice. OVERVIEW OF THE BOOK This book will show that the same debate over Germany’s role in a broader European order has played itself out again and again among German leaders. This pattern emerged despite the constancy of the international system (which suggests that no important debate should have emerged) and despite domestic political changes and realign-

Introduction

19

ments (which suggest that the debate should have been less coherent). The debate and the ideas behind it had a life of their own, and they live on today. Despite its continuity, however, it is helpful to divide the debate into several distinct phases. After the war, as German politicians and occupation authorities struggled to rebuild and reform Germany’s shattered political institutions, the FRG’s economic and strategic dependence on the West served as the foundation for these efforts. This is not to say that alternative foundations were completely lacking or inconceivable. Yet the problems of order in Europe and order within Germany were intimately linked. As Konrad Adenauer and the CDU squared off against Kurt Schumacher’s SPD, domestic and international aspects of the debate over Westpolitik merged together. Chapter 3 will nevertheless show that Adenauer and Schumacher’s contrasting positions were not dictated by international or domestic constraints, but instead were informed by their own principled convictions about the necessary conditions for political order. Their convictions and their leadership shaped German policy. As Cold War tensions eased in the 1960s, space opened for German politicians to reach out to the East. This period was undoubtedly an important transition, but not because it changed the terms of the debate over order with West Germany and Western Europe. German leadership shifted from the CDU and Kurt-Georg Kiesinger to the SPD and Willy Brandt, and foreign policy shifted along with it from Westpolitik to Ostpolitik. But party politics did not make this shift inevitable. Chapter 4 demonstrates, instead, that the shift was again the consequence of principled stances by Germany’s leading politicians. Although German policy changed, the terms of the debate remained almost exactly the same. Finally, as Germany drew near to unification, the debate entered a third phase. Sensing the opportunity presented by Gorbachev’s reforms, Helmut Kohl embraced policies designed to bring East and West Germany together far more rapidly than the CDU had ever envisioned in the past. At the same time, the SPD that had long championed tighter links with the East grew more cautious. Party leader Oskar Lafontaine, in particular, advocated a slower pace of change. In this phase as well, and despite the enormous domestic and international stakes, the debate again reflected an established pattern of normative concerns. Chapter 5 shows that Kohl and Lafontaine engaged in essentially the same contest as their predecessors, pitting institutional and rights-based notions of order against one another. David Patton has associated each of these eras—of Westpolitik, Ostpolitik, and Deutschlandpolitik—with distinctive political alliances

20

Cultures of Order

within the FRG. Each era, Patton shows, “cast asunder traditional policy alliances and created an opening to new interest coalitions.”57 While we accept both his periodization and a great deal of his insightful analysis of German coalition politics, we believe there is another, macrohistorical story to be told here. The broad consistency of German policy debates over European order is paradoxical on two levels. Taken together, chapters 3, 4, and 5 show that the debate persists even when Cold War constraints suggest it should not. And although this debate is frequently invoked in partisan rhetoric, the institutional and sovereign rights positions cut across party lines. If we are correct that conditions after the Second World War placed debates over regional order at the forefront of German political discourse, then the same phenomenon should also have occurred in Japan. Chapter 6 argues that, indeed, this debate is reflected in the divergent positions of Japan’s most prominent early postwar Prime Minister, Shigeru Yoshida, and his successor Ichirø Hatoyama. Although Yoshida and Hatoyama’s disagreements were conveyed in highly partisan terms, they were not party disputes fueled by opposing domestic coalitions.58 In fact, Hatoyama presided over the unification of his own Japan Democratic Party with Yoshida’s Liberal Party, forming the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) that has subsequently dominated Japanese politics. Nevertheless, in Japan as in Germany, the debate over regional order has persisted. Chapter 7 explores this continuity. Not only has the discursive opposition between institutional and rights-based normative stances itself proven remarkably durable, but Germany and Japan have each exhibited pronounced tendencies within the terms of the debate.59 In Germany, the institutional position has so far prevailed, whereas a concern for national rights has been more prominent in Japan. Chapter 7 returns the focus to Germany to ask whether the institutional position will continue to dominate. This final chapter also considers the prospect that a third, directive and power-based position may finally re-emerge in German foreign policy. Before examining any of these claims about the normative basis of political order, however, a fuller account of the relationship between language, obligation, and social order is urgently needed. Constructivists often invoke such terms, but the relationships between the constitutive and regulative functions of speech, between patterns of order and the normative force of language, remain imperfectly understood. Clarifying these relationships is the task to which chapter 2 now turns. The payoff is a theory of how norms sustain distinct social orders and a clearer understanding of why language itself matters so much.

Chapter 2

Language and the Problem of Order

Policy makers faced in 1945 a problem of the same type that they face today.1 At the end of an era of sweeping global conflict, and confronting an entirely new set of challenges, how could they craft a stable and secure international order? What rules of conduct would they seek to establish? And what rules of thumb would they embrace in their efforts to explain the emergence of new patterns of behavior or the persistence of old ones? Like all arenas of human activity, international relations are governed by rules. Rules are statements that have simultaneously constitutive and normative force.2 The assertion that states ought not to meddle in the internal affairs of other states seems to tend more obviously toward the normative. It is an example of the sort of statement we typically take to be a rule. To say that states are sovereign entities, on the other hand, serves more obviously to constitute distinct internal and external domains of authority. Ordinarily, we might call this an assertion or statement rather than a rule. Roy Bhaskar followed Immanuel Kant’s lead in arguing for just this sort of distinction between two kinds of language.3 Yet it is a mistake to believe that language has either one purpose or the other. It always has both effects. Because one of these effects is frequently more apparent than the other, a statement may appear predominantly normative or constitutive, but that is a difference of degree rather than kind, and of perspective rather than essence. This chapter will describe how the constitutive and normative properties of language, together, serve as the building blocks of meaningful social activity in international relations as in other spheres of human behavior.4 It will argue that language functions to create social order in certain regularized ways, even in the anarchic realm of international relations. And it postulates that, as a result, the defense of any particular order is likely to exhibit a logical, semantic, and moral structure characteristic of one (or more) of these linguistic strategies. 21

22

Cultures of Order

Language itself is the ordering of things through vocabulary and syntax. We also use other physical or social tools to produce order, of course, but order begins with language. Language divides up our experiences into categories (words), patterns (syntax), and ultimately meanings. When brute force is used, it may produce the conditions for order, but it never produces order itself. That is, it may rearrange physical or social relationships. Yet order is the understanding that such arrangements, patterns, and differences exist. This chapter gives careful attention to language in an effort to discern how speech gives rise to these understandings. Like the term rule, order is commonly used to denote one of two different things. On one hand, it refers to a recognizable pattern or arrangement. In this sense, order is linked to the constitutive function of language. To the extent that we can describe some thing, and say how it differs from other things, we have also described a relationship and, thus, declared a certain order. Yet an order can also be a command. More generally, order can refer to the resolution of problems of governance. This is the sense in which Hobbes articulated a “problem of order,” and it is the more typical use of the term in contemporary social science. To explain the emergence of a social order, then, is not just to explain any pattern, but especially a pattern of authority. Nicholas Rengger makes a strong case that the latter meaning is characteristically modern and that it reflects the extent to which bureaucratic governance has replaced faith in the essential unity of all things in a divine plan. Leibniz, he suggests, “was the last thinker of the very first rank to reason quite seriously about the politics of the Respublica Christiana and locate his conception of order in that frame,” seeking as he did so to reveal “the essential unity of theology, metaphysics, mathematics, ethics and politics.”5 Rengger’s plausible macrohistorical claim notwithstanding, a rigidly dichotomous understanding of order is no more helpful than the same dichotomy applied to language. Just as rules have both constitutive and regulative effects, order is both pattern and authority. We will thus treat it as both: that is, as a pattern of authoritative social relations. A given order is an arrangement that allocates value in social relations, extending to and including international relations. Orders are commonly reified through association with order-giving entities, such as governments or states. Yet like a state, or a rule, an order is a way of understanding social relations. Neither laws nor police (nor armies) constitute order as such. By identifying patterns of authority, orders are ways of understanding the world. To say that an order is a pattern or way of understanding seems comparatively neutral, but orders never are. They serve a political

Language and the Problem of Order

23

purpose.6 They can be created in many different ways, as already noted, for various reasons and in service of diverse interests. In international relations, the purposes or interests that order serves have often received more attention than its constitutive effects, and these interests are routinely treated as equivalent to reasons. The theory of hegemonic stability offers such an equation, for example, between the interests of a leading state and the creation of global order. Yet even when such explanations point the way to one equilibrium solution (among other possible solutions) to allocation problems, they do not tell us what types of solutions are conceivable. Because actual solutions are, historically, many and varied, making general statements about them would seem a quixotic goal were it not for the recognition that order, as a “way of understanding,” is always linked to the chief tool of human understanding: language. This is why we find it necessary, as have other constructivists, to begin with language itself. Our purpose is pragmatic, however, rather than philosophical. In seeking to explain the persistence of a debate in Germany over two paths to European order and German unification, we think it is natural to begin with the relationship between language and order. Perhaps our attention to the qualities of the debate itself makes this choice seem reasonable. Others concerned with the problem of social order have begun with deeds rather than words. Thomas Hobbes famously posed the problem as one of fitting multiple, divergent human desires and activities into a finite space.7 Hobbes supposed that the consequences of this “state of nature” were sufficiently dire to warrant the invention of social contracts and the creation of a “leviathan” to manage this problem of order. Talcott Parsons later took the same starting point, cited Hobbes, and made the problem of order central to sociology.8 So it remains: a preoccupation not only of sociology but of other social sciences too. In international relations, neoutilitarian approaches begin with the Hobbesian proposition that rational agents (states) confront a “warre of all against all” in the absence of a leviathan or sovereign authority.9 Faced with this problem, neoutilitarians share a concern for the problem of order. Neorealists attribute power-balancing orders to the constraining structure of the international system. Some neoliberals adopt roughly the same structural principles but expect functional incentives to allow more cooperative forms of order than neorealists envision.10 Other neoliberals accord states themselves greater freedom to devise cooperative solutions.11 More recently, constructivists have substituted attention to the normative basis for international order for the Weberian rationalism of the neoutilitarian approaches that consign values and interests to the realm of the extra-theoretical.12 In his

24

Cultures of Order

recent sociology of international relations, Bill McSweeney declares the social order to be “the common object of the social sciences.”13 He stresses, lest the point be missed, that “the object of study in international relations is the social order, an object which encompasses the domestic sphere no less than the international, the intersocietal no less than the societal.”14 Accounts of the emergence of particular international orders, however, are notoriously indeterminate. They tend to be just that: historical accounts or descriptions. Kenneth Waltz describes ordering principles of international and domestic systems, for example, but for him these are also extra-theoretical assumptions. In asserting the timelessness of anarchy in the international sphere, Waltz sets aside the problem of explaining this form of order. Others, motivated by a desire to explain cooperation in a system that seems not to encourage it, place the emergence of particular orders at the center of their analysis. Charles Kindleberger attributed the emergence of economic regimes following the 1930s depression to pronounced imbalances of power that gave states the ability to dictate terms.15 Robert Keohane placed greater emphasis, beginning in the 1970s, on interdependence and the need to overcome high transaction costs.16 Still more recently, Lisa Martin has focused on international sanctions as another mechanism for order creation. Kindleberger, Keohane, and Martin all offer plausible statements about the conditions for cooperation that go beyond the specific cases they examine. Yet as Martin explains, “most instances of international cooperation are multiple equilibria problems: there are a number of possible stable patterns of cooperation.”17 Why some kinds of cooperative arrangements emerge, while others do not, remains poorly understood. John Ruggie makes the same point about multilateral institutions: “while numerous descriptions of this ‘move to institutions’ exist, I know of no good explanations in the literature of why states should have wanted to complicate their lives in this manner.”18 International institution building in the twentieth century is one way to solve cooperation problems, and it is consistent with a variety of functional explanations, but it is only one available solution among many.19 Even for the theoretically inclined, it remains difficult to generalize about why specific kinds of order are created. It is not simply that international relations lacks satisfying explanations for the emergence of multilateralism specifically, or cooperative institutions more broadly. The study of order in international relations lacks what Waltzian neorealism, despite its flaws, had the virtue of bringing to the study of conflict: some sense of the possibilities. It turns out that people (and states) are adept at crafting arrange-

Language and the Problem of Order

25

ments to manage conflict, even in an anarchic environment. History records a dizzying array of such efforts. Most of them eventually fail, though some—such as the institutionalization of sovereignty and its sharp demarcation of the domestic and international spheres of order—have lasted for centuries. This chapter argues that the numerous efforts to build social order, despite their manifest differences across time and place, share certain basic building blocks. CONSTRUCTING ORDER To produce order, language depends on processes of both identification and differentiation. Some of the things we identify can also be conceived of, actually or potentially, as speakers. These things are agents.20 Yet all things (agents included) are part of structure inasmuch as they can be distinguished from, and thus have some sort of relationship with, other things. It is impossible to express our understanding of social life without giving attention both to agents and to structure. Since agents are things, they can be understood in relation to other things. When agents use language to express their understanding of things or relations, they constitute structure. Language is, in other words, a structuring tool that permits understanding. And, as one possible object of understanding, agents (just like anything else) are inconceivable in the absence of structure.21 Social scientists interested in explanation nevertheless find it difficult to avoid a trade-off between agency and structure. In the study of international relations, the prominence of structural theories has given rise to thoughtful explorations of this problem, and yet it remains difficult to integrate the two approaches.22 Those who emphasize constraints find it difficult to speak meaningfully of the importance of choices. And for the many scholars who carry out research on public choice, the particular constraints under which decisions are made are idiosyncratic matters that are almost always exogenous to theorizing about choice itself.23 Constructivism provides a framework to integrate these two concerns and to speak meaningfully about both agency and structure. And yet, the same “lines of battle” usually appear in constructivist scholarship. Some constructivists—perhaps the majority—make a point of emphasizing agency. What they no doubt find liberating about constructivism is its suggestion that structural constraints need not determine policy, that we human beings can choose courses of action that fly in the face of tremendous historical pressures, and that our ability to reinterpret the world endows us with the power to remake

26

Cultures of Order

it. Out of this optimism has come a spate of works on the creation and institutionalization of new norms of international behavior. Chapter 1 pointed to several examples of such work, including Audie Klotz’s exploration of how norms of racial equality hastened the end of apartheid in South Africa, and Richard Price and Nina Tannenwald’s studies of the emergence of taboos against the use of chemical and nuclear weapons (respectively).24 Constructivists of this sort might be seen, and seem to see themselves, as redressing an imbalance within international relations scholarship that has long favored structural theories of constraint (drawn, for example, from the traditions of neorealism and neoliberalism). Yet constructivists have also drawn inspiration from Anthony Giddens’ structuration theory and its insistence on the enduring properties of social systems.25 Actually, Giddens argues that “neither subject (human agent) nor object (‘society’ or social institutions) should be regarded as having primacy.”26 Yet his work is often invoked in support of the claim that culture functions as a symbolic system, relieving agents of the burden of having to make choices, or at least guiding them along the way. Alexander Wendt’s Social Theory of International Politics illustrates this approach in its exposition of three cultures of anarchy in international politics.27 Like Giddens, Wendt also sounds the theme of agency and choice. And yet, in his scheme of international cultures, agents have no obvious choices to make. If they face a world populated by “enemies” (a Hobbesian culture of anarchy), then they must respond just as neorealist theory would have them do. In a Lockean culture of rivals, they may instead adopt neoliberal premises, and in a Kantian culture of peace, they are perhaps freer still. It is the cultural setting that dictates possibilities for action, however, and the claim that states themselves “construct” this setting does not really enter into the argument except as an assumption. This admittedly brief overview of constructivist efforts to grapple with the problem of agency and structure fails to represent either the nuance or variety of constructivist scholarship. Indeed, all of the scholars identified above are well aware of the problem, and most have given it careful attention. The problem persists because it is difficult to identify analytical tools that permit us to speak comfortably of both agent and structure at the same time, as part of the same argument. This is exactly what rule- or language-oriented forms of constructivism should do. They begin with the observation that is and ought—the two concerns that Max Weber fought mightily to dissociate from each other— are in fact joined inseparably in most language. This is so because language carries out several purposes at the same time. In the first

Language and the Problem of Order

27

instance, it is merely an utterance: words spoken or written. Language is also locution to the extent it contains some propositional content. More to the point, however, language is a social activity. It is an illocutionary act intended to convey meaning and, thereby, to produce some change or response in its audience (a perlocutionary act). It is the social aspect of language that binds is and ought together. Only a limited number of illocutionary acts are possible. That is to say, language can only do a few kinds of things socially (although it might conceivably do more than one of them at once). A speaker can make a statement, ask a question, issue a directive, and so on. J. L. Austin allowed for five types of such acts.28 John Searle described at least eight, but also acknowledged some overlap among his categories.29 A question can also be construed, for example, as a request or demand that the listener produce the requested information. A warning can be understood as an assertion that an undesirable future state of affairs is believed likely to occur (perhaps coupled with a request to the listener to avoid this state of affairs—e.g., “Watch out!”). Nicholas Onuf thus argues in favor of a simplified typology of only three basic kinds of speech acts giving rise to social understandings.30 Specifically, Onuf argues for exactly three illocutionary functions. Speech can describe a state of affairs (an assertive speech act). It can request another person to bring about a certain state of affairs (a directive speech act). Or it can constitute a promise on the part of a speaker to bring about a certain state of affairs (a commissive speech act). For Onuf, the social aspect of all language can be understood as involving these three types of performances.31 To say that only these speech acts are possible is to say that all speech with social and normative functions—as distinct from utterances or exclamations that do not conjoin social and normative purpose—can perform its work in only three ways. Moreover, all speech with perlocutionary consequences (i.e., social effects) must also have at least some normative consequences (i.e., deontic effects). To see why this is so, and how it helps us to distinguish among kinds of possible speech acts, we must consider the possible relationships into which speech acts place the speaker, the audience, and the world. When we use language to do things socially, we do so in one of two ways, and with one of two kinds of agents as the normative target.32 Either we intend to fit our words to a certain state of affairs by describing it, or else we intend to fit a state of affairs to our words by effecting a change in it. Most often, other people (i.e., listeners) are both the perlocutionary subject and the normative target of the speech in question. In certain cases, however, speakers may themselves be the

28

Cultures of Order

normative targets of their own speech even though other agents remain the perlocutionary subjects of such speech. These observations yield four domains to which normativity might apply. Normative Target

Fit words to world Fit world to words

Self (Expressions) Commitments

Other Assertions Directives

Statements that direct both their perlocutionary and their normative force at agents other than the speaker appear to be straightforward. Directives, as efforts to get others to do something, are efforts to turn one state of affairs into another. That is, they are attempts to fit the world (by inducing change) to certain stated (new) conditions. Consider the statement, “Go away!” Directed at another person, it seeks to move a certain state of the world involving that person (presence) into conformity with an expressed desire (absence). In this way, it fits the world to words. Moreover, if this statement succeeds normatively—if the speaker has a right to tell another, for example, to get off her land—then the other is clearly the target of whatever normative force the statement carries. Implicitly, all directives claim such normative force (even though listeners do not always recognize or accept the normative claim). Assertions fit words to the world. The statement, “This is a photo of my beautiful new car,” fixes descriptions to objects. This is a photo; the car is new and beautiful. Assertions may seem to pack much less of a normative punch than directives, but this merely depends on how they are used. Ordinarily, a low normative priority is attached to naming things. Nevertheless, the new car buyer is placing some obligation on those who see the picture to agree that the car is, indeed, beautiful. The obligation could, in some cases, be much stronger: “this is a photo of my beautiful new car, but I seem to have lost the keys.” If the hearer has a reason to dispute the characterization of the keys as “lost,” then there is some obligation to say so: “You mean those keys, on the floor behind your chair?” Other assertions—pejorative language such as racial epithets, for example—can evoke much stronger reactions and obligations. Assertions can be hotly disputed, precisely because naming (or misnaming) things often has important consequences. In these circumstances, it is often asserted that one ought to get the name right. In this fashion, assertives also have normative force. When a low priority is attached to description, this force is

Language and the Problem of Order

29

correspondingly weak, but it is never quite absent so long as the assertion is meaningful. The situation becomes more complicated when the normative target of a statement is the speaker. Like directives, commissive speech acts require a specified state of affairs. They change the world to fit the specified state of affairs by creating new obligations for the speaker. Unlike directives, it is the speaker rather than the listener who is obligated to bring about the specified state of affairs. In the case of a promised action (“I’ll be here tomorrow at 2 PM.”), the speaker creates an obligation to show up, on time, at the designated place. Context might suggest a reciprocal obligation on the part of the listener (“So you should also be here then.”), but this is not essential. Nor is it essential that the listener acknowledge or accept the statement (someone who makes such a statement and then hangs up the phone without waiting for a response is still obligated). Of course, such statements also have perlocutionary consequences that involve other people. Specifically, they are likely to produce expectations on the part of those who hear them. Their normative consequences apply to the speaker, however, who is subsequently bound by the statement. Through both sorts of consequences, perlocutionary and normative, the statement changes the state of affairs and creates obligation and expectation fit to the words in question.33 Finally, expressive speech acts fit words to a private world rather than a public one. Expressives include statements such as “I’m sorry,” or “I can’t believe he did that!” Assertive speech acts also fit words to the world, but inasmuch as they can create obligations to consent or affirm what is being asserted, they have normative effects. Expressives create no such obligations. Indeed, it is impossible for someone else to confirm that I am really “sorry.” The purpose of expressives is accomplished by their utterance, and not as a result of any action that follows (even if action does follow). One might object that obligations are nevertheless attached to expressive speech. Under certain conditions, for example, one ought to apologize. Yet such obligation comes from previously institutionalized rules. The speech act itself—saying, “I’m sorry”—didn’t create the obligation to say so.34 This is the one form of speech, among those identified above, that has no normative effect. To be sure, expressives may still produce social (perlocutionary) effects. An apology might make those who hear it happier. This is an important consequence of apologies, but it is incidental to our analysis. Unlike the other modes of speech identified here, expressives succeed regardless of whether they produce an effect, because they pertain to the inner world of the speaker. Thus, they cannot be considered speech

30

Cultures of Order

acts in the same sense as the other kinds of performative speech considered here.35 Our relationship as speakers to the world and to listeners gives us exactly three things to do with language that are both socially performative and normative: direct, assert, or commit. Speech acts are related to order in both of the senses already discussed. As expressions of particular relationships between words and the world, they pattern our experience and render it intelligible. Because they are simultaneously normative, they also regulate our understanding and behavior. To note that it is possible for speech to accomplish these purposes in infinitely varied ways does not contradict Searle’s claim that “speaking a language is engaging in a (highly complex) rulegoverned form of behavior. To learn and master a language is (inter alia) to learn and to have mastered these rules.”36 Such rules are not outside language—they are language. To know how to speak a language is precisely to know how to do things with it, and the three things one can do socially and normatively with language are thus rules. Assertions are instruction-rules. Telling us the right words to use (a language problem) is the same as telling us the right way to identify an aspect of the world (an empirical problem). This is another way of stating Willard Quine’s argument that analytic statements (pertaining to definition) can never be distinguished conclusively from synthetic statements (pertaining to the world).37 Instruction-rules can be distinguished from other forms of speech, however, according to their purpose. As we have seen, direction-rules and commitment-rules have a different social purpose (fitting the world to words) and differing normative targets (listener and speaker, respectively). All three forms of language are not merely rule-governed (hence, intelligible), but they are also themselves rules that prescribe a relationship between words and the world. They are fundamentally normative. The normative order on which language relies is not the same thing, of course, as social order. Yet social order is built—and can only be built—using the tools of normativity that language confers. Another way of putting this is to say that patterns of rule (i.e., the exercise of order-producing public authority) depend on rules (i.e., the exercise of order-producing communicative action). Rule is subject to modes of presentation and normative defense that mirror those of speech acts. Power may depend on directing the behavior of others, on assertions that certain behavior is appropriate, or on joint commitment to a community that acts in specified ways. Just as any individual speaker’s authority is deployed in one of these three ways, so the institutional authority of corporate power holders is deployed in the same manner, to the same effects.

Language and the Problem of Order

31

Before elaborating on the claim that speech acts—assertives, directives, and commissives—yield distinctive forms of rule and thus order, in public discourse no less than in private conversation, it may help to consider several illustrations. One might begin simply by asserting that conditions of rule already obtain in a given context. Liberal theory asserts the existence, for example, of inalienable rights. Friedrich Kratochwil deftly points out the difference between this sort of claim and those that immediately preceded it. The historical transformation can be clearly seen in the shift away from the pre-occupation with the establishment of authority, characteristic of seventeenth-century theorists (Hobbes to Grotius and Pufendorf), to the liberal theories of Locke and other eighteenth-century writers. Conceptually this shift can be traced when we focus on the prominence of two important classes of rights during that period, i.e., on liberties and on inalienable rights.38 For Hobbes, rights were meaningless in the state of nature: “The bonds of words are too weak to bridle men’s ambition, avarice, anger and other Passions, without the fear of some coercive Power.”39 Rights depend, in Hobbes’ view, on the presence of an authority competent to issue directives. Yet even in this case, Kratochwil goes on to argue, language and not just coercion is instrumental in producing order. It is the expectation produced by the sovereign’s ability to issue directives, rather than coercive force alone, that gives rise to a Hobbesian order.40 In the Lockean and Hobbesian positions on the sources of public order, proper understanding of the world, in the form of appropriate assertions about rights, is pitted against the potential to change the world, in the form of a sovereign competent to enforce law. Fundamentally, the debate turns on whether words must be made to serve the world (of power) or the reverse. A third possibility is that order rests on commitments to specific social relations. At first blush, this calls to mind a contractarian version of the liberal theory of order. Those who promise to abide by an agreement alienate, according to the terms of the agreement, their rights over certain future behaviors. Speech acts of this form are indeed commissives, but this is beside the point since the propositional content of such promises assumes the existence of the rights in question. To say, “I promise to give up my right to hurt you,” is to presume that such a right exists. Promises of this sort manipulate an order (and mode of rule) that depends on something else for its claim

32

Cultures of Order

to legitimacy. Typically, liberal contractarianism remains indebted to Lockean assertions of a priori rights; the social contract merely disposes of these rights. On the other hand, to trace a system of rules (and, ultimately, rights) to commitments as such is a different proposition—one that more closely resembles Kant’s republicanism (within the state) and cosmopolitanism (outside the state). Kant’s widely noted definition of republicanism as “that political principle whereby the executive power (the government) is separated from the legislative power” differs from the more common association of republicanism with political representation.41 Onuf holds that “Kant was on stronger footing to suggest that representation and the separation of powers [both] depend on a ‘lawful’ constitution, without which no state can properly claim to have a republican form of government.”42 If republican government derives its legitimacy from its legality, then it must begin with a capacity to enter into contracts. This is not a matter of rights, nor of the mere existence of laws and contracts, but rather a capacity to promise and, more importantly, a social obligation to treat promises as meaningful. Tied to each type of speech act, then, are distinctive claims about how social order (rule) becomes possible. Assertives build order out of authority that is assumed to exist elsewhere (for liberals, intrinsic rights). Directives link order to enforcement. And commissives predicate order on a social bond that—to the degree it exists—secures respect for promises. Onuf has labeled these three linguistic pathways to order “hegemonic,” “hierarchical,” and “heteronomous,” respectively.43 Hegemony is the acceptance of an order (both pattern and rule) as given, natural, or self-evident; Antonio Gramsci’s related conception is the inspiration for Onuf’s choice of terminology.44 Hierarchy is conformity to an order as the result of the threat or use of force.45 This threat is implicit in many positive conceptions of legal and bureaucratic authority. Whether or not threats are stated clearly, however, hierarchy premises order on enforcement rather than on understanding (of rights, mutual interests, etc.). Finally, inspired by Kant’s own use of the term, heteronomy is conformity to an order out of social obligations that sustain trust.46 The few examples given here certainly do not exhaust the possibilities for distinctive theories of rule, but all such theories must either adopt one or some combination of these modes. Onuf has argued that, “with assertives, directives, and commissive speech acts, we have an inclusive classificatory scheme for all social rules.”47 The same can be said for rule. To put the argument in a slightly different way, the normative problem of order requires either getting people to understand, to

Language and the Problem of Order

33

behave, or to care. Generically, understanding is a problem of fitting words to the world. Hegemony represents the triumph of a specific understanding of the world, either physical or social. Behaving is a problem of fitting the world to words (rules). Hierarchy does this by enforcing rules. And although caring, like behaving, is a problem of reshaping the world, it shifts the normative target from the other (whose behavior must be regulated) to oneself (or one’s own community). The third normative problem is what kind of self this person (or community) is. Heteronomy establishes order on the basis of communal qualities: trust, openness, democratic spirit, and so on. Of course there are many typologies of rule. One of the best known is undoubtedly Max Weber’s distinction among three ideal types of “legitimate domination.”48 Weber proposed that, as an ideal type, rule is based either on legal authority (which he called “rational grounds”), traditional authority, or charismatic authority. In the first of these cases, “obedience is owed to the legally established impersonal order”; in the second, obedience is “a matter of personal loyalty within the area of accustomed obligations”; and in the third, “it is the charismatically qualified leader as such who is obeyed by virtue of personal trust in his revelation.”49 Onuf has argued that Weber’s typology, although famous, is the “conceptually flawed” result of an incomplete classificatory scheme.50 While we are inclined to agree, this is beside the point. An infinity of such schemes could be produced, and it is unlikely that all of them would correspond neatly to the three types of social rules identified above. Yet it is not important that they do so. Hegemonic, heteronomous, and hierarchical orders are modes of rule, and not an exhaustive taxonomy of the ways authority can be applied socially. We do not intend to argue that all political arrangements conform neatly and exclusively to one of these three forms of rule.51 Our claim is more pragmatic and historical. We do intend to argue—consistent with a line of thought evolving from Ludwig Wittgenstein to Jürgen Habermas, Friedrich Kratochwil and Nicholas Onuf—that language provides a basic intellectual and normative structure. The problem of order and the process of ordering, whether individual or collective, private or public, inevitably rely on these fundamental normative tools. The three modes of rule are ideal types, almost always mixed together in practice. Yet they serve as wayposts for a theory of order. They are not themselves immune from political reconstruction. Appeals to rational awareness of common interests privilege the hegemonic mode (instruction rules). Injunctions to respect authority (including authoritative texts) and power tend to privilege the hierarchical mode (directive rules). And pleas to

34

Cultures of Order

respect a common humanity—or, in less sweeping terms, shared legal traditions or institutions, culture, religion, history, ethnicity, or other such qualities—privilege the heteronomous mode (commitment rules). Because history and social practice may either favor or undermine specific approaches to defending political order, it is possible to theorize about the prospects for a given defense of order. The next section develops such an argument for the exercise of order in contemporary Germany, in the context of the emergent, postwar European order. TOWARDS A NEW EUROPEAN ORDER The gradual process of European integration and the halting drama of German unification inevitably raised problems of both structure and agency, social construction and moral regulation. For either unification or integration to be realized, decisive action was required from national leaders. Ronald Reagan’s 1987 speech at the Brandenburg Gate urging Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall was one of the more dramatic examples of such action. No less important was Gorbachev’s response: promoting reform within the Soviet Union and allowing reform movements to take root abroad in Poland and Hungary.52 The result was a moment of opportunity for Bonn to maneuver and, thus, a moment when agency was critical and normative appeals were overt.53 The embedded structures of the Cold War worked against these actions (even Reagan’s, which went well beyond containment and détente) and the norms they invoked. This crucial moment is a prime example of the importance of agency in international politics. And yet, many of the issues confronted by decision makers in Bonn, Moscow, Washington and other capitals were undeniably structural and institutional. Gorbachev’s intent was not simply to take corrective—or even revolutionary—action, but instead to restructure both Soviet domestic politics and superpower relations.54 Put another way, he sought to construct new institutional arrangements within the Soviet Union. 55 The East German leader in late 1989, Hans Modrow, also emphasized the need for structural reform and proposed a “contractual community” between East and West that would create a legal framework for cooperation between two independent and equal German states.56 This position was strongly supported by French President François Mitterrand, and also by British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher to a lesser degree. The United States, on the other hand, supported the West German desire to achieve German unification. Again, the issues were structural. Would unification, if it did occur, be accomplished within the FRG’s federal and legal structures, or would

Language and the Problem of Order

35

it require the creation of new, joint arrangements? Would unification take place within the institutional confines of NATO, or would it mean the end of German membership? Would unification be a step forward or a step backward for the development of European institutions? Answering these questions required effective agency to address structural problems. The preceding section developed a constructivist account of order that brings together agency and structure. Language-oriented constructivism holds that they are always blended together in meaningful human activity. Agents build and defend institutionalized structures of rule in three distinctive ways. At the same time, prevailing normative structures constitute agents and confer on them varying capacities for action. In Europe after the Second World War, German agency was constrained in a manner that bears directly on the way this state could, henceforth, participate in order construction. The distinctive feature of postwar Germany was that one of the three fundamental pathways toward social order was effectively eliminated from mainstream political discourse regarding Germany’s own position in Europe. Germany could not insist on the reestablishment of its own coercive potential. In general, it was in no position to issue directives. In any event, there was little support on the part of most Germans for anything resembling this approach. Polls taken during the Allied occupation showed that 70 percent of Germans opposed any form of rearmament whatsoever.57 Even though the Cold War itself was a very hierarchical affair in which order was frequently maintained within the two grand alliance systems by the coercive potentials of the United States and the Soviet Union, this strategy was unavailable for Germany. In consequence, the hierarchical normative mode was also generally absent from German discourse about European order. It was simply not viable for German politicians to articulate propositions about European order in the form of directives issued to other states. What remained was either to assert that order must come from recognizing the legitimate rights and aspirations of all states (including Germany), or else to commit Germany to a larger institutional framework from which order might emerge, within which German status would be protected, and out of which German unification might eventually be achieved. The political debates that ensued in Germany developed in the context of this tension between hegemonic and heteronomous approaches to order.58 This restricted choice between assertive and commissive political strategies did help to produce something that, superficially, looks like an agent-structure debate in postwar Germany. With directive rules largely taboo, order depended not on what speakers could do (coerce),

36

Cultures of Order

but either on what they were like (assertions about their qualities as agents), or else on what they could agree to (promises, often bound up within particular institutional frameworks). Rule depended, in other words, either on the assertion of rights or on the commitment to institutionalized rules. As West German leaders sought to carve out a new role for a postwar German state, they were thus driven pragmatically to emphasize either the rights of national agents or the constraints of institutionalized structures. Some, including Schumacher and Lafontaine on the left and Kiesinger on the right, argued that the German people had not and could not alienate their national right as a sovereign corporate agent, whatever the character and results of the war. Others, beginning with Adenauer and notably including Brandt and Kohl as well, hesitated to assert this right (though they did not doubt it). Instead, they focused on rebuilding institutional settings in which Germany could participate. They did so because they believed that, even with the passage of time, it would not suffice merely for Germany to assert its rights. A demonstration of its commitment to Europe was called for, and this is precisely what German support for nascent European (generally Western) institutional orders would accomplish. For the former group, restoring Germany’s sovereign rights was a precondition of pursuing a peaceful European order; for the latter, the creation and consolidation of new institutions is precisely what would rehabilitate German rights. Reflecting on such agent-structure “debates,” Onuf sensibly maintains that “it is pointless to ask which comes first.”59 “There can be,” he says, “no agents where there are no rules of agency, no agency in the absence of institutions, no institutions in the absence of agents.”60 This debate is better understood, instead, as the opposition of hierarchical and heteronomous modes of argumentation. Still, considering the chicken-and-egg problem of agency and structure, we always start somewhere. In Germany (and perhaps in all cases), the debate had much to do with the proper starting point. Its political consequences were to pit essentially Lockean claims against Kantian republicanism. To the degree one adopts Locke’s position that agency is on some level inviolable, then this moral authority was always retained within the legal institutions of the German state (and absent, incidentally, when these institutions were usurped). This means that European institutional arrangements must be predicated on mutual agreements between Germany and other similar sovereign agents. The contrasting Kantian logic makes of promise and commitment a cosmopolitan “ground” in which agency can grow. Committing Germany to West European institutional frameworks made rights secondary to relation-

Language and the Problem of Order

37

ships. The former approach asserts that rights are involuntary whereas association is a matter of choice or contract. The latter approach views social relations as a natural condition whereas rights (and duties) are constituted as institutional rules. Postwar German politicians were thus left with two conceivable foundations for order, out of a possible three. A constructivist approach predicts a meaningful political struggle—pitting Lockean hegemony against Kantian heteronomy—where structural balance of power theories predict only reaction and adaptation to American (or, possibly, Soviet) interests. If the Lockean and Kantian approaches possess ideational coherence that transcends the politics of the moment, moreover, then we should expect to find evidence of rhetorical logic and consistencies that do not always correspond to the demands of party politics. Put more simply, neither alliance politics nor German domestic politics should have produced a resilient political contest between Lockeans and Kantians over the shape of European order. To the degree that ideas matter and take on a life of their own, however, such a debate is more likely. And if ideas about order and rule are informed and shaped by the normative possibilities inherent in all speech acts, then it is possible to offer predictions about the course of such debates when history privileges some normative modes at the expense of others. A disastrous political and military defeat for a country that had staked out a strong position on international order in unmistakably normative terms should produce just this effect. Germany is therefore a logical test case. It is hard to believe that postwar Germany could make the same kinds of arguments about international order that prewar Germany could. This is not merely because it was occupied or, later, subject to Cold War constraints. It is also because some ways of defending international order were no longer possible or legitimate in the Federal Republic of Germany.61 Other “logics of order,” in contrast, paid political dividends. Whereas postwar Germany could no longer issue demands, it certainly remained possible to insist, in Lockean fashion, on German rights. Many German politicians did so, as the next three chapters will document. But insisting on German rights as a precondition for building new international arrangements designed to promote democracy and preserve the peace failed to resonate with international audiences. It was impossible for other states to reject the “rights” argument out-ofhand, because the Wilsonian legacy of national self-determination and the birth of the United Nations gave the Lockean approach sustained legitimacy.62 Yet legitimacy is not the same as expediency. In general, German politicians got a much warmer international response from

38

Cultures of Order

Kantian proposals that began with pledges to behave in accordance with international norms and to work for ever-tighter institutional bonds among countries. These promises were reassuring, and assurance is exactly what other countries wanted from Germany. A secondary prediction, therefore, is that between the two remaining modes of normative discourse in postwar Germany, heteronomy offered political advantages that hegemony did not. Commissive institutionalism should therefore prevail over assertive state-individualism in German policies directed toward promoting unification and international order. We expect to see not only a persistent debate between assertive and commissive approaches to order, in other words, but also a fairly consistent winner in this debate. This is not to say, however, that Kantian institutionalism was inevitable or structurally determined. In fact, as chapter 6 will show, the Lockean assertive position prevailed in Japan even though its structural position resembled Germany’s in many respects. In both countries, there were protracted and meaningful political contests over how best to promote international order. In these debates, the agency of political leaders and activists mattered. The Japanese case is particularly instructive in this regard. Even though other Asian states sought assurance from Japan, which should therefore have privileged a Kantian institutional approach to order as Germany did, the strong support of state rights by a significant number of Japan’s early postwar leaders—and particularly by Prime Minister Shigeru Yoshida—produced a different outcome than in Germany. To summarize, then, the defeat of Germany and Japan in the Second World War gave rise to prominent, repeated calls for a new international order capable of defending against tyranny and of promoting international peace and economic growth. Germany and Japan themselves occupied an unusual position in this debate. They were neither without a voice, as a caricature of their postwar position might have it, but nor were they able to say all that they might wish. In general, the directive mode of normative discourse—and its associated appeals to power, enforcement, and leadership—were delegitimized by the outcome of the war and by the new political realities of the postwar era. No serious politician in either of these two states could take a strongly directive, Hobbesian position. The debates that arose in these countries over the shape of postwar regional orders thus tended to pit Lockeans against Kantians and to invoke either assertive or commissive modes of normative discourse. The former sought recognition of state rights and thus strove to fit words (acceptable definitions of these rights) to the world of foreign policy. The latter promised action and offered commitments instead, seeking to fit

Language and the Problem of Order

39

the world to words (promises of appropriate international behavior and efforts to build new international regimes) through these states’ own foreign policies. Finally, of these two viable positions, the commissive institutional approach generally paid higher political dividends than did the assertive, rights-based approach. In general, therefore, one might expect to see Kantian schemes prevail. In Germany, they did. Japan shows, however, that the choice was real and that agency matters. It was also possible for Lockean arguments to succeed.63 The contribution of a constructivist awareness of language is to show that these debates were not arbitrary. On the contrary, they followed a pattern dictated in the first instance by the temporary illegitimacy in postwar Germany and Japan of the directive approach to order and, in the second, by the necessity of choosing between the remaining assertive and commissive alternatives. This policy division took root in the early postwar debates between Adenauer and Schumacher, and it has persisted in Germany ever since. Like other German politicians who followed them, Adenauer and Schumacher were faced with a choice: agent or structure, rights or institutions, a liberal or a republican theory of order. In Japan, on the other hand, the debate was suppressed by Yoshida’s success in reaffirming Japan’s national rights under the United States’ watchful eye. In this case, Japanese politicians (and voters) have largely been deprived of a real political choice ever since, though Kantian proposals have always retained a strong minority appeal. CONCLUSION Order is the product of agency and structure. Agency is necessary because political orders are rarely determined completely by political, strategic, economic, environmental, or other such constraints. Even in the highly controlled circumstances of postwar occupation and reconstruction, the cases of Germany and Japan show that alternatives remained available, even at a basic ideological level. At the same time, both meaning and regulation—the two aspects of order considered in this chapter—depend on a variety of structures. The power to rule creates and institutionalizes structures (rules) that support the political status quo. The power to understand depends, ultimately, on related structures that fit either the world to words or the reverse. It is certainly possible to state the above argument about Germany and Japan in simple terms that avoid so much reliance on linguistic philosophy: deprived in the second half of the twentieth century of the ability to insist on their own terms, Germany and Japan have pursued the normative strategies

40

Cultures of Order

that remained available to them, asking for recognition of their rights and seeking to build institutions that would give them more or different rights. This simpler version of the argument fails, however, to give a sense of why the dilemmas faced by Germany and Japan are actually part of a more basic (and more generalizable) phenomenon. To understand the relationships between these two cases, as well as the normative positions taken by other states, it helps enormously to predicate the study of rule and order on the ways language functions to create rules and orders. This realization is the point of Habermas’ claim that “the illocutionary lexicon is . . . the sectional plane in which language and institutional order of society interpenetrate.”64 Social order is, inevitably, a product of the way language works to produce conceptual order and to order the social act of communication. Another advantage of this approach, specifically of the constructivist claim that performative speech is always normative, is that language-oriented constructivism yields a way of resolving the troubling dualism of the agent-structure debate. This linguistic approach makes it clear that agents constantly produce structure and, at the same time, face choices within it. Speakers (agents) use language to produce rule and, thereby, order (structure). All language is structured in the ways described above to produce one of three forms of rule. Indeed, an agent cannot act (or even be considered an agent) without relying on the structured functioning of language to produce meaning. It is also clear that not every speaker enjoys the same success at institutionalizing specific rules or broader patterns of authority and order. Any particular order is the product of agency, and successful orders are the product of successful agents. Language itself is the (collective) product of agent-speakers. Agent and structure can only be understood to operate together. It will be obvious that the argument offered here owes much not only to the work of language-oriented scholars such as Habermas, Kratochwil, and Onuf, but also to Alexander Wendt’s more recent work on the possibility of multiple logics or cultures of anarchy. Wendt might just as well have called these cultures of order, for each of them— the Hobbesian culture of enmity, the Lockean culture of rivalry, and the Kantian culture of friendship—clearly gives rise to expectations and patterns of international behavior that order the domain of international relations in distinctive ways. Wendt is no doubt correct, moreover, that realist assumptions about the meaning of anarchy have caused rivalry and, especially, friendship to be undertheorized.65 Regrettably, these cultures or forms of order are themselves undertheorized by scholars who have recently begun to take them seriously.66

Language and the Problem of Order

41

Wendt holds that “each involves a distinct posture or orientation of the Self toward the Other with respect to the use of violence.”67 Why only violence, and not some other aspect of international politics, should serve as the basis for defining these cultures is not clear. Nor is it clear why Hobbesian, Lockean, and Kantian roles are the only possible responses or orientations to violence. The advantage of the linguistic approach is that it gives a better sense of what is normatively possible. The argument advanced here is thus constructivist without being so indeterminate that theory becomes impossible. It takes issue with the simplistic assumption that German and Japanese policies were so sharply constrained by the bipolar Cold War alliance system that no meaningful debate—much less any real policy choices—could emerge. Yet it also rejects a “straw man” constructivism that accords these states the freedom to do whatever they wished. No doubt, the end of the Cold War represents a “window of opportunity” that gives German and Japanese politicians more room to maneuver.68 Yet this, too, is a matter of degree rather than a decisive break with the past. Indeed, the terms of the debate that persist in Germany and Japan today are not a break with the past at all.

This page intentionally left blank.

Chapter 3

The Westpolitik Debate

The front lines of the Cold War divided many peoples, not only Germans, but also Angolans, Vietnamese, Koreans, Chinese, and Cubans, among others. One might look at this history of partition and struggle as a story of powerlessness, lamentable but unavoidable in the face of bipolar political pressures. In many such cases, and whatever their ideological biases, national leaders faced a seemingly impossible dilemma: they could neither distance themselves easily from their great power sponsors nor attain their goals of national unification. Germany followed this pattern and was formally split after the Federal Republic was established, with a new constitution, or Basic Law, in 1949. Even after Germany’s military governors were replaced with High Commissioners, Washington, London, Paris, and Moscow carefully watched their respective German clients. As Hans-Peter Schwarz has argued, this placed the German chancellor in a “devilish situation in which he can only make mistakes. If he caters to the wishes of the allies, he avoids a risky policy of confrontation, but then it will be easy for the opposition to discredit him as a straw man of the High Commissioners.”1 Not catering to the allies’ wishes, on the other hand, risked demonstrating the extent to which he really was a straw man. What the Western allies sought from the Federal Republic was a commitment to close integration with their own plans for Europe. This included not only opposition to the westward extension of Soviet power, but also building a solid foundation for regional peace and economic prosperity. Neither the economic disaster nor the political humiliation of interwar Germany could be forgotten in these designs. Yet this did not translate into a desire to allow much leeway for Germans to set their own postwar policies. On the contrary, through proposals such as Robert Schuman and Jean Monnet’s plan for a European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC) and René Pleven’s plan for incorporating German troops in a European military structure, the allies sought to limit German agency. The ECSC would serve to prevent a rapid resurgence of German industry in the Ruhr, and the 43

44

Cultures of Order

Pleven plan would ensure that Germany did not proceed too rapidly toward rearmament under its own control.2 Of course the allies also disagreed among themselves. Even among the Western allies, France in particular often found itself at odds with the United States and Britain over how restrictive the constraints on Germany should be. By the end of 1950, however, a compromise brokered by Ambassador Charles Spofford (the U.S. Deputy and Chair of the North Atlantic Council) established the basic agreement whereby German rearmament would proceed within a NATO framework and with an increased U.S. commitment to European defense. There would be no national army or defense ministry in the FRG, and the new German regiments would be subject to various controls on both the armaments they possessed and their administrative structure.3 As the postwar occupation of Germany gave rise to two states separated by the iron curtain, therefore, it was increasingly clear that the politics of superpower confrontation would dictate many of the options available to East and West German politicians alike.4 Germany is thus a logical object for an investigation of constraints on international order and a comparatively hard case for those seeking to demonstrate the impact of agency and leadership. As chapter 1 indicated and as this chapter will show in more detail, however, the FRG still had meaningful choices to make. The distinctive feature of postwar Germany was not that it lost all freedom to choose, but rather that one of the three pathways to fostering international order discussed in chapter 2 was effectively eliminated from mainstream political discourse regarding Germany’s own position in Europe. Germany could not insist on the reestablishment of its own coercive potential. In general, it was in no position to issue directives. There was, moreover, very little support on the part of most Germans for anything resembling this approach. Polls taken during the Allied occupation showed that 70 percent of Germans opposed any form of rearmament whatsoever.5 All serious politicians in the FRG, whatever the differences among them, were united in their rejection of the disastrous policies of strength and coercion. By cooperating with the Allies in some cases and playing them off against each other in other cases, however, Germany was able to open up a political space to make its own decisions about how to promote a European order that would serve German interests.6 If our hypothesis is correct that such debates are shaped, in part, by the three distinctive ways language works to produce order, and that one of these ways was generally impermissible in the context of postwar German foreign policy, then Germany’s postwar strategies should reflect the remaining possibilities. Specifically, what remained was

The Westpolitik Debate

45

either to assert that order must come from recognizing the legitimate rights and aspirations of Germany, or else to commit Germany to a larger institutional framework from which order might emerge and within which German status would be protected. This is certainly not to say that the only possible debate in postwar Germany was over the relative importance of national rights and institutional constraints. Germans naturally disagreed among themselves about many things: over how the German economy should be regulated, over what political parties were acceptable, and over the administrative structure of the new federal system, to take only a few examples.7 Our claim, however, is that a pattern runs through many of these debates. In general, debates over political order adopt one of three forms, and in postwar German foreign policy only two of these forms represented plausible strategies. So, German debates about international order should reflect the positions that remained viable. This claim joins together a theory of language with historical contingency to make predictions about the way German politicians could be expected to argue over such varied problems as implementing the Basic Law, negotiating relations with other European states, and fashioning compromises that would one day lead to unification. This chapter will show that underneath the day-to-day particulars of postwar German discourse is the predicted normative structure. When German politicians disagreed over problems of European order, their disputes were typically polarized, pitting adherents to an assertive strategy of national rights against proponents of commitment to institution- and community-building. Since there are many different ways to adduce national rights, or to envision international communities, these debates took a variety of forms. Yet, in general, they tended to pit the commissive-institutional camp against the assertive-rights camp. The institutional and rights-oriented approaches to establishing Germany’s position within Europe were crystallized in the divergent positions of the FRG’s first Chancellor, Konrad Adenauer, and opposition party leader Kurt Schumacher. These two politicians set the tone for many of this generation’s fiercest political struggles. They represent the two dominant West German political parties, two very different regions of Germany, and two different political styles. They were the two most visible public antagonists through which debates over international order in the immediate postwar era were played out. As such, they are a logical focus for our attention. Adenauer departed from the conviction that Christian values transcended class struggle. He staunchly defended personal liberty but ironically, to accomplish this purpose, sought to enmesh Germany

46

Cultures of Order

in a broader web of institutional constraint. Schumacher, on the other hand, saw in democratic socialism the only form of government that could prevent the mistakes of the past. In another irony, he sought this restraint by insisting on Germany’s freedom to pursue an opening to the East. In general, each of these two men arrived at a position on European order and Germany’s position within it that was the product of years of personal struggle and reflection. These were, in other words, robust ideological convictions. It is important to establish this not only to show how leadership mattered, but also in order to preclude another possible explanation for the postwar German debates over international order. If these debates were dictated neither by Cold War pressures nor by domestic politics, then the possibility remains that they simply reflected personal strategies of political advancement. In other words, it is at least possible that Adenauer and Schumacher took divergent positions simply to distinguish themselves from one another or, perhaps, to stage a disagreement that would serve to polarize the public and help to consolidate their political positions. If this were the case, then the resulting debates do not represent ideologically meaningful positions at all. They might be considered short-term political strategies, but certainly not coherent strategies for European order itself. The following two sections will thus explore the ways Adenauer and Schumacher arrived at their divergent positions, demonstrating that these views grew out of their distinctive personal experiences. It is certainly understandable that personal history should have shaped their beliefs about political order. Particularly for those who came of political age in the turbulent decades following World War I, it would be astonishing if such dramatic political events had not shaped their outlook. A leader’s early experiences of political success and failure are a common starting point for efforts to explain differences in leadership style and preferences later in life.8 Against the claim that their debate over Germany’s proper orientation toward Europe was merely the product of strategic political maneuvering, therefore, the next two sections will establish that their positions followed from and represented coherent motifs that ran through their public and private lives. These were strongly held, principled positions, in other words, rather than short-term political calculations. After establishing this point, the remainder of the chapter will consider evidence for the constructivist argument introduced in chapter 2. It argues that Adenauer and Schumacher’s beliefs relied on distinctive normative-linguistic strategies, whatever their path to arriving at these convictions may have been. Rejecting simple structural explana-

The Westpolitik Debate

47

tions of postwar German policies in favor of respect for contingent historical experience and the importance of leadership does not, in other words, require that one abandon theory. Adenauer and Schumacher’s positions represent the two general approaches to public order that were available to postwar German politicians. Although they arrived at these positions for reasons that were intensely personal, their positions neatly encapsulate the normative possibilities of the era. ADENAUER AND INSTITUTIONAL CONSTRAINT Konrad Adenauer was born in 1876 in Cologne to conservative, uppermiddle class, devout Roman Catholic parents. “What I am,” he declared in a 1951 speech, “grew in this earth and was formed by this environment and this atmosphere.”9 In addition to the Rhenish “atmosphere,” Adenauer’s affinity for antiquity and Christianity was an important influence on his later views as was, naturally, the political turbulence that characterized German politics of the era. Arnulf Baring begins where Adenauer himself did, arguing that one should not underestimate the importance of the Rhineland to Adenauer’s political thought.10 In general, the Rhenish never identified strongly with the Prussian state, and since the creation of the German Confederation in 1815, relations between the Rhineland and Prussia were poor. This was no doubt due in good measure to differences between Catholics and Protestants, but it was also reinforced by the Prussian monarchy’s insistence on giving preferential treatment to the Junkers over the Rhenish bourgeoisie.11 Adenauer thus sought to accommodate himself to Prussian rule during the Weimar Republic, but he seems never to have overcome a certain resentment.12 In the post-1945 period, he continued to perceive the Social Democrats as a Prussian party and very clearly sought to distance himself from the “Prussian military spirit” and the “cult of the state.”13 He brought these themes together in a speech at the University of Cologne, observing that “nationalism has experienced the strongest intellectual resistance in those catholic and protestant parts of Germany that least fell for the teachings of Karl Marx. . . . This view of the supremacy, of the omnipotence of the state, of its priority over the dignity and freedom of the individual, violates the Christian law of nature. We want to rehabilitate the principles of the Christian law of nature.”14 To a citizen of Cologne, moreover, Paris and Brussels were closer to the heart than Berlin, Warsaw, or Prague.15 Adenauer’s preference for closer ties with Western Europe than with Germany’s neighbors to the East thus reflects a cultural and geographic consistency in his thinking.

48

Cultures of Order

An amalgam of antiquity and Christianity was another distinctive feature of Adenauer’s early environment.16 The young Adenauer read Plato, Aristotle, Thucydides, and Cicero. From these, he professed to have learned to appreciate “the right of the individual, the honor of a person, the idea of equality, a sense for measured behavior . . . fear of chaos.”17 God (rather than society) was the source of each person’s dignity, he believed, and the antithesis of chaos.18 Adenauer was thereby inclined to see European and even global politics as a clash between two great forces: one Christian and occidental, including Europe, North and South America; the other Oriental, comprised of the Soviet Union and its satellites.19 In this clash was contained a three-dimensional confrontation between East and West. First, there were the cultural differences between the Christian world and Asia. Adenauer admitted in a May 1947 letter to an “instinctive repulsion against the East.”20 Second, he viewed materialism as the nemesis both of the German people and of Christianity. Since communist thinking is rooted in materialism, he held, Christian values required a defense against Eastern materialism. Finally, he compared the omnipotence of the Eastern state unfavorably to the freedom of the individual in the West.21 It should be no surprise that, later in life, Adenauer sought to link Christian and humanist thought with a political struggle against communism and that he rose to prominence in a party that expressly wed these two themes.22 Finally, as already noted, it is reasonable to expect that Germany’s political turbulence had its impact on Adenauer’s beliefs. He personally experienced the German Empire (Kaiserreich), its collapse, World War I, the Revolution of 1918, the Weimar Republic, the consequences of U.S. isolationism for Europe, the rise of National Socialism, World War II, and the chaos that followed.23 He felt the effects of the Treaty of Versailles, reparations, inflation, the occupation of the Ruhr, as well as the instability associated with constant shifts in government. In the years between 1920 and 1933 alone, Germans witnessed eight general elections and twenty-one different governments.24 During this period of dramatic change culminating in the Nazi dictatorship, Adenauer held a variety of political offices that helped to shape his outlook. Following his studies at the universities of Freiburg, Munich, and Bonn, he began in 1901 to work in the law office of the leader of the Catholic Center Party. In 1906, he accepted the position of Junior Adjunct in the Cologne city administration, was elected First Deputy Mayor in 1909, and in 1917 Mayor of Cologne. In 1921, he was appointed President of the Prussian State Council, a position he held until 1933. In May 1926, Adenauer was asked to become Reich Chancellor, but he declined in

The Westpolitik Debate

49

the face of messy party politics. When Hitler visited Cologne on February 17, 1933, Adenauer refused to meet him at the airport and thereby assured that he would be blacklisted. Less than one month later, he was forced out of office and dismissed by the Nazis. The Center Party was dissolved, and Adenauer retired.25 Shaken by these developments, he wrote his school friend Ildefons Herwegen, the abbot of the monastery Maria Laach, and asked permission to stay at the abbey for several months. When he arrived there, he passed his time reading papal encyclica, in which he found justification for his belief that the power of the state should not be extended at the expense of an individual’s personal liberties.26 Further strengthening this conviction, no doubt, was his own arrest by the Gestapo in June 1934 following the “Röhm Putsch.” Rejecting the role of martyr, and concerned about the well-being of his family, he decided to become a “passive opponent of Hitler’s tyranny.”27 After his release from prison he had neither salary nor pension, depending instead on the charity of close friends, and was often unable to live with his family in Rhöndorf. Eventually, he again sought refuge at Maria Laach, and then in a rest home for Catholic priests in Unkel on the Rhine. His personal papers from this period make his despair clear; in a note dated November 17, 1935, he mused: “it rained all day and the Rhine carried high water and looked desolate. The future looked grim—the future of Germany and my family.”28 With the end of the war, of course, Adenauer’s removal from politics was transformed into personal vindication and political advantage. In May 1945, he was asked by the United States to resume the position of Mayor of Cologne. He was dismissed by the British Military Governor in October but then, in March 1946, was elected Chairman of the Christian Democratic Union in the British occupation zone. Finally, on September 15, 1949, he was elected Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany. By this point, Adenauer’s core political beliefs were long established and, if anything, deepened by the Nazi interlude.29 Still, as Chancellor, he could hardly fail to reckon with German history. He was determined to replace the policies that had brought disaster with ones more appropriate to the broader patterns of global conflict that he still perceived.30 He advocated a “new beginning, critical of capitalism” in reaction both to the Weimar specter of economic suffering and to his study, while at Maria Laach, of Quadragesimo Anno.31 Neither the power of capital nor the power of the state, he argued, should be allowed to supplant the individual as the center of economic activity.32 He thus pursued policies of support for medium-sized and small

50

Cultures of Order

businesses as a bulwark against exaggerated materialism that, in his view, had led to two world wars and to “Marxist socialism, exaggerated nationalism, capitalism and liberal individualism.”33 For Adenauer, materialism had made the state omnipotent and enslaved people by reducing the individual to a small part of an enormous social machine.34 Bolshevism represented a similar threat to European freedom and to Christianity.35 Adenauer never tired of reminding the German people that totalitarianism and materialism destroy personal freedom. His anticommunism was part of the same equation and had been since his days as a Weimar politician.36 Adenauer’s view of European politics was also firmly grounded in his earlier experience and clearly articulated, for example, in a speech during the opening ceremony of the University of Cologne in 1919.37 There, he promoted the economic and political integration of Western Europe in order to turn the region into a world power.38 To this end, he sought reconciliation with France and, in 1923, discussed the prospects for a German-French economic community.39 As soon as Adenauer resumed the position of Mayor of Cologne after the war, he continued his efforts to bring Germany and France—countries with similar Christian traditions, he felt—closer together. On August 28, 1946, at the opening of the second party meeting of the CDU in the British zone, Adenauer stressed that French reconciliation should be one of Germany’s highest priorities.40 He was acutely aware, moreover, that the changed international situation following World War II might facilitate his plans. With the de facto division of Germany, one obstacle that had precluded closer ties with Western Europe during the Weimar Republic—Prussia—had effectively been removed.41 Freedom must precede unification, he argued, so that the West could negotiate the German question with the USSR from a position of strength.42 Yet this did not mean that the West would be required to treat Germany as an equal partner. On the contrary, Adenauer was convinced that only a prolonged demonstration of goodwill would persuade the Western powers to grant equality to Germany.43 In sum, to bring order to a period of almost revolutionary transition, Adenauer relied on basic principles he had developed over several decades. It would be exceptionally difficult to sustain the claim that his postwar policies simply represented ad hoc political stratagems. The themes of continuity are too clear. Strongly influenced by his Rhenish background, Christian/humanist values, and the tumult of his own early political career, he sought at every turn to promote closer ties with the West, institutional constraints on the state, and respect for individual liberties. If this meant subordinating the Ger-

The Westpolitik Debate

51

man state to Western or European political institutions, he was not inclined to object. SCHUMACHER AND NATIONAL RIGHTS Kurt Schumacher was born in 1895 in the very part of Germany that Adenauer mistrusted: Kulm on the Vistula, near the Eastern border of the German Empire, in close proximity to Poland. Just as the Rhineland influenced Adenauer, Prussia and its ties to Eastern Europe had an impact on Schumacher. In his graduating class in Kulm were three Germans and seventeen Poles. Schumacher was on good terms with all of them, but he was especially proud of his Prussian heritage and of Prussia’s long military tradition. He volunteered his services during World War I in the hope that war against the Russian autocracy would allow Germany to become stronger and more democratic. After only one month at the front, he was wounded and thus, at the age of nineteen, lost his right arm. To make matters even worse, the Treaty of Versailles stipulated that Kulm was to be severed from the German Reich and ceded to Poland. Schumacher’s family lost everything. Even before this time, socialism also played an important part in Schumacher’s life. While still in high school, he subscribed to the monthly Der März as well as the SPD’s reformist Sozialistische Monatshefte. After studying law, economics, and political science at the universities of Halle, Leipzig, and Berlin, he joined the Social Democratic Party in 1918. While writing his dissertation on the history of the German labor movement, he also took a job in the Ministry of Labor in 1919 in order to support his parents. The next year, Schumacher became political editor of a Social Democratic newspaper in Stuttgart (Schwäbische Tagwacht), for which he wrote numerous articles criticizing the Communist Party and defending the policies of the Social Democrats. From 1924 to 1931, he was a member of the SPD in the Diet (Landtag) of Württemberg. From his Ph.D. thesis, completed in 1926, it was apparent that he was not only influenced by Socrates, Plato, Hutten, Hegel, Fichte, and Marx, but also that his views of state and society drew on the work of Ferdinand Lassalle, Karl Renner, Johann Plenge, Konrad Haenisch, and Heinrich Cunow.44 In particular, he criticized the dominance of vulgar-Marxism and the absence of a socialist theory of the state among prewar Social Democrats. Not surprisingly, he became a member of the “Young Turks”— a small group of Social Democrats who sought to rejuvenate the SPD in the last years of the Weimar Republic—and, together with Carlo

52

Cultures of Order

Mierendorff and Theodor Haubach, worked to renew the German workers movement and its party. In 1930, he was elected to the Reichstag and, until the Nazis seized power in 1933, vigorously fought both Nationalists and Communists. “Answering a taunt by Deputy Paul Joseph Goebbels [who had called the SPD a party of deserters], Schumacher attracted much attention by delivering an attack upon Nazism as ‘an appeal to the beast in man.’ ”45 During a speech in the Reichstag on February 23, 1932, he proclaimed that National Socialism, for the first time in German politics, succeeded in “completely mobilizing German stupidity.”46 When Hitler finally sought to consolidate his power, the SPD was the only party that voted against the Enabling Law (Ermächtigungsgesetz). Although members of the SPD tried to persuade Schumacher to emigrate following the Nazis’ takeover of power, he chose to go into hiding rather than to leave the country. He was soon captured and, for ten years, imprisoned in concentration camps. Given the opportunity to win his freedom in exchange for cooperating with Hitler, he consistently refused. Instead, he endured a twenty-eight day hunger strike to protest the harsh physical labor in his camp. Finally, because of his poor health, the Nazis released Schumacher into the custody of his sister in Hannover in 1943. There he remained until he was arrested once more following the assassination attempt against Hitler on July 20, 1944. These years in captivity left their mark. Since Schumacher had made greater sacrifices for the cause of democracy than the vast majority of his critics, he felt that he—“a man with an impeccable past and extraordinary talent”—could confront the occupation powers with “sovereign objectivity.”47 If necessary, he would not refrain from criticizing them too. Moreover, since the SPD had fought the Nazis, Schumacher harbored no doubt that it had earned the historic, moral, and intellectual mandate to rescue Germany and to teach the German people political responsibility.48 In fact, he lost no time creating a local party organization in Hannover and, with an “inner circle of postwar lieutenants” (people like Erich Ollenhauer, Fritz Heine, Herta Gotthelf, Sigmund Neumann, Stefan Thomas, Viktor Agartz, Fritz Baade, Eric Noelting, Carlo Schmid, Arno Scholz, and Annemarie Renger) sought to change the political and economic bases of power in postwar Germany.49 After his election as Chairman of the SPD in 1946, Schumacher argued that the SPD could not maintain its position as a mass party if it represented only industrial workers. Henceforth, it would have to represent all of the poor and disenfranchised. Since many of these groups could be

The Westpolitik Debate

53

expected to reject purely class-based doctrines, he believed this would require an evolution of social democratic thinking.50 This recognition of the need for political renewal notwithstanding, Schumacher’s post-1945 views (like those of Adenauer) were rooted in his experiences during the Weimar Republic. Schumacher made this plain in a letter on June 18, 1946, to his friend Philippe Brandt, whom he had met at Dachau. “The political conviction I hold today,” Schumacher explained, “I already had then.”51 Convinced as ever that hunger and desperation would radicalize the German people, he concluded that the SPD would have to mobilize the masses to prevent another totalitarian movement and to realize democratic socialism.52 Thus, as in his Weimar-era advocacy of synthesizing state and class interests, he stressed that the state must serve social purposes (e.g., promoting parliamentary democracy and democratizing the military) as the ally of the working class.53 To increase his freedom of action, he sought to keep the Communists out of the SPD. Yet the larger problem, he feared, was the cozy relationship between big business and state power. Rebuilding and reparations would be impossible without the basic industries, but Schumacher stressed that they must not be abused for private gain. To this end, where possible, he promoted the socialization of the heavy industry.54 Socialism was not merely an economic program, in his view, but a crucial force for peace.55 Although preoccupied with the problem of ensuring peace, Schumacher nonetheless strongly opposed the thesis of German “collective guilt,” perhaps because of the severe hardship that he and many of his friends endured during the Nazi era.56 Unlike Adenauer, he sought German equality from the outset and hoped to reestablish trust by traveling abroad. Again and again, Schumacher demanded immediate and equal representation for Germany in all supranational institutions, leading his political enemies at home and abroad to perceive him simply as a nationalist. He was convinced that Adenauer should do more to restore German equality and denounced him as “Chancellor of the allies.”57 Europe’s trust, Schumacher proclaimed, should not be bought by “sacrificing Germany’s inalienable rights.”58 The pivot point for Adenauer and Schumacher’s disagreements was the critical balance between East and West, between a desire to keep open lines of communication that might eventually lead to unification, on one hand, and a desire to participate in building the institutions of a new West European political order on the other. Both men acknowledged that Germany should be part of Europe and, in fact, both supported a hard line toward the USSR and the GDR, but Schumacher insisted that Germany must be an equal part of Europe.

54

Cultures of Order

He therefore opposed the FRG’s membership in the European Coal and Steel Community (which he felt merely represented six “conservative, clerical, capitalist and cartelist” states rather than all West-European countries), he spoke out against the European Defense Community, and he sought to incorporate West Germany into NATO as nearly as possible as an equal. It made little sense to pursue democratic principles domestically, he felt, if one was willing to throw them overboard when it came to international negotiations such as the Pleven Plan.59 Finally, for Schumacher, unification was the “primary and mandatory goal.”60 It was more urgent and important for the promotion of European peace than the integration of only part of Germany with other European countries. Convinced that Germans would not be able to reach unity alone, but would require the support of all of the allies, he urged that the FRG work toward an international Europe that included the USSR and resisted calls for an anti-Soviet Western bloc.61 By promoting freedom and parliamentary democracy, he hoped for the FRG to become a magnet that could lure support from East and West alike.62 In this vision of Germany’s role, as in his general reluctance to link the FRG so closely to Western institutions that relations with the East became impossible, Schumacher’s long-term concern for German agency is evident. Whereas for Adenauer Germany’s freedom and status came precisely from its willingness to accept (West) European institutional constraints, Germany’s sovereignty, status, and unity came first for Schumacher. Each sought peace, but they had very different theories of what peace required. These theories, it is clear, were based on personal conviction rather than political expediency. As seasoned politicians, Adenauer and Schumacher were certainly called upon, from time to time, to take positions with which they may have disagreed personally. Adenauer’s preference for strong institutional commitment to the West and Schumacher’s insistence on Germany’s sovereign national rights are not, however, merely examples of tactical calculations. And they amount to more than an idiosyncratic story about the way that Adenauer was deeply influenced by his time at Maria Laach, that Schumacher was a Prussian socialist, or that both were traumatized by their wartime experiences. The point is that these experiences led to strong convictions about how Germany could play a constructive part in a peaceful European order. In turn, Adenauer and Schumacher’s policy preferences depended on these deeply held normative commitments. There is, in other words, an internally coherent logic to their postwar positions on international order, and it is a logic distinct from both short-term political strategizing and from the pressures of the

The Westpolitik Debate

55

international system. To say that each man had his own reasons, however, does not amount to a general explanation. Even a broader “genealogy” of their positions, considering the views of advisors, confidants, and other politicians, would not by itself constitute an explanation.63 The contribution of a constructivist awareness of language is to show that their debate was not only based on strong ideological convictions, but also that it followed a pattern dictated in the first instance by the elimination in postwar Germany of the Hobbesian directive approach to order and, in the second, by the necessity of choosing between the remaining Lockean rights-based and Kantianinstitutional alternatives. Faced with this choice and driven by their own strong convictions, Adenauer and Schumacher breathed life into a debate that has continued to shape political confrontations for generations of their successors. THE WESTPOLITIK DEBATE The postwar German debate over international order, as described in chapter 2, pitted institutionalists advocating a strategy of international partnership against defenders of national sovereignty who sought to restore Germany’s rights as a “citizen” of the international society of states. If these two positions on the normative basis of order are indeed at work in the Adenauer-Schumacher debate, then one should expect the debate to have certain identifiable characteristics. To begin with, if a directive strategy was effectively eliminated from postwar German political discourse, then we do not expect to find German politicians issuing pronouncements about what other nations should or must do. This leaves two ways of building a case for a new political order. Substantively, the commissive strategy predicates German identity and rights on the institutional framework of a broader community—one that must be built, and constantly rebuilt. Discursively, this strategy depends on promised action to secure and renew political order. It emphasizes what Germany will do, in the future, to inspire good will. It pledges or invites, but does not command. The assertive strategy also associates order with respect for institutions (rights), but these are always tied to qualities (e.g., reason or moral sense) that agents possess. This strategy thus depends not on commitment to a future course of action but on claims about present conditions. It draws attention to what is self-evident, rational or inalienable. It asserts without the need to issue either promises or directives. It is easy to show that Adenauer and Schumacher held different positions on many issues. The remainder of this section will establish

56

Cultures of Order

that each defended his position by adopting the normative-linguistic strategies characteristic of either a commissive (Adenauer) or assertive (Schumacher) understanding of the basis for order. These differences of both substance and linguistic strategy are apparent in the way they treated two vital political problems: (1) the relationship of German citizens and the German state to the rest of Europe, and (2) unification. Relations with Europe During the slow process of establishing a new political framework both in Germany and within Europe, of negotiating the Basic Law, and of preparing the transition from occupation to self-government, Adenauer and Schumacher had many opportunities to reflect, in public, on what would be necessary. For the latter, the political drama was almost invariably played out in the present tense. During an SPD party meeting in Nuremberg on June 29, 1947, Schumacher laid out one of his basic premises: that establishing a social democracy in all parts of Germany “is the national question of all Germans. It is the question of equality before the law, of the equality of all Germans as citizens.”64 He does not argue that a legal framework must be created (in the future), nor promise that Germans will abide by it (though he certainly expects them to do so). Instead, he focuses on the recognition of rights and, in its absence, he laments that “norms concerning the competences of the allies and the Germans which would be legally binding do not exist.”65 Similarly, political boundaries must be established with due respect to the “self-evident right to national selfdetermination” and to “the necessity of simple economic reason.”66 As a good social democrat, moreover, Schumacher could not help but feel during the rebuilding process that “the fight for socialism is the fight for justice.”67 Even when he was called upon to consider future dilemmas, Schumacher had a way of predicating future action on Germans’ innate qualities in the present—on what Germans are held to be like. In an interview with a foreign correspondent on March 30, 1949, he thus explained: “the construction of Europe necessitates that that which remains of Germany will be shaped with the good democratic will of the Germans and not against it.”68 He often returned to this theme. During a radio broadcast on August 11, 1949, at the conclusion of his electoral campaign, he asserted that “only a nation that possesses economic and political self-determination is capable of recognizing international necessities and of engaging in European cooperation with a happy heart.”69

The Westpolitik Debate

57

On this occasion, he goes on to consider another, directive strategy for producing order. “All methods of predominance by individual countries over others endanger this cooperation.”70 Schumacher neither explicitly condemns “predominance,” however, nor promises that Germany will avoid it. Instead, just as he asserts that reason and “good democratic will” are the proper foundation for the new German government, he asserts that predominance endangers cooperation. Discursively, Schumacher remains true to form even when he considers other strategies of political order. And in his more pessimistic moments, Schumacher asserts that other—in his view, less desirable— German qualities are the principal danger. He worried, in particular, about a resurgence of German nationalism. Characteristically, his policy guidelines for the SPD in the Bundestag thus link a rejection of nationalism to the preservation of rights and the promotion of order: “the Social Democratic Party, rejecting any form of nationalism, fights for the equality of all people and the reordering of Europe.”71 Another pronouncement, at an SPD party meeting in 1950, made this linkage even more explicit: “the task of [social democracy] is, to make nationalism impossible by upholding national rights.”72 The problem of crafting domestic political arrangements naturally impinged, in Germany, on the creation of a new European order and on other international concerns. Schumacher’s overriding foreign policy concern was obtaining recognition of German equality. A stable order at home and a stable European system both required this recognition, he believed. During an SPD meeting in Hamburg, he explained that “Europe can only be constructed on the basis of European solidarity and European fellowship of equal and free peoples.”73 “There is,” he argued, “no international democracy without peoples’ right to self-determination, just as there is no free state without free citizens.”74 Thus, the SPD “supports every government’s efforts to demand equal representation for Germany in every international forum.”75 In a speech to the Bundestag on November 8, 1950, Schumacher asserts that “political equality is a precondition for a military contribution (to the European Defense Community) and not its result.”76 And again, in a speech broadcast by the Bavarian radio station Bayerischer Rundfunk, he emphasizes that “no country in this world can surrender its national unity and enter into a system of contracts that require it to view its responsibilities toward other countries as more important than its unity and the growing together of its own people.”77 This is the fundamental conception of political order that appears over and over in Schumacher’s statements: stable political arrangements are built on a foundation of respect for people’s rights. At

58

Cultures of Order

the international level, the same argument applies. Schumacher thus stresses the importance of recognizing Germany’s sovereign rights as a precondition of entering into any new European compacts. Almost invariably, Schumacher’s focus is on the present—on rights that Germany, or Germans, do already possess. The rights are asserted; what is necessary is simply for others to accept and recognize them. Adenauer, too, was consistent in his approach to fabricating a new political order within Germany. He repeatedly stressed what Germany will do, rather than the qualities or status that it possesses. In a speech broadcast by Northwest German Radio on March 6, 1946, he pledged that “German foreign policy will be curtailed.”78 During an election campaign speech in Pulheim, on September 13, 1946, he anticipated that “Germany will have to pay reparations . . . , [and] it will have to give more than it can receive.”79 In general, he foresaw a step-by-step process stretching into the future. A new order in both Germany and in Europe could be achieved, he argued, only by seeking “to expand piece by piece our freedom and competences (jurisdiction) in agreement with the High Allied Commission.”80 To this end, Germany should “begin negotiations concerning the creation of a European Army,” which Adenauer considered “a very important means toward European unification.”81 Similarly, he promised not to “allow a delay in the creation of a European Defense Community, since such a delay, most likely, would also mean the end of such common efforts.”82 And he anticipated that “the European Community for Coal and Steel (Schuman Plan) and the European Defense Community must, in one way or another, necessarily lead to a more effective political union among the participating nations. Western Europe will then be a sturdy member of the Atlantic system for the defense of peace and freedom.”83 Some of these promised actions pertained to Germany itself: “Germany shall become a democratic federal state that, for the most part, is decentralized.”84 Many others pertained to Germany’s relations with Europe. German foreign policy, he declared in a 1946 speech at the University of Cologne, could at first be conducted only “on a limited scale. Its goal,” he continued, “must be to participate as an equal member in the peaceful cooperation of the people in the union of nations. . . . Europe is only possible, if a community of European peoples is restored.”85 By 1949, Germany’s path in Europe seemed clearer, but Adenauer continued to emphasize future steps. When it comes to foreign policy, our direction has been established. It predominately relies on creating a close relationship with the neighboring countries of the western world, in par-

The Westpolitik Debate

59

ticular the United States. We will seek with all our energy for Germany to become an equal and equally obligated member of the European federation as soon as possible. In implementing these intentions we will cooperate very closely with the rapidly increasing Christian democratic powers of the other West European peoples.86 Still later, writing to Winston Churchill in 1954, Adenauer stressed the importance of European institutional development but also, once again, Germany’s unfinished business. Germany stood at the threshold of a “significant step forward on the road to reestablishing its sovereignty . . . [with] its entry into the two great contractual systems of the Western world, the Brussels Pact and the North Atlantic Organization. Thereby, as soon as the treaties are ratified, the Federal Republic will find its place as a partner with equal rights and obligations within the free world.”87 Although Adenauer mentions rights in this letter, it is telling that they follow from Germany’s membership in international institutions. For Schumacher, this relationship was the reverse. Success in building European institutions was premised not only on a gradual approach, but also, specifically, on efforts to develop a communal spirit and goodwill. In good Kantian fashion, Adenauer thus stressed the importance of building trust and developing the relationship between Germany and other European states (and peoples). In the early postwar period, he worried that “the consequences of a permanent decline or collapse of Europe would be detrimental to the entire world; but peoples’ way of thinking is so different that all too easily misunderstandings can cloud trust and cooperation.”88 Yet Germany clearly faced a special challenge in its efforts “to restore the trust which we Germans, unfortunately, have largely lost as a result of National Socialism.”89 Fostering a sense of partnership and trust was thus, for Adenauer, itself a central aim of German policy. “Our friendship with the peoples of the free world secures us their support for our primary task, namely to achieve freedom for the 18 million people in the middle of [East] Germany.”90 As he put it in a 1951 speech in London, well before the birth of the formal union to which he alludes, “the Federal Republic’s partnership in the European Union, and thereby other unions of the free world, will form the foundation of our policy.”91 Ironically, Adenauer did not himself trust his compatriots’ dedication to peace and the promotion of a new European order. Like Schumacher, he feared a resurgence of German nationalism. This concern was most famously revealed in Adenauer’s comments—secretly recorded by a journalist working for Der Spiegel—to the Prime Minister

60

Cultures of Order

of Luxembourg, Joseph Bech, and the Belgian Foreign Minister PaulHenri Spaak during the London Conference in 1954. Adenauer warned ominously, and with no small sense of his own importance, that “the danger of German nationalism is much greater than one thinks. The crisis in European policy makes the nationalists bold, they gain selfconfidence. . . . Once I’m no longer here, I don’t know what will become of Germany, if we shouldn’t succeed in creating Europe in due time.”92 Still, Adenauer’s mistrust should not obscure the point that trustworthiness remains, for him, a central preoccupation. In its absence, institutional constraints would have to provide the necessary bulwark against nationalism. On one occasion, he told Anthony Eden that “Germans had been ‘unbalanced’ for about one hundred years, not because of a character defect but as a consequence of historical circumstances.” Yet, he added, “the historic unbalance of the Germans could be transformed under favorable developments into a balanced situation.”93 The favorable developments he had in mind, of course, were the institutional foundations of the new Europe. Whereas Schumacher was preoccupied with obtaining recognition of German rights, Adenauer was thus ready to give up elements of German sovereignty in order to secure the European partnership and trust that, he believed, were the true bases of European order. The contrast between the two men is striking. When Schumacher considers the problem of sovereignty and European integration during an SPD party meeting in Hamburg on May 22, 1950, he manages the unwieldy task of converting a promise into an expression of German attitudes while simultaneously predicating this action on the behavior of others: “We Germans publicly declare our willingness to curtail our sovereignty in favor of a supranational order to the same extent that others reduce their sovereignty.”94 In this view, trust clearly does not come first. The difference is not simply that Adenauer supported the Schuman plan, the ECSC, and other steps on the path toward a European federation, whereas Schumacher did not. Because he considered rights to follow from (rather than precede) institutionalized relations with other states, Adenauer is at pains to establish these relations. He does not assume that German rights exist, and so he repeatedly expresses German intentions and offers pledges designed to produce international relationships in the context of which German rights will be respected. In a speech at the University of Cologne in 1947, he argues that “there must be and should be brought about a permanent peace between France and Germany. . . . And hence I think that, especially we here in the West, . . . should direct a plea to our Western neighbors, to take, together with Germany and the United Kingdom,

The Westpolitik Debate

61

the only way which promises to guarantee European peace, namely that of a European Confederation, an enmeshing of these countries’ economies which alone can bring France, Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany lasting peace which we all seek so desperately.”95 Adenauer naturally shares with Schumacher a concern for how Germans will react to proposals that fail to treat Germany as an equal. During another speech on April 18, 1950, he reminds Germans that, “after all that has happened in the world, we Germans must come to terms with controls. . . . The psychological attitude of Germany’s neighbors,” he implores Germans to recognize, “is understandable.”96 In general, however, Adenauer tries to address this problem not (as Schumacher would) by direct challenges to representatives of other states to give Germany proper recognition but, instead, by keeping his focus firmly on what Germany will do in the future. The final objective is Europe itself: when a “United States of Europe” is created, “Germany will belong.”97 Unification There was another political union, of course, with which every German politician was preoccupied: that of Germany itself. On this matter, too, Schumacher and Adenauer diverged both in their views and in the way these were conveyed. The Social Democratic Party, Schumacher claims, “always presumed that Germany as a whole never ceased to exist as a state.”98 German unity was a matter of sovereign right that resides in qualities possessed by individuals. As Schumacher put it in a 1949 radio speech: “German unity is only possible on the democratic basis of personal and civic freedom and equality.”99 This basic premise, he asserts, “affects every other political question that deals with Germany.” Thus, “we cannot perceive anyone as a friend of the German people whose policies prevent or obstruct German unity on a democratic basis.”100 Schumacher repeatedly warns that no other political matter can be viewed in isolation from the question of unification.101 As usual, Schumacher’s focus is on the present, and he is alert to every political opportunity for progress toward unification. When the government of the Soviet zone addressed a letter to the governments of the four occupation powers (on February 13, 1952) requesting the speedy conclusion of a peace treaty with Germany, Schumacher lost no time in urging the Chancellor (Adenauer) to pursue the letter as an opening to German unification.102 The Chancellor’s own view, as on matters pertaining to the development of European institutions, stressed the future and, in the meantime, promised German cooperation with other states as an instrument

62

Cultures of Order

designed to smooth the path toward unification. Addressing the Parliamentary Council on May 8, 1949, Adenauer made it clear that he shared Schumacher’s objective. “We wish for German unity, we wish for this with all our heart and soul. We wish for a free Germany in which the German person can lead an existence worthy of a human being like every other European person.” But, in the next breath, Adenauer clarifies his understanding that unification is a “project” rather than a “fact” awaiting recognition. “We in the western zone are on our way to political freedom.”103 Later, addressing East Germans, he makes the following promise: “We shall never give up hope that, one day, in the East too a just order and a just solution will be found which will bring our people unity in freedom.”104 He then asks Germans in the East to make a reciprocal promise. “We . . . ask them to persevere, until this period of confusion, this time of trials will pass, and, ladies and gentlemen, one of these days, this time shall pass.”105 Before the Protestant Working Group of the CDU, Adenauer outlined an extended plan of action: “The goal of reasonable talks between West and East will be securing European peace, ending senseless arms races, German unification in freedom, and a new order in the East.”106 Similarly, speaking to the National Press Club in Washington, D.C., he returned often to the theme of future action. “I am of the opinion that, if the West continues with its established policies, the day will come when we can meet with the Soviet Union around a conference table in decent negotiations.”107 During the same visit to the United States, Adenauer told the audience of Edward R. Murrow’s See It Now that he could never give up hope for unification. “There are 17 to 18 million Germans living under the heaviest pressure. If Europe ever fully reunites itself, and we can negotiate successfully with the Soviets, then we will be able to think of a reunion of the two separated parts of Germany.”108 A few days later, he promised the Council on Foreign Relations in New York that “reunification shall be achieved only in peace and freedom. We, in the West of Germany, will not submit to the Soviet yoke in order to reunite with our brethren in the East as a Russian satellite state. We shall not do so because we would thereby betray our compatriots in the East who expect us to maintain our freedom so that they, too, can share it one day again.”109 Finally, in a speech at Harvard University, he neatly summed up the central issue. “I need not waste words in telling you how much I as a German desire this reunification of my country, but I also believe that if we follow the advice of my opponents we might never get either a reunited Germany or a united Europe. This is a question of putting first things first.”110

The Westpolitik Debate

63

Schumacher could not have agreed more that it was a problem of “putting first things first.” Yet these two leaders disagreed profoundly about what exactly should come first. For Schumacher, the recognition of German rights and equality was a precondition for broader political order whereas, for Adenauer, German commitment to the institutions of international order would gradually restore German rights and, ultimately, Germany’s national unity. By the 1950s, even as Schumacher continued to press for concrete steps toward unification, Adenauer had concluded that unification was not a viable goal in the short run. He reflected on the problem during a CDU Executive Council meeting in 1958: We have to realize that we have been deceiving ourselves in appraising the moment, when reunification could come about. When we sat in the Parliamentary Council in 1948 and 1949, and while Soviet Russia considered itself an occupying power along with the other three Western Powers, we were all of the view that the Basic Law, which we then created, would be valid only for a limited period of time, and that it would eventually be replaced by a constitution, concluded by a national assembly, made up of all zones of occupation in Germany. That was almost ten years ago. Circumstances in the world have sharpened and hardened. Both camps confronting each other have become larger and show themselves to be sharper. We now see—and we must be quite clear about this—that it was quite unrealistic to believe that the question of reunification could be solved, without a general relaxation of tensions in the world.111 In a letter the following year to U.S. Secretary of State Christian Herter, Adenauer again spelled out his conviction that unification ultimately depended on the state of international relationships: “only once the free West, via its policies, has created the conditions that convince Soviet-Russia no longer to view the Soviet zone of Germany as an important position in the confrontation between East and West . . . will a reunification in freedom become possible.”112 Adenauer thus sums up his outlook on both German and European order. Progress depended on relaxing tensions, building communities, and gradually transforming the relations among states. Rights emerged only as a consequence of political relationships, whereas for Schumacher, rights were themselves the bedrock of political order. As they defended their respective positions, Adenauer and Schumacher also displayed remarkably consistent linguistic strategies.

64

Cultures of Order

Adenauer’s speech is filled with promises and strongly oriented toward future action. Schumacher, in contrast, grounds his arguments in assertions about the present. Their debates reveal an underlying pattern in German policy disagreements. At its heart, the debate depended not only on domestic and international political considerations, but also on “putting first things first” in an effort to build new, safer political arrangements. It is the fashion of tough-minded realists (and of many social scientists) to dismiss such ideational matters in favor of power and political interests. Certainly, there can be no doubt that power and interests were at stake in early postwar Germany. The first part of this chapter showed how some of these interests, shaped by Adenauer and Schumacher’s personal experiences, led them to different positions. But these interests yield no general expectation of a highly structured debate such as that described here. It is hard to escape the conclusion that intellect as well as interest, and language as well as power, played a central role in these debates. CONCLUSION It is also hard to argue with Thomas Banchoff about the need, pointed out in The German Problem Transformed, to focus on “structure, institutions, ideas, and politics” while adopting a “multidimensional explanatory strategy” in order to understand the main contours of debates over German foreign policy.113 “At each postwar turning point,” he maintains, “different perceptions of international realities and the lessons of the past informed different foreign policy priorities.114 No doubt. Yet these perceptions and lessons were not merely products of Germany’s environment—past, present, or potential. John Duffield is likewise correct that this environment generated, after 1945, a distinctive “national security culture.”115 In this environment, sensitivity to the constraints of East-West politics was overdetermined. We do not take issue with these claims that Germany was constrained, structurally, institutionally, and culturally. Germany’s strategic approach to managing constraint, however, still afforded an important choice. Adenauer was willing to accept discrimination against Germany whereas another leader might have been more effective in playing off the allies against one another. Certainly, there were many opportunities to do so since the French, British, and Americans disagreed among themselves almost as often as they did with the Soviets. Adenauer was nevertheless eager to promote greater integration with the West even if it meant (to a degree, precisely because it meant) the loss of status that Germany had previously enjoyed in

The Westpolitik Debate

65

Europe. He made this choice because he believed European order and German unification both depended on building new international relationships of trust and partnership. Schumacher’s interpretation of history, in contrast, told him that something very different was necessary. The danger in Germany’s foreign policy, as he saw it, was a partisan alignment that would spill over into social cleavages at home. Avoiding this meant maintaining good relations with East and West alike and, thus, a rejection of Adenauer’s overt Westpolitik. It meant walking a middle path between East and West designed to encourage both sides to recognize the FRG’s (and ultimately Germany’s) sovereign status. The institutional development of Europe, and above all unification, could then be contemplated by sovereign powers on an equal footing—a positive conception of order premised on assertions of competent (sovereign) status to enter into contractual relationships. Out of two such different Weltanschauungen, it is no surprise that a profound debate emerged. Yet the structure and persistence of this debate also suggests that it went well beyond personal disagreements and personal histories. Even the Grand Coalition of Kiesinger and Brandt, when it began to open up political space for a more innovative Eastern policy in the late 1960s, could not resolve the underlying tension. From the coldest years of the Cold War to periods of détente, and even to the final thaw in 1990, Germany’s efforts to accommodate itself to a broader European order hinged on how its leaders entered the debate over what this order required. Neither domestic nor international political structures offer a definitive guide to the resolution of this debate. In what one might have expected to be a case of extraordinary political constraint, it is nevertheless perfectly reasonable to say that anarchy is what Germany made of it.116 Of course, it could not make of anarchy anything whatsoever that it may have wished. Notably, it could not directly impose any particular plan for order. Left with the two alternatives proclaimed by Adenauer and Schumacher, it has struggled to choose between them ever since.

This page intentionally left blank.

Chapter 4

The Ostpolitik Debate

The early postwar era saw the Federal Republic of Germany align itself decisively with the West, actively supporting collective security arrangements to oppose the extension of Soviet influence. At the same time, it embraced plans to lay the foundations for European integration. In the East, meanwhile, the Berlin airlift gave way to a new East German state (GDR) whose border with West Germany, apart from Berlin, was closed after May 1952. As the 1950s drew to a close, the division of Germany was firmly entrenched. The most potent symbol of this division began to rise up early in the morning of August 13, 1961: the Berlin Wall. These events, contributing to what Adenauer described as a “sharpened and hardened” postwar politics, constitute an unlikely background for a transformation of German attitudes toward the East.1 If anything, they seem a much better predictor of the missile crisis in Cuba a year later that brought the world to the brink of nuclear catastrophe. Out of these early, acute crises of the Cold War, however, gradually came recognition of the dangers posed by the superpower standoff. In the United States, this recognition produced a new impetus for arms control, in the form of an Atmospheric Test Ban Treaty with the USSR signed in Moscow in August 1963, as well as provisions to enhance communication during a crisis by creating a direct “hotline” between Washington and Moscow. These measures were designed to make Cold War confrontation less dangerous, but not to end it. The American grand strategy still required containment. In Europe, as in other parts of the world, this strategy meant keeping up the pressure on the Soviet Union. In East Asia, it would soon mean another war. For Americans, détente would have to wait until the 1970s. Yet in Germany, despite the “hardening and sharpening” of Cold War divisions, Adenauer’s decisive Westpolitik soon gave way to new uncertainty about the proper West German stance toward the GDR. The sobering lesson of the Cuban missile crisis about the ease with which mutual superpower hostility could spill over into other parts of 67

68

Cultures of Order

the world, and with what dire consequences, could not be missed in Germany. Such was Adenauer’s stature and so successful was his strategy of institutional linkage with Western Europe, however, that his successor could contemplate only “little steps” to break the ice with Germany’s Eastern neighbors.2 Ludwig Erhard, German Chancellor from 1963 to 1966, did establish new trade missions, promote slightly more liberal economic policies toward the East, and lessen travel restrictions between East and West Berlin. Ultimately, however, his cautious policies may have done as much to delay a new Ostpolitik as to encourage it.3 Erhard’s caution must, no doubt, be understood in the context of a decade that, as Thomas Banchoff has pointed out, seemed to offer “no self-evident way to respond to the policy challenges posed by shifts from cold war to détente.”4 After the Suez Crisis, France was pursuing a new policy of independence under de Gaulle and a nuclear strategy that pointedly refused to discriminate between East and West (une défense tous azimuths). In Germany, which remained an occupied power, a similarly unilateral strategy was clearly impossible. Even a tentative opening to the East seemed to risk alienating the United States. In short, there was no obvious way to reconcile the dangers posed by the Cold War to Germany with a policy that was likely both to ameliorate these dangers and, at the same time, to win acceptance from Germany’s key allies. Despite the international pressures and the legacy of Germany’s own earlier Westpolitik, however, German politicians nevertheless found ways to pursue an opening to the East. The Grand Coalition (1966– 1969) brought Kurt Georg Kiesinger to power as the third CDU chancellor along with an SPD vice-chancellor and foreign minister, Willy Brandt. This coalition paved the way for Ostpolitik, although not, as this chapter will seek to show, simply as a result of the German left’s increasing power. The Grand Coalition inaugurated another period of intense debate within Germany over foreign policy and international order. The result of this debate was a change in German policy. The change in policy, however, was the result of a deeper continuity. The commissive-institutional strategy continued to prevail over the assertive-rights strategy in Germany, and it is this continuity that informed Ostpolitik. This was so, moreover, even though the CDU and the SPD switched positions on the matter. Although Bonn was more open to cooperation with the East under Kiesinger than it had been under Adenauer or the strongly Atlanticist Erhard, the Hallstein Doctrine continued to preclude direct relations with East Germany or with any state (apart from the Soviet Union)

The Ostpolitik Debate

69

that recognized the GDR.5 Kiesinger thus went through the Eastern country the FRG did recognize, the Soviet Union, seeking new forms of cooperation that could eventually pave the way for unification. His chances of success were further limited, however, by his continued reluctance to affirm Germany’s postwar borders with Poland and Czechoslovakia. In general, Kiesinger pursued a policy oriented toward agents (the Soviet Union) rather than institutions and toward recognition rather than trust. Put another way, Kiesinger conceived of détente more as a matter of fostering specific new agreements with the Soviets than as a matter of building a new relationship (which remained unlikely, after all, with a communist state). The spirit of this approach to détente is far closer to Schumacher than to Adenauer. When he came to power in December 1966, Brandt proved more willing to negotiate directly with his East German counterparts. He began to take steps to build a new East-West relationship without waiting for the outcome of laborious discussions with the Soviet Union (or, for that matter, with the United States). To build confidence, he proposed direct agreements with East European states renouncing the use of force, recognized the Oder-Neisse line, signed the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty, and even established direct contact with the GDR.6 He thus returned to Adenauer’s strategy of building institutional linkages and relationships first and seeking legal recognition and formalization later.7 Of course the target of these new policies shifted from the West under Adenauer to the East under Brandt. But while German policy may have changed dramatically, prevailing German ideas about European order did not. The earlier normative debate over Westpolitik was essentially repeated in a new form. As the focus of the debate shifted from Adenauer’s Westpolitik to renewed efforts in the FRG to build a relationship with the GDR, it also became clearer that neither domestic nor international politics per se explain the debate. Ostpolitik strained alliance relations in both Germanys. The pressures created by Cold War political structures worked against Ostpolitik rather than for it. And although Kurt Kiesinger and Willy Brandt could hardly ignore domestic politics, their positions are not easily explained by party politics alone. At first, after all, they were part of the same government. Both agreed, moreover, on the desirability of Ostpolitik. Their disagreement was about the best means to achieve it, and their preferred strategies actually reflect a departure from those adopted by their parties under Adenauer and Schumacher. Like their predecessors, however, Brandt and Kiesinger arrived at positions on how best to secure political order in Europe earlier in life, the result of deeply personal commitments. As they later

70

Cultures of Order

formulated their policies on relations with the East and German unity, they relied on these earlier convictions to provide guidance. This explains why they adopted the approaches that they did. KIESINGER AND STATE RIGHTS What the Rhineland meant to Adenauer, Swabia did to Kurt Kiesinger. Born on April 6, 1904, in Ebingen, Württemberg, to lower middle-class parents, Kiesinger’s political ideas were strongly affected by his sense of place and his “first-hand knowledge of poverty.”8 In Dunkle und helle Jahre, he points out that in Ebingen “we not only were citizens of the German Reich, but also, and foremost, good citizens of Württemberg” and as such had a strong desire to “preserve [our] heritage and safeguard [our] independence.9 Swabia was a source of Kiesinger’s vitality; it stood for specific values of hard work and democratic individualism that he associated with the countries of Western Europe and convinced him that the solution to Germany’s problems would have to be found in the larger context of a peaceful European order.10 Much like Adenauer, in addition to good relations with the United States, Kiesinger viewed strong ties with France as essential in promoting German unification.11 Reflecting on his childhood, Kiesinger mused to the readers of Schwäbische Kindheit, “I always thought it was a great fortune to have been born in Swabia.”12 It seems likely that this memory reflects a good measure of nostalgia, however, since the abject poverty of his childhood and early adolescence also had their impact. His father worked as a white-collar worker in a textile company, but the pay was sometimes insufficient even to buy food. Particularly during World War I, Kiesinger occasionally suffered stomach cramps from malnutrition.13 “Ragged, hungry, literally without anything to call his own, young Kiesinger entered the public arena driven by . . . the need to speak out passionately on those things that were important to him.”14 The hardship of his childhood years may have shaped the strong sense of social justice that stayed with him later in life. Yet unlike many others who had experienced poverty first hand, “he remained convinced that a democratically organized society would ensure anyone with the talent and the will a place suited to the individual’s achievement and merit.”15 This conviction attracted him to the shared democratic ideals of the Western powers. Kiesinger was raised in “two confessional worlds” simultaneously, with a Protestant father and a Catholic mother, and this also had a profound influence.16 He attended a Catholic kindergarten and pri-

The Ostpolitik Debate

71

mary school in Ebingen, but when he went to secondary school, the vast majority of his classmates were Protestant.17 Out of the ecclesiastical mixture of his childhood, he was particularly impressed by the “deep-rooted Catholicism of his mother’s mother” and “the piety of his Methodist grandmother on his father’s side.”18 His father contributed the notion that “Protestant Christians lived and believed more freely,” and so Kiesinger made the conscious choice to become, as he put it, “a protestant Catholic.”19 In later life, he interpreted this to mean having a sense of “the danger of burying that what is human in an impersonal, soulless . . . environment” and identifying strongly with “Western” values such as freedom and the protection of human rights.20 During his six years of boarding school, and perhaps in part as an escape from the economic hardship to which he was witness, Kiesinger “devoured entire libraries, and read numerous works by German poets.”21 According to Guenter Diehl, Kiesinger used his “intuitive powers . . . to recognize talent, beauty, and harmony in art and life.”22 But he also had help. His German studies teacher, Joseph Brechenmacher, particularly encouraged the young Kiesinger to read widely.23 He integrated the great works of literature into his own conception of humanity and its history. As a result, not only in personal conversations but also in conferences and meetings, he would raise his eyes from his papers and make some general observations citing the great authors or historical events to underscore his opinion on the subject at hand. This was when the tutor, the pedagogue in him, emerged. He wanted to enlighten and persuade us.24 Later in life, his conversation was thus littered with references to Valéry, Montesquieu, Pascal, Rousseau and, above all, Tocqueville, whom Kiesinger viewed as the great democratic antagonist to Marx.25 While still in school, he began reading the liberal newspaper Neue Albbote, which helped to shape his political worldview. “Even though I never joined the Democratic Party,” he explained, “when I later occasionally called myself a conservative Liberal or a Liberal conservative then I recognized that my exposure to the Neue Albbote over the course of many years greatly contributed to this liberal component.”26 Torn between art, literature, philosophy, politics, and law, he finally chose to study the latter. With support from Friedrich Haux, an industrialist and friend of his father, Kiesinger was able to enroll as a law student, from 1924 to 1930, at the universities of Tübingen and Berlin. Still, as Diehl points out, he “knew that throughout his life his

72

Cultures of Order

inclinations would lean toward philosophy, literature, and history, that he would always be wedded to them. He did not need to study them, his own interest in them was strong enough.”27 In Berlin, he joined a fraternity (Askania), made friends, and met many of the bourgeois-Christian politicians of the Weimar Republic. Yet, as Kiesinger himself puts it, “the Weimar Republic was no good at all to me.”28 His university years, like his childhood, were marked by significant hardship. “The year 1923,” he explains, “turned out to be the worst of the young Republic. Inflation destroyed the German currency, robbed millions of citizens of their last savings, and took paychecks right out of the workers’ hands. The ones affected lost their trust in the democratic state. . . . Everywhere its enemies began to stir.”29 To make matters worse, Friedrich Haux, who had become a “fatherly friend” to Kiesinger as well as a financial supporter, died in a plane crash in 1928.30 When Hitler came to power on January 30, 1933, Kiesinger was thus like many other Germans who had suffered from poor economic conditions for a number of years and who were ready for change. He explains in his memoirs that “the announced aim of the National Socialists to bring about a community of the people, and the promise to end economic hardship, as well as the wish to free Germany from the position of pariah among the European peoples impressed him” and persuaded him to join the National Socialist Party in 1933.31 “Given that the National Socialists were part of the government,” he further reasoned, “one should do everything in one’s power to preserve the little good in their aims and fight against the many bads.”32 Kiesinger thus deduced that the place to work for change was within the party itself.33 He “viewed the National Socialists’ anti-Jewish slogans as mere rabble-rousing.”34 By the time he realized otherwise, he had also come to feel that “his mistake was irreparable, for to correct it would have had dangerous, even life-threatening consequences.”35 Kiesinger thus continued to pay his party dues and to keep the lowest profile that he could. Repulsed by the increasing disdain for the law, the abridgment of personal freedom, and the Nazi’s race policies, Kiesinger investigated the possibility of emigrating to a German colony in Brazil, but he lacked the finances to carry out this plan.36 In 1935, Kiesinger became a lawyer at the Berlin Superior Court of Justice. He did not resist the government openly, hoping instead to be left alone, but as Guenter Diehl points out “neither his bearing nor his intellect allowed him to remain inconspicuous.”37 From 1940 to 1945 he was a member of the Foreign Ministry, first as research assistant and, beginning in 1942, as deputy department head of the politi-

The Ostpolitik Debate

73

cal division of radio broadcasting. How deeply Kiesinger became involved with the Nazi regime remains unclear. He did join the National Socialists early and without coercion. Having worked in broadcasting, moreover, he was clearly involved in propaganda. Yet as his defenders have pointed out, he “was not an active champion of Hitler’s policies or worse a mastermind behind his crimes.”38 As a lawyer before the war, he had put his own life and his family at risk to help people persecuted by the Nazi regime.39 Throughout the Nazi dictatorship, he continued to tutor law students in an effort to produce able jurists with convictions founded on the rule of law.40 Thus, he chose a “middle ground” that was to cause him trouble later in life.41 It is difficult to reconcile Kiesinger’s apparent respect for individual rights, protected under the law, and his complicity with a regime that set itself above the law. To the degree that this tension aggrieved the young Kiesinger, however, it is also plausible as an explanation of his great respect for legal rights later in life. From 1945 to 1947 Kiesinger was interned by the Allies. His political rehabilitation began in August 1948, when he received the findings of the “denazification tribunal” that once more would make it possible for him to practice law. His clearance statement concluded: On the basis of the evidence, the reliability of which cannot be questioned in terms of the witnesses offering it and the weight of their statements, it is herewith attested that from the beginning to the end of the Third Reich the subject in question offered active and effective resistance to the National Socialist dictatorship in whatever positions he held and whenever the opportunities arose, according to the extent of his power. Through his resistance he proved not only to be a courageous and steadfast opponent of the National Socialist regime, but at the danger of being discovered at any moment also risked his property, freedom, and life. In doing so he incontestably fulfilled the condition set out by Article 13 of the Befreiungsgesetz (Law of Exoneration) of September 5, 1946 and therewith to be exonerated.42 Further evidence supporting those conclusions emerged in 1966, when it was revealed that Kiesinger had been denounced by Ernst Otto Dörries, another employee of the radio division of the Foreign Office, for interfering with the office’s anti-Jewish activities. In a memo produced by Dörries on November 7, 1944, Kiesinger was named as one of the primary “saboteurs” of the anti-Jewish efforts.43

74

Cultures of Order

Having been cleared by the denazification tribunal, Kiesinger was elected to the Bundestag in 1949, a position he retained (with brief interruptions) until 1980. He became a member of the CDU executive board in 1951, chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee in the Bundestag in 1954, and minister president of Baden Württemberg from 1958 to 1966. When he was offered the chance to become a candidate for the chancellorship, however, Kiesinger hesitated, anticipating the inevitable scrutiny of his past. His fears soon proved accurate when, shortly after he declared his candidacy for chancellor, the international press began to question his suitability. The Neue Zürcher Zeitung exclaimed that a former member of the National Socialist Party could not possibly become chancellor. The editors of the Belgian paper Le Peuple, asking whether a Nazi party member would be qualified to assume the most important position in the Federal Republic of Germany, hastened to agree with their Swiss colleagues that the answer could only be “no, a million times, no.”44 When Kiesinger was nonetheless elected chancellor on December 1, 1966, the German novelist Heinrich Böll called him an “insult to the German people.”45 At a CDU meeting in Berlin, a woman even approached Kiesinger and slapped his face while shouting “Nazi! Nazi!”46 This had the effect of prompting crowds to chant “Nazi” at Kiesinger’s public speeches for some time thereafter. And yet, Kiesinger also had his supporters, who agreed with the denazification tribunal that he had done what he could to resist the Nazi’s worst policies. This support even extended across the aisle, politically, to people like Willy Brandt who insisted that “Kiesinger was too intelligent and cultured to have been a Nazi beyond carrying a membership card.”47 Kiesinger’s political battle over his Nazi party membership no doubt served to further crystallize at least one conclusion he had already drawn as a young man: that people must be judged as individuals. The lessons of his Swabian childhood as well as his legal training combined in the conviction that hard work in a fair and democratic political system would eventually reward individual effort. His sense of justice rebelled at the Nazi’s excesses. And, feeling that he had opposed these excesses in his own fashion, he could hardly fail to bridle at some of the rebukes he received, as chancellor, because of his past. If anything, though, these challenges served to intensify his identification with democratic theorists like Tocqueville. Overall, then, Kiesinger’s background prepared him to adopt a legalistic and rights-oriented approach to political order. He was certainly a staunch democrat and a Europeanist, but his principal affinity was to a conception of the individual as a subject before God, the state,

The Ostpolitik Debate

75

and the law. He was inclined more to emphasize individual choice, that is, than institutional commitment. He was a contractarian rather than a Kantian. He abided by the law as best he could as a National Socialist party member. And, as chancellor, he would work to extend international legal arrangements in ways that he believed were consistent with both democracy and the goal of German unification. BRANDT AND INSTITUTIONAL EXPANSION Willy Brandt was actually born Herbert Ernst Karl Frahm on December 18, 1913, illegitimate son of a young store clerk in Lübeck who had few means to keep and raise him.48 Consequently, he lived with his widowed grandfather, Ludwig Frahm, who had remarried. The elder Frahm, whom Herbert called “papa,” was a follower of socialist leader August Bebel and one of the first party members in his village. He was a factory worker and, after World War I, a truck driver.49 Thus born into a working-class environment not far from the Baltic Sea, where most people were “employed in the docks, the railway yards, the city gasworks and the large breweries,” Herbert Frahm saw many of those around him struggle to feed their families.50 The workers frequently were on strike. On one such occasion, the eightyear-old Frahm found himself outside a bakery admiring bread his family had no money to buy. A manager of the factory where his grandfather worked stopped and bought Frahm two loaves of bread, but when he explained to his grandfather how he came by the bread, he was made to return it with the admonition that “a striker accepts no gifts from his employer. We will not let ourselves be bribed by our enemy. We are no beggars, to whom one throws alms. We ask for our right, not for gifts.”51 Being raised by a fervent socialist during difficult times no doubt explains something of the young Frahm’s political views and, ultimately, his lifelong devotion to democratic socialism. As a schoolboy, he counted August Bebel and Ferdinand Lassalle, the leaders of the new Social Democratic Party, among his heroes. He learned at an early age that socialism was “a kind of religion” to people like his grandfather, who believed it would make “all men brothers [and] eliminate all injustice from the world.”52 When he was fourteen, his mother married Emil Kuhlmann, a Social Democrat to whom Frahm also became close, and whom he called “uncle.” Since his mother, stepfather, and grandfather all were active Social Democrats, he could later say with considerable accuracy in his memoirs, “I was born into socialism.”53

76

Cultures of Order

At age fourteen Frahm entered the Johanneum, a prestigious high school, to which only a handful of boys from Lübeck’s working class were admitted. He stayed near the top of his class and, in addition to his regular schoolwork, continued to study the political ideas of Lassalle and Bebel.54 He also began writing for the local Social Democratic paper, Volksbote (People’s Messenger), and he joined the socialist youth movement. Others who influenced Frahm included his history teacher, Eilhard Erich Pauls, and the leader of the SPD in Lübeck, Julius Leber.55 He avidly read political histories, including biographies of Otto von Bismarck and Walther Rathenau, as well as the works of Thomas Mann and Erich Maria Remarque.56 If any theme emerged from his childhood, as well as his education, it was a strong “desire for social justice and political progress.”57 In 1930, Julius Leber sponsored Frahm’s membership in the SPD. The following year, the left wing of the SPD broke with the party, convinced that the SPD leadership had tolerated the development of authoritarian rule, and Frahm joined the new Socialist Workers’ Party (SAP). Within a few months, however, the Nazis banned and dissolved all other political parties. Two days after Hitler was made Chancellor, on February 1, 1933, Julius Leber was arrested. Frahm mobilized the resistance and led protests.58 In March, despite fear of imprisonment, he attended secret SAP congresses in Dresden and Berlin where the party decided to go underground to organize against Hitler. It was at this time that Frahm began, for security reasons, to travel under the “nom de guerre” that he kept for the rest of his life: Willy Brandt.59 Warned of his imminent arrest, he managed to flee to Norway where he worked as a journalist and tried to remain in contact with his comrades at home. He produced illegal newspapers and, whenever possible, tried to smuggle them into Germany with the help of friends. In summer 1936, Brandt returned to Berlin to head up the underground resistance fighters’ movement there. Next he moved to Spain, then back to Norway. Since he had no time to flee when Hitler attacked, he posed as a Norwegian soldier and was imprisoned as a POW. Upon his release, he fled to Sweden.60 When Brandt learned in 1938 that the Nazis had stripped him of his citizenship, leaving him “stateless,” he applied for Norwegian citizenship and increasingly began to identify with Scandinavian socialism.61 According to Terrence Prittie, “the years in exile had taught him much. He had found, both in Norway and Sweden, a humanitarian, reflective sort of socialism, socialism in action.”62 As a result, Prittie says, “he urged less preoccupation with political abstractions,” preferring the pragmatic action of a democratic socialist to the lofty prin-

The Ostpolitik Debate

77

ciples of a revolutionary.63 Pragmatic action under Nazi rule, of course, was dangerous. Social Democratic and Socialist exile groups continued to meet to plan a future for Germany and Europe, but gatherings of this sort became increasingly risky. When plans for the assassination of Hitler became known, those suspected of having played a role in the plot suffered terrible fates. Among those who lost their lives was Julius Leber, who was executed on January 5, 1945. Certainly, “the economic and social crises of the 1930s, Hitler’s dictatorship, the forced exile, the Spanish Civil War, and the immense catastrophe which Nazi Germany brought to the European continent, left their imprint on Willy Brandt.”64 Amidst so many disasters, however, it was Leber’s senseless murder in particular that sparked in Brandt a new sense of political activism. “The example of [Leber’s] deed and of his end spoke to me,” Brandt recalled, “in the course of the next months with ever growing clarity and urgency. This message of the deceased, more than anything else, prompted me to dedicate my life to the reconstruction of a new Germany.”65 In October 1945, Brandt thus returned to Germany. Initially, he reported on the Nuremberg trials for the Norwegian press, but he soon re-entered politics after surrendering his Norwegian citizenship and applying for renaturalization in Germany. In 1949, the Berlin SPD elected him as one of its representatives to the Bundestag in Bonn, and on October 3, 1957, he was elected governing mayor of Berlin. The experience of leading a divided city no doubt served to confirm his belief in the importance of building bridges and fostering understanding between rival camps. During his first year as governing mayor, he visited half a dozen countries, explaining to the world that Berlin had to remain “a living bridge” between East and West, that the “fellow citizens in the Eastern sector belong to us.”66 He became convinced that Berlin should do whatever it could to promote “a normalization in relations” and “an open-door policy in human and cultural contacts.”67 Later, he went to Bonn to pursue the same goals. In 1964, he became SPD Party Leader, and two years later he joined Kiesinger’s Grand Coalition as foreign minister. Then, on October 21, 1969, he was elected Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany. He won reelection in 1972, but after one of his personal assistants was unmasked as a GDR spy he was forced to resign a year and a half later. Like Schumacher, Brandt was a committed socialist who had risked his life in the fight against Hitler’s regime and who rejected the notion of collective guilt. At the same time, Brandt did believe that Germans must share responsibility, if not guilt, for what had happened. As he explained the distinction:

78

Cultures of Order

Those who do not feel guilty and are not guilty of Nazi crimes cannot—if they want to keep on working with and improving this nation—evade the consequences of a policy which a toolarge proportion of the populace was ready to accept. They cannot disassociate themselves from mutual responsibility and interdependence. If they are in earnest about their reform and reeducation efforts, they would do well not to minimize the injustices other nations have suffered. . . . But the fact of responsibility must be differentiated; must be brought up at the right time and place. And the question of guilt must focus on individual criminals and their criminal groups and organizations.68 This theme would stay with Brandt throughout the remainder of his political career. As he later reflected on the problem: “I said the Nazis were guilty, or more precisely the Nazi hard core comprising about a million people. I wanted guilt to be individually established. I said the opponents of the Nazis were not guilty, nor was the great mass of people who were more or less indifferent.69 In such statements, calling attention to individual rights and responsibilities, Brandt embraces a model of order closely resembling that of Schumacher or Kiesinger. Normatively, he depends on assertive strategies linked to individual qualities. As he wrestles with this problem, however, a community-oriented ethic also emerges. He warns Germans “not to minimize the injustices other nations have suffered.”70 And although he believed that Germans must take responsibility, he also felt that “there is no sense in loading them down with guilt. Guilt feelings imposed from outside do not constitute the most felicitous beginning of reeducation.”71 These arguments reveal his sense that political progress depends on establishing not only rights, but also communities, and in this he embraces a commissive strategy of building trust. It is this latter perspective on order that resonates most strongly with Brandt’s childhood and socialist background. By the time he returned to Germany and regained his German citizenship, he had been living abroad for fifteen years. He spoke other languages and had developed a more international outlook than many other leading German politicians. What he learned from his experience with Scandinavian socialism, from his friends in the anti-Nazi resistance, and perhaps above all from his grandfather all combined into a conviction that progressive politics required community and trust.72 He was far from indifferent to the rights and responsibilities of individuals, but he believed these were best served through collective action, and his

The Ostpolitik Debate

79

experience in Berlin reinforced this conviction. When Brandt took over from Kiesinger as chancellor, this is precisely what he sought: new avenues for collective action, internationally, that would gradually bring Eastern Europe into dialogue with the West and that would move the two Germanys, in particular, closer together. He laid out these aims, even before the war’s conclusion, in a report on postwar German socialism, arguing that “there could be no ‘European solution’ without the co-operation of both Britain and the Soviet Union, and a Germany prepared to carry through radical social reforms must seek good relations with both these countries.”73 Germany would have to build trust abroad, that is, and this would also be a necessary prerequisite for order at home: “the German people must strive for national unity, not at all the same thing as nationalism.”74 Brandt’s was thus a political program of international solidarity and, at home, of rebuilding a sense of community that had been torn apart by the war. THE OSTPOLITIK DEBATE Adenauer’s accomplishments after the war gave him great stature in the FRG. As the iron curtain fell and the division of Germany seemed to congeal into a semipermanent arrangement, however, German politics inevitably took on more partisan tones. In this context, the “Great Coalition” of the CDU and the SPD was seen by some as a bipartisan triumph. It seemed to offer hope that, at least in the FRG, the tide of increasingly rigid Cold War divisions could momentarily be held back. It gradually became clear, however, that the coalition existed more as a matter of political expedience than as an expression of policy accord. In fact, the coalition essentially had two foreign policies: Kiesinger’s and Brandt’s. It was also soon clear that Kiesinger distrusted (or came to distrust) his Foreign Minister, Willy Brandt, as well as the latter’s confidant and advisor, Egon Bahr.75 Increasingly, therefore, Kiesinger devoted his energies to controlling and curtailing Brandt’s influence.76 The brief interlude of the Grand Coalition is not so much remarkable for the cooperation it produced, therefore, but instead for the political reversal to which it gave rise. In its aftermath, Brandt adopted Adenauer’s rhetorical strategies, whereas Kiesinger tended to sound more and more like Schumacher. At first, however, Kiesinger followed the line of his predecessors. Like Adenauer, he stressed the importance of a strong commitment to Europe and particularly a “close and trusting relationship between Germany and France.”77 During a speech to the Foreign Press Club in Germany on January 20, 1967, he explained:

80

Cultures of Order

The tighter Western Europe grows together, the sooner a situation will be created for the East and, even the Soviet Union, that will convince the Soviet Union and our Eastern neighbors to view a transcending of this European antagonism as advantageous. . . . We need to dismantle distrust and build trust.78 Along the same lines, about one month earlier, he told the German Bundestag: The European peace order hoped for by East and West is inconceivable without a close and trusting relationship between Germany and France. . . . This Europe which “speaks with one voice,” as American politicians demand, presumes a continually growing agreement with respect to German and French policies. Europe can only be built with France and Germany, not without or even against one of the two countries.79 These statements reflect just the sort of institutional-commissive strategy that typified Adenauer’s Westpolitik. In contrast to de Gaulle, Kiesinger favored the United Kingdom’s entry into the European Community to lend additional strength to the idea of Europe.80 And, with regards to the East, he also acknowledged the “need to decrease further fear and distrust of Germany in Eastern Europe. . . . We have to attempt to improve [human] relations between us and our compatriots in the other part of Germany.”81 Yet on the matters of Ostpolitik and détente, the issues of foreign policy that defined his chancellorship, Kiesinger cautiously parted ways with Adenauer politically. Careful consideration of his language shows an even more striking divergence. Kiesinger was convinced that unification hinged on overcoming the East-West conflict between the superpowers.82 To this end, he envisioned a four-step approach: (1) direct contact with the Soviet Union; (2) improved relations with Eastern Europe; (3) talks with the GDR; and (4) gaining the support of the Third World countries.83 To impress Moscow and demonstrate the FRG’s willingness to bring about improved relations with the GDR, during his first few months in office, Kiesinger acquiesced in proposals to establish contacts with the Socialist Unity Party (SED). As he spent more time in office, however, he began to retreat from this political direction, making it clear that his foreign policy goals and those of the Social Democrats could not be squared.84 In short, whereas Kiesinger and the CDU were seeking better relations with Moscow, Brandt and the SPD sought to build direct links with East Berlin.85

The Ostpolitik Debate

81

As he confronted the problem of détente and East-West relations, Kiesinger’s emphasis shifted from a focus on building future trust to an emphasis on the political rights of Germans. “I wish for nothing more urgently than a reconciliation with the Soviet Union,” he remarked. Like the overwhelming majority of my compatriots, I am convinced that the German question can only be solved peacefully, that is, in agreement with the Soviet Union. Such an agreement presumes common interests and mutual trust. This trust, however, is difficult to produce as long as the Soviet Union suppresses free opinion in the Eastern part of Germany, and as long as it does not surrender its will to bring about a communist world revolution.86 Two aspects of this statement are noteworthy. First, it stresses German and Soviet interests rather than the need to subordinate these interests to a broader European purpose. Second, it predicates trust on the behavior of a particular agent—the Soviet Union—and its policies. This was necessary, as he earlier told an audience in Stuttgart because “the political decisionmaking centers of the world moved . . . to Washington and Moscow.”87 Trust depended, therefore, on what Moscow would choose to do. What Kiesinger ultimately sought from the Soviets was acknowledgment of Germany’s right to engage in dialogue on German (and not simply West German) interests. It was obvious to Kiesinger, of course, that such recognition would take time. But he signaled this objective when he explained: With the western world our relations are ordered in a friendly manner; but we also seek to establish relations of objectivity, of respect regarding common interests, of peaceful exchanges as well as economic and cultural cooperation with the states of Eastern Europe, foremost the Soviet Union.88 For the same reason, it was impossible for Kiesinger to contemplate recognizing the GDR as a sovereign state. To do so would undermine precisely the status as an agent that he was seeking for the FRG. “A recognition would confirm injustice as justice and would violate the generally recognized principle of self determination. This the 60 million Germans in the free part of our fatherland . . . are not authorized to do.”89 In this way, Kiesinger’s pursuit of recognition from the Soviet Union also determined his approach to the GDR.

82

Cultures of Order

On the other hand, he was also convinced that the liberation of the East was a necessary step on the path toward German unification. Despite the contradiction inherent in pursuing détente with the Soviet Union and, at the same time, the political liberation of Eastern Europe, both goals stemmed from Kiesinger’s focus on agent rights. The East deserved what Germany also sought. “It therefore had to be the Germans’ goal to support Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia and Romania’s struggle for freedom.”90 With this in mind, he hinted that the Hallstein Doctrine would have to be modified. Yet the rights of Germans precluded the same policy toward the GDR. Whereas the rights of other East European states demanded recognition of their sovereignty (and independence from the Soviet Union), German rights precluded action that would legitimize a division of Germany. Kiesinger much preferred to negotiate with the Soviets about steps that might someday lead toward unification, rather than with East Germans directly in a way that would recognize the very division he sought to overcome. Kiesinger could not, then, recognize the GDR as an agent in its own right: “the German Democratic Republic remained for him a dictatorship of Moscow’s graces, and hence a nameless structure, a ‘phenomenon.’ ”91 For the same reason, he was unwilling to recognize other symbols of the status quo, such as Germany’s postwar borders. As he explained it to Der Spiegel in a 1967 interview, “I believe that a recognition of the Oder/Neisse line would damage the cause of unification since then the status quo would be strengthened even further.”92 Two months later, he told an audience in Berlin: Peace is not only a state without war. Peace is justice and freedom on Earth for the states of this world and the people who live within them. One tells us from the East: “Prove your willingness to bring about peace by resigning yourselves to what happened after World War II. Give up on finding a solution to the German problem, on unification in peace and freedom.” If we agreed to that, we would betray the basic rights to freedom and justice of our compatriots behind the wall and thereby betray the chance for a true peace. Once again: Peace, freedom and justice are one.93 Finally, in a Christmas radio address the same year, he laid bare his national rights-oriented understanding of the preconditions for political order. I repeat what I have said many times before: the German people, only the German people in its entirety, is the sover-

The Ostpolitik Debate

83

eign, and it needs to decide for itself what its future will look like. A nation is . . . not only a cultural and language community, but foremost a group of people who have been thrown together by fate, and our common destiny includes the division of our country. A nation, moreover, is a community of wills. A nation is what a nation wants to be. One can draw borders by force, but a nation cannot be dictated away.94 For Kiesinger, ultimately, German unification depended on what sovereign agents would choose to do. But its foundation, the rights of German citizens, already existed. Because he could not reconcile the requirements of Germany’s status as an agent with its political division, on one hand, and with the need to respect the interests of another important agent (the Soviet Union) on the other hand, Kiesinger ultimately found it impossible to move toward an Ostpolitik that the thaw in East-West relations promised and that he earnestly desired. His foreign minister, meanwhile, increasingly left these selfimposed constraints behind. When Brandt called the Oder-Neisse line “a border to be recognized and respected” during an SPD party congress in the spring of 1968, coalition politics deteriorated sharply.95 The situation grew even worse when it became known that the SPD had kept secret contacts with Communists in Italy with the help of whom it had met representatives of the East German government.96 And when Warsaw Pact troops moved into Prague that summer, Kiesinger’s policy of engagement with the Soviet Union as the basis for progress on German unity effectively came to an end. On October 21, 1969, Willy Brandt succeeded Kiesinger as chancellor when the SPD captured almost 43 percent of the vote and formed a coalition with the Free Democratic Party. It was a narrow margin of victory. Indeed, the CDU polled 46 percent, but it lacked the coalition partner necessary to form a government.97 With such a scant margin in the Bundestag, one might expect a cautious departure from existing policy, whatever the differences between Brandt and Kiesinger. And, indeed, the transition was not abrupt. Brandt undeniably shared certain convictions with the previous chancellor (and, for that matter, with Schumacher) about the importance of German rights.98 This importance of national interests and rights notwithstanding, however, Brandt’s behavior as chancellor rested on a bedrock of Kantian institutionalism rather than on the assertion of rights. Brandt made this plain in numerous statements about the importance of international conventions and international community that transcended national interests. “International law,” he maintained, “needs to be renewed and expanded.” He went on to invoke Kant, specifically.

84

Cultures of Order

Membership in an international organization must assume the commitment to abide by international law. This is no guarantee against the violation of law. The actual problem lies therein that there is no valid [universal] law. The task still remains the same Kant stressed 150 years ago: to bring about a Basic Law for all citizens of the world.99 Later, he managed to sound even more like Adenauer, linking Kant to Christian conceptions of justice, when he told an Oslo audience in 1971: Our ethical and social concepts have been shaped by two thousand years of Christianity. And this means that, in spite of many aberrations under the flag of “the just war,” attempts have been made over and over again to achieve peace in this world, too. Our second course of strength is humanism and classical philosophy. Immanuel Kant postulated his idea of a constitutional confederation of states in words that pose a very distinct question to today’s generation: Man, he said, will one day be faced with the choice of either uniting under a true law of nations or destroying with a few blows the civilization he had built up over thousands of years.100 The next day, speaking before the Swedish Parliament in Stockholm, he proclaimed: “I maintain that peace can be organized, that it can be made. But I am aware that this requires a great effort and conscientious preparations. Peace must—as Kant long ago observed—be based on agreement. This, on the other hand, can only be achieved by the cooperation of many.”101 Like Adenauer, Brandt conceived that building this peace meant building institutions of international community that would act as bridges among nations. He thus told a meeting of the Friedrich-Ebert Stiftung’s Advisory Board, “all the allies are, in reality, in agreement that the goal of our policy must be a permanent and just peace for all of Europe. By that I mean a settlement which will allay the causes of tension and division in Europe, which find their most significant example in Germany, and seek to overcome them.” 102 Unlike Adenauer, however, Brandt sought to extend these bridges eastward. And unlike Kiesinger, he looked directly to the GDR rather than to the Soviet Union. Brandt was emboldened to pursue Ostpolitik not because he rejected the West, of course, but precisely because he counted on its security. As he explained to Klaus Harpprecht:

The Ostpolitik Debate

85

We belong to the West, and try to reach an accommodation with the East. That is important. We are anchored in the West, and with our Western partners, we endeavour to reach an accommodation, a reconciliation, a friendship with our Eastern neighbors—not because we think we are a world political giant who can march back and forth between both camps. We don’t pursue that illusion. We intend—through our trustworthiness as allies—to show our desire for a policy of peace.103 Or, as he told the Bundestag, “West European cooperation and union— which, as everyone knows, we are actively encouraging—do not prevent us from developing better relations with the East; they are indeed the basis for such . . . necessary efforts.”104 The objective, ultimately, was not West or East, but Europe: “There can only be a European answer to the German question.”105 Similarly, Brandt thought that “a secure alliance with the United States is necessary for the achievement of European security and its guarantee.”106 In A Peace Policy For Europe, he points out that “the partnership between America and Europe is not a grocers’ union but is based on ideas of freedom that have been fought for and realized in different ways and with varying success in both continents. Western Europe has become stronger and more self-aware under the shield of America.”107 These relationships were secure, he believed, and based on a sense of community built on shared ideas. What remained was to extend the same institutional strategy to the East. Like Adenauer, Brandt looked especially to the future. He therefore told the Bundestag that, “in the time to come, it will be the task of the European Community, not to neglect the Atlantic Alliance and partnership with the United States, but at the same time to show itself to be a dependable partner to its East European neighbour states, wherever this may be possible.”108 In A Peace Policy For Europe, he elaborated on this position: A reduction of the tensions between East and West is useful and desirable, yet our policy aims at something further. It regards as its task the elimination of the causes of tension during a phase of the détente, and the creation of a situation that, as far as human foresight can reach, will offer no grounds for new and dangerous tensions. The period of détente, which we hope will be enduring, is to be used to give European security a solid foundation.109

86

Cultures of Order

And so he embarked on the pursuit of such a solid foundation by seeking to build trust in the FRG’s relationships with East European states and, ultimately, with the GDR. He traveled to Warsaw in 1970 and knelt before the memorial to the Jewish ghetto of the city where, as one reporter put it, he acted “on behalf of all who . . . need to kneel but do not.”110 He signed the Warsaw Treaty establishing the OderNeisse line as Poland’s western frontier and, speaking in Warsaw, again invoked Kant. Evasion of reality breeds dangerous illusions. Approval of this treaty, of reconciliation and peace, means the acceptance of German history as a whole. A lucid view of history precludes any claims that cannot be fulfilled. It also precludes those “secret reservations” against which Immanuel Kant, the East Prussian, warned in his treatise Perpetual Peace. We must focus our gaze on the future and acknowledge morality to be a political force. By doing so, we shall be pursuing a policy based on reason, not renunciation.111 He also signed (some months earlier) a Russo-German treaty whereby Germany and the USSR renounced the use of force against each other, “accepted the ‘map of Europe’ as it stood and undertook to respect the territorial integrity of all European states.”112 While in Moscow to sign the treaty, he told a TV audience, “Russia is inextricably involved in the history of Europe, not only as an enemy and menace, but also as a partner—historically, politically, culturally and economically. Only if we in Western Europe focus our attention upon this partnership, and only if the peoples of Eastern Europe see this as well, can we arrive at a settlement of interests.”113 In 1973, he signed the Treaty of Prague that resolved differences of interpretation over the Munich Agreement of September 1939 and normalized relations with Czechoslovakia. Shortly thereafter, he also sent ambassadors to Hungary and Bulgaria. What Kiesinger had feared to do lest it confirm the status quo in the East, Brandt thus did precisely to prepare the way for change: The primary goal of our policy on Eastern Europe is to arouse confidence and eliminate distrust. As we once had to do in the West, we must now, under more difficult preconditions, pay off the mortgages of the past in the East. Our Eastern policy, starting from the given circumstances today, is intended to help overcome the division of Europe. Consequently, we are particularly concerned with demonstrating the peaceable na-

The Ostpolitik Debate

87

ture of our means and ends. Statements renouncing the use of force can contribute to this.114 As he later summed up his policies in People and Politics, “what really mattered was to create a climate in which the status quo could be changed—in other words improved—by peaceful means.”115 Of paramount importance for Brandt, as for his predecessors, was of course finding a way to take steps toward unification. To this end, and also as another step toward better East-West relations, Brandt broke with the policies of Adenauer, Erhard, and Kiesinger, seeking instead to acknowledge the GDR directly. The problem of Germany’s division, he believed, “can only be resolved in a Europe in which East and West have found their way to peaceful cooperation. Until then— so we believe—the two parts of Germany should try to live in a state of settled neighbourliness.”116 Brandt thus began to think “in terms of ‘small steps’ that would bring the two Germanies closer together.”117 “Proceeding by small steps,” he explained in his memoirs, meant and still means gaining ground for human rights. Human rights are less than democracy. But the alleviation of both human hardship and dangerous tensions helps to create a climate in which democracy can grow. At least it can be said that where human rights are not taken seriously, there can be no genuine democracy.118 In this statement, Brandt does emphasize human rights, much as Schumacher might have done. But for Brandt, obtaining recognition from the East of certain rights was not the basic objective, and certainly not the precondition, of his step-by-step negotiations. Rather, it was a topic to be negotiated in the hope of fostering democracy, building trust, and deepening the East-West relationship. Brandt’s resulting policy of Wandel durch Annäherung (change through rapprochement) thus envisioned that the German question would be solved gradually as part of a larger East-West détente.119 In Brandt’s mind it was particularly important to raise the living standards in the East and to “overcome immobility and ideological trench warfare.”120 Western and Eastern Europe are outgrowing their rigid alignments. This process must not pass Germany by. We must not remain excluded, nor must we exclude ourselves. Germany, too, must strive to relax its state of internal cramp. That is what

88

Cultures of Order

matters. For the sake of human beings, not of argument, we ask: Can something be done—and if so what—to make people’s lives easier despite everything and keep the unity of our divided nation alive? Every step on this road to relaxation and détente is a German contribution to the better securing of peace. That is what I call a peace policy—in, of and for Germany.121 In 1970, Brandt took a much bolder step: meeting with the East German Prime Minister Willi Stoph to negotiate improvements in relations between the two German states, including “the reunion of members of the same family; cooperation over posts, telephones, information, culture, education and the environment; an expansion of trade; and the exchange of chargés d’affaires.”122 These efforts culminated in the negotiation of the Basic Treaty in 1972 that established relations of equality and respect for territorial integrity between the two Germanys. Brandt’s work to improve East-West relations in Europe was acknowledged when he received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1971. In his acceptance speech, he summed up his efforts this way: No one should overlook the fact that West European unification, in which we are playing an active part, remains our priority aim. The Atlantic alliance is indispensable to us. Yet, not only the development of the world situation in general, but also the special reality of the treaties with the West require them to be supplemented by normal and, where possible, friendly relations with the Soviet Union and its partners in the Warsaw Pact.123 Whereas Adenauer, Schumacher, and their immediate successors conceived of Germany’s postwar foreign policy largely as a choice between either the West or the East, Brandt’s contribution was to reorient it toward building a deeper relationship with the West and the East. The path to accomplishing these aims was, of course, far from easy or straightforward. Many in the FRG and elsewhere in the Atlantic alliance feared that Brandt had given up far too much to a totalitarian East German state in exchange for only vague promises and few concrete results. By the time the Olympic games were held in Munich, with their own tragic consequences, Brandt had already effectively lost the power to govern through defections in the Bundestag. The public, however, supported Brandt, and when an election was finally called on November 19, 1972, Brandt and the SPD won a resounding

The Ostpolitik Debate

89

victory. For the first time, the SPD emerged as the strongest single party in Germany. With the Free Democratic Party (FDP), whose share of seats also rose, it was able to govern with a comfortable margin and a new measure of public approval for Brandt’s policies. CONCLUSION Brandt’s tenure as chancellor lasted only until May 7, 1974, however, when he resigned after revelations that Günther Guillaume, a chancellery liaison with the SPD, had actually been spying for the GDR. By this time, the United States had also embraced a policy of détente for several years. Whether Brandt was ultimately right that peace and eventually unification could be forged directly through such trustbuilding measures, or whether Kiesinger was instead correct in believing that the road to a unified Germany ran through Moscow rather than East Berlin, will be examined in the next chapter. What the debate over Ostpolitik does clearly show is that German leaders continued to struggle with difficult choices about their country’s role in a broader European order. As Kiesinger and Brandt struggled to make these choices, they re-created much the same confrontation played out earlier between Adenauer and Schumacher over Westpolitik. In this “second round,” Kiesinger took on the part of Schumacher. Just as the latter had urged direct negotiations with the Soviet Union to pave the way for a formal recognition of the rights and status of a “whole Germany,” so Kiesinger also sought recognition in Moscow and refused to meet directly with the GDR, precisely on the grounds that it would invalidate the status he sought for Germany. Nor is Kiesinger’s failure to achieve progress an indication of the CDU’s established mistrust of the East. After all, Kiesinger supported Ostpolitik. Yet his legalistic outlook and emphasis on national rights caused him to adopt an approach that was, at best, before its time. Brandt, on the other hand, recognized the necessity of first building a better relationship between Germany and its eastern neighbors. He thus resembled Adenauer, arguing persistently that progress toward both peace in Europe and the unity of Germany required a basis of institutionalized trust. In making the case for a new relationship with the East, moreover, Brandt faced far more opposition than Adenauer had in making the equivalent argument for alliance and identification with the West. The CDU was a more powerful force when Brandt took over from Kiesinger than the SPD had ever been under Schumacher. Moreover, the institutional challenge of reaching across the Iron Curtain was undeniably more difficult than the challenge Adenauer faced in

90

Cultures of Order

reaching out to France. Partly, this was because American pressure strongly favored German integration with Western Europe, whereas the U.S. position on rapprochement between East and West Germany, though at times mildly supportive, was far more restrained. Brandt surmounted many of these challenges because of his own firm conviction, honed by his experiences abroad during the war, that peace in Europe must rest on a foundation of international community. His policies, like Adenauer’s, were therefore designed as forwardlooking steps. He was willing to trade cherished points of German sovereign right—even the status of the nation’s border—to achieve agreements that, he felt, promoted a wider European community. Whether these agreements also promoted the cherished objective of German unification remains open to debate.

Chapter 5

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

Despite the best efforts of the postwar generation of German politicians, Germany seemed further from unification in 1980 than in 1950. After Willy Brandt left office in 1974, the new German chancellor Helmut Schmidt continued to work to promote dialogue between the East and West. The Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT I) and the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) gave some reason for optimism. But a year after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, Ronald Reagan was elected in the United States, and détente gave way to vitriol. The superpowers traded Olympic boycotts, scuttled their plans for arms control, and drew their allies more tightly into their respective orbits. When the workers’ union Solidarity gained strength in Poland, the government responded unequivocally by declaring martial law in December 1981. In Germany, meanwhile, the Left took to the streets in opposition to NATO plans to deploy intermediate range nuclear missiles in Germany in response to Soviet deployment of the SS-20 in Eastern Europe. Schmidt had personally emphasized the danger posed by the SS20s and urged a NATO response. As opposition mounted to a new European arms race, he began to lose the support of his own party. In September 1982, the FDP left the ruling coalition in a dispute over economic policy and, several days later, called a constructive vote of no confidence, which Schmidt lost. On October 1, 1982, Helmut Kohl was installed as the new chancellor, representing a coalition of the CDU, the CSU, and the FDP. Kohl then presided over deployment of the Pershing II and NATO cruise missiles in Germany and prepared for a newly hostile Cold War, while the United States began planning for a space-based defensive missile shield and “peace through strength.” As abruptly as the Cold War lurched toward new confrontation, however, it took a new turn in 1985 when Mikhail Gorbachev assumed power in the USSR and gradually began to implement policies allowing for more open debate (glasnost) and economic restructuring (perestroika). The Soviet Union withdrew its troops from Afghanistan 91

92

Cultures of Order

and, in December 1987, the superpowers signed the INF Treaty, eliminating all intermediate-range nuclear forces. Chancellor Kohl seized on this opportunity to advance the FRG’s Ostpolitik. That year, he invited Erich Honecker, East German Head of State, to Bonn and negotiated youth exchanges as well as the transfer of East German political prisoners to the West. In October 1988, Kohl visited Moscow with a large delegation and a large line of credit to sign accords with his Soviet counterpart that further improved bilateral relations. The following year, Gorbachev renounced the Brezhnev Doctrine and declared that each country in Eastern Europe could freely choose its path. Revolutions swept Poland, then Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Romania. Mass demonstrations in East Germany led to the opening of the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989. This set the stage, at last, for the Two-Plus-Four talks on German unification, bringing together the foreign ministers of the four victorious powers in World War II and the two German states. After Kohl and Gorbachev reached agreement in principle on German unification within NATO in July 1990, the Four Power rights were terminated by treaty in September, and on October 3, 1990, Germany’s political union was achieved. In 1991, the Warsaw Pact was dissolved, and the Cold War came to an end. The ideas and ideologies of Reagan, Gorbachev, and Kohl are clearly an important part of the explanation for these momentous changes. So was the leadership they provided. Reagan’s anticommunist convictions, Gorbachev’s sweeping reforms, and Kohl’s assertive strategy for unification were all crucial interventions in the course, and eventual demise, of the Cold War. Yet any monocausal explanation is doomed to inadequacy. The dramatic transformation of the international system was a permissive condition for German unification, for example, but it did not make unity inevitable.1 Still less did it dictate the timing, pace, or form of unification. Structures of domestic politics are also inadequate to explain the choices made by German leaders. In fact, there was broad agreement across the German political spectrum on the goal of unification. And although there were differences of opinion domestically about how to accomplish this goal, these differences did not correspond well to party lines. As East and West Germany moved toward currency union in early 1990, for example, the Christian Democratic Union (CDU) was itself split between those who feared the effects of union on the West German mark (and, especially, the effects of a proposed 1:1 exchange rate) and those, led by Chancellor Kohl and also including Catholic workers, who desired a rapid currency union at a relatively equal exchange rate.2 The Social Democrats (SPD) were also divided. Intent as they were on devising plans for unification that pre-

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

93

served the rights of workers in both East and West, many SPD members nevertheless felt that the party leader, Oskar Lafontaine, lacked a sense of the historical importance of the moment. When a debate emerged in Germany on how best to move forward, therefore, the argument once again refused to cleave neatly to either domestic or international political divisions between left and right. It corresponds very closely, however, to the now-familiar debate between proponents of commissive-institutional and assertive-rights strategies of political order. One last time, German institutionalists squared off against individualists over the clearest path to German unification in a unified Europe. KOHL AND INSTITUTIONAL ACHIEVEMENT Helmut Josef Michael Kohl was born in 1930 in Ludwigshafen, an important chemical manufacturing center in the southwest German Rhineland that was heavily damaged in the Second World War. Like many of the men discussed in previous chapters who rose to the chancellorship before him, Kohl had a strong connection to his regional heritage. Since Berlin had governed the Rhineland almost as a colony for nearly one hundred and fifty years, he was determined to assure that there would be no return to the era of the Prussia-dominated national state.3 He came to believe that it was essential to integrate Western Europe and Germany, and thereby overcome the division of Europe. Thus, he often stressed that “the German house needs to be built under a European roof,” and he advocated the “Europeanization of Germany” rather than a “Germanized Europe.”4 Having experienced the French occupation, moreover, Kohl “endeavored more than any other German chancellor since Konrad Adenauer to reconcile the two countries.”5 Kohl regarded himself, in fact, as an “heir to Adenauer,” and his political beliefs were deeply imbued with Christian-Democratic thought.6 His parents, Hans and Cäcilie, took their Catholic faith seriously, preached religious tolerance, and instilled in their children a strong respect for the social teachings of the Catholic Church.7 Hans Kohl was, in fact, a founding member of the CDU in Ludwigshafen. Helmut Kohl’s parents transferred to their son a sense of belonging to the countries of Western Europe with their shared values of freedom, democracy, and respect for human rights.8 Promoting freedom instead of socialism and adhering to these common European values, Kohl thought, would serve as a basis for opposition to nationalism.9 Kohl’s parents were patriotic, but not inclined to join the National Socialist Party, and Kohl himself was only a teenager when the

94

Cultures of Order

war came to an end. He had joined the Hitler Youth at age fourteen and, before the end of the war, was sent to a camp in Berchtesgarden to be trained as an anti-aircraft gunner. Given his youth when Germany surrendered (five weeks later), however, he came to think of himself as “not historically tainted.”10 Kohl thus considered himself a member of the postwar generation, freed of the burden of guilt by the “grace of late birth.”11 In this sense, Kohl more closely resembles Adenauer’s longtime political opponent, Kurt Schumacher, than Adenauer himself. And yet this sense of innocence expressed itself in very different ways. Schumacher had fought the Nazis and spent ten years in concentration camps. He was convinced by his own actions, and those of others who opposed Hitler, that German rights could not be denied. Kohl’s sense of innocence, on the other hand, was given direction by the international context of the immediate postwar environment. Relieved of a difficult emotional burden, he was not inclined to react to occupation by retreating into nationalist fantasies, but instead to accept the internationalist project. After the war, Kohl worked on a farm for a short time and then returned to school, already planning on a career in politics. He joined the CDU at age sixteen.12 After graduating from high school in 1950, he studied law, psychology, and economics at the University of Frankfurt and, in 1951, transferred to the University of Heidelberg, where he enrolled in courses on history, public law, and political science. There, he wrote a history dissertation on the political development of the Palatinate region and the resurrection of political parties after 1945. As a student, he also worked at a chemical plant outside of Ludwigshafen and, later, at the Mock iron works to pay his bills. Most of his attention, however, was focused on politics. After completing school and embarking on his political career, Kohl held a number of local and regional offices, including representative of the CDU Landtag parliamentary party in 1959. By 1969, he had risen to the post of Minister President in Rhineland Palatinate. He was elected to the Bundestag in 1976 and, in 1982, became chancellor. Over the course of his political development, Kohl was especially influenced by Johannes Finck, the first chairman and founder of the Palatinate CDU; Albert Finck, the brother of Johannes and secretary of cultural affairs of Rhineland-Palatinate; Martin Walser, an author, frequent commentator on questions of German identity and war guilt; and Joseph Schaub, a newspaper publisher.13 Kohl urged his “fellow citizens not to wallow in shame over dark chapters of the country’s past but to view theirs as a normal nation, taking a healthy pride in its successes—especially since 1945.”14

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

95

He often stressed the importance of German unification, provided that Germany did not, in the process, lose sight of its international duties and the continued need for trust-building measures such as those introduced by Adenauer.15 In his first speech as leader of the opposition party on October 3, 1976, for instance, he made clear that “we all want to transcend the division of Europe and, within it, the division of our fatherland.”16 He went on to argue, however, that Germans could not overcome their division on their own and that, instead, this could be done only within a larger integrative structure.17 Europe meant reconciliation, for Kohl, and he used every opportunity to underscore this.18 Particularly revealing of this concern was his historic meeting in 1984 with François Mitterrand at Verdun, where Mitterrand was wounded in 1940 and where Kohl’s father fought and was decorated during World War I. Kohl’s visit a year later to the Kolmeshohe Cemetery near Bitburg with Ronald Reagan was motivated by the same spirit. There, forty years after World War II, they delivered speeches and a German and an American general shook hands, though the symbolism of the moment was spoiled by the revelation that WaffenSS troops were also buried in the cemetery. Apart from stressing that the FRG should remain anchored to the West, Kohl also frequently spoke of his dream of a united Germany. During a visit by the GDR leader Erich Honecker in September 1987, Kohl reminded everyone that the preamble of the Basic Law still expressed German wishes accurately: the goal was a united Europe and a unified free Germany within it.19 Since the desire for unification resonated so strongly with Kohl, his inclination to seize the opportunity presented by the end of the Cold War to bring the two German states back together comes as no surprise. To signal the FRG’s benevolent intentions and desire to transcend the division of Europe, he visited Poland in November 1989. At this point, however, he still believed that unification would take as much as another decade. Immediately following the fall of the Berlin Wall, in fact, he was careful to avoid mentioning unification for just this reason. Yet he soon concluded that a more active role would bear fruit and, on November 28, 1989, he introduced a Ten Point Plan designed to bring the two German states back together. His role in negotiations to achieve this outcome, and the institutional-commissive strategy he adopted therein, are described later in this chapter. The result, of course, was Kohl’s crowning political achievement. Throughout his career, and particularly in his moment of political triumph as Germany was unified, Kohl stressed the importance of building institutional linkages and trust first and working out the legal

96

Cultures of Order

arrangements later. His focus was on building a new German community within an ever-deepening European community. His actions toward European allies, the United States, and even toward the East were designed to encourage trust through the implicit German promise of future restraint. Given the choice, therefore, he did not insist on working out arrangements to preserve German rights first before going ahead. Rather, he emphasized the importance of moving ahead while the time was right. Kohl’s childhood experiences had convinced him that it was necessary to combat nationalism and to guarantee Germany’s position within Europe. His subsequent political career, leading up to the pivotal years of 1989–1990, was also dominated by efforts to reassure other states at every turn. When he negotiated new policies with EU partners, it was not from a position of Germany’s right to do so, but was instead couched always in terms of the further development of new European institutions. And when he began to pursue German unity in earnest, he began with the same premise: that unity was fundamentally an institutional problem. The solution, therefore, was to emphasize the value of existing institutions (e.g., the FRG’s Basic Law), on one hand, and to craft new institutions (e.g., designs for currency union and, the “2 plus 4” talks, etc.) when they were necessary. For Kohl, the requirements of institutional development led political action and served as a foundation for political order. LAFONTAINE AND EUROPEAN RIGHTS Oskar Lafontaine was born in 1943 in Pachten, in the Saarland, to Hans and Katharina Lafontaine. Like Kohl, therefore, he thus grew up close to the German-French border and developed a strong affinity for this region, where he lived most of his life. Some observers have concluded, simply, “Lafontaine is the Saarland.”20 He experienced French occupation troops in his hometown following World War II, began to learn French in second grade, and appeared to feel closer “to the French Metz than the far away German Leipzig.”21 Living in this environment on the western border of Germany, it is unsurprising that Lafontaine knew “France, Italy, and Britain better than Thuringia or Saxony.”22 The Saarland is predominately Catholic, and Lafontaine was brought up by devout Catholic parents in a conservative household. When his father was declared “missing in action” several years after the conclusion of the war, his mother enrolled her son in a religious boarding school to assure that he would get a good education. He was not interested in becoming a priest, however, and objected to the many and stringent rules imposed upon him. Towards the end of his high school

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

97

years, he was ultimately expelled from this school and forced to enroll in another to obtain his diploma.23 After graduation he studied physics, first in Bonn and then later at the University of Saarbrücken, and it was not until his university days that he understood the magnitude of the Nazi atrocities. Since the SPD had fought the Nazis, he decided that it would be the right party for him and, in 1966, became a member of the Social Democratic Party. Encouraged by the SPD/FDP election victory in 1969, he began to hope and work for a new Germany, “one that would be more open, more internationalist and European.”24 He soon became politically active and held a variety of local and regional offices including Mayor of Saarbrücken and, beginning in 1985, Minister President of the Saarland. In 1990, he was named the SPD candidate for chancellor, and in 1995 he was made SPD chairman. During his political career, Lafontaine was influenced by the ideas of the ancient Greeks and Renaissance scholars as well as early French and classic socialists.25 The most important contemporary political figure in his life was, no doubt, Willy Brandt.26 Other influential figures and close advisors, primarily leftist political contacts from the Saarland, included Reinhard Klimmt, Bernd Niles, Hans-Georg Treib, Lothar Kramm, and Gerd Keil.27 Like Brandt and many other Social Democrats, Lafontaine believed in the solidarity of all peoples. He considered it imperative for Social Democrats to fight for “greater freedom, justice, solidarity, self-determination and self-realization,” and, viewing himself as an “internationalist,” he was determined to support such universal values as “freedom, equality, and brotherhood,” which he was convinced “cannot be envisioned within the borders of a national state.”28 As described to this point, and with the obvious exception of his party of choice, Lafontaine’s views do not seem to diverge so greatly from Kohl’s. Both were internationalists, influenced by their close association with France. Both associated a commitment to justice and personal liberty with the West (and, perhaps, with the Catholic Church). Whereas SPD leaders of earlier generations (e.g., Schumacher and Brandt) never lost hope for German unification, however, this seemed to have changed for many Social Democrats in the 1980s. The German newspaper Rheinischer Merkur wrote on September 4, 1987, for instance, “the SPD long has written off the responsibility to strive for and bring about German unity as codified in the Basic Law.”29 Similarly, Gerhard Schroeder, at the time a Social Democrat in the regional parliament of Lower Saxony (Mitglied des Landtages Niedersachsen), explained in the June 1989 edition of Deutschland Journal: “Forty years after the founding of the FRG one should not lie to a new generation of Germans about the chances for unification. They do not exist.”30

98

Cultures of Order

In fact, the FRG was deeply divided over many aspects of the question of unity, and this division became even more pronounced after the fall of the Berlin Wall. When Kohl voiced an interest in German unification in late 1989, the Social Democrats no longer seemed interested (with the notable exception of Willy Brandt, who had earlier blamed Adenauer for ignoring the pursuit of German unity).31 While Chancellor Kohl was ready to seize this historic opportunity to unify the two German states prior to the 1990 federal elections, the vast majority of the SPD, Alliance 90/Greens, and the PDS (the successor organization to the Socialist Unity Party, the SED) opposed Kohl’s unification plans which stipulated that East Germany would simply accede to the FRG.32 Lafontaine in particular was a vocal critic. He demanded that the Basic Law be replaced with a new constitution and, prior to this, that Germans undertake a thoughtful and extended discussion of which GDR institutions should be preserved. He was particularly concerned to give East Germans a voice in the process, and he felt that the East might serve as a counterweight to prevent a return to nationalist policies. As SPD candidate for chancellor in 1990, Lafontaine no doubt misread German public opinion with respect to unification when he demanded a slower speed.33 Yet in arguing that Kohl’s policies vis-àvis East Germany were “rushed and wrong,” and in preferring a “goslow” approach instead, Lafontaine was driven by an orientation toward politics that had slowly developed during his years in the SPD.34 This was not a calculation of political expediency (for which Lafontaine had a certain reputation).35 Social justice, he had come to feel, depended on the ability of citizens to make choices that protected their own rights. In the same way, a broader European order depended on consultation among European states so that agreements supporting the development of European institutions could obtain support. It was in this fashion that he joined together his internationalism with a specific concern for the rights of individual citizens. For Lafontaine, the development of any new institutional arrangements depended on the consent of agents. A consistent theme of his tenure as SPD leader, therefore, was respect for political rights: of FRG workers (to the welfare state built by the postwar generation), of GDR citizens (to a voice in negotiations over unification), and to other European states (to ensure respect for European principles). His position on unification thus mirrored Schumacher’s of a generation earlier, stressing the importance of working out a proper legal basis for institutionalizing a new Germany. Out of backgrounds with certain similarities, then, Kohl and Lafontaine developed fundamentally different understandings of the

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

99

requirements for German and European order. This is not to say that their backgrounds did not matter. On the contrary, both men identified strongly with the regions of southwest Germany in which they were born. And both developed a strong commitment to placing Germany always in a European context. They differed, however, on the way this context should be worked out. For Kohl, the most important thing was to seize the opportunity posed by the tumultuous changes of the end of the Cold War to move ahead quickly with the next steps in both European and German unity. This is certainly not to say that Kohl ignored respect for rights. On the contrary, he maintained that the FRG would accept any decision made by GDR citizens about unification so long as it was based on selfdetermination.36 Even in this conviction, however, Kohl premised respect for East German rights on the proper institutional context (of democracy). For his part, Lafontaine was also well aware of—and in fact greatly preoccupied by—the need to craft institutions appropriate both to Germany’s domestic and to its international situation. As the next section will show, however, he believed that respect for the rights of Germans and other Europeans must come first, serving as the basis for whatever new institutions were developed. It was not simply the case, therefore, that Kohl and Lafontaine disagreed on the question of unification as a result of party politics. The opportunity arose so swiftly that none of the major parties had worked out clear positions. There was strong disagreement over how to proceed within the ranks of both the SPD and the CDU. Nor was this a case in which international pressures pushed Germany decisively in any particular direction. German politicians—Kohl, in particular—led this process rather than followed.37 The debate was over the direction in which they would lead, and the difference in Kohl and Lafontaine’s positions arises from differences in their beliefs about the requirements of European and German order. It was, in other words, an ideational phenomenon that depended on how each of these two politicians believed political orders were best constructed. If they were constrained by anything, it was by their own positions in the familiar German debate over whether a commitment to the institutions of international partnership or a respect for sovereign rights best served the interests of the German people and of international peace. THE DEUTSCHLANDPOLITIK DEBATE The sudden prospect of unification placed the debate between Kohl and Lafontaine in sharp relief. As in earlier debates, Germany’s leaders rarely expressed their understanding of the requirements for European order

100

Cultures of Order

in terms of what other states should do. They were loath, that is, to predicate order on directive statements. And yet, what other states chose to do was vitally important. Obtaining consent from the Soviet Union for any move toward unification was, of course, the overriding concern. But the position of France and of other European states, in the East and the West, was also crucially important, as was American cooperation. To elicit consent, Kohl began to press—as Adenauer and Brandt had before him—for a series of small steps and accomplishments “on the ground.” This would create momentum and begin to make unification seem like a real possibility. These steps would also prepare Germany’s partners to trust its motives and intentions. Lafontaine, on the other hand, stressed rights over trust. Germans, in the East and the West, as well as other Europeans had the right to participate in a democratic process that would affect the European status quo in such a monumental way. “Hasty” steps toward unification should thus be postponed, he felt, until the architecture for consent was in place. As the winds of change picked up in 1989, however, “debate” seems a poor characterization of the mood in Germany. Politicians across the political spectrum endorsed Kohl’s “Ten Point Plan” for progress toward unification in late 1989, after the Berlin Wall came down. Although political union itself still appeared to be well in the future, a spirit of optimism was clearly in the air. As Kohl mused during a long conversation with Gorbachev that summer in the park of the chancellery: Look at the Rhine that flows by us. It symbolizes history; the latter is not static. You can dam this river, it is technically possible. But then it will overflow its banks and will find another way to reach the sea. And this is how it is with German unity. You can try to prevent it from coming about, and then both of us may not live long enough to see it. But, just as certain as the Rhine will flow to the sea, just as certain German unity will come—and also European unity.38 The SPD seemed to feel much the same way. Its foreign policy spokesman, Karsten Voigt, assured Kohl that “we agree with you on all ten points.”39 Optimism ran high in the East as well, but the first concern (especially in the East) was economic policy rather than political union. The GDR’s economy was collapsing under the weight of a mass exodus of skilled workers to the West on top of its structural inefficiencies. As plans emerged for concrete steps to coordinate economic

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

101

policies and to stabilize the East, so did opposition. This was not opposition to the goal of unification, of course, but rather to the path. The most prominent leader of this opposition was Oskar Lafontaine. As a debate thus emerged, it had two principal themes. The first was the relationship between unification and domestic order in Germany; the second concerned the broader European order. Unification and Domestic Order Amidst the apparent unity of German purpose, Lafontaine saw conflicting agendas. He explained to the readers of Der Spiegel that, “with respect to German politics, two intellectual traditions are juxtaposed. On the one hand, there are those who think in terms of alliances, borders, maps, and forms of governmental organization. On the other, there are those who think about employment, housing, social situations, and property taxes.”40 Lafontaine placed himself, of course, in the latter camp. Yet since his opponents were also motivated in good measure by economic concerns, his distinction falls flat. It is also disingenuous given Lafontaine’s own concern for the organizational costs of precipitous unification and his own preoccupation with European integration. Behind this false distinction between high and low politics, however, ran a deeper concern with how the new order (whether high or low) would be negotiated. As Lafontaine turned his attention to the mundane but vital issues of employment, housing, and taxes, he proposed that any institutional change must proceed at a pace that respected the rights of affected parties to have a say in the proposed changes. As a plan for currency union (a one-to-one exchange rate) emerged in early 1990, Lafontaine led the opposition. “The Mark is not everything,” he proclaimed. “During the process of unification the dignity and self-respect of GDR citizens need to be maintained.”41 In the midst of his campaign against Kohl’s monetary plan, however, Lafontaine was attacked by a knife-wielding assailant. As he recuperated in the hospital, the resolution to proceed toward currency union was passed with the support of most other SPD leaders (and despite his own threat to withdraw his bid for the chancellorship). Afterwards, Lafontaine prepared to make good on his threat and wrote out a statement to other members of his party in which he explained his opposition: I knew that this would be unpopular. But my personal credibility as a politician was on the line, and credibility lies at the

102

Cultures of Order

heart of any long-term political success. I imagined the questions that people in Germany, East and West, would ask, and the problems—financial, economic, social—that the succeeding years would bring.42 Instead of delivering this statement, however, Lafontaine backed down and grudgingly tolerated (if not supported) the movement toward currency union that in any case had become unstoppable. Hans-Peter Schwarz and Ulrich Rippert understand Lafontaine’s position as a manifestation of his long-standing concern with social inequality and, specifically, with the impact that rapid union would have on employment in the East and entitlement programs in the West. As they put it, “the demand for social justice is the leitmotiv running throughout Lafontaine’s statements.”43 Perhaps so, but Lafontaine’s own reflections suggest another important theme. In his memoirs, he mused: To us Social Democrats all structural reforms that promote the freedom of the individual, removing the dependence of one person on another and opening up fresh possibilities of selffulfillment, are modern. If the SPD were to adopt an interpretation of “modern” that signified conformity, and thus spell the end of political independence and influence, it would be signing its own death warrant.44 This emphasis on freedom and choice strikes a discordant note for socialist commentators like Schwarz and Rippert, but it is consistent with Lafontaine’s long-standing emphasis on rights and, indeed, with his basic objective of a more carefully managed transition toward unification. In short, Lafontaine sought a negotiated order that would preserve the established rights of East and West Germans alike to a measure of social security. The new order would be a just order if it respected these rights. It would be both unjust and unstable if it did not. Lafontaine therefore resolutely emphasized individual needs, individual desires, and individual choices. The problem of unification was for him a problem of meeting these needs and allowing for these choices. “The people in East and West Germany,” he believed, “care above all whether they have medical care, whether they are warm in winter, whether they have enough to eat, whether they have work and a home. This interests them much more than whatever legal arrangements they may live under.”45 For Lafontaine, in its headlong rush toward rapid implementation, Kohl’s unification plan violated the right of Germans to have a say in how these needs were met.

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

103

Kohl, meanwhile, feared that the window of opportunity would not remain open forever. His desire to move quickly when the opportunity presented itself, therefore, was pragmatic. The way his pragmatic approach to order was presented to the German public, however, was distinctive and not dictated by the perceived necessity for speed. It also differed sharply from Lafontaine’s approach. Whereas Lafontaine emphasized the need to respect the rights of various groups (workers, women, East Germans in general), Kohl emphasized the institutional context that would ensure respect for these rights. Certainly, Kohl was not indifferent to the question of German rights. He often spoke himself of the German right of self-determination as an impetus for unification. When making this point, however, Kohl typically went a step further, placing this right in an institutional context. In a speech before the Bundestag on September 5, 1989, for example, Kohl begins by agreeing with the theme Lafontaine usually sounded. East Germans, he argued, “have a right to work toward a standard of living that compares with ours. This is part of our notion of freedom.”46 It is telling, however, that Kohl then links this right to a specific institutional framework: “Every German from the GDR has the rights and duties that are derived from the Basic Law and our legal codes.”47 Again, a month and a half later, Kohl stressed that it was the Basic Law itself that required Germans to “bring about German unity and freedom in self-determination.” To this, he added another commissive element by arguing that “we . . . will only reach our goal if we maintain and expand the relations the Federal Republic of Germany developed over the course of forty years with the community of free peoples, the Western community of shared values.”48 Several weeks after this, Kohl again placed the question of rights in an institutionalcommissive context by stating, at a press conference in Bonn, “We haven’t reached our goal by a long shot. The right of all Germans to selfdetermination has not yet been realized. The mission of the Basic Law, to bring about German unity and freedom is not fulfilled.”49 In these and other statements, Kohl makes it clear that the process of unification is grounded, ultimately, in the framework of German law and, beyond this, in the more diffuse institutions of the “Western community.” The way forward, consequently, was to deepen and strengthen these institutional structures. Kohl put it in almost exactly these terms when, outlining his Ten Point Plan for unification before the Bundestag on November 28, he proposed “to create confederate structures between the two German states.”50 Similarly, in a speech at the Centre des Conférences Internationales in Paris on January 17, 1990, he explained that “we want to bring about confederate structures

104

Cultures of Order

so that, pretty soon, we will be able to reach common decisions with respect to many issue areas.”51 Whereas Lafontaine sought to create opportunities for choice, Kohl sought to implement structures within which the choices could be made. Characteristic of the difference in these strategies, Lafontaine emphasized rights that Germans already possess, whereas Kohl stressed a commitment to future action, better intra-German relationships, and new institutions. At every opportunity, Lafontaine sought time to examine the existing order, the desires and rights of German citizens, whereas Kohl sought to implement new arrangements and to develop new institutional contexts. It is no accident that Kohl, assessing his midcourse achievements in 1990, declared that “the Federal Contract bringing about monetary, economic, and social union is a decisive step on the road to unity. . . . For our compatriots in the GDR, it brings the chance for a rapid, sweeping improvement of their living conditions.”52 It was decisive precisely because it represented progress toward a future order. Unification and European Order Whatever approach to unification Germany chose to adopt, it was impossible to ignore the international context in which debates over unification took place. Beyond the obvious need to secure cooperation and consent at the Two-Plus-Four negotiations, however, were more fundamental concerns. As Kohl summed them up, much earlier: “The unity of our German fatherland can only be envisioned as part of a peace process in a larger European community. Especially we, as Germans, more than others, need friends in this world, and we particularly need them in Europe.”53 On this point, Lafontaine agreed. He was himself at pains to place the issue of unification within the broader context of European integration. Lafontaine found it deeply ironic, in fact, that Germany was preparing to unite as a nation-state at a time when this very institution was losing relevance in Europe.54 The central issue for him, therefore, was not simply (or even primarily) how to achieve unification, but rather how to achieve unification in a manner consistent with European integration. He therefore sought “the protection of individual freedoms and greater social justice in a pluralistic international society that eventually will make national state concepts out of date.”55 And the way to accomplish this, he believed, was for two German states to remain in existence for an indefinite period of time, until they can slowly be linked together by common political institutions.56 At the same time, their obligations under European institutions could be worked out. Both states, he further suggested, should give up some of

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

105

their characteristic features and through adaptation create a new system, one somewhere in the middle between capitalism and socialism.57 This way one might be able to “use East Germany as a lever to change West Germany into a society where solidarity would gain the upper hand over competition.”58 In any case, Lafontaine emphasized that unification should coincide with the creation of a greater Europe encompassing the European Union as well as Eastern Europe.59 As he put it: My goal is the United States of Europe. . . . Everything that is compatible with this goal can be imagined by me. Everything that conflicts with this goal is unimaginable. Even a coming together of the two German states, regardless of its contractual form, including the form of a single state, can be imagined. But this state . . . is not a nation-state of the old type. The process of European unity specifically prescribes that more competences of the nation-states will be transferred to the institutions of the European Community.60 Lafontaine was convinced, in fact, that the post-1945 generations would prefer a Europe without borders to a German national state.61 For this reason, he also believed that Germany, like France, should leave the military structure of NATO and make use of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE, now the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, or OSCE) to discuss security policy. Indeed, once united, he preferred that Germany leave NATO altogether.62 To that end, on April 25, 1990, he demanded the gradual reduction of German armed forces with the justification that existing military alliances would eventually be replaced by a European security arrangement reaching from the Urals to the Atlantic.63 Neither military security, nor economic or social security, he argued, could be organized on a national basis in Europe in the long run.64 Having grown up in a German-French border region with a deep awareness of his country’s “burdened past,” it is not particularly surprising that Lafontaine felt more comfortable with the “internationalism of social democracy” than with a “newly rising nationalism.”65 Moreover, Germany’s own federalist tradition served as a logical precedent for efforts to bring about German unity via a confederation of the two German states, which then could have served as a building block for a future European confederation.66 Lafontaine’s position on this issue may have been overdetermined. Yet it is noteworthy that, as when he discussed unification in purely economic and domestic terms, Lafontaine typically chose to

106

Cultures of Order

cast the international or European dimension of unification in terms of rights. In the Der Spiegel interview cited earlier, for example, he emphasizes the competences of nation-states and the process of unity— language that casts political integration in terms of choice rather than in terms of institutional structure. When he criticized Kohl for not keeping the allies properly apprised of rapid economic and political developments within Germany on the path to unification, moreover, it was not because he felt specific European institutions demanded it, but rather because he felt they had a right to know (and Germany had a duty to inform them). The border with Poland was a telling case in point. When Lafontaine criticized Kohl for failing to discuss the OderNeisse line or to consult with other leaders about it, this was not because any institution demanded consultation but rather because history gave Poland certain rights. Beyond this, he felt, prudence also dictated consultation with the leadership of the two blocs.67 Once again, in order to give the affected parties the time and opportunity to make a choice, Lafontaine preferred that events proceed at a more leisurely pace. To emphasize this point, SPD politicians were at pains to make statements in support of Germany’s existing border with Poland. Gerhard Schroeder, for one, used this issue to good effect in his May 1990 electoral campaign in Lower Saxony.68 For Kohl, on the other hand, it was important to proceed rapidly to institutionalize German unity precisely because these institutions would regulate and inform the process of choice. Germany could not make these choices alone. Thus, Kohl argued, “we know that out of our own strength, we Germans cannot overcome our division, but we can make the situation more bearable and less dangerous. We can transcend the division of Germany only in the context of a lasting European peace order.”69 In another speech, to the CDU Congress commemorating “Forty Years of the Federal Republic of Germany,” Kohl made his institutional orientation even plainer. The European Community more and more becomes a crystallization point for the Europe of freedom—and especially during these months, we experience how the evolving process of European unity leaves an impression with the states of the Warsaw Pact. There the realization grows that old, crusty structures need to be broken to open paths toward a better future.70 For Kohl, unlike Lafontaine, a Europe of freedom and unity must begin with breaking open “old, crusty structures” and with building new or different ones.

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

107

In fact, Kohl specifically rejects the idea that these new arrangements are fundamentally a product of choices made by state-agents acting in terms of their own interests. Instead, as he explained on the occasion of President Bush’s visit to Mainz in May 1989: The strong ties between our countries do not rest on common interests—as important as they are—but, more importantly, on common ideals and convictions. We are witnesses of a new departure in Europe. For the first time since the end of World War II, we have a realistic chance to transcend the shadow of the East-West conflict. . . . It is important that the main impetus come from our alliance.71 It is within the framework of the Western alliance, Kohl emphasizes, that East-West conflict can be transcended. And it is within this alliance, as well as within the institutional framework of Europe, that unification would proceed. Kohl was thus exceptionally careful not to alienate the FRG’s allies, but instead to promote their trust, knowing well that many of Germany’s neighbors feared a united Germany. On this score, Lafontaine’s concerns about Kohl were quite misplaced. Kohl stressed at every opportunity that “the future architecture of Germany must be placed within a larger European architecture.”72 “European unity,” he explained, “created the preconditions for German unity.”73 German unification and an integrated Europe were “two sides of the same coin.”74 Thus, much as Adenauer had earlier sought to instill trust in Germany’s neighbors by integrating the FRG into Western economic and security arrangements, Kohl tried to leave no doubt that “German unity and European integration are indivisible.”75 Even when, in discussions with Gorbachev, it might have seemed necessary to stress Germany’s right to self-determination—to employ a language of rights, that is, more characteristic of Lafontaine—Kohl still found a way to put the discussion in an institutional context.76 After a meeting with Gorbachev in February 1990, Kohl proclaimed that “General Secretary Gorbachev and I were also in agreement that the German question can only be solved on the basis of realities: i.e., it needs to be embedded in an all-encompassing European architecture and in the larger process of West-East relations.”77 Even as the Two-Plus-Four negotiations got underway in Bonn on May 5, 1990, Chancellor Kohl pushed ahead with his efforts to deepen institutional linkage between East and West Germany and with other states. On May 18, a treaty establishing a Monetary, Economic, and

108

Cultures of Order

Social Union between the two Germanies was signed, also in Bonn. On July 1, another treaty provided that “resettlers” from the GDR to the FRG would no longer receive special financial assistance, an agreement that specifically traded citizen rights for trust-building measures. Two weeks later, Kohl and Gorbachev announced their joint agreement on German unification. And on September 12, the Two-PlusFour Treaty was signed in Moscow. The Two-Plus-Four Treaty removed the final stumbling blocks to unification by adopting essentially the same strategy that was used in the July 1 agreement on resettlement, trading off agent rights for institutional commitments. The new state of Germany formally accepted the loss of East Prussia, Silesia, and Pomerania. Indeed, it agreed that it had no outstanding territorial claims against any other state. It further renounced the production, procurement, or use of nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. And it agreed that war would never be initiated from its soil. In each of these provisions, Germany abandoned specific rights-claims. At the same time, it agreed to remain within NATO—a provision of institutional commitment that was important to the United States—and it agreed to integrate the East German army into the Bundeswehr, subject to limits on overall troop levels. Similarly, in the other treaties on unification, as in the decision to achieve unification through East German accession to the Grundgesetz, Kohl opted for institutional progress first and working out specific rights later. This was far from what Lafontaine had sought. But, on October 3, Kohl’s strategy carried the day as unification was achieved. CONCLUSION The German debate in 1989 and 1990 over the way to achieve unification was one more manifestation of the fundamental debate in postwar German politics over Germany’s proper relationship with the rest of Europe and, in particular, over the proper foundations of political order. The differences in Kohl and Lafontaine’s strategies of order are placed in even sharper relief by the commonality of their objectives. Although Lafontaine and the SPD were initially less sanguine about the prospects for unification, both men undoubtedly shared a desire to see their country made whole. They had the same goal. Where they differed was where German politicians had differed since Adenauer and Schumacher first confronted each other over this problem, and where the fundamental postwar German policy debates about domestic and international order had been focused ever since. Lafontaine, like Schumacher and Kiesinger before him, adopted the

The Deutschlandpolitik Debate

109

characteristically Lockean premise that political order rests on political rights. Each of these men hesitated to forge ahead with the construction of new political institutions—as their principal antagonists sought to do—in the absence of some assurance that the rights of the German people would be respected.78 Of course, these rights could be forfeited to serve a larger purpose, and none of these proponents of German rights lacked a sense of either the domestic or the European purpose to which German concessions might be put. But before German rights could be conceded, they believed, it was essential that they be enumerated and acknowledged. Without these steps, political order could only arise like a building without a foundation, subject to shifts in any strong political breeze. In contrast, Kohl, Adenauer, and Brandt were all far more comfortable with the notion that institutionalized orders could provide their own justification. To extend the above architectural metaphor, they were content to let political structures take form first and then gradually, over time, drill their foundations down into a bedrock of trust. It is ironic, and perhaps also significant, that each of these commissiveinstitutionalist chancellors was also motivated by a sense of urgency. While they believed that trust and a sense of community would grow over time to serve as the foundation for order, they also believed that it was necessary—at decisive moments in the debates over Westpolitik, Ostpolitik, and Deutschlandpolitik—to act quickly when the opportunity arose to build the institutions necessary to promote this trust. Urgency alone, however, does not explain these debates any more than the other structural explanations we have considered. For Lafontaine, it was just as urgent to secure East and West German (and European) rights as it was for Kohl to move ahead with monetary union and the Two-Plus-Four talks. It is hard to escape the conclusion that their debate was driven, at its heart, by its own logic—the same logic that obtained in Germany throughout the Cold War era. With directive strategies made moot by the war, German politicians continuously faced a choice between commissive and assertive strategies of order-production. Their debates were driven by their ideas about which of these strategies was preferable. And, as the biographical sections of this and the two preceding chapters reveal, these ideas were not arrived at casually. For each of the six German politicians discussed in these pages, the problem of German and European order was a topic to which they had devoted intense thought. Each arrived at a position that did not change during his adult life. If our claim is correct that postwar Germany occupied a distinctive position that should have given rise to a specific pattern of debates

110

Cultures of Order

over political order, then we would certainly expect to find evidence of this pattern in the public statements of Germany’s most prominent political leaders. The largest part of this book is given over to testing such claims through a careful examination of their statements, informed by a constructivist theory of speech and order. There is, however, an equally obvious test case to be found in the postwar behavior of another defeated Axis power. Japan was no more able than Germany to issue directives after 1945. We might, therefore, expect the same debate witnessed by Germans to emerge in Japan, pitting those who sought to recover the elements of Japanese sovereignty sacrificed to the occupation against those who believed that Japan’s first task would be to reintegrate itself into a broader Asian and global context. The former sought to restore Japanese rights as quickly as possible. The latter wanted, instead, to restore the trust of nations that had suffered prolonged misery at the hands of Japanese armies and to take on new roles in the emergent institutions of the postwar era. Such a debate did emerge in Japan, but with a very different outcome than in Germany.

Chapter 6

Japan and the Problem of Order

Postwar Japan occupied a fundamentally different position with respect to the rest of East Asia than did postwar Germany within Europe. Whereas Germany was physically divided among several occupying powers, the United States called the shots in Japan. The Far Eastern Commission, though technically charged with overseeing occupation policy, was subordinated to American desires, and Douglas MacArthur’s in particular, in a way that had no European parallel. Although Japanese politicians could play on American fears of communism, they could not use intra-Allied disagreements as a tool to open up their own political space to the degree that postwar German politicians could. On the other hand, Japan arguably confronted a more permissive international environment than did Germany. China was embroiled in civil war, and then weakened in its aftermath. The Soviet Union was more interested in the disposition of Germany than of Japan. International security concerns were less pressing for the comparatively isolated Japan than for Germany. It is therefore hard to say conclusively whether postwar Japan should, in principle, have had greater freedom of action (because China and the Soviet Union were preoccupied with other matters) or less freedom of action (because the United States was so intimately involved in Japanese affairs). In any case, it is clear that there were also many similarities in the two countries’ positions. Both were subject to extensive purges of the prewar leadership, some of whom were brought before war crimes tribunals. At the Nuremberg trials, twenty-four Nazi officials were indicted for launching an aggressive war, for war crimes, or for crimes against humanity. Twelve of these were sentenced to death. In Tokyo, twenty-eight political leaders were tried for similar crimes, and seven (including Hideki Tøjø) were sentenced to death.1 A sweeping campaign was carried out in Germany to identify and remove Nazis from positions of power, to demilitarize the country, and to break up the economic cartels that were believed to have contributed to Germany’s military might. Similarly, in Japan, officials sympathetic to the 111

112

Cultures of Order

wartime regime were removed from all levels of government, the military was dismantled, and plans were set in motion to destroy the large business conglomerates (zaibatsu) that had dominated Japan’s war industry. In both countries, occupation officials forbade new investment in industries closely related to war potential. Some naively imagined that the defeated powers could be reconstituted as predominantly agrarian societies. Ironically, agriculture quickly emerged as a problem rather than a panacea. In the aftermath of the war, both Germany and Japan suffered profound economic dislocations. Decommissioned troops returned to food shortages, inflation, and unemployment. In these two major industrial powers, the war’s aftermath brought cases of death from starvation.2 Political parties on the left organized rapidly. A May Day rally in 1946 mobilized five hundred thousand people to demonstrate in front of the imperial palace in Tokyo, followed by “a second massive wave of protests . . . on May 19, which had been designated ‘Food May Day.’ ”3 Under these trying circumstances, occupation authorities set about the task of maintaining order and introducing more democratic forms of governance. Out of a combination of shock at their defeat, revulsion as the worst excesses of their own governments’ policies were revealed, and the intense object lesson of foreign occupation, German and Japanese citizens embraced a new pacifism that rejected both their wartime ambitions and any military means of attaining them. Thomas Berger has documented the extent to which this postwar sentiment grew to form the basis of a robust antimilitarist ideology.4 In making the case that the wartime and early postwar experience gave rise to new security cultures in these two countries, Berger emphasizes their basic resemblance to one another. There is much evidence to support Berger’s point of view. Postwar Germany and Japan shared so much that it would be astonishing were their postwar paths to diverge too soon or too sharply. While this chapter does not take issue with Berger’s assessment of ideological convergence at the level of popular opinion, it will argue that German and Japanese politicians ultimately adopted very different strategies for securing political order at home and abroad. In general, of course, they confronted the same strategic possibilities. Directive approaches to order, emphasizing their own leadership, were clearly excluded by postwar realities. From among the remaining possibilities, as earlier chapters have shown, German politicians consistently preferred the institutional-commissive strategy of trust building and international alliance. Although this strategy emerged as the favored German approach, however, there were always many who

Japan and the Problem of Order

113

took the alternative view that German rights and sovereignty must form the basis of any political arrangements in which Germany was implicated. A robust debate thus characterized the postwar era. The case of Japan also shows that there were important choices to be made, but in Japan there was no such overarching debate. Of course there were many differences of opinion among politicians in postwar Japan over how Japan ought to deal with the occupation authorities and with the rest of Asia. A general debate about order never emerged, however, for two reasons. The first was the success of Japan’s first major postwar prime minister, Shigeru Yoshida, in putting the country on a course that has continued to define Japanese foreign policy ever since. The second is that a very different debate, one closely related to the United States’ role in Asia, took the place of a more serious discussion of Japan’s own role. Japanese politicians gradually resolved themselves into two camps: those on the right, who feared communism both at home and abroad, supported American efforts to contain it, but preferred for Japan not to take a very large role in these efforts itself; and those on the left, who feared that the United States might drag Japan once again into war, and who stressed the impermissibility of all Japanese military forces according to Article Nine of Japan’s new constitution. On the matter of how Japan should achieve political order at home, and promote it abroad, there was something more closely approaching consensus rather than debate. From the outset, Yoshida sought to regain Japanese sovereignty as soon as it was practical to do so. His objective was not to bind Japan to other nations, but rather to secure its rights and independence. It may seem odd to claim that Yoshida, who helped to fashion every major element of Japan’s alliance with the United States, did not intend to bind Japan to other countries. In allying Japan to the United States, of course, Yoshida had little choice. Yet to the extent he did have a choice, this alliance was for Yoshida a means rather than an end. Fundamentally, Yoshida’s goal was to secure renewed respect for Japan’s international privileges and rights. His commitment to U.S.-authored institutional designs was never more than a means to secure Japanese objectives. Yoshida’s adoption of a national rights strategy demonstrates that Germany’s postwar approach to order was not the only alternative available to the defeated powers. YOSHIDA AND THE PATH FROM REALISM TO RIGHTS Shigeru Yoshida was born near Tokyo on September 22, 1878, the fifth son of Tsuna Takeuchi and, apparently, a geisha consort. Takeuchi

114

Cultures of Order

had agreed to give the child to his close friend Kenzø Yoshida and his wife Kotoko, who had no child of their own, and thus Shigeru Yoshida became heir to a considerable estate when, at the age of nine, his adoptive father died.5 Yoshida’s biological father and his adoptive father were both among the new Meiji elite, nationalistic descendents of samurai families, but also active proponents of a modernized Japan. Takeuchi was an important figure in the Jiy¨tø, one of Japan’s earliest political parties, and was elected to Japan’s first parliament in 1890. Yoshida never became particularly close to Takeuchi, however, even after discovering his true parentage. Indeed, one of his greatest political influences, Hirobumi Itø, presided over the issuance of the “peace preservation laws” (Høan Jørei) that caused Takeuchi’s expulsion from Tokyo as a “threat to public tranquility.”6 If Yoshida gradually formed a coherent and consistent political ideology, it seems to have emerged later and not to have depended greatly on the prominent figures in his childhood and early life.7 After attending Tokyo Imperial University, Yoshida joined the Japanese diplomatic corps in 1906. Although he belonged to the “AngloAmerican clique” in the Japanese foreign ministry, many of his foreign postings were to the Chinese mainland. His first overseas post was to Hoten (in Manchuria), and in 1922 he became consul general in Tientsin. His evaluation of the situation in China was decidedly nationalist, but also realist and increasingly nuanced over time. He stressed the need for order and advocated a more or less directive approach to creating it.8 Citing the precedents established by Western powers, for example, he advocated military measures, when necessary, to enforce Japan’s agreements with China: “It is an international custom . . . to take suitable measures of confrontation in dealing with the violation of treaties by other countries. Even now Great Britain is considering the employment of naval power in response to the unfair taxation of the Nanking government.”9 Similarly, in a memorandum on Manchuria, Yoshida wrote: In my opinion the military government of Chang Tso-lin will soon fail in various respects and thus disturbance of peace and order and of the financial world in Manchuria is to be expected. Therefore, as a countermeasure to this at the present time, we must carry out whenever the occasion arises either an increase or dispatch of soldiers in such places as Tientsin, Shanhai-kwan, Taonan, Kirin, Linkiang, and Chientao, and prevent military disturbances within the Great Wall from extending into Manchuria. In addition, we must demand of the

Japan and the Problem of Order

115

Chang government that it improve its administration. . . . Success or failure depends solely upon our resolution as well as upon whether complete cooperation among the various organizations of our government is achieved.10 In these and numerous other instances, Yoshida predicated international order on military strength and the willingness to use it as part of a directive, enforcement strategy. Yoshibumi Wakamiya even goes so far as to say that, “to a greater extent than almost any other Japanese at that time, [Yoshida] endorsed the use of force, threats, and intimidation to gain compliance with Japanese demands.”11 By 1928, Yoshida had spent a total of eleven years in China.12 John Dower, Yoshida’s pre-eminent English-language biographer, thus notes that “he was, if a specialist in anything, a China specialist, and in point of chronology his diplomatic career coincided almost exactly with the establishment, development, and denouement of Japan’s Asian empire.”13 It was in this context that Yoshida’s pragmatic, realist orientation toward international politics took root. Yet although Yoshida urged a resolute policy on the Chinese mainland, he was also convinced of the need for Western, and especially Anglo-American, consent to Japan’s designs. His first exposure to high-level diplomacy in the West came when he contrived to assist his father-in-law, Nobuaki Makino, as part of the Japanese delegation to the Versailles Conference. He thereby gained the opportunity to witness the development of Woodrow Wilson’s idealist blueprints firsthand. Later, he opposed Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations, even as he endeavored to defend Japan’s Manchurian policies abroad.14 In general, however, Yoshida’s increasing contact with Western diplomats, and even Wilsonian idealists, appears to have strengthened rather than diminished his tendencies toward realpolitik. In 1936, Yoshida became Japanese Ambassador to London, where he presided over the final collapse of Anglo-Japanese relations before the impending world war. He opposed the Anti-Comintern Pact, but his reasoning was typically realist and pragmatic. The pact would, he feared, ultimately draw Japan into political alliance with Germany and thus into a war with the United States and Britain.15 By 1939, Yoshida’s opposition to Japan’s shift toward alliance with Germany had rendered him ineffectual. He retired from the foreign ministry and returned home to Japan, where he was a key member of the Yohansen, a wartime group advocating a change of government within Japan and swift progress toward a negotiated end to the war. As the war progressed, Yoshida continued to look for

116

Cultures of Order

avenues to peace. In late 1944, he was arrested for these efforts, and so he emerged after the war as a politician with the necessary credential of having voiced at least some opposition to the war. In Japan’s first postwar general election in April 1946, Ichirø Hatoyama’s Nihon Jiy¨tø (Japan Liberal Party) won a clear majority. Before Hatoyama could be seated as Prime Minister, however, the occupation General Headquarters (GHQ) purged him for his conduct while Education Minister in the 1930s.16 Hatoyama then chose Yoshida, who had served as Foreign Minister under the previous Shidehara government, to become Prime Minister. Yoshida agreed and promised to return control to Hatoyama should the purge order be lifted. ORDER AND THE YOSHIDA DOCTRINE Yoshida took office preoccupied with the problem of order—but it was domestic rather than international order that commanded most of his attention. Even before the war ended, Yoshida was among those who urged Prince Konoe to warn the Emperor about the danger of leftist revolution and social disorder should Japan lose the war.17 Immediately after the war, Yoshida and his fellow conservatives expected occupation authorities to allow them to clamp down on internal dissent.18 Instead, SCAP (the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers) ordered the immediate release of communists and other political prisoners from jail and moved to decentralize the national police force.19 Subsequent U.S. occupation policies, including land reform and abolition of the largest zaibatsu, seemed almost calculated to bring a radical leftward shift to Japan. The conservative establishment that continued to rule Japan after the war chafed under these orders and was greatly relieved when the threat of communism elsewhere in Asia produced a fairly rapid reversal in U.S. policy.20 Domestically, Yoshida’s pragmatic, realist instincts remained unchanged. The way to ensure order was to respond with government directives backed up by police force. He had little patience for the long-suppressed political demonstrations and strikes that seized the national stage immediately after the war.21 Yet internationally, a directive strategy was out of the question, and Yoshida saw this clearly. Far less inclined toward cosmopolitan internationalism than Adenauer, Yoshida’s nationalist instincts led him to focus on Japan’s sovereign rights. Immediately after the war’s conclusion and in the earliest days of the occupation, therefore, Yoshida’s thoughts had already turned to Japan’s independence. In his view, neither defeat nor occupation required subservience:

Japan and the Problem of Order

117

When I became Foreign Minister in September 1945, I went to see Admiral Kantaro Suzuki who had been one of my masters in the Peers’ School, and asked him what policy I should pursue. The Admiral answered that it was important after a victorious war to wind everything up properly, but that, after losing a war, one had to know how to be a good loser. I thought this very true; but, at the same time, I realized that it would not by any means be an easy task. I decided at any rate not to oppose everything that the Occupation said, nor to say yes to everything; since neither seemed to me in keeping with being a good loser. This meant that I was going to say all that I felt needed saying but that I would co-operate at the same time with the Occupation Forces to the best of my power. Whatever harm was done through the Occupation Forces not listening to what I had to say could be remedied after we had regained our independence.22 Yoshida went on to muse that some of the political patterns established by the occupation were, in retrospect, difficult to change later. But his greatest concern at the time, from the beginning of the postwar period, was to put in place a system that preserved the body politic (kokutai), prevented revolution, and maintained the imperial system.23 He did so, needless to say, under considerable pressure from MacArthur and the occupation “government section,” who had already rejected the draft of a Japanese constitutional revision committee led by Jøji Matsumoto. In its place, SCAP presented Japanese officials with its own draft and with the warning that, if they dithered too long in accepting it, SCAP would take the case directly to the Japanese public—an appalling prospect for these conservative leaders. One month after Yoshida formed his first cabinet, therefore, he submitted what was essentially the American draft to the Diet as his government’s own proposal. This was the starting point not only for reestablishing domestic order, but also a requirement for international order. In the parliamentary debates on the new constitution, Yoshida and his constitutional expert, Tokujirø Kanamori, repeatedly emphasized not only the essential continuity of the Meiji political system and the kokutai, but also the international necessity of adopting the constitution quickly. “Yoshida repeatedly indicated that constitutional reform was desirable not on its intrinsic merits alone, but also as a necessary step by which Japan might regain, ‘both in name and substance,’ a place of stature in the world community.”24 In a fashion that recalls Schumacher’s insistence

118

Cultures of Order

on the continuity and inviolability of the German state’s essential legal rights that had been betrayed by the National Socialists, Yoshida interpreted the new constitution as a logical extension of Meiji and Taishø era democratic innovations, and “Japan’s interwar breakdown . . . [as] a betrayal rather than consequence of the Meiji legacy.”25 As he put it before the Diet: The principles of the Japanese constitution have been distorted and misunderstood as if it were a feudalistic constitution, as if it were an oppressive constitution, as if it were a militaristic constitution. But the constitution authorized by Emperor Meiji is based on the so-called Charter Oath of Five Articles of early Meiji, and embodies the very principles of this Oath. Thus it is by no means oppressive in nature, nor is it a militaristic constitution. Indeed, I have no hesitation whatsoever in declaring that the political character of Japan as shaped by the constitution authorized by Emperor Meiji is, in the language of the present day, pre-eminently democratic, pre-eminently unmilitaristic. Therefore, I do not think that there is a hair’s breadth of variance between this and the intent of the new constitution. Such being the case, I cannot for a moment think that, because of the enactment of the new constitution, there would occur a transformation of the political character of the Japanese people.26 Although Yoshida does not refer directly to Japanese rights (as Schumacher might have done), his linguistic strategy is fundamentally assertive rather than commissive or directive. The authority of the Japanese kokutai, he declared, remained unbroken. He explained the proposed constitution as an outgrowth of existing Japanese principles for political order. That this claim is a considerable stretch only serves to underscore how committed Yoshida was to his assertive strategy. The new constitution was not so much a contract or promise to conduct politics in new ways, as he presented it, but rather an expression of the Japanese political order as it already existed. His spokesman, Kanamori, took up where Yoshida left off, making explicit the connection to existing rights: “sovereignty (shuken), or ‘the right to rule’ (tøchiken) . . . resides in the whole of the people, including the emperor.”27 In another statement before the House of Representatives, Yoshida extends the same line of reasoning: The Charter Oath is merely the reflection in words of the history of Japan, the national character of Japan. In the sprit of

Japan and the Problem of Order

119

the Oath we find Japan’s national polity (kokutai)—indeed, Japan itself. By looking at this Oath, it is clear that Japan is democratic, is democracy itself, and the national polity has never been one of autocratic government or oppressive government. Again, by looking at the august poems of the emperors through the ages, or by looking at the verse and songs and the like of the enlightened rulers and wise ministers, we can see that there has never been in Japan as in other countries a tyrannical government or a government which ignored the people’s will. It is the national polity of Japan that they have taken the people’s heart as their own heart. Thus democratic government is not being established for the first time by the new constitution, which does no more than simply express again in different words what the country has always had.28 Even making allowance for the difficulty of Yoshida’s task in selling an American-authored document as the new Japanese constitution, Yoshida’s presentation of an essentially commissive moment—promulgating a new constitution—as an expression of continuity is a remarkable assertive contortion. It was possible, of course, for Yoshida to go too far in defending the continuity of the Japanese system. When he did, his mistakes were also revealing. In several Diet appearances, “Yoshida argued that Japan had accepted the Potsdam Declaration only on assurance that the national polity would be preserved intact.”29 “Presumably on instructions from SCAP,” however, he was prevailed upon to qualify this statement and to acknowledge “that the Allied Powers had not committed themselves on such a crucial matter. On the contrary, Japan’s surrender had been unconditional, and the relationship between the Japanese government and occupying authorities did not rest on a contractual basis.”30 The American understanding, of course, was that the relationship was not “contractual” because Japan had lost and was henceforth subject to the disposition of American directive authority. But Yoshida’s own emphasis was not on the contract and on what assurances the United States might have given. It was on what Japan had—or, as he saw it, had not—given up: its essential continuity. On November 3, 1946, the new constitution was formally promulgated—fittingly, from Yoshida’s perspective, on Emperor Meiji’s birthday. Yoshida then set about correcting what he regarded as some of its excesses, modifying labor laws and restricting the right to strike, allowing the re-emergence of the industrial-financial combines that MacArthur had tried to dismantle, recreating a national Police Agency (keisatsuchø), and restoring a degree of centralization to national education policy. To

120

Cultures of Order

achieve these modifications of the postwar reforms, Yoshida needed to move Japan toward independence, and this meant working toward a peace treaty that would restore Japanese sovereignty. Before any of this could happen, however, the 1947 elections gave a plurality to the Socialists, and Yoshida found himself out of power. The ten-month interregnum presided over by Socialist Prime Minister Tetsu Katayama is chiefly noted, especially in Western sources, for its chaotic efforts at economic policies intended to alleviate the continued suffering of Japan’s poorer strata. Katayama’s three-way coalition government—bringing together the Shakaitø (Japan Socialist Party or JSP), Minshutø (Democratic Party), and Kokumin Kyødøtø (People’s Cooperative Party)—was also notable, however, for its brief efforts to build bridges to other Asian countries and regain their trust. These efforts will be discussed further in the next section. In any case, few of these bridges could be built before Katayama’s coalition succumbed to internal divisions and poor economic results. After Katayama’s government fell in early 1948, another coalition government under Hitoshi Ashida briefly held power before a merger between the Jiy¨tø and a faction of the Minshutø returned Yoshida to power. Katayama had held the office of prime minister for much too short a time to have had a lasting impact on Japan’s postwar diplomacy. In contrast, from October 1948 onward, Yoshida gradually secured his position in history as the most influential Japanese prime minister of the postwar era. He completed Japan’s transition from occupation to sovereignty, negotiated the San Francisco Peace Treaty, cemented Japan’s commitment to a pro-Western, anticommunist alliance, and set Japan on the course of economic growth and limited rearmament that has characterized its basic policy ever since. As with his earlier strategy to secure acceptance of the new constitution, Yoshida’s approach to the San Francisco Peace Treaty was to build support on the basis of Japan’s existing legal status and, wherever possible, to emphasize its compatibility with Japan’s traditional political order. In other words, he simply asserted that it was part of a legitimate order. If part of the bargain was a military alliance of unequal partners with the United States, Yoshida was thus inclined to see this (and to present it to others) as a modern version of the AngloJapanese alliance that he had often championed in his prewar diplomatic career. And if the alliance, in turn, required the continued placement of American bases and troops in Japan, he presented this not as a necessary departure from Japan’s historical independence and isolation, but instead as essentially compatible with Japan’s constitution and political principles.

Japan and the Problem of Order

121

In May 1950, Yoshida sent a secret mission to the United States with a proposal for ending the occupation. Although its purpose was to initiate the important demarche of a peace treaty, its tone was assertive rather than commissive, and it stressed continuity rather than the need for further change in Japan. The Japanese Government desires to conclude a peace treaty at the earliest possible opportunity. Even after such a treaty is made, however, it will probably be necessary to allow U.S. forces to remain stationed in Japan in order to guarantee the future security of Japan and the Asian region. If it is difficult for this desire to be tendered from the American side, the Japanese Government is willing to study the manner in which it might be offered from the Japanese side. Concerning this point, we are consulting the studies of various constitutional scholars, and these scholars indicate that there would be few constitutional problems if an article pertaining to the stationing of American forces were included within the peace treaty itself. Even if the Japanese side tenders a request for the stationing of troops in another form, however, that also will not violate the Japanese constitution.31 As with the constitution itself, Yoshida here turns what is essentially a promise—“to study the matter” with a view toward generating a Japanese proposal—into an assertion that “the Japanese Government is willing” to take this step. The outbreak of the Korean War a month after Yoshida’s secret mission to the United States undoubtedly complicated Japanese efforts to negotiate a peace treaty. On one hand, it greatly increased the U.S. desire to resolve the status of Japan so that more attention could be given to Korea. Yet by the same token, the war made it much less likely that any agreement regarding Japan could be reached with China or the Soviet Union. Ultimately, therefore, the San Francisco Conference was an American production. The extent of American influence is important for interpreting Yoshida’s statements regarding the peace treaty. The peace conference was convened on September 4, 1951, and on the evening of the seventh, Yoshida delivered a speech to the assembled delegates accepting the peace treaty on Japan’s behalf. Appropriately for the occasion perhaps, but uncharacteristically for Yoshida, the speech emphasizes the importance of “reconciliation and trust.” Immediately after the conference, a group of fifty-six U.S. senators sent President Truman a letter predicating their approval of the

122

Cultures of Order

peace treaty on a clear indication that Japan did not intend to recognize the communist government of mainland China. This eventually produced a letter from the Japanese Prime Minister that came to be known as the Yoshida letter. In this letter, as well, Yoshida strikes a reassuring tone and promises that Japan will not conclude a bilateral treaty with Beijing. Yet both the letter and Yoshida’s San Francisco speech were written under considerable pressure from John Foster Dulles, the special Republican advisor to Secretary of State Dean Acheson, and with direct input from U.S. officials. In short, the commissive strategy embodied in these statements was actually the U.S. administration’s, and not Yoshida’s.32 The American strategy culminated, immediately after the peace conference, in the signing of the Japan-U.S. Mutual Security Pact. Closely linked both to the peace treaty and the security pact was the problem of Japanese rearmament. On the surface of it, Article Nine of the Japanese constitution would seem to put this issue to rest. Famously renouncing the “right of belligerency of the state” and prohibiting “land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential,” it apparently left neither Japanese nor American officials much room for maneuver. This was precisely Yoshida’s own early interpretation of the constitution, and so on this issue as well Yoshida seems at first to diverge from his customary strategy of seeking maximum Japanese flexibility. In one of his earliest speeches on the subject, he told the House of Representatives on June 26, 1946, that Article Nine meant abandoning the right of self-defense.33 Several days later, in response to a direct question about whether the constitution prohibited only aggressive war, Yoshida reiterated: With regard to the provisions of the draft constitution relating to the renunciation of war, it has been suggested that war may be justified by a nation’s right of legitimate self-defense (seitø bøeiken), but I think that the very recognition of such a thing is harmful. It is an obvious fact that most modern wars have been waged in the name of the right of self-defense of the nation. Thus, I believe that to recognize a right of legitimate self-defense is, however unintentionally, to provide a rationale for provoking war.34 Yoshida’s rejection of any form of rearmament was also coupled, in these speeches, with the suggestion that renouncing war would reassure other nations of Japan’s good intentions. On November 8, 1949, for example, he told members of the Diet that Japan had not only

Japan and the Problem of Order

123

“renounced war and abandoned armaments,” but that this was necessary to “gain for us the confidence of the world.”35 In these statements, well before his declarations in San Francisco, Yoshida seems to have embraced an institutional-commissive desire to reassure states through Japanese action that constitutes a promise of nonaggression. In the November 8 speech, however, Yoshida gives some indication of why he believed a strategy of conciliation and disarmament was necessary. “Backed by world opinion devoted to peace, let us increasingly strengthen the resolve of our people to contribute to the civilization and peace and prosperity of the world, so that the civilized world more and more will understand and appreciate our country. This, I believe, is the only way to expedite a peace treaty.”36 Developing ties to other states based on a Japanese commitment to disarmament was not, in other words, the bedrock of Yoshida’s understanding of how a postwar order might be achieved. It was a tactical declaration designed to pave the way for a peace treaty.37 It was a step, in other words, on the path towards restoring respect for Japanese rights. This became even clearer when Yoshida announced, little more than a year later, that the constitution did not entail giving up Japan’s right of self-defense. Quite naturally, great interest has arisen domestically and internationally concerning the future security of our country. The core of our security lies in the very determination of our people to persistently contribute to the peace, civilization, and prosperity of the world, abiding fully by the renunciation of war and armaments which is solemnly declared in our constitution, and backed by the public opinion of the peace-loving world. To abide fully by the renunciation of war does not mean renunciation of the right of self-defense. When our national policies are dedicated to peace and democracy, and when our people’s resolution to adhere to these aims constantly ensures the trust of the peace-loving and democratic nations, then this very mutual trust will be the security that protects our country.38 Although Yoshida again makes reference to the trust of other states, this speech nevertheless represents a return to a more typically assertive position, attributing the “core” of Japan’s security to the Japanese people’s inherent qualities (determination) and reintroducing the theme of rights. Thereafter, Yoshida consistently maintained a right of self-defense. By

124

Cultures of Order

this point, of course, it had become clear that a peace treaty did not depend on Japanese renunciation of the right to self-defense. Quite to the contrary, John Foster Dulles had begun to make the new Eisenhower administration’s desire for Japanese rearmament clear. And although Yoshida’s policy clearly shifted with the prevailing winds from Washington, it was from this point onward that Yoshida began his efforts to ensure that Japan would not rearm to anything like the degree sought by U.S. officials. That he asserted Japan’s right to defend itself did not mean, in other words, that he desired rearmament. John Dower neatly summarizes the peculiar bind in which Yoshida found himself: “On the one hand, he blandly argued that Japan was not rearming, in the very midst of both concrete developments and less than subtle indications to the contrary from the U.S. side; but, at the same time, he did seriously intend to limit the speed and scope of rearmament, and unquestionably succeeded in doing so.”39 It was, as Dower aptly puts it, a “bravura performance.”40 As the intensity of the Cold War deepened, United States officials adopted a two-part international security strategy, both parts of which were out of sync with Yoshida and Japan’s approach. On one hand, American military might gave the United States the freedom to issue directives and to rely on force where necessary. The negotiation of the San Francisco Peace Treaty and the circumstances of the Yoshida Letter were fairly subtle applications of the United States’ directive leadership strategy. The Korean War and the Taiwan Straits Crises contain examples of more overt applications. But the United States needed support as well as obedience, and so the second part of its strategy was essentially commissive: to build new institutional structures of postwar order predicated on international commitments to liberal goals and to an anticommunist Western alliance. After the peace treaty was concluded, the United States exerted increasing pressure on Japan to accept a collective security framework resembling the Atlantic alliance. Despite this pressure, however, Yoshida worked to hold the line against committing Japan to broader obligations internationally. Having established the basic preconditions for Japanese sovereignty—the constitution and the peace treaty— Yoshida turned instead to the long-term conditions for Japanese success, still with an eye primarily on Japanese rights and interests. For Yoshida, the problems with the institutional argument were essentially practical. Three, in particular, stood out. First, he believed that if Japan followed the U.S. blueprint, it would be subject to immense pressure from Washington to

Japan and the Problem of Order

125

deploy troops to Korea. Second, he did not accept the Dulles thesis of monolithic communism, nor did he believe that Japan was in imminent danger of communist attack. And third, he did not trust his own new military.41 Given the continued Japanese dependence on the United States, and on the stimulus provided by the United States’ global anticommunist strategy (the Korean War gave a tremendous lift to the Japanese economy), Yoshida could hardly disavow the importance of U.S.Japanese cooperation. He began his January 1951 administrative policy speech to the tenth session of the Diet by commenting that “international circumstances are now such that we are now expected, as a bastion of democracy, to become a force in gaining ascendancy over communism in the Far East.”42 From this account of international expectations, however, he nevertheless quickly moved to reject the path of broader rearmament. The security and independence of a nation is not merely a question of armaments and military strength. What we must rely upon is a passion for liberty and independence by the populace—a proper sense and understanding of the spirit of independence, liberty, and patriotism. That armament without this passion and proper sense leads to aggression abroad and militaristic government at home is made eminently clear by looking at the recent actual course of our own country. I hope that all our countrymen will be extremely prudent concerning rearmament.43 Here again, Yoshida ties political order to the qualities of the Japanese people themselves (proper understanding, patriotism, prudence). In rejecting greater Japanese armament, he simply asserts that the conditions that would permit it are not present. Yoshida’s approach to national security culminated in the “two defense laws” of 1954 that established the basis for the Self-Defense Forces (SDF). With the creation of an Air Force in July 1954, the three branches of Japan’s newly christened Self-Defense Forces (Jieitai) took shape. The SDF were overseen by another new ministry, the Defense Agency (Bøeichø). With the two defense laws, moreover, the SDF’s mission was finally redefined to “defend the peace and independence of the country” and not merely to “maintain peace and order of the country,” as it had been to this point.44 This was the culmination of the gradual reinterpretation, under Yoshida, of Article Nine. Having

126

Cultures of Order

already tackled the question of “self-defense,” the most difficult point remaining concerned the maintenance of Japanese “war potential.” This problem was resolved by arguing that war potential involved more than military equipment alone. Since the overall orientation and capabilities of the military organization were taken into account, “military potential” thus became a question of the organization’s intentions. As Yoshida explained it in March 1952, “although the constitution prohibits war potential as a tool in international disputes, it does not prohibit war potential as a means of self-defense.”45 The result, in the tortured logic of Japanese constitutional reinterpretation, is a “military without war potential” (senryoku o motanai guntai).46 U.S. officials were infuriated by this position, not because it seemed to evade the intent of Article Nine (which they had long since come to regret), but because it seemed like the shallowest of excuses for not doing even more to provide for a collective defense against communism in Asia. The American stance was crystallized when Vice President Nixon declared, in a speech before the America-Japan Society on November 19, 1953, that Article Nine was a mistake. In so doing, he not only made clear the U.S. administration’s desire to put alliance obligations above constitutional legalisms, but he also implicitly threw U.S. support behind Yoshida’s domestic rivals. Indeed, ten days later, Yoshida’s eventual successor Ichirø Hatoyama succeeded in prying from the Prime Minister consent to a Constitutional Revision Investigation Committee (Kempø Kaisei Chøsakai) as a condition for leading twenty-five of his supporters back into the Liberal Party. Yoshida had no desire to reopen constitutional issues, but the momentum had clearly swung to his critics, and the investigation committee, which he appointed on December 15, at least staved off direct action for the moment.47 At almost the same time, Liberal Party leaders and Diet conservatives hammered out a final agreement on the new Defense Agency and Self-Defense Forces Laws. Yoshida’s own preoccupation remained Japan’s independent status, however, and not deepening its obligations to a U.S.-designed alliance architecture. When he traveled to Washington to meet President Eisenhower in November 1954, this was his chief talking point: “I wanted above all to outline a policy whereby the United States should recognize Japan’s status in Asia as an independent country, with the two nations cooperating on an equal footing for the maintenance and promotion of peace in Asia.”48 In Yoshida’s view, Japan would do its part by promoting freedom and economic growth at home. International conditions, he felt, did not require more expansive international commitments from Japan, much less a greater military, directive potential.

Japan and the Problem of Order

127

Yoshida did not shrink from the prospect of an international leadership role for Japan out of fear that other Asian countries would object, though he did have a pragmatic appreciation for the caution that Japan would be required to exercise.49 And the United States certainly would have welcomed a more active (if not necessarily directive) Japanese role. Yoshida rejected this approach because he still considered it politically dangerous and an unnecessary distraction from more important economic problems. The day after delivering his January 1951 administrative policy speech, he had responded to a question from Takeo Miki in the lower house by stating: “We do not have the slightest expectation that the communist countries will invade Japan.” “I think that at the present time,” he went on, “even the members of the Communist Party do not believe that such a threat exists.”50 This assessment of the situation probably did not endear Yoshida to Dulles. It is also more sanguine than that of many of Yoshida’s own advisors, and particularly Tokutarø Kimura. Kimura was convinced that the “red threat,” both from without and within Japan, was very real indeed. When he proposed creating a two hundred thousand strong right-wing paramilitary force to meet the threat (on the grounds that even the National Police Reserve could no longer be trusted), Yoshida again drew the line.51 What Japan did require, Yoshida believed, was a deepened economic base—both to ensure its future economic position and as a hedge against radicalism at home, which Yoshida still feared, his optimistic assessment of the external communist threat notwithstanding.52 This preoccupation reinforced the growing tension between Yoshida’s government and the Eisenhower administration. Eisenhower and Dulles focused above all on problems of international security, and they interpreted Japan’s international role primarily within that framework, whereas Yoshida sought to hold the line on rearmament and instead emphasized the need for economic recovery and independence. He emphasizes this point in his memoirs: I do not deny the eventual possibility of friendly intercourse with the Communist countries, but a recognition of facts as they now stand, and my abiding faith in liberalism, made me welcome the peace treaty as it emerged as a result of the San Francisco Conference. However, the independence thus regained was political in nature, consisting mainly in the reassumption of sovereignty. Economic independence remained to be regained, and Japan is far from that goal, even today. To concentrate upon the attainment of that objective required that

128

Cultures of Order

our national security be guaranteed from both internal and external aggression and threats, which, in turn, raised the question of rearmament. But our economic condition debarred any such development.53 Yoshida saw clearly that Japan’s economic and strategic interests were intertwined. As on defense matters, Yoshida interpreted the basic economic problem faced by Japan as one of reestablishing Japan’s economic rights and pursuing its interests, rather than as one of building an economic community.54 This fundamental policy choice, to restrict military spending to minimum levels (less than 1 percent of GNP) and to concentrate instead on economic growth, came to be known as the Yoshida doctrine.55 Although several of Yoshida’s successors—not only Ichirø Hatoyama, but later Yasuhiro Nakasone in particular—tried to push the country in the direction of adopting a more “normal” defense posture, these efforts only adjusted policy at the margins. Even when the Social Democrats (SDPJ) briefly took power in June 1994, the compromise inherent in the Yoshida Doctrine remained inviolate. In fact, in order to form a coalition government with the LDP, the SDPJ was compelled to drop its long-standing position that the SDF were unconstitutional. Having thus abandoned its only real policy plank, the party earned only fifteen seats, or 3 percent of total seats, in the House of Representatives during the 1996 elections. A DEBATE FORECLOSED This chapter does not examine a debate in the same fashion as previous chapters. This is certainly not because there were no debates in postwar Japan over East Asian security and the course of Japan’s foreign policy. On the contrary, the Cold War era in Japan was characterized, above all, by a deep left-right division between conservative supporters of a close defensive alliance with the United States and liberal opponents of this arrangement who believed that it violated the constitution and threatened to drag Japan into war, first in Korea and then in Vietnam. Rather than witnessing the emergence of two (or more) rival visions, however, the vision of one man—Shigeru Yoshida— came to dominate the postwar political landscape in Japan. It is a testament to Yoshida’s skill as a leader that he managed to find a middle ground, with his assertive strategies, between the Japanese left and the right. In Richard Samuels’ view, in fact, Yoshida did not so much prevail through compromise as by “inventing a position for which

Japan and the Problem of Order

129

there was no ‘natural’ constituency.”56 The left wanted complete disarmament and policies of reassurance, directed particularly at other Asian countries. The right wanted remilitarization and the eventual restoration of Japanese power. Instead, Yoshida had a different idea. He used U.S. bases to buy Japanese independence, at a price far lower than the full cost of large-scale rearmament. He used Article 9 of the Constitution for domestic political protection. Japan could take a “cheap ride” on American defense spending, and free its resources for economic growth.57 This bargain gave Yoshida everything he wanted and needed: it restored Japan’s position as a sovereign state, and it immobilized his domestic critics until it was too late for them to stop the new order that he had established. Perhaps this singularity of vision is also linked to the emergence of the LDP as the dominant postwar party, but this argument can only explain the absence of debate after Yoshida left office, since the LDP did not yet exist when he served as prime minister.58 Yoshida’s influence on the postwar foreign policy landscape in Japan is undeniable. His impact is all the more clear when one considers the other potential antagonists in the “Japanese debate over order” that never quite happened. Tetsu Katayama As already noted, the end of the war brought to Japanese domestic politics what Takafusa Nakamura has called a “landslide to the left” that was encouraged by several occupation policies.59 Labor unions were legalized by order of SCAP and quickly made dramatic gains, as did the political parties of the left. As the unions grew, strikes also became more frequent, and by early 1947 an alliance of labor unions (the Zentø) was preparing for a general strike with the objective of bringing down the Yoshida government. Only a directive from GHQ prevented the strike. Since Yoshida had described labor leaders as “lawless gangs” (futei no yakara), he too had become a target, and little could be done to prevent his first government from falling.60 Millions of Japanese remained homeless, camped out in the shantytowns that sprang up in large cities and spending, on average, 70 percent of their income for food.61 Elections in April 1947 produced a realignment in the Diet that gave 143 seats to the Shakaitø, 131 to the Jiy¨tø, 124 to the Minshutø, and 31 to Kokumin Kyødøtø.62 The Socialists were thus

130

Cultures of Order

able to form a coalition with the Minshutø and the Kokumin Kyødøtø that temporarily unseated Yoshida and brought Tetsu Katayama to power as Japan’s first postwar Socialist prime minister. Katayama held office for less than ten months, and politically his administration was a disaster from which Japanese Socialists never seemed to recover. Katayama’s administration is rarely discussed, particularly in English-language sources, except with reference to its failure to exert control over domestic economic policy. Katayama’s statements about international relations are noteworthy, however, because they provide one of the few postwar expressions of an alternative, institutional-commissive theory of political order coming from a top Japanese official. Katayama predicated international cooperation on trust rather than rights. For this reason, and unlike Yoshida, his preoccupation was to reassure other nations that reform in Japan would take root. As Bert Edström observes, quoting Katayama’s July 1, 1947 speech before the Diet: When Katayama ascribed to Japan a will “to return to international society,” he realized that such a re-entry was not in Japan’s hands: it could only be attained by regaining international trust. He told the parliament that “we should demonstrate very candidly and clearly to all the countries of the world our country’s character and to seek their understanding and assistance as well as to recover international trust.”63 Katayama’s desire to reassure other countries parallels Adenauer’s desire to accomplish the same purpose in Europe. Both of these men placed emphasis on demonstrating their own commitment to change. “Regaining international trust” demanded action, and contrition, from Japan (it is a commissive approach to order). In this sense, Edström’s analysis is slightly misleading: re-entry into international society was at least partly in Japan’s hands. Of course Japan could not control how other states would respond, but the first step had to emanate from Tokyo. Katayama made his commissive and self-reliant approach clear in other contexts as well. In a January 1948 speech, for example, he held that “we must ourselves accomplish our duties as to the economic reconstruction of our country.”64 In this speech, Katayama refers to the duties (gimu) of the Japanese people no fewer than three times. The rights (kenri) of Japan or the Japanese people are not mentioned.65 In contrast, Yoshida frequently referred to Japan’s rights and sovereignty. In a January 23, 1950 speech, for example, Yoshida ar-

Japan and the Problem of Order

131

gued that “being committed to the idea of abandoning war does not mean renouncing the right of self defense (jieken)”—a theme to which he often returned.66 It is also worth noting that Katayama made his proclamation about Japan’s duties even though GHQ was still making nearly all of the important decisions in Japan. The statement is particularly ironic, in fact, since occupation authorities ultimately played a role in undoing the Katayama administration itself by torpedoing its efforts to pass a budget measure that would raise railway fares in order to increase wages.67 But even in these circumstances, which were exceptionally trying on the personal, the party, and the national level, Katayama placed his emphasis on what Japan (and his government) must do to reassure others. Katayama was replaced, in March 1948, by a centrist government headed by Hitoshi Ashida. Ashida lasted only seven months before a scandal forced him out of office, and Yoshida then formed his second government. When Yoshida called a general election several months later and succeeded in winning an absolute majority in the lower house of the Diet, he was able to secure a position from which he could define Japan’s postwar international strategy until December 1954. Yoshida’s pugnacious insistence on his own strategic vision earned him the nickname “One Man,” but this could just as well describe his historical significance as his personality. Yoshida established the course that Japan followed throughout the Cold War. Although the left remained a political force during this period, and particularly in the 1970s as the United States fought in Vietnam, it was never again in a position to shape Japan’s Cold War strategies directly. When the Social Democratic Party of Japan (SDPJ, formerly the JSP) finally did succeed in returning the left to power in 1994, after the end of the Cold War, it promptly self-destructed by abandoning the one aspect of its political platform that had held it together as an opposition party: its claim that the Self Defense Forces were unconstitutional. While there were certainly profound debates within Japan both during the remainder of Yoshida’s time in office and in the years that followed, these debates never succeeded in reopening the basic question of Japan’s role in Asia and its approach to international order.68 If anything, the opposition to Japan’s alliance relationship with the United States that intensified throughout the 1950s, and periodically resurfaced thereafter, pitted against each other two groups that had come to agree on the primacy of Japan’s sovereign rights. One of these groups, the Yoshida-style conservatives, believed that the alliance was actually the best way to guarantee Japan’s independence and freedom to act. The other, dominated by the left but including some on the

132

Cultures of Order

right who chafed at Japan’s subordinate position in the alliance, believed that Japan should steer a more independent course that would prevent it from being drawn into American wars elsewhere in Asia and that would, perhaps, open up new business opportunities in China. A serious commitment to international institution building was not, however, part of either political program.69 Ichirø Hatoyama A good example of Yoshida’s success can be found in his successor’s failure to renew debate over the compromises that Yoshida had worked out. Ichirø Hatoyama had reorganized the Seiy¨kai as the Liberal Party after Japan’s defeat and was prepared to assume the office of prime minister as its leader when, as already noted, he was purged by occupation officials.70 By the time he was again eligible to participate in national politics, Yoshida’s control of the party was entrenched, and his promise to return control to Hatoyama had become moot. This situation persisted for six years, leaving Hatoyama to watch from the sidelines as Yoshida dominated Japanese politics. On November 24, 1954, with Yoshida’s power finally weakening, Hatoyama led a group of anti-Yoshida conservatives out of the Liberal Party to join Mamoru Shigemitsu’s Progressives in creating a new political party, the Japan Democratic Party. Four days later, the Liberal Party elected a new leader, Taketora Ogata, who also supported more aggressive rearmament. Deprived of support, Yoshida resigned his position as Prime Minister on December 7, at last paving the way for Hatoyama to form a new government. After the 1955 general elections, Hatoyama and Ogata organized a merger, bringing about the Liberal Democratic Party and giving it enough seats to control the Diet outright. Hatoyama was, in some ways, an old-style conservative like Yoshida. Both served in the government of Gi’ichi Tanaka in the late 1920s, and evidently developed a cooperative political relationship when Hatoyama (then an emissary of the Prime Minister) visited London in 1938, where Yoshida was serving as ambassador.71 But whereas Yoshida saw clearly that Japan’s wartime directive strategies had no place in the postwar era, Hatoyama clung to the notion that Japan could regain a more normal (seijø na) place and status in the world.72 It is difficult to know exactly what Hatoyama considered normalcy to entail, but it is clear that revising Article Nine of the Constitution and restoring the full status of the military was an important part of his vision.

Japan and the Problem of Order

133

Like Yoshida, Hatoyama had advocated a relatively muscular, directive political strategy for Japan prior to and during the war. His book Face of the World (Sekai no kao), published after returning from his trip to London, made these sentiments plain. It included “favorable comments about the efficiency of both German and Italian Fascism, among them the discovery of a ‘striking affinity’ between German Naziism [sic] and Japanese bushidø (“way of the warrior”), and the recommendation that, to minimize class conflict, Japan should study and adapt Hitler’s methods for control and regimentation of labor.”73 In a 1942 election pamphlet, he acclaimed Tanaka’s diplomacy “on the grounds that it had ‘liquidated the weak-kneed diplomacy toward England and America’ of the earlier period.”74 In general, Hatoyama had consistently embraced a strategy of Japanese leadership in Asia, and Japanese power as a means of attaining it. He resolutely supported Japan’s war aims in China and, as minister of education between 1931 and 1934, conducted purges of teachers and censorship to regulate the “home front” as well. By 1954, Hatoyama had emerged as one of Yoshida’s strongest conservative critics. In the view of the former, Japan should seek the earliest opportunity to attain complete independence from the United States and, in the interim, should do everything it could to avoid entangling itself in a dependent alliance relationship. When he finally attained office as prime minister, Hatoyama tried to make good on these objectives by steering a course away from the United States. He sought normalization of relations with the Soviet Union and achieved a treaty restoring their diplomatic ties by late 1956 (though leaving unresolved the status of the southern Kurile Islands). The new LDP also sought greater latitude in its dealings with China.75 Hatoyama even sent his Foreign Minister, Mamoru Shigemitsu, directly to Washington to raise the issue of renegotiating the 1951 security treaty. These plans were frustrated, however, when John Foster Dulles expressed the view that Japan was not yet ready for any change in the alliance terms.76 Hatoyama was nevertheless far more sanguine about plans for rebuilding a limited defense industry in Japan than was his predecessor.77 To accomplish this purpose, but more importantly because of what it symbolized about the restoration of Japanese independence, Hatoyama sought to revise the Constitution and, in particular, to legitimize Japan’s armed forces by rewriting Article Nine. He established a constitution investigation committee (kempø chøsakai) to this end. For the remainder of his political career, he continued to argue in favor of constitutional revision. Hatoyama’s health weakened before any serious reform proposal could be put forward.78 Even had he

134

Cultures of Order

succeeded in bringing such a proposal to the Diet, however, it would have stood no chance of success either domestically or internationally. By this point, the Japan Socialist Party (which was reborn in 1955 after repairing its own internal split in 1948) had emerged as a strong opposition force in the Diet. And even though the United States certainly favored greater military assistance from Japan in meeting its East Asian security obligations, it seems unlikely that Washington would have accepted Japanese tinkering with the Constitution so soon. From this time onward, and most notably in the mid-1980s under Nobusuke Kishi (who finally succeeded in negotiating a more equal security treaty with the United States) and Yasuhiro Nakasone (who briefly pushed Japan’s military spending above the 1 percent of GDP ceiling in 1987), Hatoyama’s intellectual descendents continued to challenge the Yoshida line. They did so with increasing support from Washington but, for the remainder of the twentieth century, with little domestic support. From the perspective of a large proportion of the Japanese public, nostalgia for a more directive role on the international stage had little appeal precisely because, under pressure from the United States, it seemed to signal not so much Japanese independence as enlistment in Cold War battles that few wanted to fight. Those on the right who preferred a more independently directive approach were thus held in check. And those on the left who favored policies of trust-building and the creation of new institutions to manage Asian security outside the Cold War context—the inheritors of Katayama’s agenda—were never again in a position to advance their program, because of LDP dominance, until it was too late and the world was transformed by the end of the Cold War. CONCLUSION As a result of Yoshida’s success in articulating a rights-based strategy of order without reliance on military power, the debate that flourished in Germany never really got off the ground in Japan. Instead, Japanese strategies of political order came to resemble variations on the same theme. These variations borrowed elements of other strategies, but the primacy of Japanese rights and interests was generally accepted. The disagreements that remained amounted to the question of whether “institutional” policies of close linkage to the United States better served these interests or whether the time had once again arrived for a more “directive” pursuit of independent military capabilities and Japanese leadership. But the major LDP politicians agreed that Japan’s sover-

Japan and the Problem of Order

135

eign rights were paramount. The “institutional” and “directive” wings were merely variations on a fundamentally rights-based, assertive strategy of order. On the left, there was more enthusiasm for a truly institutional strategy that would commit Japan to a peaceful international framework of conflict resolution. Unfortunately, however, no such framework existed in Asia. The institutional alternatives that did exist had little appeal to the left, dominated as they were by the United States and the prospect of entanglement in wars against communism. The moment had long since passed, at any rate, for building bonds of understanding and a new institutional order between China and Japan. The JSP thus had no compelling foreign policy program with which to answer LDP hegemony within Japan. Although the same choice that remained for Germans—between commissive and assertive strategies—also remained in Japan, the commissive strategy was greatly weakened by domestic and international constraints that differed from those in Germany. As a result, the debates that did occur in Japan pitted one group of assertive rights-theorists against another. Still, as in the German case, Japan’s postwar experience reveals the impact of ideas about order. That the debates in Japan never pitted two grand visions of international order against one another does not mean that ideas were irrelevant. On the contrary, the ideological influence of Shigeru Yoshida was profound.79 His adroit expression of the rights-based strategy was responsible in good measure for preventing a wider debate. By successfully walking a tightrope for so long between conflicting domestic and external pressures, he managed to put Japan on a path that led decisively away from a real debate over how best to secure order in Asia. Doing this sometimes required extraordinary verbal contortions. As Dower sums up Yoshida’s performance, Yoshida himself was virtually a one-man show: now the sword swallower, now the contortionist, now the Houdini who made elephants appear and disappear. Until 1950, he had been the most prominent exponent of the literal interpretation of Article Nine: that Japanese armament in any form was prohibited. Henceforth, under his government, Article Nine was blown up like a balloon, twisted like a pretzel, kneaded like plasticene. In the end, however, it still remained unamended, and its survival was as significant as its mutilation. Even while bending the law to its purposes, the Yoshida group remained acutely sensitive to its ultimate constraints.80

136

Cultures of Order

Many in Japan no doubt agreed with Dower’s assessment that Yoshida’s successes were often diversionary. Yet these diversions established precedents that became harder and harder to challenge. And many others were convinced on the merits of Yoshida’s arguments themselves. Even some prominent military figures came to embrace Article Nine on principled grounds. Former Admiral Kantarø Suzuki, whom Yoshida greatly admired (and who had once been Yoshida’s teacher), argued that “since ancient times there is a saying that softness overcomes hardness, gentleness is the correct path, toughness is the road to death. Article Nine expresses that point, and I hold it in great respect.”81 Yoshida’s strategy allowed those who had embraced directive strategies of Japanese leadership for decades previously, without succumbing to its worst excesses, some room for a face-saving retreat. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, Yoshida’s compromise strategy is at last showing signs of failing. Although Hatoyama’s proposals for constitutional revision never went far during the Cold War, they have found new life as an element of an international peacekeeping strategy. Ironically, proponents of constitutional reform have found a way to turn the institutional argument to their advantage. Whereas Yoshida had used a commitment to American security institutions as a way to keep more serious rearmament proposals at bay, the new advocates of constitutional revision within the LDP (including Prime Minister Junichirø Koizumi and his successor, Shinzø Abe) have embraced a commitment to institutions such as the United Nations instead. In order to fulfill its proper role as a member of the UN, and perhaps to gain a seat in the Security Council, they argue that Japan must now be willing to show greater international leadership and preparedness to undertake international peacekeeping operations. Whether this is really driven by the desire for Japan to return to a more directive form of Asian leadership, as many in China and Korea seem to think, or whether it is simply another manifestation of the rights-based strategy, giving Japan its due, remains hard to discern. Perhaps it even reflects, particularly on the part of the Japanese public, enthusiasm for a genuinely commissive strategy of international order. In any case, the suddenly active debate within Japan over constitutional revision suggests that old constraints are indeed weakening. The same may be true in Germany as well, particularly as Europe gains both the leverage and the will to challenge American dominance. The final chapter will explore these changes, returning the focus to Germany.

Chapter 7

Conclusion

It is the fashion of tough-minded realists, and of many social scientists, to dismiss philosophical disputes over the requirements of political order and to place emphasis, instead, on power and political interests. Certainly, there can be no doubt that power and interests were at stake in German debates over unification and East-West relations. At the heart of the debate between Adenauer and Schumacher, for example, was a disagreement over the best way to serve Germany’s interests in the arena of high power politics: to begin by aligning the FRG with the Western powers or by acknowledging Soviet interests? Later, once the FRG’s position in Europe was secure enough to devote more attention to the East, Kiesinger and Brandt parted ways over another forthrightly political calculation. The former thought that the best guarantees of German interests were to be had by approaching the Soviet Union directly, whereas the latter expected indirect pressure, applied through negotiations with East European states, to be more productive. Domestic political calculations also certainly figured in these debates. When Kohl explained in the era of Deutschlandpolitik that the CSCE process would remain the centerpiece of an all-European architecture, the SPD took careful note of public sentiment and overruled its own leader’s opposition to embrace the chancellor’s Ten Point Plan.1 To have any chance of beating Kohl in the upcoming elections, the Social Democrats recognized that they would have to support an economic and monetary union between the FRG and the GDR. Otherwise, the SPD would be the party of obstructionism and continued economic crisis. And yet the SPD could not defeat Kohl merely by agreeing with him. So its leaders stressed how they would have followed a different path toward the same eventual goal, had they been in power. In particular, they viewed the improvement of living conditions in the GDR as a more pressing problem than the political unity of the two German states.2 On this conflicted platform, desiring both to move ahead and to go slow, while giving more attention to welfare 137

138

Cultures of Order

and environmental policies, Lafontaine led the SPD in 1990 to its worst election results since 1957. The SPD electoral strategy may not have been particularly coherent, but it is understandable in terms of the conflicting domestic pressures on the German left. In Japan, meanwhile, domestic politics worked against a serious debate over Japan’s role in postwar East Asian order. The phrase “tough-minded realist” fits Yoshida as well as anyone, but domestic concerns—the perceived threat of the radical left on one hand, and of a resurgent militarist right on the other—were even more important as a motivation for the political compromise inherent in the Yoshida Doctrine. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that, in both Japan and Germany after the Second World War, domestic and international politics were inseparably joined. National, party, and personal interests were thus inevitably at the forefront of political disputes over international order. Yet such political rationales, whether tough-minded or otherwise, explain neither the pattern nor the outcomes of the debates that persisted in postwar Germany and that flourished and then subsided in postwar Japan. Each of the preceding chapters has drawn attention to choices that confronted German and Japanese leaders. The alternatives were never so constrained that the choices disappeared. Indeed, Germany and Japan ultimately went different ways. Without appreciating how distinctive ideas about order took hold in each of these countries, and how both were constrained by the memory of the war itself, it is hard to explain why these countries adopted such consistent, but divergent, approaches to international order. Each was left, we have argued, with a “chicken or egg” problem. Either they could base political solutions on the promise to build and abide by a new framework of international institutions, or else they could work first to secure their own positions in the postwar international order so that they, like other states, could enter freely into the new postwar institutions. At any given moment, the choice was between moving forward to adopt new institutional structures (leaving the problem of rights to be worked out later) or insisting on respect for rights (leaving the emergence of new institutions hanging in the balance). Simply put, the choice was to construe international order as a problem of partnership and trust, or of citizenship, sovereignty, and quasi-legal arrangements. In Germany, the preference for international partnership tended to prevail. Perhaps one reason for this outcome is that the citizenship and rights strategy did not provide ready instruments for political transformation. It was always possible to insist on German rights— and the FRG’s chancellors often did. When he received an honorary

Conclusion

139

doctorate from the New School for Social Research in New York, for example, Brandt lectured his audience on the German need for respect: “I say to my friends in America, and not only in America; I must protect my people against unjustified attacks. Germany needs their confidence, the confidence of its friends in the reliability of its word.”3 Similarly, not long before introducing his Ten Point Plan for unification, Kohl told the Bundestag that, “for us in the Federal Republic of Germany it is a self-evident national duty to enlist our neighbors and partners in the world for the right of all Germans to self-determination.”4 Yet these are status quo assertions (Germans have rights) about the state of a world with which Germans were in fact deeply dissatisfied. If others could not be persuaded by the logic of rights to respect German desires, no recourse—and certainly no coercive response—suggested itself. In contrast, the institutional approach suggested a plan of action. It took root as Adenauer’s agenda for convincing the West, and France above all, of Germany’s good intentions as a trustworthy international partner. It flourished as Brandt extended bridges to the East. And it culminated in Kohl’s policies guiding Germany to territorial unification. In each case, the chancellor believed the only way forward lay (ironically) in building new mechanisms of institutional constraint. Perhaps the ultimate advantage of the institutional approach was that it reconciled action with responsibility while separating both from guilt. Privileging institutional constraint over individual (or state) rights has worked to reassure both Germans and their European neighbors. It serves as a proclamation of German responsibility and demonstrates a willingness to respond to the past by building new institutional arrangements designed to prevent historical errors. An emphasis on political rights could also serve this function, but it would have the less desirable consequence of drawing attention to the agents themselves—that is, to what sort of people Germans were. This is exactly the sort of question that persists, in many parts of Asia, about a Japan that did give priority to restoring its own sovereign rights as part of a bargain with the United States. To emphasize rights paves the way for a politics of guilt as well as redemption through its emphasis on the qualities of agents. In part because many postwar German leaders had themselves fought the National Socialists, and in part for the pragmatic reason that a nation wallowing in guilt was a more difficult nation to govern, the commissive-institutional approach has probably offered the surer path for Germany. It might have done so for Japan as well but for one thing: Yoshida and most of the conservative political establishment who took office in the immediate postwar period simply did not accept the necessity of

140

Cultures of Order

partnership with other Asian powers. In the aftermath of the war, few states presented themselves as good candidates for partnership in constructing a new East Asian security regime. The one state that could play this role, the United States, had a different objective: leadership in the fight against communism. And in this struggle, Japan’s interest lay not in partnership, but in insulating itself as much as possible from an active international role. Adopting the United States’ agenda in Asia could only intensify opposition on the left while, at the same time, giving new inspiration to remaining militarists. To be clear, Japan did have the same choice that Germany did. But Yoshida’s ideological convictions combined with Japan’s international position led him to a national-rights strategy, and his success with this approach effectively ended the debate for decades. This assessment contrasts with, though it does not actually contradict, Peter Katzenstein’s argument that Japan and Germany are critical players in the “American imperium,” tightly integrated into American designs for international order and broadly supportive of American objectives. In A World of Regions, Katzenstein explains that “the American imperium . . . is defined by the intersection of territorial and nonterritorial dimensions of power.”5 Its territorial exertions stretched across a continent and, at times, far beyond. Yet its nonterritorial expansion, Katzenstein suggests, is possibly even more important: The American imperium is organized around economic and social functions rather than the acquisition of territory. It is powered by the spread of transnational organizations that have evolved out of American groups, both governmental and nongovernmental. Access to foreign societies is as important as accords with foreign governments. American expansion is based less on the control of foreign people and resources than on the deployment of American people and resources. Typical of American expansion is not the acquisition of foreign territory and the power to control but the penetration of foreign society and the ability to operate there freely.6 Here, Katzenstein deftly sums up the two fundamental aspects of American power: its coercive potential on one hand, and its magnetic appeal (the sort of thing Joseph Nye called soft power) on the other.7 Both aspects of power are central to American leadership. This is the American strategy for international order: the United States leads by example if possible, and by force if necessary. In recognizing this strategy, which we have called directive, we are in complete agreement with Katzenstein.

Conclusion

141

Viewed through the lens of American strategy, Germany and Japan each have important—and similar—roles to play as regional leaders (perhaps “deputies” would be more accurate). To be sure, “in institutional terms, . . . Asian and European regionalism differ substantially.”8 Still, Katzenstein argues that the functions of Germany and Japan within their regions are fundamentally alike: “American policy self-consciously created Germany and Japan as client states that eventually matured into supporter states.”9 Institutionally, this was accomplished through multilateralism in Europe and bilateralism in Asia, but the central fact of order in both regions is the synergy between American designs and distinctively regional problems. The tension between our own argument and Katzenstein’s is largely a matter of emphasis. There can be no doubt that the American strategy of leadership has been a central feature of international relations in the past half-century. There is also little doubt that, confronted with this fact, German and Japanese leaders have sought their own distinctive paths. Yet whereas they have been compelled to fit into American designs in fairly similar ways—as “supporters,” for example—they have understood their own designs in very different ways. Because our own focus has been exclusively on the view from Bonn and Tokyo, rather than from Washington, we have thus emphasized the differences more than the similarities. Japan, in particular, emerges as a less willing participant in the American imperium than one might conclude when adopting a more systemic perspective. Japan’s strategy was dis-integrative, we argue, and designed to hold the Americans at bay. Germany’s strategy, in contrast, was integrative and intended to keep the United States involved in Europe. Regardless of their preferences, of course, both states were deeply and intimately involved with the American postwar strategy. Neither state wanted to see American designs fail. In Japan, Yoshida’s brilliance was precisely in recognizing that American ambitions and fears gave him the leverage to hold off both the right and the left at home. Yoshida thus managed to integrate domestic and international politics in a way that preserved the power of his party and the sanctity of his own strategic vision for nearly fifty years. Yet none of this means that his own vision of international order, or Japan’s role within it, rested on the same foundation as did the American vision. His goal was neither expansive and directive (like the Americans’) nor institutional and commissive (like the Germans’). Like many Japanese, Yoshida tended to view Japan as a small island adrift in a large, dangerous world. The directive strategy of Japanese power had been tried, and it did not produce security. Building Asian institutions on a foundation of reciprocity and trust held little appeal, in part

142

Cultures of Order

because there seemed to be few good partners, in part because of the depth of cultural differences and animosities among Asian states, and in part because the one reliable partner (the United States) threatened to entangle Japan in anticommunist adventures for which it had no stomach. For Yoshida, at least, the solution was to place emphasis on sovereignty and the restoration of national rights in the hope that Japan might simply be “left alone” long enough to outgrow its problems. This is the strategy that Yoshida, and thereafter the LDP, embraced with considerable success. To be clear, neither international nor domestic forces compelled Germany and Japan to make the choices that they did. On the contrary, each of these countries could have chosen differently. Indeed, both flirted with alternative strategies of order. In Germany, it is not so hard to imagine that the institutional strategy might have failed were it not for the vision and skill of leaders like Konrad Adenauer, Jean Monnet, and Robert Schuman. Even in Japan, where the Yoshida doctrine became so entrenched, there were always those on the left who sought disengagement from the United States and an alternative, Asia-oriented institutional strategy, as well as those on the right who would have embraced an even closer alignment with American objectives. The claim of this book is not that German and Japanese strategies were determined, but rather that they were limited. Directive strategies were ruled out. And so, with one of the three principal strategies of order off limits, the debates that did emerge could be expected to pit variants of one of the remaining strategies—assertive or commissive—against the other. This is what happened in both Germany and Japan. In the latter, the debate ended almost before it began for the reasons discussed above. In the former, the debate has persisted to this day. THE NEW WORLD ORDER IN GERMANY The temptation is overwhelming to view unification as a moment when everything changed in Germany, and thus as a break with the debates of the past. As David Patton puts it, “the FRG has changed in a fundamental way. An era is over.”10 “In the past,” he goes on to say, “when the Cold War shifted directions, it presented the West Germans with painful foreign-policy decisions that were really about the state of the nation.”11 The state of the nation has now been resolved. Whatever uses the institutional approach may have had in the past, its continued utility is not a foregone conclusion. Perhaps Germany is now free to strike out in new directions. On the other hand, a strategy

Conclusion

143

that served Germany exceptionally well in its relations with the rest of Europe for half a century might still have certain virtues. In a widely cited article, John Mearsheimer warned about the danger of a nuclear Germany outside of NATO in a Europe without the United States.12 His evident premise is that Germany is no longer constrained in ways that it had been under conditions of bipolarity in the international system. Now, he assumes, Germany is freer to act on its own desires, to adopt directive strategies in our terminology. Mearsheimer and Kenneth Waltz both advocate a managed transition to nuclear power status for Germany as a way of restoring constraints through the nuclear balance of terror.13 Meanwhile, Conor Cruise O’Brien foresees a rise in German nationalism and argues “it seems likely that Germans, in the near future, will interpret their own past in an increasingly nationalist way, placing strains on the relations within the Community.”14 In a sense, O’Brien is anticipating the decline of another constraint over time: the politics of guilt. Charges of whitewashing the past are more often directed toward Japan than toward Germany. Yet it is not impossible to imagine that Germans, too, will have less and less interest in the first half of the twentieth century. If some view these developments with alarm, others would surely point out that Germany remains securely enmeshed within Europe. Germany is now arguably more inclined to challenge U.S. policy, but so are many other European states. Reassuringly, a view of order stressing institutional partnership still appears to be paramount in post-unification Germany. On November 10, 1998, Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder emphasized, “we will meet our obligations in the framework of our alliances. We will remain reliable partners in Europe and the world.”15 Moreover, he stressed that “the integration of Germany in the European Union is of central importance for German politics,” and so it is essential to be on good terms with France.16 Simon Bulmer, Charlie Jeffery and William Paterson foresee “no regression to national interest politics.”17 Germany not only “has avoided a realist, unilateral projection of power,” they argue, but the country’s power is mediated institutionally by the EU and, apart from the recognition of Croatia and Slovenia in 1991, “almost all German initiatives in the EU—from the EMS on—have been presented bilaterally, usually with the French government.”18 They go on to note that, “even in the controversy surrounding the recognition of Croatia, where Germany was confronted with accusations of a new national assertiveness, policy was made in the name of the principle of self-determination rather than of a German national interest.”19 Similarly, Hanns Maull argues, “the foremost objective of German foreign policy is still to embed

144

Cultures of Order

Germany firmly within the alliance framework of Western democracies, primarily the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.”20 The close association of Germany with other European countries is, by now, clearly a choice rather than an unavoidable consequence of international constraints imposed on Germany. As Schroeder explained in September 1998, upon assuming the chancellorship: My generation and those following are Europeans because we want to be, not because we have to be. That makes us freer in dealing with others. . . . I am convinced that our European partners want to have a self-confident German partner which is more calculable than a German partner with an inferiority complex.21 Anticipating the freedom to which Schroeder refers, Peter Katzenstein asked how a united Germany would relate to Europe and concluded that the answer is the same after 1990 as before—through European integration.22 We see no reason to disagree, and we view this as a good opportunity to correct a common error in much structural theory. There is clearly a structural aspect to the argument developed in the preceding chapters that postwar Germany was constrained to avoid directive strategies of order production. Yet the best constructivist theory brings agent and structure together in its efforts to explain outcomes. It is now structurally easier for Germany to deviate from its Cold War policies. Yet it does not follow that a break with the past is inevitable. Germany had important choices to make throughout this period, and there are good reasons to believe that it will continue to embrace institutional commitments for the foreseeable future. The structural argument leads us to expect greater uncertainty, among both Germans and non-Germans, about what Germany will do. An appreciation of Germany’s success with the partnership strategy, however, leads us to expect that it will continue provisionally to rely on this approach. Structural theories are not always deterministic, and theories of agency do not always mean that change is likely. Both elements of this argument—the increased latitude for German initiative and Germany’s continued inclination to adopt commissive institutionalist solutions—are on display in Germany’s recent foreign policy behavior. Since unification, Berlin has had to rethink the use of its armed forces and its contributions to promoting international stability. German forces not only intervened militarily in Bosnia alongside their NATO allies, but in March 1999 they joined the air war over Kosovo. This was an important development in that German

Conclusion

145

military forces fought abroad for the first time since the end of World War II to aid the allies, prevent human suffering, and control the flow of refugees. As Schroeder explained, “we cannot allow that, only 1 hour away by air, freedom, democracy and human rights are trampled on.”23 Here, and during a speech to the Bundestag on August 29, 2001, the German Chancellor justified his decision to deploy the Bundeswehr in Macedonia in terms of the rights of the affected people. German participation in the “Amber Fox” operation was expected to promote the peace and the welfare of the people in this region and, by extension, appears to be Germany’s duty as a good citizen of Europe. Yet, as his predecessors typically did, Schroeder hastened to place this action in the context of a commitment to European institutions: Especially if Germany, with respect to European policy, is expected to be the motor of European integration not only in the economic, social and ecological fields, but also foreign and security policy, then this has consequences for what one can and should do with respect to one’s own national responsibility. That does not mean that we will “hide.” This is the logical consequence of the further integration of Europe, nothing else.24 Germany may have intervened to encourage the constitutional process and to support human rights in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, but Schroeder was ever mindful of the institutional rationale for such action. In the aftermath of the September 11 terrorist attacks, it was even more important for Germany to stress that it would remain a reliable partner to its allies. Schroeder proclaimed, “Germany will practice ‘unlimited solidarity with the U.S. . . . ’ When the U.S. expects solidarity from Germany, shunning its responsibility would be unacceptable, since this would isolate Germany and negatively affect European unity.”25 Addressing the German Bundestag on September 19, 2001, Schroeder emphasized the “values of human dignity, liberal democracy and tolerance [that] are our great strength in the fight against terrorism. They are what holds our community of peoples and nations together.”26 The following month, at a joint press conference with President George W. Bush, Schroeder again stated: “It is important to us to show that very much in these difficult times, friendship must prevail and does prevail. And I’m also here to express the deepest solidarity.”27 The well-publicized rift that gradually emerged between Schroeder and Bush might be taken as evidence that Germany is also willing, more than in the past, to reassert its rights when pressed.

146

Cultures of Order

“Just one year after promising ‘unconditional solidarity’ with the United States in the war on terror, Schroeder . . . declared that Germany would not participate in a military campaign against Iraq even if the Bush administration were to secure a UN mandate.”28 Schroeder’s volteface, and especially his suggestion that even UN approval would not sway his government, seems to signal a departure from institutionalcommissive strategies. Clearly, however, Schroeder did not see it that way. He disapproved of a war that he viewed as a distraction from efforts to oppose Al Qaeda, and he also disapproved of the unilateral American approach to initiating it. By asserting Germany’s right to follow a different foreign policy course, Schroeder was therefore objecting to American policies of leadership that challenged what he saw as the communal norms of international order. As he explained in an emotional interview with a New York Times reporter: “It is just not good enough if I learn from the American press about a speech which clearly states, ‘We are going to do it, no matter what the world or our allies think.’ That is no way to treat others.’’29 By proclaiming Germany’s right to object, and even by voicing tentative directives aimed at moderating U.S. policy, Schroeder is using Germany’s new authority to reinforce its well-established institutional objectives. In the same interview, he laments: ‘’I think it would be a big mistake if this feeling of needing one another should be destroyed by excessively unilateral actions.”30 He placed great emphasis on consultation and complained that “consultation cannot mean that I get a phone call two hours in advance only to be told, ‘We’re going in’. . . . Consultation among grown-up nations has to mean not just consultation about the how and the when, but also about the whether.”31 Schroeder thus makes his ongoing commitment to institutionalized partnership clear. The reference to “grown-up nations” is also telling. It suggests that Germany has cast aside its Cold War role as a junior partner. This “matured” sense of freedom to act is what makes directive strategies possible to conceive even in Germany.32 Nonetheless, Schroeder’s rhetoric remains overwhelmingly commissive. Certainly, many of Schroeder’s statements can also be understood as campaign rhetoric. The sentiment that the chancellor was playing politics with Atlantic relations aroused considerable ire in Washington.33 And it is true that Schroeder moderated his language considerably after his reelection and promptly began efforts to repair the split with the United States. His comments in another New York Times interview conducted shortly after his victory typify this newly conciliatory approach:

Conclusion

147

The basis of the relationship between Germany and the United States is so secure that the fears that were played up during the election campaign are unfounded. . . . Between friends, there can be factual differences, but they should not be personalized, especially between close allies.34 It is also worth noting that Germany did allow the United States to use vital facilities on German soil for its military build-up in Iraq. Still, as Richard Bernstein points out, what sets the debate over Iraq apart from German opposition to the Vietnam War or the mass marches in protest of Pershing II missiles on German soil is that “the opposition to a policy that the United States deemed critical to its national interest was headquartered in the German government itself, in the office of the chancellor.”35 Schroeder was the first major European leader who spoke out against the war. There may have been a strong whiff of electoral politics in Schroeder’s criticism of the United States, but the chancellor also knew that he would have to live, after the election, with a position he had staked out so strongly. As he told the New York Times, “I will have to stick by this decision, and I know what that means.”36 It is difficult to conclude, therefore, that his opposition to U.S. policy in Iraq was purely an electoral gambit.37 To the extent that Schroeder’s opposition to the war in Iraq was influenced by domestic politics, in any case, this was precisely because public sentiment in Germany strongly favored the institutionalcommissive approach to international order. The strongly unilateral and directive tenor of American initiatives rankles badly in Europe— not only in Germany, of course—precisely because it is a departure from the ideational premises of NATO, the United Nations, and of the many alliance relationships between the United States and European states. Robert Kagan probably risked hyperbole when he wrote: Europe is turning away from power, . . . it is moving beyond power into a self-contained world of laws and rules and transnational negotiation and cooperation. It is entering a posthistorical paradise of peace and relative prosperity, the realization of Kant’s “Perpetual Peace.” The United States . . . remains mired in history, exercising power in the anarchic Hobbesian world.38 In this view, as Kagan pithily sums it up, “Americans are from Mars and Europeans are from Venus.”39 Subsequently, as the war in Iraq has failed to demonstrate the efficacy of American power and the

148

Cultures of Order

prospect has emerged of a similar exercise in futility next door (in Iran), Kagan has moderated his enthusiasm for American power. He has almost begun to sound Venutian himself, calling for a diplomatic rather than military approach to regime change in Iran.40 And at the same time, he has also acknowledged greater European integration into American designs than his earlier and more famous formulation would suggest.41 Still, Kagan is correct when he characterizes European—and particularly German—objectives as promoting an international order “where international law and international institutions predominate, where unilateral action by powerful nations is forbidden, where all nations regardless of their strength have equal rights and are equally protected by commonly agreed-upon international rules of behavior.”42 When military action receives the appropriate institutional sanction, moreover, Germany under Schroeder has supported it. German soldiers have played a role in peacekeeping missions in the Balkans, Afghanistan, and the Horn of Africa under UN mandates. To provide for similar actions in the future, the German government in January 2004 “launched its most radical post war military reform,” and vowed to create “a 35,000-strong intervention force to co-operate with NATO and European Union forces.”43 In such cases, however, military action remains closely linked to an institutional-commissive strategy of order. Germany is supportive of coercive policies when, and in part because, they have institutional sanction. Those who anticipate a more assertive German foreign policy might find nothing remarkable in the claims to the contrary discussed so far. It makes sense, they might say, for Germany to rely on institutional pressures to constrain a more powerful state such as the United States. In this view, the institutional approach is merely a tactic that gives Germany the most leverage in a challenging relationship. It is in German policy directed toward Europe, on the other hand, that one might expect to see the first evidence of a shift in German strategy. Indeed, these expectations would seem to be vindicated at first blush. Germany now seems much more willing to show “muscle in Brussels.” As early as December 1998, Schroeder bitterly attacked “Germany’s unfairly high contributions to a wasteful EU budget.”44 We cannot and do not want to continue a policy that buys the good will of our neighbors with net payments that will become a burden to our country. . . . We cannot solve European problems with the German checkbook.45

Conclusion

149

Fed up with paying such a large part of the EU budget, Germany has threatened to “reduce regional aid spending if Poland and Spain do not give way [on the Nice voting system] . . . which grants them power disproportionate to their mid-size populations.”46 Nor were Poland and Spain the only targets. “Why,” Schroeder asked, “should Germany pay when rich countries like Luxembourg, Denmark and Belgium receive money from the $100 billion European budget?”47 Such payments could easily be interpreted—and probably would have been in the past—as another part of Germany’s obligation to a larger community. The fiscal elements of Germany’s EU policy are, however, increasingly discussed within Germany in terms of rights and duties. Skeptics might argue that this signals a shift toward a newly assertive focus on rights and perhaps even, eventually, German willingness to back up demands with fiscal power. Another interpretation, however, is that Berlin is now confident enough in the stability of the European architecture to challenge policies that it considers unfair and detrimental to the long-term success of the European partnership. Evidence for the latter explanation comes in the form of Schroeder’s own statement that his positions are “guided by a higher principle: the need to keep Europe moving forward.”48 This goal is of such importance that, according to some observers in Germany, the failure of negotiations on the European Constitution would have compelled several European states (including Germany) to seek “the creation of a core Europe (Kerneuropa), in which a minority of member states would push through political union in a determined fashion . . . a Europe of the willing, if necessary, outside the EU treaties.”49 In the event, this was not necessary. The successful negotiations on the European Constitution in October 2004 reinforced the conclusion that, however much Berlin might object to the high costs of EU membership, it remains willing to pay them. How Germany responds to the collapse of the constitutional project, in the aftermath of the 2005 “no” votes in France and the Netherlands, will continue to test its commitment to Europe. Yet there is no reason to expect Germany to abandon its European vision anytime soon. For the moment, Germany remains a driving force behind both the enlargement and the “deepening” of the EU.50 To be sure, Germany proposed a reweighting of the votes in the Council of Ministers to reflect population size (and thus Germany’s demographic weight), to promote equality, and ultimately to ensure that its own voice is heard clearly. Schroeder even proposed a plan to turn the EU into a more centralized federal system, modeled after Germany’s own system.51 Nevertheless, Schroeder has consistently sought “to strengthen

150

Cultures of Order

the two institutions said to represent pan-European interests: the European Parliament and the European Commission.”52 As Peter Katzenstein points out, “in shaping the rules of the game, Germany tends to mobilize a bias favoring its policy in the long term.”53 It would be surprising were Germany to do otherwise. Yet it remains Germany’s policy in general—and not only Schroeder’s but also his CDU successor, Angela Merkel’s—to foster international commitment to institutions of communal governance. Germany continues to prefer institutionalized partnership, that is, to directive leadership. Germany is now better positioned than in the recent past to play a large role in promoting new European institutions. As Karl Kaiser puts it, “Germany, not unlike Japan, is at last stepping out of the shadows of World War II and assuming its role as a functioning democracy with global responsibilities.”54 As it does so, it will not only promise to remain a trustworthy partner, but it will undoubtedly assert its rights more often and, perhaps, increasingly use its own power to direct other states in accordance with its wishes. The Germany of today “is no longer Kohl’s Federal Republic. It is,” as Jan Ross has noted, “the country that takes the stability pact for a sleigh ride and, when it comes to implementing European norms, puts on the brakes. It is the country that decided its Iraq policy without consideration for its partners.”55 This new forcefulness is made possible by structural changes that give Germany greater international leeway. But structure is only half the argument. We must ask what Germany intends to do with this new freedom. There is every indication that Germany still seeks what it has sought since the Adenauer era: to promote an international order based on strong, communal bonds among states. This is how Schroeder saw it, even during those moments when he embraced policies at odds with Germany’s allies within Europe or across the Atlantic. As Schroeder himself put it, reflecting on the debates in late 2003 over voting rules in the proposed EU Constitution, “the conflict in Brussels the middle of December was, at its core, a conflict concerning different levels of importance given to European and national interests. When in doubt, for both Germany and France, EU integration has priority.”56 Schroeder’s long-time foreign minister, Joschka Fischer, strongly affirmed this theme: We are fully integrated into [the] EU. We are pushing forward the EU. We are part of important military missions together with the United States and other allies. And there is no change. We have differences—a different view in the Iraq issue. . . . We

Conclusion

151

don’t want to play a greater role as Germany on the global stage. . . . [W]e want that Europe, the European Union, step by step, could play a greater role. And of course, we, as a big member state of the Europe[an] Union, will contribute to that. Therefore, for us, it’s crucial that we are bringing forward the European integration process. This is the real core of our policy.57 As for Schroeder, the importance of multilateralism and commissive approaches went well beyond Europe. In a speech to the Bundestag in September 2003, Fischer proclaimed that “a world of 6 billion people and nearly 200 sovereign states can only be organized in the context of effective multilateralism.”58 The United Nations, he went on to say, would be a decisive source of this effective multilateralism.59 Arguably, in fact, Fischer went further in this direction than Schroeder. Whereas the chancellor promoted the idea of a German seat on the UN Security Council, Fischer believed that, “if a European seat is created, it should be the real thing. Not an individual Member State, but rather the European Union, should be represented on the Security Council.”60 With the return of the CDU to power in a new grand coalition, a dramatic break with the commissive multilateralism of recent German foreign policy is unlikely. During her campaign, one of Merkel’s advisors promised, “should we win, there will be much more continuity in foreign policy than some might expect.”61 Since taking office, this expectation has generally been confirmed. In the estimation of one observer, “the CDU’s critique of the Schroeder-Fischer government did not demand any policy reversals but rather called for more adept policy implementation.”62 Another commentator, noting the same policy continuities, finds a link to Schroeder’s predecessor: “Commitments to Atlanticism, NATO, Franco-German co-operation and Germany’s role as an honest broker evoke Mr. Kohl’s position.”63 As expected, Merkel has thus tried to do more than her predecessor to mend the relationship with Washington. Even in this tactical recalibration, however, her policies adhere to the institutional-commissive line inaugurated by Adenauer and passed down through Kohl and even Schroeder to the present government. The German approach to international order has become deeply embedded both in contemporary German political culture and in the multilateral institutions that Germany’s leaders hold dear. Theirs is, at heart, a commissive institutional approach. In the words of the prominent German historian, Hans-Peter Schwarz, “we (Germans) fully understand that we need to be bound together in multilateral networks, especially the European Union; the evolving system of cooperation with

152

Cultures of Order

our neighbours in post-communist Central and Eastern Europe and the Balkans; NATO; and the United Nations. In the past half century we have always given top priority to preserving these ties.”64 It is certainly possible that this stance will change one day. Yet so far, Germany’s gradually increasing latitude only serves to emphasize the extent to which Germany remains committed to institutional designs grounded in a communal framework.65 For the present, very few German politicians would challenge the proven strategy of international partnership. CONSTRUCTING ORDER, CONSTRUCTIVIST THEORY The focus in the preceding chapters on Germany, Japan, and the problem of international order may give the unwarranted impression that constructivist theory is really liberal theory dressed up in the new clothes of a current intellectual fad and its accompanying jargon. To some, the very premise of the book—that international order is a phenomenon worthy of more serious attention than neo-utilitarian international relations scholars usually give it—will seem suspiciously optimistic. Perhaps it appears to reflect a belief that war is soon to be outlawed, that the interests of states are compatible rather than contradictory when properly understood, or perhaps even that states and their conflicts are already anachronisms. The preceding section should make clear, if earlier chapters did not, that a constructivist account of order is not synonymous with faith in the inexorable progress of democracy, international cooperation, or some other progressive teleology. Alexander Wendt has recently argued that a world state is made inevitable by the individual (but also global) struggle for the recognition of subjectivity; however, that is not our position.66 One way that people, and groups of people, produce order is by issuing directives. They may or may not use force to back up these directives, but as a normative strategy, directives are consequential in a way other normative strategies are not. As argued in chapter 2, directives are the category of speech acts that seek to fit the world of the other (the listener) to the words of the speaker. The implication of such speech is that action (or inaction) will have consequences for the speaker’s target. In fact, all normative speech is consequential. Making a promise directs the consequences at the speaker, and making an assertion calls for agreement about consequences among interlocutors. Yet for directives the target of speech, and not the speaker, is the one in the “line of fire.” When states issue directives, their targets may be literally in

Conclusion

153

the line of fire. There is nothing pacifist, or inherently cooperative, in a constructivist account of order that admits the ongoing relevance of directive strategies. It would be pointless, moreover, to deny the continued relevance of such strategies. Although it is hardly alone in embracing them, the United States’ own foreign policies have particularly emphasized a directive approach to international order since the September 11 terrorist attacks. The notion that the world needs American leadership more than ever has widespread bipartisan support, even when particular military undertakings do not. George Bush’s 1999 speech announcing his candidacy for president sounded this theme well before the “war on terror.” “A dangerous world still requires a sharpened sword,” he intoned.67 In his campaign memoir, he drew the logical conclusion: “the foundation of our peace is a strong, capable, and modern American military.”68 Directive strategies have been embraced by hegemons since long before Thucydides’ account of the Athenians at Melos. They will no doubt continue to be in the modern era. These observations about hegemonic leadership are no more deterministic, however, than the preceding discussion of Germany and Japan. The United States also has choices, and it has usually pursued a combination of all three strategies available to it. When it enjoyed unrivalled prestige in the aftermath of the Second World War, it used its power to build a wide variety of international institutions intended to foster partnership and to constrain directive ambitions. Even as contemporary U.S. leaders condemn some of these institutions, notably the United Nations, only a small minority is willing to abandon them entirely. The United States has also championed the relevance of a wide variety of normative constraints—human rights, free market liberalism, and democracy, among others—embracing a strategy that is hegemonic in the assertive, Gramscian sense rather than in the directive, Hobbesian one. All of this is consistent with the claim that a constructivist theory of order is a theory of possibilities rather than a theory of specific choices. We are able to account for the choices of states only by combining this constructivist sense of the possibilities with an historical argument about which possibilities were actually relevant. Enjoying unparalleled power during most of the past half century, the United States also disposed of a large range of possibilities. In Japan and Germany, some possibilities were ruled out, and discussions of both domestic and international order took on a very different character than in the United States.

154

Cultures of Order

A constructivist theory built on a linguistic foundation—such as the one presented here, inspired by the work of Wittgenstein, Searle, Kratochwil, and Onuf—is incomplete as a theory of international politics. The sense of what is possible depends not only on how language works, but also on history. This book therefore embraces an historicized version of constructivist theory, in the same way that Anthony Giddens’ structuration theory offers an historically grounded account of the evolution of social norms.69 In so doing, it is in line with other recent calls for historically grounded international relations theory.70 And, to reiterate the point, this does not mean embracing a teleological version of history. A constructivist is at home both with agency as meaningful choice and also with real, historical agents who may have limited choices or, sometimes, none at all. Taking agency seriously does not mean abandoning theory. This is the common complaint, sometimes directed with subtlety and sometimes with bluntness, against constructivism. Constructivist scholars such as Onuf and Wendt have produced abstract metatheoretical systems that do not appear, at first glance, to lend themselves to explanatory theory. Many other constructivists tread lightly on the question of explanation, preferring instead to interpret the meaning of constructs that the less philosophically inclined employ in causal arguments. Still others view constructivism as a toolkit from which concepts that seem fresh (but probably are not)—agency, identity, or perhaps the coconstitution of meaning—can be drawn with a suitable flourish. These may well be important concepts, but our own aims are less dramatic, even though our purpose is unabashedly explanatory. To explain the debates over order in Germany that have persisted for more than half a century, as well as the long-dormant Japanese debate that now shows signs of re-emerging in the guise of new proposals for constitutional revision, this book has sought to weave elements of agency and structure together in an account that appreciates the role of both action and constraint. Patton argues with some justification that 1989 was a moment of unusual structural freedom when “chancellors determined the policy-making direction (Richtlinienkompetenz) and kept the political debate focused on foreign policy,” but the analysis presented here suggests a more continuous process of limited choice.71 The 1989–1990 debate over unification was no more a moment when the constraints on German chancellors were removed than the early postwar era was a moment when Germans could only obey the Allies’ directives. Despite Germany’s pivotal role in Europe today, Germany continues to face both constraint and opportunity. Its leaders are still deeply embedded in the same normative dispute that

Conclusion

155

has animated German foreign policy for the past sixty years. Successive chancellors have participated in this debate, but they have yet to transcend or redefine it.

This page intentionally left blank.

Notes CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION 1. Louis Hartz (1955) was one of the first and most trenchant observers of this cyclic tendency in American politics. 2. Hook 1943. 3. Giants in the postwar study of leadership and public responses to it include Adorno et al (1950) and Lasswell (1948, 1960). 4. Examples of the genre include Runyan (1982) and, in political science, Rustow (1970). A more self-consciously scientific work from this era, when few social scientists attempted serious psychological examinations of leadership, is Hermann (1977). 5. Samuels 2003. 6. Ibid., 23. 7. Patton 1999. 8. Kratochwil 1989, Onuf 1989, Wendt 1987. 9. Katzenstein, Keohane, and Krasner 1998; Wendt 1999. 10. Risse-Kappen 1994. 11. As Kenneth Waltz (1979, 89) put it, “the problem is this: how to conceive of an order without an orderer and of organizational effects where formal organization is lacking.” 12. Onuf 2001; Kowert 2001. 13. Kellermann 1957, 57. 14. Doering-Manteuffel 1983, 41. 15. See Schwarz (1981) for a wide-ranging discussion of the domestic interests at stake in postwar Germany. 16. Patton 1999, 1. Patton (1999, 157, note 1) cites four textbooks on German or European politics in support of this claim. 17. Hancock (1989) refers to this tendency in Germany as “democratic corporatism,” whereas Lembruch (1979) calls it “ liberal corporatism.” Hardach (1980) focuses primarily on its economic aspects and sees it as a cartel-like arrangement. Also, see Schmitter’s (1974) classic article on the “century of corporatism.” On Bad Godesberg, also see Patton 1999, 58. 18. Kreile (1977) links Germany’s economic success, for example, to a policy of selective competitiveness through strategic investment in sectors where Germany has a comparative advantage, while “compensating the losers” to prevent too much social disruption.

157

158

Notes to Chapter 1

19. Hanrieder 1989, 331. 20. Ibid., 333. 21. Katzenstein 1997, 2. In an earlier work, Katzenstein (1987) provides an important statement on the web of constraints within German state-society relations that acts as a check on German policy making. An excellent reexamination of this phenomenon is Green and Paterson 2005. 22. Bulmer 1997, 79. 23. Anderson 1997, 85. 24. Doering-Manteuffel 1983, 36. 25. Ibid., 161. 26. McAdams 1993, 31; Doering-Manteuffel 1983; and Artner 1985. 27. Artner 1985, 3. 28. Drummond 1982, 11, 99. 29. Ibid., 86. 30. Lipset and Rokkan 1967. 31. Mannheim 1951, 32; cited in Linz 1967, 316. 32. On the notion of international society, see Finnemore 1996a; Linklater 1998; a good related discussion of “security communities” is Adler and Barnett 1998. 33. Onuf 1989. 34. Adler 1997. 35. Kratochwil 1989. 36. Wendt 1999. 37. Wendt 1992. 38. Wendt 1991. 39. Wendt 1999, 371. 40. Finnemore 1996a, 69–88; 1996b. Also see Risse, Ropp, and Sikkink 1999. 41. Tannenwald 1999. 42. Price 1997. 43. Klotz 1995. Also see Lumsdaine 1993. 44. Ruggie 1998. 45. Wendt 1994; also see Legro 1996 for another statement on the desirability of theories of state identity in international relations. 46. Wendt 1999, 251–259. Wendt relies heavily on sociological theories of symbolic interaction; see McCall and Simmons 1978, Stryker 1980. 47. For a discussion of these two aspects of state identity, see Kowert 1998/99. Although many constructivists in international relations have emphasized the character or roles of the state, several important works have also taken up the emergence and salience of the nation-state form itself. Hall (1999) gives a general, historically nuanced account of this process over the span of several centuries. Reus-Smit (1999) examines other institutional forms on which state identity relies. And Spruyt (1994) explores the way the state resisted threats from its chief institutional competitors. 48. Hopf 2002. 49. Neumann 1999.

Notes to Chapter 2

159

50. Ringmar 1996. 51. Boulding 1956, 6–7. 52. Ibid., 109–110. 53. Kissinger 1957, esp. ch. 10; Cottam 1977, ch. 2. See also Jervis’ (1970) work on The Logic of Images in International Relations. And, on status quo versus revisionist states, see Morgenthau’s (1948) discussion of three national motives: status quo, imperialism, and prestige. 54. Bronfenbrenner 1961; Holt and Silverstein 1989; White 1984. 55. See, particularly, Herrmann and Fischerkeller 1995. 56. The objective of German sovereignty was not accepted, of course, by many other policy makers in Europe. France, in particular, sought constraints on German autonomy. 57. Patton 1999, 9. 58. A note about Japanese names: throughout this book, we have followed the convention of many Japanese writers who, when writing in English, place surnames after given names in Western fashion. 59. Katzenstein (2005) finds a parallel difference between the “multilateral” European order with Germany at its core and the “bilateral” Asian order in which Japan is a critical player. Katzenstein emphasizes the integration of these regional orders with American designs. Our argument places greater stress on the logic of these regional orders as comprehensive ideological positions adopted in Bonn and Tokyo. These two accounts of Asian and European order certainly contrast with one another, but they are not necessarily contradictory. Katzenstein is undeniably sensitive to the interaction of domestic politics in Germany and Japan with international constraints, and nothing in our argument is intended to challenge the claim that American hegemony was a central fact of life for Adenauer, Yoshida, and their successors in what Katzenstein calls the “porous regions” of Europe and Asia.

CHAPTER 2: LANGUAGE AND THE PROBLEM OF ORDER 1. One might argue that the challenges of reconstruction after the Second World War were far greater than those produced by the War on Terror today. We are inclined to agree with this assessment, but there was also greater unity of purpose among the major Western powers—and the United States in particular enjoyed greater prestige—in the late 1940s than at present. In any case, our point is not that the extent of the challenge was the same, but rather that there are similarities in the kind of challenge faced at these two historical turning points. 2. Rules are distinct, in other words, from mere utterances. It is certainly possible for people to produce utterances that have no particular meaning. Yet all meaningful statements—statements that have constitutive and normative force—are rules. See Winch 1958. 3. Bhaskar explains that a rule tells us either “what forms of action are possible (if it is constitutive) or permissible (if it is regulative)” (Bhaskar 1979, 184, emphasis in original). The distinction between regulation and constitution is made by Kant in his Critique of Pure Reason (1933). See also Rawls 1955.

160

Notes to Chapter 2

4. Social activity, in whatever domain, also has material aspects, and an emphasis on social construction certainly does not deny that materiality. The material world is given meaning, however, through the constitutive and normative functions of language. These functions operate through the efforts of material beings: speakers. Yet both of these functions, constitutive and normative, have a life of their own. They are neither independent from the material world, nor determined by it. 5. Rengger 2000, 7. 6. On this point, we converge with critical theorists who hold that all knowledge is political. We do not believe that this claim requires us to adopt a postmodern epistemological position, however, or to abandon the desire to offer evidence in support of the claims we make elsewhere in this book. Our position is broadly consonant with scientific realism (Bhaskar 1986; Lane 1996; Putnam 1975) and “late modern” constructivism (Onuf 1989; Wendt 1999). 7. Mehta (1992) also puts the geographical metaphor of fitting human deeds within a finite (moral) space to good use in his study of John Locke and the problem of freedom. His later (1999) work extends the metaphor by exploring the way British liberal thought justified and sustained the British Empire. Again, the problem was one of properly demarcating space to accommodate presumed human difference. 8. Parsons 1937. 9. Hobbes 1968. Evans (1995) discusses neoutilitarianism and the state at length. For a recent use of the term to refer specifically to neorealism and neoliberalism in international relations theory, see Barnett 2002. 10. Axelrod 1984; Keohane 1984. 11. Martin 1992; Moravcsik 1991. Also see Stein (1990) for an effort to bridge the gap between neoliberal theories of constraint and choice. 12. Katzenstein, Keohane and Krasner 1998. See, inter alia, Klotz 1995; Price 1997; and Reus-Smit 1999. 13. McSweeney 1999, 105. 14. Ibid. Two superb discussions of the “problem of order” are Onuf 1989 (esp. ch. 4), and Rengger 2000. 15. Kindleberger 1973. 16. Keohane 1984; Keohane and Nye 1977. Preceding Keohane, Mitrany (1966) and Morse (1970) also emphasized the importance of mutual interests and interdependence for cooperation among highly developed states. 17. Martin 1999, 92. 18. Ruggie, “Multilateralism: The Anatomy of an Institution,” in Ruggie, ed., 1993, 24. 19. An explanation of why states prefer different degrees of institutionalization can, for example, be found in Weber 2000. 20. It poses no difficulty to think of corporate, inanimate objects—states, businesses, bureaucracies, and so on—as agents precisely because we imagine them speaking, or acting as though they were capable of speech, and thus of having reasons for their action.

Notes to Chapter 2

161

21. The mutual dependence of agency and structure now appears to be widely accepted by constructivist theorists. See Onuf 1989, 58; Wendt 1999, 184–186. Giddens’ structuration theory also takes this position: “neither subject (human agent) or object (‘society’ or social institutions) should be regarded as having primacy. Each is constituted in and through recurrent practices” (Giddens 1982, 8, emphasis in original). 22. Ashley 1984; Dessler 1989; Wendt 1987. 23. Katzenstein, Keohane, and Krasner 1998. 24. Ruggie 1993, 1998; Finnemore 1996b; Klotz 1995; Price 1997; Tannenwald 1999. 25. Giddens 1979, 1984. 26. Giddens 1982, 2. 27. Wendt 1999. 28. Austin 1962. 29. Searle 1969, 66–69. 30. Onuf 1989. 31. To be clear, this claim does not mean that every utterance must perform one of these functions. Rather, Onuf’s claim is that if an utterance has a social (illocutionary) function, it must be one—or some combination of— these three. See Onuf 1989, ch. 2. 32. This and the following four paragraphs are adapted from Kowert and Onuf 2004. 33. There is considerable disagreement about whether commissives more closely resemble assertions or directives. Searle’s (1979) view, which is close to our own, is that commissives, like directives, are efforts to bring about a particular state of affairs (e.g., to fit the world to words), but through one’s own actions rather than through the actions of others. A contrasting view is that commissives actually describe (hence, fit words to the world) a future state of affairs that the speaker intends to bring about. Although this is plausible, it ignores the normative function of commissive speech. Promises do more than offer accounts of the speaker’s anticipated future behavior. For further consideration of this problem, see Habermas (1984, 324) and Onuf (1989, 92–3). 34. Psychologically, the act of expressing contrition may indeed help to create the impression that contrition is called for. It is possible to apologize indiscriminately or inappropriately. But this does not mean that an apology is, itself, a reason for contrition. We cannot be obligated to apologize for something that will become wrong only if we do, in fact, apologize for it. 35. Compare Habermas’ similar argument to this effect: “Not all illocutionary acts are constitutive for communicative action, but only those with which speakers connect criticizable validity claims. In the other cases, when a speaker is pursuing undeclared ends with perlocutionary acts—ends on which the hearer can take no position at all—or when a speaker is pursuing illocutionary aims on which hearers cannot take a grounded position—as in relation to imperatives—the potential for the binding (or bonding) force of

162

Notes to Chapter 2

good reasons—a potential which is always contained in linguistic communication—remains unexploited” (Habermas 1984, 305). 36. Searle 1969, 12. 37. Quine 1951. 38. Kratochwil 1989, 167; emphasis in original. 39. Hobbes 1968, 196. 40. Kratochwil 1989, 114. 41. Kant 1991, 102. 42. Onuf 1998, 238. 43. Onuf 1989, ch. 6. 44. Gramsci 1971. 45. Although the modern parlance of international relations theory does not observe a careful distinction between hegemony and hierarchy, Onuf clearly does. For him, hegemony is not so much the unquestioning obedience that a hierarchically dominant agent enjoys, but rather a distinct strategy of order. See Onuf 1989, 206–219. 46. For Kant, in Foundation of the Metaphysic of Morals, heteronomy referred to conditions in which autonomy is absent. As Onuf points out, Karl Marx and Max Weber used the term in a similar fashion. In each case, heteronomy identifies a realm in which individual autonomy is constrained by social duties. See Onuf 1989, 212–214. 47. Onuf 1989, 91. 48. Weber 1978, ch. 3. 49. Ibid., 215–6. 50. Onuf 1989, 206–7. 51. Weber’s scheme might be translated into our terminology, however, in the following manner. What Weber describes as “legal” authority rests, in the first instance, on the codified assertions of the law. These assertions have normative force, typically, because they rest on other assertions (of inalienable rights, perhaps, or of enlightened self-interest). Such legal frameworks are thus ordinarily connected to assertive modes of order. Weber’s “traditional” authority rests on the historical institutionalization of a normative framework, rather than clarifying the normative basis of such authority. Natural law conceptions, to take one example, link tradition to a cosmology that is given, whether of secular or divine origin. Like liberal rights, therefore, appeals to tradition are fundamentally assertive. Finally, Weber’s “charismatic” authority appears to substitute effectiveness for justification. Charismatic individuals may succeed as authority figures because of their skill or the force of their personality, but it would be facile to treat this success as its own justification. Weber’s third category thus sidesteps the normative problem entirely, unless one is prepared to ignore Hume and accept the transformation of is into ought without question. Charismatic leaders may ask precisely this from their followers, but doing so cannot actually be equated with a defense of their authority. Alternatively, to the extent that charismatic leaders wield power “because they can,” their directive potential is highlighted, and hierarchical modes of rule are more likely.

Notes to Chapter 2

163

52. Seewald 1990, 131. 53. Korte 1998, 69. 54. Neckermann 1991, 6. 55. Hopf 2002, ch. 4; Herman 1996. 56. Neckermann 1991, 18. 57. Williams 2000, 366. 58. A recent work on Germany and European order that has much more to say about the emerging coercive potential of German power is Adrian Hyde-Price’s (2000) thoughtful discussion of NATO and EU enlargement. Drawing on Oran Young’s (1989) work on international regimes, Hyde-Price proposes three accounts of order as: spontaneous (a result, for example, of hidden-hand forces), imposed (by powerful others), or negotiated (through bargaining among equals). He considers these ideal types, and they loosely resemble assertive, directive, and commissive strategies for order production. Although he does not offer much further theoretical development of the three types as strategies for order production, he does argue for their relevance— and, particularly, the relevance of imposed and negotiated strategies—to contemporary problems of European order, including NATO enlargement and the growth of the EU itself. 59. Onuf 2001, 9. 60. Ibid. 61. The example of Otto Ernst Remer, a wartime German army officer who played a key role in putting down the July 1944 plot against Hitler, is instructive. After the war, Remer remained a Nazi and played a pivotal role in the formation of the Socialist Reich Party in 1949. When the SRP was banned in 1952, one reason given by the Federal Constitutional Court was that it sought “to impose upon the state the structural principles that it has implemented within its own organization” because as a successor to the National Socialists its “internal organization does not correspond to democratic principles” (2 Bundesverfassungsgericht 1, 1952; quoted in German Law Journal 2000, n.p.). In other words, the directive strategy of political organization that the SRP inherited, or was assumed to have inherited, from the National Socialists, was ruled to be incompatible with the postwar German state. 62. See Waltz (2001) for a sensitive history of the impact of states, especially small states, on the emergence of international rights philosophies. 63. Katzenstein (2005, 75) offers a different version of this argument, pointing out that the American approach to political order “had a lot to do with the core differences in Europe’s and Asia’s regional orders. After 1945 multilateralism was an institutional innovation that U.S. policy makers pursued vigorously in Europe but not in Asia. Washington helped set the two regions on different institutional trajectories, leading to ethnic capitalism in Asian markets and law embedded in various European political arrangements.” Our own argument places less stress than Katzenstein’s on American agency. Like Katzenstein, however, we see a basic difference in the regional orders that were built in Europe and Asia during the Cold War. See also Hemmer and Katzenstein (2002).

164

Notes to Chapter 3

64. Habermas 1984, 321. 65. Wendt 1999, 298. 66. It might be more accurate to say that these cultures are once again being taken seriously. An earlier generation of foreign policy analysts took note of the variety of roles states can play on the international stage; see Holsti 1970. Still earlier, in an essay that first appeared in 1927, Carl Schmitt (1996) also emphasized the contrasting international roles of friend and enemy. 67. Wendt 1999, 258. 68. Seewald 1990, 131; also Patton 1999.

CHAPTER 3: THE WESTPOLITIK DEBATE 1. Schwarz 1986, 639–640. 2. On the ECSC, see Berghahn 1986; Diebold 1959. On the Pleven Plan and German rearmament, see Ireland 1981; Large 1996. 3. Patton 1999, 19–20. 4. In the early postwar era, moreover, the High Commission was directly involved in almost all decisions of consequence; see Schwarz 1986, 672. 5. Williams 2000, 366. 6. As Konrad Adenauer put it before the German Bundestag in 1949, a strategy of cooperation was necessary “to seek to expand piece by piece our freedom and competences (jurisdiction) in agreement with the High Allied Commission” (Schröder 1988, 122). All translations in this and subsequent chapters are the authors’ own unless otherwise indicated. 7. Even in matters of foreign policy, disagreements among leading German politicians were extensive and varied. As Schwarz (1981, 67) notes, German and allied leaders debated a great many topics: “dismantling of German industry, limitation concerning industrial production, security controls, future of German ‘Montan’ industry and decartelization, revision of the occupation statute, putting an end to the state of war and the right of the FRG to assume charge of its external affairs, democratization, denazification, admission of Germany to the Council of Europe, the Saar question.” 8. See e.g. Barber 1972; Goldgeier 1994. 9. Poppinga 1975, 166. 10. Baring 1969, 48; 1976, 40. See also Deuerlein 1971; Poppinga 1975, 205. 11. Baring 1969, 43. 12. Deuerlein 1971, 156. 13. Werth 1991, 82. 14. Adenauer, speech at the University of Cologne, March 24, 1946, in Adenauer 1975, 86. 15. See Baring 1969, 42. A speech delivered at the Heidelberg castle, July 21, 1949, typifies the explicit distinction between East and West that Adenauer was prone to draw: “What does the world look like? On the one side Soviet-Russia which can be equated with Asia and which now increases its power through a large part of China. This power, consciously, is an enemy

Notes to Chapter 3

165

of Christianity, an enemy of God; it wants to kill the Christianity and the concept of God within people. This power has subjugated the entire Eastern states” (Adenauer 1975, 148). 16. Merkatz 1976, 126; Poppinga 1975, 166. 17. Poppinga 1975, 167. 18. Ibid., 170. 19. Werth 1991, 97. 20. Ibid., 99. 21. Ibid., 100–101. 22. Poppinga 1975, 274. 23. See Poppinga 1975, 41–2; Krekel 1999, 6. 24. Osterheld 1995, 7. 25. See Poppinga (1975, 20) for a further account of the political offices Adenauer held. 26. Langer 1980. 27. Krekel 1999, 6. On Adenauer and the role of “martyr,” also see Osterheld 1973, 86. 28. Morsey and Schwarz 1991, 273, document no. 250. 29. Werth 1991, 3; Baring 1976, 47. 30. Poppinga 1975. 31. Langer 1980, 27–34. That Adenauer was able to interpret the Quadragesimo Anno as a defense of individual liberty at the expense of the state says, perhaps, more about Adenauer than it does about this highly conservative, pro-corporatist document authored by Pope Pius XI. 32. Langer 1980, 29. 33. Poppinga 1975, 174–5. 34. Ibid., 177. 35. Weidenfeld 1976, 92. 36. Ibid., 149–150; Poppinga 1975, 178. 37. Kruse 1993, 44. 38. Krekel 1999, 32. 39. Hallstein 1976, 135. 40. Weidenfeld 1976, 299–307. 41. See Baring 1976, 50. 42. Genscher 1976, 114. 43. Kruse 1993, 40. 44. On the early philosophical influences on Schumacher, see Scholz and Oschilewski 1954, 558; Ritter 1964, 39. 45. Current Biography 1948, 49–50, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 7. 46. Schlebusch Letter, April 26th, 1946, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 1. 47. Neue Volks-Zeitung July 2, 1947, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 6; and Scholz and Oschilewski (1954, 104) on “sovereign objectivity.” See also the letter Hubert Schlebusch wrote to his SPD comrade Alfred Kubel on April 26, 1946, concerning Schumacher’s character: “Never, during my stay at Dachau, did I speak with a ‘Genosse’ who so clearly and obviously stood behind our

166

Notes to Chapter 3

old ideals as Schumacher. He would have rather had his fingers cut off than to make concession to the Nazis” (Schlebusch Letter, April 26th, 1946, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 1). 48. Ritter 1964, 222. 49. Edinger 1965, 115. 50. Neue Volks-Zeitung, August 2, 1947, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 6. 51. Schumacher Letter to Philippe Brandt, June 18, 1946, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 64. 52. Rathert, “Politik auf ihre Motive getestet,” Sonntagsblatt, Hamburg, January 28, 1968, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 33. 53. On Schumacher’s Weimar-era views on the state and society, see Ritter 1964, 37. 54. See Scholz and Oschilewski 1954, 533, 528. 55. Ritter 1964, 95. 56. Scholz and Oschilewski 1954, 143. 57. Ritter 1964, 126. 58. Drummond 1982, 29. 59. Markus, “Das Mysterium Kurt Schumacher,” translation from “Information vom Sonnabend,” November 24, 1951, in Archive of Social Democracy, Box 10. 60. Edinger 1965, 153. 61. Ritter 1964, 126; Scholz and Oschilewski 1954, 539. 62. Ritter 1964, 124. 63. It is certainly reasonable to argue that neither Adenauer nor Schumacher arrived at their positions in isolation. Schumacher took few important steps without consulting Erich Ollenhauer, for example, and although widely perceived as a “man of lonely decisions” (Krone 1976, 119), Adenauer sought a dialogue throughout his political career with people like Hans Globke, Heinrich Krone, Walter Hallstein, Karl Carstens, and Josef Jansen (Weidenfeld 1976, 218). He relied heavily on an inner circle of advisors known as the “kitchen cabinet,” and met with Globke—a “decisive pillar of [his] regime” (Merkatz 1976, 127)—on a daily basis. A good discussion of the “genealogical” approach is contained in Price (1995). 64. Albrecht 1985, 514–515. 65. This statement is taken from Schumacher’s paper, “Social Democracy Fighting for Freedom and Socialism,” prepared in August and September, 1948, for an SPD party meeting (Albrecht 1985a, 612; emphasis in original). The other statements in this paragraph are all drawn from the June 29 speech in Nuremberg. 66. Albrecht 1985, 499–500. Schumacher particularly has in mind, of course, the territory east of the Oder/Neisse line. He goes on: “After all, 20– 25% of total German food stuffs are produced in this region” (Ibid., 500). 67. Albrecht 1985, 517. 68. Ibid., 634. 69. Ibid., 679.

Notes to Chapter 3

167

70. Ibid. 71. Ibid., 150. 72. Ibid., 778. Schumacher often stressed the dangers of nationalism. Typical was his exclamation, during an SPD party meeting on January 1, 1947, that “nationalism is today’s form of nihilism in the world, the ground on which liars (swindlers) and charlatans (frauds) of modern mankind flourish” (Albrecht 1985, 482). 73. Ibid., 754. 74. Ibid., 756. 75. Ibid., 755. One may note in this last statement that while other governments may issue demands, Schumacher again restricts himself to explanations, appeals to reason or common sense, and assertions of German rights. 76. Albrecht 1985, 889. 77. Ibid., 911. 78. Becker 1998, 6. 79. Ibid., 26. 80. Schroeder 1988, 122. Also see Adenauer (1975, 174): “I stress once more: the method of German foreign policy must be to advance slowly and piecemeal.” 81. Becker 1998, 77. 82. Ibid., 82. 83. Adenauer 1953, 33. Adenauer’s pledge of support for a European Army was made during a speech at the University of Bonn on February 10, 1951, and his support for the European Defense Community was expressed in a speech to the Protestant Working Group of the CDU in Siegen on March 16, 1952. Finally, Adenauer stated his expectation that the ECSC and the EDC would lead to a “more effective political union among the participating nations” in a speech to the National Press Club in Washington, DC, on April 8, 1953. 84. Becker 1998, 6. 85. Adenauer, speech at the University of Cologne, March 24, 1946, in Adenauer 1975, 104. 86. Adenauer, letter to German Center Party politician Helene Wessel, August 27, 1949, in Adenauer 1985, letter no. 86. 87. Adenauer, letter to British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, October 4, 1954, in Adenauer 1995, letter no. 145. 88. Adenauer, letter to Captain Albert Schweizer, February 16, 1948, in Adenauer 1984, letter no. 767A. 89. Adenauer, speech, November 24, 1949, in Adenauer 1975, 174. 90. Adenauer, letter to Interior Minister of the Rhineland Palatinate, Dr. Alois Zimmer, July 9, 1957, in Adenauer 1998, letter no. 308. 91. Adenauer, speech to Royal Institute of International Affairs, Chatham House, London, December 6, 1951, in Adenauer 1975, 236. 92. Schwarz 1981, 247; also see Der Spiegel, October 6, 1954, 5. 93. Schwarz 1997, 114–115, trans. Geoffrey Penny; Adenauer’s conversation with British Prime Minister Eden took place on September 12, 1954. 94. Albrecht 1985, 750.

168

Notes to Chapter 3

95. Adenauer, speech at the University of Cologne, April 13, 1947, in Becker 1998, 38. 96. Adenauer, speech delivered at Titania palace in Berlin, April 18, 1950, quoted in Becker 1998, 61. 97. Becker 1998, 6. 98. Albrecht 1985, 746, italics in original. 99. Schumacher, radio speech, August 11, 1949, in Albrecht 1985, 678. 100. Albrecht 1985, 698. 101. See, for example, his speech to the Bundestag on March 9, 1951 (titled “Germany’s Unity in Freedom”), in which he states that “the question of German unity is a central problem for our people. It is also an important question for the preservation of freedom in the world. . . . The German question cannot be viewed in isolation; but it also cannot be solved by the West by treating Germany as an object” (Albrecht 1985, 924). 102. See Albrecht 1985, 961. 103. Becker 1998, 44. 104. Ibid., 64. 105. Ibid. 106. Ibid., 82. 107. Adenauer 1953, 44. 108. Ibid., 83. 109. Ibid., 125. 110. Ibid., 163. 111. Adenauer, Minutes of the CDU National Executive Council, July 11, 1958, Archiv fuer Christlich-Demokratische Politik (ACDP); reprinted in Schwarz 1997, 352, trans. Geoffrey Penny, emphasis added. On Jan. 29, 1955, Adenauer similarly wrote to the Chairman of the SPD, Erich Ollenhauer, “I don’t have to stress specifically that the Federal Republic . . . views the unification of Germany in peace and freedom as its utmost goal. I am convinced that, if both parts of Germany were able to act freely, this union would come about in a very short time span and without any difficulty. But we are not free. As a result of the lost war, our country is occupied by four powers. If we want to act in a correct fashion, we, most importantly, need to judge our own situation accurately. As you state correctly in your own letter, reunification can only come about as the result of an agreement among the four occupation powers. It is not enough to reach an agreement with the Soviet Union” (Adenauer 1995, letter no. 204; italics in original). Here again, unification depends on the proper international relationship (agreement), not on Germany’s status itself, and certainly not on coercive power. 112. Adenauer, letter to U.S. Secretary of State, Christian Herter, July 30, 1959, in Adenauer 2000, letter no. 289. 113. Banchoff 1999, 11. 114. Ibid., 16. 115. Duffield 1998, 5; also see Berger 1996, 1998; Katzenstein 1996a, 1996b. 116. Wendt 1992.

Notes to Chapter 4

169

CHAPTER 4: THE OSTPOLITIK DEBATE 1. Adenauer, Minutes of the CDU National Executive Council, July 11, 1958, Archiv fuer Christlich-Demokratische Politik (ACDP); reprinted in Schwarz 1997, 352, trans. Geoffrey Penny. 2. Griffith 1978, 124. 3. Ibid., 123. 4. Banchoff 1999, 13. 5. See Keylor 1984, 349, 352. 6. See Griffith 1978, 176; Patton 1999, 66. 7. The Nuclear Non-proliferation Treaty (NPT) stands out in the preceding list since it did, of course, entail formal, legal obligations. Since there was no question of Germany building nuclear weapons, however, the real importance of this agreement for Germany was as another symbol of trustworthiness intended to improve relations with the East. 8. Diehl 1996, 144–150. 9. Kiesinger 1969, 35; Diehl 1996, 159. 10. On Swabia as a source of vitality for Kiesinger, see Kroegel 1997, 48. On the connection between Kiesinger’s values and European order, see Kiesinger 1967, 15. 11. Kroegel 1997, 72, 78. 12. Kiesinger 1964, 5. 13. Schmoeckel 1989, 42. 14. Diehl 1996, 146. 15. Ibid., 150. 16. Kiesinger 1964, 16. 17. Schmoeckel 1989, 74–5. 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid., 76. 20. Hoff 1969, 119. 21. Schmoeckel 1989, 68. 22. Diehl 1996, 148. 23. Hoff 1969, 33. 24. Diehl 1996, 177. On the extent to which Kiesinger took his public speeches seriously and was perceived by others as “an authority on language and culture,” see also Kroegel 1999, 7. 25. Hoff 1969, 122; also see Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 193. 26. Schmoeckel 1989, 95. 27. Diehl 1996, 148. 28. Hoff 1969, 48. 29. Schmoeckel 1989, 64. 30. Ibid., 121. 31. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 176. 32. Schmoeckel 1989, 164. 33. Ibid., 165.

170

Notes to Chapter 4

34. Ibid., 167. 35. Diehl 1996, 151. 36. Schmoeckel 1989, 206–7. 37. Diehl 1996, 151. 38. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 180. 39. Diehl 1996, 190. 40. Schmoeckel 1989, 257. 41. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 180. 42. Diehl 1996, 156–7. 43. Kroegel 1997, 28–9; 1999, 11. 44. Diehl 1996, 174. 45. Ibid., 190. 46. The woman, Beate Klarsfeld, was a German resident of Paris. For an account of the incident, see Diehl 1996, 190. 47. Diehl 1996, 191. 48. On the stigma of his low social status, see Binder 1975, 16. 49. Harpprecht 1971, 69–70; also see Prittie 1974, 3. 50. Prittie 1974, 1. 51. Harpprecht 1971, 69–70. 52. Ibid., 71. 53. Ibid., 73. 54. Prittie 1974, 4. 55. Binder 1975, 21. 56. Prittie 1974, 5, 201. Brandt later mentioned Ernst Reuter, former mayor of Berlin, as another German leader who had a lasting impact on his life; see Binder 1975, 150. Adenauer himself was cited as another influence (Prittie 1974, 201). 57. Prittie 1974, 5. 58. Harpprecht 1971. 59. Prittie 1974, 14; Lenz 1992, 9. 60. Harpprecht 1971. 61. Lenz 1992. 62. Prittie 1974, 59. 63. Ibid., 63; Lenz 1992, 16. 64. Bahr 1999, 7. 65. Harpprecht 1971, 106. 66. Prittie 1974, 119. We are indebted to an anonymous reviewer for drawing our attention to the importance of this experience in shaping Brandt’s convictions. 67. Ibid., 119. 68. Harpprecht 1971, 160–1. 69. Brandt 1992, 131. 70. Harpprecht 1971, 160–1 71. Ibid. 72. Brandt’s emphasis on trust and loyalty was personal as well as political. As biographer Terrence Prittie puts it, “personal loyalty governed all

Notes to Chapter 4

171

his dealings—’He stands four-square by every minister, by every underling; this is with him a solid and enduring principle’ ” (Prittie 1974, 299). 73. Prittie 1974, 54. See Brandt 1944. 74. Prittie 1974, 54. 75. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 210. 76. Kroegel 1997, 336. 77. Kiesinger 1969, 216. 78. Kiesinger 1967, 19–21. 79. Kiesinger 1969, 216–7. 80. Kroegel 1997, 81. 81. Kiesinger 1967, 11; from an interview with Echo der Zeit, December 28, 1966. 82. Schmoeckel, 1989, 506. 83. Kroegel 1997, 168. 84. Ibid., 135. 85. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 205. 86. Kiesinger 1969, 183–4. 87. Ibid., 93. 88. Kiesinger 1967, 10. 89. Kiesinger 1969, 246. 90. Kroegel 1997, 139. 91. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 209. 92. Kiesinger 1967, 42. 93. Ibid., 50. 94. Ibid., 98. 95. Kroegel 1997, 197. 96. Knopp and Schlosshan 1999, 213. 97. Prittie 1974, 222. 98. In his book Draussen (Abroad), to take one example, Brandt says “the central problem of the postwar era remains the realization of the objectives announced at the beginning of the war: First, to rebuild and strengthen elementary human rights and respect for law. Second, to carry over basic rules of freedom and equality from the political to the economic sphere. Third, to bring the rules of international coexistence into harmony with the laws governing domestic relations in each civilized commonwealth” (Brandt 1966; reprinted in Harpprecht 1971, 146). And in A Peace Policy for Europe, Brandt says: “The German people and the Federal government want peace. I think that the governmental responsibility of the German Social Democrats offers an additional guarantee. This party has never agitated for war, and it has never trampled the rights of man under foot” (Brandt 1968b, 100). 99. Struve 1966, 38. 100. Brandt, speech on December 11, 1971, quoted in Brandt 1971b, 141. 101. Brandt, speech on December 12, 1971, quoted in Brandt 1971b, 165. 102. Brandt 1971b, 57. 103. Harpprecht 1971, 22.

172

Notes to Chapter 5

104. Brandt, speech to Bundestag, January 28, 1971, quoted in Brandt 1971b, 115. 105. Harpprecht 1971, 49. Brandt furthermore argues that “the reconciliation of the French and German peoples is one of the most important realities of the postwar world” (ibid., 247). Perhaps, “to a young man from Hanseatic Lübeck, . . . France had at first seemed very remote,” but Brandt nevertheless found that he “had no difficulty in rediscovering that bridge of mutual confidence after the war” (Brandt 1978, 114). As he summed up his attitudes on the subject, “our future lies in a federated Europe” (Harpprecht 1971, 26). 106. Harpprecht 1971, 247. During a lecture at the Friedrich-Ebert Stiftung in Berlin in October 1963, Brandt equates the importance of ties with the United States and with Europe: “Atlantic partnership and the process of European union are simultaneous aims of equal status. The one may not wait for the other” (Brandt 1971b, 29). He thus insisted that NATO must remain strong, since its weakening “would reduce the possibility of détente and lessen its effectiveness” (Prittie 1974, 213). According to Terrence Prittie, moreover, Brandt’s views on Germany’s place in Europe and in the Atlantic alliance were “astonishingly consistent. . . . The most important of them were the maintenance of a strong western alliance, an assured position within it for the Federal Republic and a maximum American contribution to it” (Prittie 1974, 176). 107. Brandt 1968b, 77. 108. Brandt 1971b, 96. 109. Harpprecht 1971, 259. 110. Brandt 1992, 200. 111. Brandt, speech during state visit to Poland, December 1970, quoted in Brandt 1968b, 400. 112. Prittie 1974, 249–250. 113. Brandt, television broadcast in Moscow on August 12, 1970, quoted in Brandt 1971b, 107. 114. Harpprecht 1971, 269. 115. Brandt 1978, 168. 116. Brandt, article in the Yugoslavian journal International Politics, quoted in Brandt 1968b, 68. 117. Prittie 1974, 129. 118. Brandt 1992, 54. 119. Drath 1975, 299. 120. Prittie 1974, 176–7. 121. Brandt, radio and TV address, July 14, 1966, quoted in Brandt 1978, 113. 122. Prittie 1974, 245. 123. Ibid., 150–1.

CHAPTER 5: THE DEUTSCHLANDPOLITIK DEBATE 1. Indeed, the newly freed citizens of some East European states, Poland in particular, displayed some hesitancy over the prospect of a united Germany.

Notes to Chapter 5

173

2. Patton 1999, 128–129. These were not disagreements on the goal of unification, of course, but rather on the timing and procedures for achieving it. 3. Busche 1998, 244. 4. Seewald 1990, 130; Cole 1998, 129. Also see Paterson 1998, 20. 5. Pruys 1996, 17. Kohl was thus strongly drawn to emphasize the importance of close contacts among the Western powers—not only with France, but also with the United States (see Maser 1990, 158). 6. Pruys 1996, xiii; also see Maser 1990, 84. 7. Maser 1990, 18; 111. 8. See Gauland (1994, 15) on the influence of Kohl’s parents, and on their own disenchantment with socialist ideas. 9. Clemens 1998, 2. 10. Leinemann 1998, 32. 11. Pruys 1996, 9. 12. With party number 00246, Kohl was very nearly a founding member of the postwar CDU. 13. Pruys 1996, 15. 14. Clemens 1998, 12. 15. Maser 1990, 65. 16. Seewald 1990, 108. 17. Ibid. 18. Leinemann 1998, 85. 19. Maser 1990, 258. 20. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 11. 21. Ibid., 301. 22. Heneghan 2000, 38. 23. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 45–6. 24. Ibid., 102. 25. Ibid., 222. 26. Ibid., 319. 27. Ibid., 192–193. 28. Ibid., 320–325. 29. Maser 1990, 257. 30. Ibid., 303. 31. Busche 1998, 244. 32. Braunthal 1998, 153. 33. Cole 1998, 124. 34. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 272. 35. Certainly, Lafontaine was adept at maneuvers of political expediency, which earned him the critical appellation Windhund (literally, “greyhound,” but figuratively, “slippery”). Rudolph Augstein described him as “unpredictable, a populist” (Der Spiegel 11, 1990, 27). 36. Seewald 1990, 105. 37. Patton (1999) also concludes that “chancellor politics” was decisive in determining Germany’s direction after the fall of the Berlin Wall. 38. Kohl 1992, 298; quoted in Südwest Presse, October 2, 1991. 39. Patton 1999, 111.

174

Notes to Chapter 5

40. Augstein 1990, 23. 41. Der Spiegel 9, 1990, 18. 42. Lafontaine 2000, 6. 43. Schwarz and Rippert 1999. 44. Lafontaine 2000, 38. 45. Heneghan 2000, 38. 46. Kohl 1990, 11. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid., 38; October 21, 1989 speech. 49. Ibid., 78–9; November 11, 1989 press conference. 50. Ibid., 120. 51. Ibid., 177. 52. Kohl 1992, 176. 53. Hintze and Langguth 1993, 237; from a February 12, 1984 speech. 54. Lafontaine 1990, 7. 55. Braunthal 1993, 394. 56. Neckermann 1991, 29. 57. Ibid. 58. Ibid. 59. Ibid., 30. 60. Lafontaine 1989, 67. 61. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 301. 62. Lafontaine 1990, 61. 63. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 217. 64. Lafontaine 1990, 88–90. 65. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 169. 66. Lafontaine 1990, 183. 67. Dreher 1998, 478. 68. Maser 1990, 303. 69. Hintze and Langguth 1993, 227. 70. Ibid., 334. 71. Kohl 1992, 29. 72. Seewald 1990, 136. 73. Paterson 1998, 27. 74. Clemens 1998, 12. 75. Maser 1990, 157. 76. Gauland 1994, 82. 77. Kohl 1992, 150. 78. The rights with which Schumacher, Kiesinger, and Lafontaine were most preoccupied were not identical, of course. It might be objected that the latter, in particular, was more concerned with the rights of a subset of Germans within a predominantly domestic context. The extent to which Lafontaine is really so different from Schumacher and Kiesinger in this regard is debatable, since he vigorously defended the rights of German citizens in both the West and the East and in a variety of different contexts. In any case, whether Lafontaine focused more on domestic or social rights than the others is beside the point. These politicians all shared the assumption, characteristic of an

Notes to Chapter 6

175

assertive linguistic strategy, that political order is built on a foundation of agent rights.

CHAPTER 6: JAPAN AND THE PROBLEM OF ORDER 1. Of the twelve condemned German officials, one (Martin Bormann) was tried and sentenced in absentia. Of the twenty-eight indicted Japanese officials, two died in prison during the course of the trials, another suffered a mental collapse, and four more died while serving their prison sentences. Seven were sentenced to death and executed on December 23, 1948. On the Nuremberg and Tokyo War Crimes Trials, see Bass 2000. For Japanese names (e.g. Hideki Tøjø), we will follow the convention of many Japanese authors who write in English, placing surnames after given names in Western fashion. In some direct translations from Japanese texts in this chapter, however, we preserve the original, Japanese (or Chinese) name order for the sake of clarity. 2. In Japan, the 1946 rice and wheat harvests amounted to only 60 percent of wartime yields, exacerbating the food problem. See Dower 1979, 293. 3. Dower 1979, 293. 4. Berger 1998. 5. See Dower 1979, 14–18; Køsaka 1968, 18. 6. Dower 1979, 16. 7. Yoshida’s maternal great-grandfather, Satø Issai, was a noted Confucian scholar, and Yoshida’s own early formal schooling was at a “School of Chinese Learning” (Kangaku-juku). Yet apart from a generalized sense of patriotism, it is difficult to discern any consistent effect of Confucian philosophy in the adult Yoshida’s pragmatic, realist politics. See Dower 1979, 22; and on Satø’s influence, see Harootunian 1979. On the paradoxical aspects of Yoshida’s ideology, see also Hosaka 2000. 8. See Dower 1979, 68 ff. 9. Ibid., 73. 10. Ibid., 82, 83. 11. Wakamiya 1998, 64. Wakamiya also cites Dower (1979) to support this claim. 12. See Wakamiya 1998, 61–62. 13. Dower 1979, 37. Among the numerous biographies of Yoshida in Japanese, most noteworthy is Køsaka 1968. 14. For a summary of Yoshida’s efforts to present Japan’s position on Manchuria to the West, see Dower 1979, 116–8. 15. See Dower 1979, 120. 16. See Nakamura 1998, 279. 17. Konoe’s warning was delivered to the Emperor, in February 1945, in a memorial speech that came to be known as the Konoe Memorial. See Dower 1979, 293. 18. The Jiy¨tø (Liberal Party) became the largest party of the right in the 1946 elections, followed by the Shinpotø (Progressive Party). The liberals were no more liberal, of course, than the Progressives were progressive.

176

Notes to Chapter 6

19. SCAP is widely used to refer not only to General MacArthur, but also to his General Headquarters. On the evolution of the police as an institution in Japan, see Bayley 1976 and Katzenstein 1996a. 20. Indeed, the first postwar Japanese Cabinet, under Prince Higashikuni, summarily resigned after SCAP announced orders that the military police (kempei) be disbanded and the Peace Preservation Law rescinded. The “reverse course” began, arguably, when SCAP interceded to stop the massive, nationwide general strike scheduled for February 1, 1947. Eventually, Japanese conservatives were witness to a double irony: “The bizarre pre-surrender spectacle of ‘old liberals’ such as Yoshida attacking ‘rightists’ such as Tøjø for leading Japan in the direction of ‘communism’ (because of the policies of centralized control) reappeared in the American context in early 1948, when ‘liberals’ such as George Kennan began to criticize MacArthur, the darling of the American conservatives, for paving the way for the communization of postwar Japan” (Dower 1979, 303). 21. Yoshida explained in his memoirs that he considered the threat to public order from the Japanese left to be far more serious than was the case in Germany: “I said to Herr Adenauer that we Japanese have a great respect for foreign civilization, that we are always sending people out to those countries to gain more knowledge; that we have a blind faith in all that comes from abroad, and that our peculiar idea of democracy stems from this. However, we seem singularly oblivious of [sic] the nature of Communism, which is not the reaction of the people of West Germany where refugees from East Germany come in hundreds every day to tell those in West Germany what Communism really is like. In this way, the dangers of Communism are made known to all, without the German Government having to do much in the way of counter-propaganda” (Yoshida 1962, 43–44). 22. Yoshida 1962, 42. 23. In 1920, Yoshida was reassigned to Japan’s London embassy as first secretary. In this capacity, he met Crown Prince Hirohito for the first time when the latter visited London for the coronation of King George V. This meeting helped to lay the foundation for a deep personal respect for the Japanese sovereign that persisted for the remainder of Yoshida’s political career. These personal ties no doubt help to explain, at least in part, why Yoshida was so committed to the imperial system later in his career. 24. Dower 1979, 322. 25. Ibid. 26. Shigeru Yoshida, comments before the House of Peers, 90th Session, June 25, 1946; quoted in Dower 1979, 323. 27. Tokujirø Kanamori, comments before the House of Representatives, 90th Session, June 23, 1946; quoted in Dower 1979, 324. 28. Shigeru Yoshida, comments before the House of Representatives, 90th Session, June 26, 1946; quoted in Dower 1979, 324–325. 29. Dower 1979, 323. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid., 375.

Notes to Chapter 6

177

32. On the Yoshida letter, see Hosoya 1984. 33. Shigeru Yoshida, comments before the House of Representatives, 90th Session, June 26, 1946; quoted in Dower 1979, 379. 34. Ibid. 35. Shigeru Yoshida, administrative policy speech to the Diet, 6th Session, November 8, 1949; quoted in Dower 1979, 381. 36. Ibid. 37. This is Dower’s (1979, 397–398) assessment as well: “Article Nine thus simply offered a dramatic device through which to fashion a new image, and Yoshida’s manipulation of this can be seen as the reverse side of his invitation of post-treaty U.S. bases. In considerable part, both endeavors originated as tactical approaches to attainment of an early peace: the bases to gain American support, professions of fidelity to Article Nine to encourage international as well as domestic support.” 38. Shigeru Yoshida, administrative policy speech to the Diet, 7th Session, January 23, 1950; quoted in Dower 1979, 382. 39. Dower 1979, 385. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid., 388. 42. Shigeru Yoshida, administrative policy speech to the Diet, 10th Session, January 26, 1951; quoted in Dower 1979, 390. 43. Ibid. 44. Dower 1979, 438. 45. Shigeru Yoshida, response to a question in the Diet, March 7, 1952; quoted in Dower 1979, 440. 46. See Dower 1979, 441. 47. Ibid., 465. 48. Yoshida 1961, 123. 49. China, and probably a number of other Asian countries, certainly would have objected to a more directive Japanese stance. But Yoshida gives little indication, after the immediate postwar period was over, that this was a particular concern of his. He later claimed, for example, that he could “not understand why Koreans hate the Japanese so much and voice such strong anti-Japanese sentiments” (Wakamiya 1998, 69). In Wakamiya’s (1998, 70) own summation, “Yoshida was almost constitutionally contemptuous of Asia and Asians.” 50. Shigeru Yoshida, comments before the House of Representatives, 10th Session, January 27, 1951; quoted in Dower 1979, 391. 51. Nevertheless, to placate Kimura, Yoshida made him head of the National Safety Agency after the National Police Reserve was reorganized as the National Safety Force in 1952. See Dower 1979, 396–397. 52. In his memoirs, Yoshida (1961, 110–111) cites internal pressure from the radical left as a peculiar disadvantage in postwar Japan, compared with Germany. 53. Yoshida 1961, 274. 54. See also Yoshida 1967, 76.

178

Notes to Chapter 6

55. The 1 percent ceiling on defense spending was not formalized until 1976 under Prime Minister Takeo Miki; the basic policy, however, was clearly established by Yoshida. 56. Samuels 2003, 223; emphasis in original. 57. Ibid. 58. Previous chapters have argued that party politics do not explain the postwar debates in Germany. There is no contradiction in arguing, however, that the existence of vibrant party politics may have encouraged some sort of debate. The claim of earlier chapters is simply that the character of the debate—pitting commissive and assertive conceptions of international order against each other—is not explained by party differences. Party positions varied in the debate, but party leaders often weighed in on the debate. Without a vibrant democracy in the FRG, there would simply have been much less room for debate. 59. Nakamura 1998, 265. 60. Satø, Køyama, and Kumon 1990, 110. Satø, Køyama, and Kumon translate futei no yakara as “unruly gangs,” though this misses something of the phrase’s force. 61. McClain 2002, 530–531. 62. Nakamura 1998, 291. 63. Edström 1999, 14. The complete text of Katayama’s July 1, 1947 Diet speech is available (in Japanese) on the “Postwar Japanese Politics and International Relations Database” website maintained by the Institute of Oriental Culture, University of Tokyo (http://avatoli.ioc.u-tokyo.ac.jp/~worldjpn/ documents). 64. Edström 1999, 14. 65. Tetsu Katayama, comments before the Diet, 2nd Session, January 22, 1948. In his earlier, July 1 speech, Katayama also refers to Japan’s obligation to “discharge faithfully the duties that come with accepting the Potsdam declaration.” In this speech as well, Japan’s rights are not mentioned, though on this earlier occasion Katayama does refer to the sovereignty of the people (shuken zaikømin) and to civil rights (jinken). See Katayama, speech before the Diet, 1st Session, July 1, 1947. 66. Shigeru Yoshida, administrative policy speech to the Diet, 7th Session, January 23, 1950. Similarly, in another speech before the Diet the following year, Yoshida refers repeatedly to Japan’s sovereignty (shuken) and to Japan’s rights (Nippon no kenri); 12th Session, October 12, 1951. Yoshida was unequivocally opposed to significant Japanese rearmament (a position that was enshrined as the Yoshida Doctrine, discussed below). But he also made it clear on many occasions that Japan retained the right to self-defense. In his memoirs, he thus asserts that “every nation possesses the right to defend itself” (Yoshida 1962, 193). 67. Nakamura 1998, 292 68. On the general contours of postwar policy debates in Japan, see Pempel 1977. 69. Katzenstein (2005) gives this history a slightly different interpretation by emphasizing Japan’s gradual integration into the institutions of the

Notes to Chapter 7

179

American imperium. Katzenstein thus contrasts Japan’s bilateral institutional strategy with Germany’s multilateral strategy. This is an instructive comparison, but it does not greatly conflict with the argument presented here. The bilateral approach appealed to Yoshida in good measure because it maximized his freedom to act. It was consistent with an assertive policy of restoring Japanese rights. In contrast, Germany’s multilateral strategy appealed to Adenauer and his commissive successors precisely because it constrained Germany and reassured other European states. Yoshida may have wanted to constrain both the right and the left, domestically, but he had no particular desire to constrain Japan internationally. 70. The Seiy¨kai (or Rikken Seiy¶kai) party was founded by Hirobumi Itø in 1890. Like its successors, the Nihon Jiy¨tø (Liberal Party) and the Jiy¨ Minshutø (Liberal Democratic Party), it was in fact a politically conservative party. For a detailed discussion of Japan’s conservative parties in the postwar era, including Hatoyama’s role in forming the Nihon Jiy¨tø, see Uchida 1987. Like Katayama, Hatoyama has received comparatively little attention in English. Treatments in Japanese are also relatively sparse and include Miyazaki (1985) and Hatoyama’s own (1957) memoirs. 71. Dower 1979, 250. 72. Ichirø Hatoyama, speech to the Diet, 25th Session, November 16, 1956. 73. Dower 1979, 250. For an effort to reinterpret Hatoyama’s statements in Sekai no kao in a more positive light, see Itø 2002. 74. Ibid., 250. 75. Dower 1979, 447. 76. Kim 2001. 77. Green 1995, 42. 78. Indeed, no one was even appointed to the Kempø Chøsakai until 1957, and it did not issue any revision recommendations until 1964, by which point they had become politically meaningless. See Sims 2001, 277. 79. See also Samuels (2003) for a similar conclusion about Yoshida’s impact as a leader. 80. Dower 1979, 439. 81. Ibid., 399. Suzuki was Yoshida’s teacher at the Gakush¨in, or Peers’ School, which Yoshida entered at age nineteen.

CHAPTER 7: CONCLUSION 1. Maser 1990, 313. 2. Filmer and Schwan 1990, 343. 3. Brandt 1971, 36. In this statement, even while defending the rights of Germans against “unjustified attacks,” it is noteworthy that Brandt also sounds the theme of trust and confidence that was the basis of his own conception of international order. 4. Kohl 1990, 63. 5. Katzenstein 2005, 208. 6. Ibid., 214–215; Katzenstein cites Huntington 1973, 342–343.

180

Notes to Chapter 7

7. Nye 1990. 8. Katzenstein 2005, 220. Katzenstein devotes considerable attention, in fact, to these differences. He observes, for example, that “in both economic and security affairs, Europe’s regionalism is more transparent and intrusive than Asia’s. The legislative history of the European Union on economic issues, for example, one part of its acquis communitaire, has no analogue in Asia. Even in the wake of the massive dislocations caused by the Asian financial crisis of 1997, ASEAN agreed to a financial surveillance regime much less transparent and intrusive than corresponding mechanisms in Europe” (Katzenstein 2005, 219). He argues that differences in “state structures” and even in the “character” of states also help to account for the divergent paths of European and Asian regionalism (see Katzenstein, 2005, 222–223). 9. Katzenstein 2005, 225. 10. Patton 1999, 154. 11. Ibid. 12. Mearsheimer 1991. 13. Waltz 1981. 14. O’Brien 1997, 83. Far less alarmist than Mearsheimer or O’Brien, others such as Forsberg (2005), Karp (2005) and Risse (2004) also see evidence of a new German independence. 15. Bulmer, Jeffery and Paterson 2000, 30. 16. Ibid., 59. 17. Ibid., 127. 18. Ibid., 50, 76–78. 19. Ibid., 127. 20. Maull 2002, 69. 21. Financial Times, November 11, 1998, 6. 22. Katzenstein 1997, 25; see also Hampton 1998/99, 264 and Wolf 2002. 23. Urschel 2002, 319. 24. Schroeder, speech to the Bundestag, August 29, 2001. 25. Schroeder, quoted in Urschel 2002, 366 and 391. 26. Schroeder, speech to the Bundestag, September 19, 2001. 27. Gerhard Schroeder, press conference statement, October 9, 2001; transcript available from White House news archive, http://www.whitehouse.gov/ news/releases/2001/10/. 28. Hellmann 2002. 29. Schroeder, quoted in New York Times (September 5, 2002), A1. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Another example of Germany’s increased willingness to oppose American policies is Schroeder’s decision in spring 2005 to support lifting the European arms embargo on China. In this case as well, however, Schroeder defended his decision as a trust-building measure: a more independent stance designed to promote commissive objectives. Since German export controls would prohibit the sales of advanced weaponry to China in any event, this explanation is more plausible than one that stresses economic self-interest. See Bernstein 2005.

Notes to Chapter 7

181

33. Schroeder’s campaign rhetoric in 2002 was so sharply critical of the Bush administration that, after the Chancellor’s electoral victory in September, the White House declined to send the usual congratulations. Instead, Donald Rumsfeld pointedly remarked: “I have no comment on the German election’s outcome, but I would have to say that the way it was conducted was notably unhelpful, and, as the White House indicated, has had the effect of poisoning the relationship” (CNN, September 23, 2002). 34. Erlanger 2002, A12. 35. Bernstein 2004, 55. 36. Schroeder, quoted in New York Times (September 5, 2002), A1. 37. For a similar view that Germany’s dissent from the American position goes deeper than campaign rhetoric, see Katzenstein 2003. Also see Larres 2003. 38. Kagan 2002, 1. 39. Ibid. Also see Kagan 2003; Karp 2005, Malici 2006. 40. Kagan 2006b. 41. Kagan 2006a. In this respect, Kagan has moved broadly into alignment with Katzenstein’s (2005) account of the American imperium. 42. Kagan 2003, 3. 43. Williamson 2004, 2. 44. Cohen 1998. 45. Ibid. 46. Instead, “Germany, France and most others support a so-called ‘double majority’ system, where a decision would require the backing of 50 percent of member states representing 60 percent of the population” (Parker 2003, 11). 47. Cohen 1998. 48. Parker 2003, 11. 49. Beste et al. 2003, 137. 50. See Tuschhoff 2002. 51. Schroeder’s proposal was described in the New York Times (May 1, 2001). 52. Economist, May 3, 2001, 41. 53. Katzenstein 1997, 25. 54. Kaiser 2002, 6. See also Forsberg 2005; Karp 2005. 55. Ross 2004, 7. 56. Schroeder 2004, 28. 57. Fischer, interview with Charlie Rose, November 1, 2002; from Germany Info, http://www.germany.info/relaunch/politics/speeches/ 103102a.htm. 58. Fischer, speech to Bundestag, September 10, 2003; from the Bundestag website, http://dip.bundestag.de/btp/15/15059.pdf. 59. Ibid. 60. Fischer, speech to Bundestag, September 9, 2004; from the Federal Foreign Office website, http://www.auswaertiges-amt.de/diplo/en/ Infoservice/Presse/reden/2004/040908–GermanForeignPolicy.html 61. Karp 2005, 76.

182

Notes to Chapter 7

62. Ibid., 75. See also Risse (2004) on the essential continuity in German policy. 63. Benoit 2006, 10. The link to Kohl should come as no surprise, since Merkel served as a cabinet minister in his government. 64. Schwarz 2003, 25. 65. Hyde-Price reaches the same conclusion in his thoughtful discussion of Germany and European order: “Given the Berlin Republic’s political weight, economic strength and accumulated reserves of Vertrauenskapital, the new Europe will have a strong German influence. Yet, German power and influence in the new Europe will not be exercised unilaterally, but multilaterally. It will therefore tend to be mediated through multilateral organisations, informal ‘minilateral’ groupings of states . . . and strategic partnerships” (HydePrice 2000, 221). 66. Wendt 2003. To be clear, we do not mean to take issue with Wendt’s defense of teleological theory. The prima facie case that historically progressive theory is impossible would be just as hard to sustain as the case that history must lead in a certain direction. Our analysis of order does not imply the sort of progressive history, however, that Wendt’s version of self-organization theory does. 67. Bush 1999a. 68. Bush 1999b. 69. Giddens 1979, 1984. 70. See Hobden and Hobson 2002. 71. Patton 1999, 11.

Bibliography

183

Bibliography Adenauer, Konrad. 1953. Journey to America: Collected Speeches, Statements, Press, Radio and TV Interviews by Dr. Konrad Adenauer During His Visit to the United States and Canada, April 6–18, 1953. Washington, DC: Press Office of the German Diplomatic Mission. ———. 1975. Reden 1917–1967: Eine Auswahl. Ed. Hans-Peter Schwarz. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. ———. 1984. Briefe 1947–1949. Eds. Rudolph Morsey and Hans-Peter Schwarz. Rhoendorfer Edition. Berlin: Siedler. ———. 1985. Briefe 1949–1951. Eds. Rudolph Morsey and Hans-Peter Schwarz. Rhoendorfer Edition. Berlin: Siedler. ———. 1987. Briefe 1951–1953. Eds. Rudolph Morsey and Hans-Peter Schwarz. Rhoendorfer Edition. Berlin: Siedler. ———. 1995. Briefe 1953–1955. Eds. Rudolph Morsey and Hans-Peter Schwarz. Rhoendorfer Edition. Berlin: Siedler. ———. 1998. Briefe 1955–1957. Eds. Rudolph Morsey and Hans-Peter Schwarz. Rhoendorfer Edition. Berlin: Siedler. ———. 2000. Briefe 1957–1959. Eds. Rudolph Morsey and Hans-Peter Schwarz. Rhoendorfer Edition. Paderborn: Schoeningh. Adler, Emanuel. 1997. “Seizing the Middle Ground: Constructivism in World Politics.” European Journal of International Relations 3: 319–363. Adler, Emanuel and Michael Barnett, eds. 1998. Security Communities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Adorno, Theodore W., Else Frenkel-Brunswik, Daniel J. Levinson, and R. Neville Sanford. 1950. The Authoritarian Personality. New York: Harper. Albrecht, Willy. 1985. Kurt Schumacher: Reden-Schriften-Korrespondenzen 1945– 1952. Berlin: Verlag J. H. W. Dietz. Anderson, Jeffrey J. 1997. “Hard Interests, Soft Power, and Germany’s Changing Role in Europe.” In Tamed Power: Germany in Europe. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 80–107. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Artner, Stephen. 1985. A Change of Course: The West German Social Democrats and NATO, 1957–1961. Westport: Greenwood Press. Ashley, Richard. 1984. “The Poverty of Neorealism.” International Organization 38: 225–286. Augstein, Rudolf. 1990. “Es bewegt sich etwas.” Der Spiegel 6: 23.

183

184

Bibliography

Austin, J. L. 1962. How to Do Things with Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Axelrod, Robert. 1984. The Evolution of Cooperation. New York: Basic, 1984. Bach, Jonathan P. G. 1999. Between Sovereignty and Integration: German Foreign Policy and National Identity after 1989. Hamburg: Lit Verlag; and New York: St. Martin’s Press. Bahr, Egon. 1999. “Willy Brandts europäische Außenpolitik.” Berlin: Schriftenreihe der Bundeskanzler-Willy-Brandt-Stiftung. Banchoff, Thomas. 1999. The German Problem Transformed: Institutions, Politics, and Foreign Policy, 1945–1995. Ann Arbor, MI: Michigan University Press. Barber, James David. 1972. The Presidential Character: Predicting Performance in the White House. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. Baring, Arnulf. 1969. Außenpolitik in Adenauers Kanzlerdemokratie: Bonns Beitrag zur Europäischen Verteidigungsgemeinschaft. Munich: Oldenbourg Verlag. ———. 1976. “Grundlagen und Fernziele einer Kanzlerschaft.” In Konrad Adenauer 1876/1976. Ed. Helmut Kohl, 40–52. Stuttgart: Belser Verlag. Barnett, Michael. 2002. “Historical Sociology and Constructivism: An Estranged Past, a Federated Future?” In Historical Sociology of International Relations. Eds. Stephen Hobden and John M. Hobson, 99–119. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bass, Gary Jonathan. 2000. Stay the Hand of Vengeance: The Politics of War Crimes Trials. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bayley, David H. 1976. Forces of Order: Police Behavior in Japan and the United States. Berkeley: University of California Press. Becker, Felix ed. 1998. Konrad Adenauer. “Die Demokratie Ist Für Uns Eine Weltanschauung.” Reden und Gespräche 1946–1967. Cologne: Böhlau Verlag. Benoit, Bertrand. 2006. “Lecturer or Listener? Why Merkel May Need to Work on Her Assertive Side.” Financial Times, February 21, p. 10. Berger, Thomas U. 1996. “Norms, Identity, and National Security in Germany and Japan.” In The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 317–356. New York: Columbia University Press. ———. 1998. Cultures of Antimilitarism: National Security in Germany and Japan. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Berghahn, Volker R. 1986. The Americanisation of West German Industry, 1945– 1973. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bernstein, Richard. 2004. “The German Question.” New York Times Magazine, May 2, pp. 52–7. ———. 2005. “Schroeder Asserts His Authority On Ending China Arms Embargo.” New York Times, April 1, p. A6. Beste, Ralf, et. al. 2003. “Am Pokertisch der Bosse.” Der Spiegel, February, pp. 134–7. Bhaskar, Roy. 1979. The Possibility of Naturalism. Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press. ———. 1986. Scientific Realism and Human Emancipation. London: Verso. Binder, David. 1975. The Other German: Willy Brandt’s Life and Times. Washington: The New Republic Book Company.

Bibliography

185

Böhme, Erich and Klaus Wirtgen, eds. 1993. Willy Brandt: Die Spiegel-Gespräche 1959–1992. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Boulding, Kenneth. 1956. The Image: Knowledge in Life and Society. Ann Arbor, MI: Michigan University Press. Brandt, Willy. 1966. Draussen: Schriften während der Emigration. Ed. Günter Struve. Munich: Kindler. ———. 1968a. “German Policy Toward the East.” Foreign Affairs 46, 3: 476–486. ———. 1968b. A Peace Policy For Europe. Trans. Joel Carmichael. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. ———. 1971a. In Exile: Essays, Reflections and Letters 1933–1947. Trans. R. W. Last. London: Oswald Wolff. ———. 1971b. Peace: Writings and Speeches of the Nobel Peace Prize Winner 1971. Bonn: Verlag Neue Gesellschaft. ———. 1978. People and Politics: The Years 1960–1975. Trans. Maxwell Brownjohn. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. ———. 1992. My Life in Politics. London: Hamish Hamilton. Brandt, Willy, Stefan Szende, Irmgard Enderle, August Enderle, and Ernst Behm. 1944. Zur Nachkriegspolitik deutscher Sozialisten [The Postwar Policy of the German Socialists]. Stockholm: Arbetarnas Tryck. Braunthal, Gerard. 1993. “The 1989 Basic Program of the German Social Democratic Party.” Polity 25, 3: 375–399. ———. 1998. “Opposition in the Kohl Era: The SPD and the Left.” In The Kohl Chancellorship. Eds. Clay Clemens and William Paterson, 143–162. London: Frank Cass. Bronfenbrenner, Urie. 1961. “The Mirror-image in Soviet-American Relations: A Social Psychologist’s Report.” Journal of Social Issues 17: 45–56. Bulmer, Simon J. 1997. “Shaping the Rules? The Constitutive Politics of the European Union and German Power.” In Tamed Power: Germany in Europe. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 49–79. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Bulmer, Simon, Charlie Jeffery and William Paterson. 2000. Germany’s European Diplomacy: Shaping the Regional Milieu. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Burch, Kurt. 2002. “Toward a Constructivist Comparative Politics.” In Constructivism and Comparative Politics. Ed. Daniel Green, chap. 2. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe. Busche, Jürgen. 1998. Helmut Kohl: Anatomie eines Erfolgs. Berlin: Berlin Verlag. Bush, George W. 1999a. “Bush for President Announcement.” Cedar Rapids, Iowa (June 12). ———. 1999b. A Charge to Keep. New York: William Morrow. Checkel, Jeffrey. 1998. “The Constructivist Turn in International Relations Theory.” World Politics 50: 324–348. Clemens, Clay. 1998. “Introduction: Assessing the Kohl Legacy.” In The Kohl Chancellorship. Eds. Clay Clemens and William Paterson, 1–16. London: Frank Cass. Clemens, Clay and William Paterson, eds. 1998. The Kohl Chancellorship. London: Frank Cass.

186

Bibliography

Cohen, Roger. 1998. “Schroeder’s Germany Grows Bolder, Irritating Its Allies,” New York Times, December 12; http://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/ intrel/boldger.htm. Cole, Alistair. 1998. “Political Leadership in Western Europe: Helmut Kohl in Comparative Context.” In The Kohl Chancellorship. Eds. Clay Clemens and William Paterson, 120–142. London: Frank Cass. Cottam, Richard. 1977. Foreign Policy Motivation: A General Theory and a Case Study. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Der Spiegel. 1990. “Deutschland, einig Unverstand.” Der Spiegel 9: 18. Dessler, David. 1989. “What’s at Stake in the Agent-Structure Debate?” International Organization 43: 443–473. Deuerlein, Ernst. 1971. “Das Rheinische in Konrad Adenauer.” In Provinz und Staat. Ed. Walter Först, 149–188. Cologne: Grote. Diebold, William. 1959. The Schuman Plan: A Study in Economic Cooperation, 1950–1959. New York: Praeger. Diehl, Guenter. 1996. “Kurt Georg Kiesinger.” In The German Chancellors. Ed. Hans Klein. Trans. Edna McCown. Chicago: Edition Q. Doering-Manteuffel, Anselm. 1983. Die Bundesrepublik Deutschland in der Ära Adenauer. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Dower, John. 1979. Empire and Aftermath: Yoshida Shigeru and the Japanese Experience, 1878–1954. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Drath, Viola. 1975. Willy Brandt: Prisoner Of His Past. Radnor, PA: Chilton Book Company. Dreher, Klaus. 1998. Helmut Kohl: Leben mit Macht. Stuttgart: Deutsche VerlagsAnstalt. Drummond, Gordon. 1982. The German Social Democrats in Opposition, 1949– 1960: The Case Against Rearmament. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Duffield, John. 1998. World Power Forsaken: Political Culture, International Institutions, and German Security Policy After Unification. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Edinger, Lewis. 1965. Kurt Schumacher: A Study in Personality and Political Behavior. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Edström, Bert. 1999. Japan’s Evolving Foreign Policy Doctrine: From Yoshida to Miyazawa. London: Macmillan. Erlanger, Stephen. 2002. “Germany’s Leader Retains His Power After Tight Vote.” New York Times, September 23, p. A 12. Evans, Peter. 1995. Embedded Autonomy: States and Industrial Transformation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Filmer, Werner and Heribert Schwan. 1990. Oskar Lafontaine. Düsseldorf: ECON Verlag. Financial Times, “Germany—Annual Country Review.” Financial Times, November 10, 1998, p. 6. Finnemore, Martha. 1996a. National Interests in International Society. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Bibliography

187

———. 1996b. “Constructing Norms of Humanitarian Intervention.” In The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 153–185. New York: Columbia University Press. Forsberg, Tuomas. 2005. “German Foreign Policy and the War on Iraq: AntiAmericanism, Pacifism or Emancipation?” Security Dialogue 36, 2: 213– 231. Foschepoth, Josef, ed. 1988. Adenauer und die Deutsche Frage. Goettingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Gauland, Alexander. 1994. Helmut Kohl: Ein Prinzip. Berlin: Rowohlt. Genscher, Hans-Dietrich. 1976. “Adenauer und die Ost- und Deutschlandpolitik der Freien Demokraten.” In Konrad Adenauer und seine Zeit: Politik und Persönlichkeit des ersten Bundeskanzlers; Beiträge von Weg- und Zeitgenossen. Eds. Dieter Blumenwitz, Klaus Gotto, Hans Meier, Konrad Repgen, and Hans-Peter Schwarz, 108–116. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. German Law Journal. 2000. “Government Commits to Seeking a Ban of the Extreme Right-Wing National Democratic Party of Germany (NPD).” German Law Journal 2, n.p.; http://www.germanlawjournal.com/ article.php?id=6. Giddens, Anthony. 1979. Central Problems in Social Theory. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. ———. 1982. Profiles and Critiques in Social Theory. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Giddens, Anthony. 1984. The Constitution of Society. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Goldgeier, James M. 1994. Leadership Style and Soviet Foreign Policy: Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Gorbachev. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Gramsci, Antonio, ed. 1971. Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci. Trans. Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. New York: International Publishers. Green, Michael J. 1995. Arming Japan: Defense Production, Alliance Politics, and the Postwar Search for Autonomy. New York: Columbia University Press. Green, Simon and William E. Paterson. 2005. Governance in Contemporary Germany: The Semisovereign State Revisited. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Griffith, William E. 1978. The Ostpolitik of the Federal Republic of Germany. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Habermas, Jürgen. 1984. The Theory of Communicative Action. Vol. 1. Reason and the Rationalization of Society. Trans. Thomas McCarthy. Boston: Beacon Press. Hall, Rodney Bruce. 1999. National Collective Identity: Social Constructs and International Systems. New York: Columbia University Press. Hallstein, Walter. 1976. “Mein Chef Adenauer.” In Konrad Adenauer und seine Zeit: Politik und Persönlichkeit des ersten Bundeskanzlers; Beiträge von Wegund Zeitgenossen. Eds. Dieter Blumenwitz, Klaus Gotto, Hans Meier,

188

Bibliography

Konrad Repgen, and Hans-Peter Schwarz, 132–136. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Hampton, Mary. 1998/99. “NATO, Germany, And The United States: Creating Positive Identity In Trans-Atlantia.” Security Studies 8: 235–69. Hancock, M. Donald. 1989. West Germany: The Politics of Democratic Corporatism. Chatham, NJ: Chatham House. Hanrieder, Wolfram F. 1989. Germany, America, Europe: Forty Years of German Foreign Policy. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Hardach, Karl. 1980. The Political Economy of Germany in the Twentieth Century. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Harootunian, Harry D. 1970. Toward Restoration: The Growth of Political Consciousness in Tokugawa Japan. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Harpprecht, Klaus. 1971. Willy Brandt: Portrait and Self-Portrait. Trans. Hank Keller. Los Angeles: Nash Publishing. Hartz, Louis. 1955. The Liberal Tradition in America. New York: Harcourt Brace. Hatoyama Ichirø. 1957. Hatoyama Ichirø Kaikoroku [The Memoirs of Hatoyama Ichirø]. Tokyo: Bungei Shunjusha. Hellmann, Gunther. 2002. International Herald Tribune, September 20 online. ———. 2004. “Normality is not in everyone’s interest.” International Herald Tribune, Tuesday, February 17, p. 6. Hemmer, Christopher and Peter J. Katzenstein. 2002. “Why is there no NATO in Asia? Collective Identity, Regionalism, and the Origins of Multilateralism.” International Organization 56, 3: 575–608. Heneghan, Tom. 2000. Unchained Eagle: Germany After The Wall. New York: Pearson Education. Herman, Robert G. 1996. “Identity, Norms, and National Security: The Soviet Foreign Policy Revolution and the End of the Cold War.” In The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 271–316. New York: Columbia University Press. Hermann, Margaret G., ed. 1977. A Psychological Examination of Political Leaders. New York: Free Press. Herrmann, Richard and Michael Fischerkeller. 1995. “Beyond the Enemy Image and Spiral Model: Cognitive-strategic Research after the Cold War.” International Organization 49: 415–450. Hintze Peter and Gerd Langguth, eds. 1993. Helmut Kohl, Der Kurs der CDU: Reden und Beiträge des Bundesvorsitzenden 1973–1993. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Hobbes, Thomas. 1968. Leviathan. Trans. C. B. Macpherson. Baltimore, MD: Penguin. Hobden, Stephen and John M. Hobson. 2002. Historical Sociology of International Relations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoff, Klaus. 1969. Kurt Georg Kiesinger: Die Geschichte seines Lebens. Frankfurt: Verlag Ullstein. Holsti, Kalevi J. 1970. “National Role Conceptions in the Study of Foreign Policy.” International Studies Quarterly 14: 233–309.

Bibliography

189

Holt, Robert and Brett Silverstein, eds. 1989. “The Image of the Enemy: U.S. Views of the Soviet Union.” Special issue of the Journal of Social Issues 45: 1–175. Hook, Sidney. 1943. The Hero in History: A Study in Limitation and Possibility. New York: John Day. Hopf, Ted, ed. 1999. Understandings of Russian Foreign Policy. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. ———. 2002. Social Construction of International Politics: Identities and Foreign Policies, Moscow, 1955 and 1999. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Hosaka, Masayasu. 2000. Yoshida Shigeru to iu Gyakusetsu [The Paradoxes of Yoshida Shigeru]. Tokyo: Ch¨ø Køron Shinsha. Hosoya, Chihiro. 1984. “Japan, China, the United States and the United Kingdom, 1951–2: The Case of the ‘Yoshida Letter.’ ” International Affairs 60: 247–259. Huntington, Samuel. 1973. “Transnational Organizations in World Politics.” World Politics 25, 3: 333–368. Hyde-Price, Adrian. 2000. Germany and European Order: Enlarging NATO and the EU. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Ireland, Timothy P. 1981. Creating the Entangling Alliance: The Origins of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Itø, Mayumi. 2002. “U.S. Occupation and Hatoyama Ichiro’s Purge,” E-ASPAC: An Electronic Journal in Asian Studies; http://mcel.pacificu.edu/easpac. Jervis, Robert. 1970. The Logic of Images in International Relations. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kagan, Robert. 2002. “Power and Weakness,” Policy Review, No. 113; http://www.policyreview.org/JUN02/kagan_print.html. ———. 2003. Of Paradise and Power: America and Europe in the New World Order. New York: Knopf. ———. 2006a. “Still the Colossus.” The Washington Post, January 15, p. B7. ———. 2006b. “It’s the Regime, Stupid.” The Washington Post, January 29, p. B7. Kaiser, Karl. 2002. “German Perspectives on the Strategic Landscape After September 11.” American Institute for Contemporary German Studies. Kant, Immanuel. 1933. Critique of Pure Reason. Trans. N. Kemp Smith. London: Macmillan. ———. 1991. “Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch.” In Kant: Political Writings. Ed. Hans Reiss, 93–130. Trans. H. B. Nisbet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Karp, Regina. 2005. “The New German Foreign Policy Consensus.” The Washington Quarterly 29, 1: 61–82. Katzenstein, Peter J. 1987. Policy and Politics in Germany: The Growth of a Semisovereign State. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. ———. 1996a. Cultural Norms and National Security: Police and Military in Postwar Japan. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ———, ed. 1996b. The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics. New York: Columbia University Press.

190

Bibliography

———. 1997. “United Germany in an Integrating Europe.” In Tamed Power: Germany in Europe. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 1–48. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ———. 2003. “Same War—Different Views: Germany, Japan, and CounterTerrorism.” International Organization 57: 731–760. ———. 2005. A World of Regions: Asia and Europe in the American Imperium. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Katzenstein, Peter J., Robert Keohane, and Stephen Krasner. 1998. “International Organization and the Study of World Politics.” International Organization 52, 4: 645–685. Kellermann, Henry. 1957. “Party Leaders and Foreign Policy.” In West German Leadership and Foreign Policy. Eds. Hans Speier and W. Phillips Davison, 57–95. Evanston, IL: Row, Peterson and Company, 57–59. Keohane, Robert O. 1984. After Hegemony: Cooperation and Discord in the World Political Economy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Keohane, Robert O., and Joseph Nye. 1977. Power and Interdependence: World Politics in Transition. Boston: Little, Brown. Keylor, William R. 1984. The Twentieth Century World: An International History. New York: Oxford University Press. Kiesinger, Kurt Georg. 1964. Schwäbische Kindheit. Tübingen: Rainer Wunderlich Verlag Hermann Leins. ———. 1967. Entspannung in Deutschland, Friede in Europa: Reden und Interviews 1967. Bonn: Presse- und Informationsamt der Bundesregierung. ———. 1969. Stationen 1949–1969. Tübingen: Rainer Wunderlich Verlag Hermann Leins. Kim, Tae-Hyo. 2001. “The Origins and Demise of Japan’s Minimalist Security Policy: Changing Environment, Perception, and Strategy.” Paper presented at special meeting of the International Studies Association, Hong Kong. Kindleberger, Charles P. 1973. The World in Depression, 1929–1939. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Kissinger, Henry. 1957. Nuclear Weapons and Foreign Policy. New York: Harper. Klotz, Audie. 1995. Norms in International Relations: The Struggle against Apartheid. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Knopp, Guido and Ricarda Schlosshan. 1999. “Der Vermittler Kurt Georg Kiesinger.” In Kanzler: Die Mächtigen der Republik. Ed. Guido Knopp. Munich: Bertelsmann Verlag. Kohl, Helmut. 1990. Reden und Erklärungen zur Deutschlandpolitik. Bonn: Presse und Informationsamt der Bundesregierung. ———. 1992. Die deutsche Einheit: Reden und Gespräche. Bergisch Gladbach: Gustav Lübbe Verlag. Korte, Karl-Rudolph. 1998. “The Art of Power: The ‘Kohl System,’ Leadership and Deutschlandpolitik.” In The Kohl Chancellorship. Eds. Clay Clemens and William Paterson, 64–90. London: Frank Cass. Køsaka, Masataka. 1968. Saishø Yoshida Shigeru. Tokyo: Ch¨ø Køronsha. Kowert, Paul. 1998/99. “National Identity: Inside and Out.” Security Studies 8, 2 (Winter): 1–34.

Bibliography

191

———. 2001. “Toward a Constructivist Theory of Foreign Policy.” In Foreign Policy in a Constructed World. Ed. Vendulka Kubálková, 266–287. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe. Kowert, Paul and Nicholas Onuf. 2004. “Valence.” Paper presented at the colloquium on “Feeling Politics: The Study of Emotions and Social Life,” Florida International University, April 2. Kratochwil, Friedrich. 1989. Rules, Norms, and Decisions: On the Conditions of Practical and Legal Reasoning in International Relations and Domestic Affairs. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kreile, Michael. 1977. “West Germany: The Dynamics of Expansion.” In Between Power and Plenty: Foreign Economic Policies of Advanced Industrial States. Ed. Peter J. Katzenstein, 191–224. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Krekel, Michael. 1999. 50 Years Federal Republic of Germany: Konrad Adenauer, Profiles of the Man and the Politician. Bad Honnef: Stiftung BundeskanzlerAdenauer-Haus. Kroegel, Dirk. 1997. Einen Anfang finden! Kurt Georg Kiesinger in der Außen- und Deutschlandpolitik der Großen Koalition. Munich: Oldenbourg Verlag. ———. 1999. “Kurt Georg Kiesinger (1904–1988).” In Deutsche Politiker 1949– 1969: 16 biographische Skizzen aus Ost und West. Ed. Torsten Oppelland. Vol. 2. Darmstadt: Primus Verlag. Krone, Heinrich. 1976. “Konrad Adenauer: Im Gespräch mit einem großen Politiker und tiefen Menschen.” In Konrad Adenauer und seine Zeit: Politik und Persönlichkeit des ersten Bundeskanzlers; Beiträge von Weg- und Zeitgenossen. Eds. Dieter Blumenwitz, Klaus Gotto, Hans Meier, Konrad Repgen, and Hans-Peter Schwarz, 117–121. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Kruse, Beatrix. 1993. “Historische Größe im 20. Jahrhundert: Der Ansatz Jacob Burckhardts am Beispiel Konrad Adenauers und der Westintegration.” Masters thesis, University of Hamburg. Lafontaine, Oskar. 1990. Deutsche Wahrheiten: Die nationale und die soziale Frage. Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe. ———. 1989. “Man muss auch anstoessig sein.” Interview in Der Spiegel 52, pp. 66–70. ———. 2000. The Heart Beats on the Left. Trans. Ronald Taylor. Cambridge: Polity Press. Lane, Ruth. 1996. “Positivism, Scientific Realism, and Political Science.” Journal of Theoretical Politics 8: 361–382. Langer, Albrecht, ed. 1980. Katholizismus, Wirtschaftsordnung und Sozialpolitik 1945–1963. Paderborn: Schöningh. Large, David. 1996. Germans to the Front: West German Rearmament in the Adenauer Era. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Larres, Klaus. 2003. “Mutual Incomprehension: U.S.-German Value Gaps beyond Iraq.” Washington Quarterly 26: 23–42. Lasswell, Harold D. 1948. Power and Personality. New York: Norton. ———. 1960. Psychopathology and Politics. New York: Viking. First published, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930.

192

Bibliography

Legro, Jeffrey W. 1996. “Culture and Preferences in the International Cooperation Two-Step.” American Political Science Review 90: 118–137. Lehmbruch, Gerhard. 1979. “Liberal Corporatism and Party Government.” In Trends Toward Corporatist Intermediation. Eds. Phillipe C. Schmitter and Gerhard Lehmbruch, 147–188. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage. Leinemann, Jürgen. 1998. Helmut Kohl: Die Inszenierung einer Karriere. Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuch Verlag. Lenz, Gertrud, ed. 1992. Willy Brandt 1913–1992. Bonn: Willy Brandt Archiv. Linklater, Andrew. 1998. The Transformation of Political Community: Ethical Foundations of the Post-Westphalian Era. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Linz, Juan J. 1967. “Cleavage and Consensus in West German Politics: The Early Fifties.” In Party Systems and Voter Alignments: Cross-National Perspectives. Eds. Seymour M. Lipset and Stein Rokkan, 283–321. New York: Free Press. Lipset, Seymour M., and Stein Rokkan. 1967. Party Systems and Voter Alignments: Cross-National Perspectives. New York: Free Press. Lumsdaine, David Halloran. 1993. Moral Vision: The Foreign Aid Regime, 1949– 1989. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Malici, Akan. 2006. “Germans as Venutians: The Culture of German Foreign Policy Behavior.” Foreign Policy Analysis 2, 1: 37–62. Mannheim, Karl. 1951. Freedom, Power and Democratic Planning. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Martin, Lisa L. 1992. Coercive Cooperation: Explaining Multilateral Economic Sanctions. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 1999. “An Institutionalist View: International Institutions and State Strategies.” In International Order and the Future of World Politics. Eds. T. V. Paul and John A. Hall, 78–98. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Maser, Werner. 1990. Helmut Kohl: Der Deutsche Kanzler. Biographie. Berlin: Ullstein. Maull, Hanns. 2002. “International Terrorism and German Foreign Policy.” Internationale Politik (Transatlantic Edition), 3. McAdams, A. James. 1993. Germany Divided: From the Wall to Reunification. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. McCall, George and Jerry Simmons. 1978. Identities and Interactions. New York: Free Press. McClain, James L. 2002. Japan: A Modern History. New York: W. W. Norton Co., Inc. McSweeney, Bill. 1999. Security, Identity and Interests: A Sociology of International Relations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mearsheimer, John. 1991. “Back to the Future: Instability in Europe After the Cold War.” In The Cold War and After: Prospects for Peace. Ed. Sean Lynn Jones, 141–192. Cambridge: MIT Press. Mehta, Uday. 1992. The Anxiety of Freedom: Imagination and Individuality in Locke’s Political Thought. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ———. 1999. Liberalism and Empire: A Study in Nineteenth-Century British Liberal Thought. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Bibliography

193

Merkatz, Hans-Joachim. 1976. “Betrachtungen zu den Grundwerten und zum Stil Adenauerscher Politik.” In Konrad Adenauer und seine Zeit: Politik und Persönlichkeit des ersten Bundeskanzlers; Beiträge von Weg- und Zeitgenossen. Eds. Dieter Blumenwitz, Klaus Gotto, Hans Meier, Konrad Repgen, and Hans-Peter Schwarz, 122–131. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Mitrany, David. 1966. A Working Peace System. Chicago: Quadrangle Books. Miyazaki, Yoshimasa. 1985. Hatoyama Ichirø. Tokyo: Jiji Tsushinsha. Moravcsik, Andrew. 1991. “Negotiating the Single European Act: National Interests and Conventional Statecraft in the European Community.” International Organization 45, 1: 19–56. Morgenthau, Hans. 1948. Politics Among Nations: The Struggle for Power and Peace. New York: Knopf. All references are to the fourth (1967) edition. Morse, Edward. 1970. “The Transformation of Foreign Policies: Modernization, Interdependence, and Externalization.” World Politics 22: 371–392. Morsey, Rudolph and Hans-Peter Schwarz, eds. 1991. Adenauer: Rhöndorfer Ausgabe. Vol. 9: Adenauer im Dritten Reich. Berlin: Siedler Verlag. Nakamura, Takafusa. 1998. A History of Shøwa Japan, 1926–1989. Trans. Edwin Whenmouth. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press. Neckermann, Peter. 1991. The Unification of Germany: or The Anatomy of a Peaceful Revolution. New York: Columbia University Press. Neumann, Iver B. 1999. Uses of the Other: The ‘East’ in European Identity Formation. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Nye, Joseph S., Jr. 1990. Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power. New York: Basic. O’Brien, Conor Cruise. 1997. “Pursuing a Chimera.” In The Question of Europe. Eds. Peter Gowan and Perry Anderson. New York: Verso. Onuf, Nicholas. 1989. World of Our Making: Rules and Rule in Social Theory and International Relations. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press. ———. 1998. The Republican Legacy in International Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2001. “Speaking of Policy.” In Foreign Policy in a Constructed World. Ed. Vendulka Kubálková, 77–95. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe. Osterheld, Horst. 1973. Konrad Adenauer: Ein Charakterbild. Bonn: Eichholz Verlag. ———. 1995. Konrad Adenauer: Eine biographische Studie. Bad Honnef: Stiftung Bundeskanzler-Adenauer-Haus. Parker, George. 2003. “Muscle in Brussels: as Europe meets to agree a constitution, disputes over the distribution of power loom large.” Financial Times. December 10, Wednesday p. 11. Parsons, Talcott. 1937. The Structure of Social Action. New York: McGraw Hill. Paterson, William. 1998. “Helmut Kohl, ‘The Vision Thing’ and Escaping the Semi-Sovereignty Trap.” In The Kohl Chancellorship. Eds. Clay Clemens and William Paterson, 17–36. London: Frank Cass. Patton, David. 1999. Cold War Politics in Postwar Germany. New York: St. Martin’s. Pempel, T. J., ed. 1977. Policymaking in Contemporary Japan. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

194

Bibliography

Pempel, T. J. 1990. Uncommon Democracies: The One-Party Dominant Regimes. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Poppinga, Anneliese. 1975. Konrad Adenauer: Geschichtsverständnis, Weltanschauung und Politische Praxis. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt. Price, Richard M. 1995. “A Genealogy of the Chemical Weapons Taboo.” International Organization 49, 1: 73–103. ———. 1997. The Chemical Weapons Taboo. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Prittie, Terrence. 1974. Willy Brandt: Portrait of a Statesman. New York: Schocken Books. Pruys, Karl Hugo. 1996. Kohl, Genius of the Present: A Biography of Helmut Kohl. New York: Edition Q. Putnam, Hilary. 1975. Mind, Language, and Reality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Quine, Willard V. 1951. “Two Dogmas of Empiricism.” Philosophical Review 60: 20–43. Reprinted in From a Logical Point of View, 20–46. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1953. Rawls, John. 1955. “Two Concepts of Rules.” Philosophical Review 44: 3–32. Rengger, Nicholas J. 2000. International Relations, Political Theory and the Problem of Order: Beyond International Relations Theory? London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Reus-Smit, Christian. 1999. The Moral Purpose of the State. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ringmar, Erik. 1996. Identity, Interest and Action: A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Risse, Thomas. 2004. “Kontinuität durch Wandel: Eine ‘neue’ deutsche Aussenpolitik? [Continuity through Change: A ‘New’ German Foreign Policy?],” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, B 11 (March 8): 24–31. Risse, Thomas, Stephen C. Ropp, and Kathryn Sikkink. 1999. The Power of Human Rights: International Norms and Domestic Change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Risse-Kappen, Thomas. 1994. “Ideas Do Not Float Freely: Transnational Coalitions, Domestic Structures, and the End of the Cold War. International Organization 48, 2: 185–214. Ritter, Waldemar. 1964. Kurt Schumacher: Eine Untersuchung Seiner Politischen Konzeption und Seiner Gesellschafts- und Staatsauffassung. Hannover: J. H. W. Dietz. Ross, Jan. 2004. “Kerneuropa, ein Wintermaerchen” [Core Europe, a Winter Fairy Tale], Die Zeit, February 12, p. 7. Ruggie, John Gerard, ed. 1993. Multilateralism Matters: The Theory and Praxis of an Institutional Form. New York: Columbia University Press. Ruggie, John Gerard. 1998. Constructing the World Polity: Essays on International Institutionalization. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Runyan, William McKinley. 1982. Life Histories and Psychobiography: Explorations in Theory and Method. New York: Oxford.

Bibliography

195

Rustow, Dankwart A., ed. 1970. Philosophers and Kings: Studies in Leadership. New York: George Braziller. Samuels, Richard. 2003. Machiavelli’s Children: Leaders and Their Legacies in Italy and Japan. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Satø, Seizaburø, Ken’ichi Køyama, and Shumpei Kumon. 1990. Postwar Politi¯ hira. Trans. William R. cian: The Life of Former Prime Minister Masayoshi O Carter. Tokyo: Kodansha. Schmitt, Carl. 1996. The Concept of the Political. Trans. George Schwab. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Originally published in Germany in 1932, based on a 1927 essay. Schmitter, Philippe C. 1974. “Still the Century of Corporatism?” Review of Politics 36: 85–131. Schmoeckel, Reinhard, ed. 1989. Kurt Georg Kiesinger. Dunkle und helle Jahre: Erinnerungen 1904–1958. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Scholz, Arnold and Walther Oschilewski, eds. 1954. Turmwächter der Demokratie: Ein Lebensbild von Kurt Schumacher. Vol. I: Sein Weg Durch die Zeit. Berlin: Arani-Verlag. Schroeder, Gerhard. 2004. “Die Kandidatin schauen wir uns an” [This candidate we’ll look at].” Interview in Der Spiegel, February, pp. 22–28. Schröder, Hans-Jürgen. 1988. “Kanzler der Alliierten? Die Bedeutung der USA für die Aussenpolitik Adenauers.” In Adenauer und die Deutsche Frage. Ed. Josef Foschepoth, 118–146. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schwarz, Hans-Peter. 1981. Die Aera Adenauer: Gruenderjahre der Republik, 1949– 1957. Vol. 2. Stuttgart-Wiesbaden: Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. ———. 1986. Adenauer: Der Aufstieg: 1876–1952. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Schwarz, Hans-Peter, ed. 1989. Akten zur Auswaertigen Politik der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Vol. I. Adenauer und die Hohen Kommissare: 1949–1951. Munich: Oldenbourg Verlag. ———, ed. 1990. Akten zur Auswaertigen Politik der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Vol. II. Adenauer und die Hohen Kommissare: 1952. Munich: Oldenbourg Verlag. Schwarz, Hans-Peter. 1997. Konrad Adenauer: A German Politician and Statesman in a Period of War, Revolution and Reconstruction, Vol. II. Trans. Geoffrey Penny. The Statesman: 1952–1967. Providence: Berghahn Books. (Originally published as Adenauer: Der Staatsmann, 1952–1967. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1991). Schwarz, Hans-Peter and Ulrich Rippert. 1999. “Former Party Chairman Attacks German SPD Chancellor Schröder: The Lafontaine Debate,” World Socialist Web Site. October 15 ; http://www.wsws.org/articles/1999/ oct1999/lafo-o15.shtml. Schwarz, Hans-Peter. 2003. “Beavers and Bulls in China Shops,” Internationale Politik (Transatlantic Edition). Vol. 4 (Summer): 25–30. Searle, John R. 1969. Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

196

Bibliography

———. 1979. Expression and Meaning. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Seewald, Heinrich, ed. 1990. Helmut Kohl: Deuschlands Zukunft in Europa. Herford: Busse Seewald. Sims, Richard. 2001. Japanese Political History Since the Meiji Renovation, 1868– 2000. New York: Palgrave. Spruyt, Hendrik. 1994. The Sovereign State and Its Competitors: An Analysis of Systems Change. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Stein, Arthur A. 1990. Why Nations Cooperate: Circumstance and Choice in International Relations. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Struve, Günter, ed. 1966. Willy Brandt—Draußen: Schriften während der Emigration. Stuttgart: Verlag J. H. W. Dietz. Stryker, Sheldon. 1980. Symbolic Interactionism: A Social Structural Version. Menlo Park, CA: Benjamin/Cummings. Tannenwald, Nina. 1999. “The Nuclear Taboo: The United States and the Normative Basis of Nuclear Non-Use.” International Organization 53, 3: 433–468. Tuschhoff, Christian. 2002. “The Politics of Finalizing EU Enlargement: Towards an Ever Looser Union?” American Institute for Contemporary German Studies. Policy Papers, No. 19. Uchida, Kenzø. 1987. “Japan’s Postwar Conservative Parties.” In Democratizing Japan: The Allied Occupation. Eds. Robert E. Ward and Yoshikazu Sakamoto, 306–388. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Urschel, Reinhard. 2002. Gerhard Schroeder: Eine Biographie. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt. Wakamiya, Yoshibumi. 1998. The Postwar Conservative View of Asia: How the Right Has Delayed Japan’s Coming to Terms with Its History of Aggression in Asia. Trans. Chogin Business Service. Tokyo: Asahi Shimbun. Waltz, Kenneth. 1979. Theory of International Politics. New York: Random House. ———. “The Spread of Nuclear Weapons: More May Be Better.” Adelphi Papers, No. 171, London: International Institute for Strategic Studies. Waltz, Susan. 2001. “Universalizing Human Rights: the Role of Small States in the Construction of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.” Human Rights Quarterly 23, 44–72. Weber, Katja. 2000. Hierarchy Amidst Anarchy: Transaction Costs and Institutional Choice. Albany: State University of New York Press. Weber, Katja and Paul Kowert. 2002. “Agency and Structure: Divergent Normative Views of Postwar German Politics.” Presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association, Boston, MA, August 29–September 1, 2002. Weber, Max. 1978. Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology. 2 Vols. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Originally published as Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie in 1922. Weidenfeld, Werner. 1976. Konrad Adenauer und Europa: Die Geistigen Grundlagen der Westeuropäischen Integrationspolitik des Ersten Bonner Bundeskanzlers. Bonn: Europa Unions Verlag. Wendt, Alexander. 1987. “The Agent-Structure Problem in International Relations Theory.” International Organization 41, 3: 335–370.

Bibliography

197

———. 1991. “Bridging the Theory/Meta-theory Gap in International Relations.” Review of International Studies 17: 383–392. ———. 1992. “Anarchy Is What States Make of It: The Social Construction of Power Politics.” International Organization 46, 2: 391–425. ———. 1994. “Collective Identity Formation and the International State.” American Political Science Review 88, 2: 384–396. ———. 1999. Social Theory of International Politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2003. “Why a World State is Inevitable: Teleology and the Logic of Anarchy.” European Journal of International Relations 9, 4: 491–542. Werth, Christoph. 1991. Konrad Adenauer: Strategie und Weltsicht. Frankfurt: Peter Lang. White, Ralph K. 1984. Fearful Warriors: A Psychological Profile of U.S.-Soviet Relations. New York: Free Press. Williams, Charles. 2000. Adenauer: The Father of the New Germany. New York: John Wiley. Williamson, Hugh. 2004. “Defence overhaul sets new focus for Germany.” Financial Times, January 14, p. 2. Winch, Peter. 1958. The Idea of a Social Science and its Relation to Philosophy. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Wolf, Reinhard. 2002. “Between Revisionism and Normalcy: Change and Continuity of Germany’s Foreign Policy Identity during the 20th Century.” Paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, New Orleans, Louisiana. Young, Oran. 1989. International Cooperation: Building Regimes for Natural Resources and the Environment. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Yoshida, Shigeru. 1961. The Yoshida Memoirs: The Story of Japan in Crisis. Trans. Kenichi Yoshida. Cambridge: Riverside Press. All references are to the American edition (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962). ¯ iso]. Tokyo: Sekkasha. ———. 1962. O¯iso Zuisø [Random Thoughts from O ———. 1967. Japan’s Decisive Century, 1867–1967. New York: Praeger.

PRIMARY SOURCES Archive of Social Democracy, Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung; Schumacher file, box 1: Schlebusch Letter, April 26th, 1946. Archive of Social Democracy, Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung; Schumacher file, box 6: “Ein Porträt Kurt Schumachers.” In Neue Volks-Zeitung, New York, July 2, 1947. Archive of Social Democracy, Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung; Schumacher file, box 7: Current Biography, February 1948. Archive of Social Democracy, Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung; Schumacher file, box 10: Rudi Markus, “Das Mysterium Kurt Schumacher.” Translation from “Information” vom Sonnabend, November 24, 1951. Archive of Social Democracy, Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung; Schumacher file, box 33: Hans Jürgen Rathert, “Politik auf ihre Motive getestet,” Sonntagsblatt, Hamburg, January 28, 1968.

198

Bibliography

Archive of Social Democracy, Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung; Schumacher file, box 64: Kurt Schumacher, letter to Philippe Brandt, June 18, 1946. University of Tokyo, Oriental Culture Institute, “The World and Japan” Database, Postwar Japanese Politics—International Relations Dataset, http:// www.ioc.u-tokyo.ac.jp/~worldjpn/documents; Tetsu Katayama, comments before the Diet, 1st Session, July 1, 1947. University of Tokyo, Oriental Culture Institute, “The World and Japan” Database, Postwar Japanese Politics—International Relations Dataset, http:// www.ioc.u-tokyo.ac.jp/~worldjpn/documents; Tetsu Katayama, comments before the Diet, 2nd Session, January 22, 1948. University of Tokyo, Oriental Culture Institute, “The World and Japan” Database, Postwar Japanese Politics—International Relations Dataset, http:// www.ioc.u-tokyo.ac.jp/~worldjpn/documents; Shigeru Yoshida, administrative policy speech to the Diet, 7th Session, January 23, 1950. University of Tokyo, Oriental Culture Institute, “The World and Japan” Database, Postwar Japanese Politics—International Relations Dataset, http:// www.ioc.u-tokyo.ac.jp/~worldjpn/documents; Shigeru Yoshida, comments before the Diet, 12th Session, October 12, 1951. University of Tokyo, Oriental Culture Institute, “The World and Japan” Database, Postwar Japanese Politics—International Relations Dataset, http:// www.ioc.u-tokyo.ac.jp/~worldjpn/documents; Ichirø Hatoyama, comments before the Diet, 25th Special Session, November 16, 1956.

Index

199

Index Abe, Shinzø, 136 Acheson, Dean, 122 Adenauer, Konrad, 6, 10, 19, 36, 39, 45–70, 79–80, 84–90, 93–95, 98, 100, 107–109, 116, 130, 137, 139, 142, 150–151 Adler, Emanuel, 14 Afghanistan, 91, 148 Agartz, Victor, 52 agent-structure debate, 1, 3–18, 23, 25–28, 34–40, 43–44, 54–55, 69, 81–83, 98, 107–108, 139, 144, 154 Al Qaeda, 146 anarchy, 4–5, 14, 24, 26, 40, 65 Anderson, Jeffrey, 9 Anti-Comintern Pact, 115 Aristotle, 48 Article Nine (of the Japanese Constitution), 113, 122, 125–126, 129, 132–133, 135–136 Ashida, Hitoshi, 120, 131 assertions. See instruction rules assertive-rights strategy, 45, 68, 93 Atmospheric Test Ban Treaty, 67 Augstein, Rudolf, 10 Austin, J. L., 27 Baade, Fritz, 52 Baade, Paul, 11 Bahr, Egon, 79 Banchoff, Thomas, 64, 68 Baring, Arnulf, 47 Basic Law (of Germany), 43, 45, 56, 63, 84, 95–98, 103 Basic Treaty, 88

Bebel, August, 75–76 Bech, Joseph, 60 Belgium, 61, 74, 149 Berger, Thomas, 112 Berlin Wall, 34, 67, 92, 95, 98, 100 Bernstein, Richard, 147 Bhaskar, Roy, 21 Bismarck, Otto von, 76 Böll, Heinrich, 74 Bolshevism, 50 Bosnia, 144 Boulding, Kenneth, 16–17 Brandt, Philippe, 53 Brandt, Willy, 19, 36, 65, 68–69, 74–80, 83–91, 97–98, 100, 109, 137, 139 Brauer, Max, 11 Brazil, 72 Brechenmacher, Joseph, 71 Bulgaria, 86 Bulmer, Simon, 9, 143 Bush, George H. W., 107 Bush, George W., 145–146, 153 Catholic Church, 10, 47–49, 70–71, 92–93, 96–97 Cavour, Camillo Benso di, 2 Chang, Tso-lin, 114 Charter Oath, 118–119 China, 43, 111, 114–115, 121–122, 132–133, 135–136 Christian Democratic Union (CDU), 10, 19, 49–50, 62–63, 68, 74, 79–80, 83, 89, 91–94, 99, 106, 150–151 Churchill, Winston, 59

199

200

Index

Cicero, 48 Cold War, 1–3, 6–12, 16–20, 34–37, 43, 46, 65–69, 79, 91–92, 95, 99, 109, 124, 128, 131, 134–136, 142–146 commands. See directive rules commissive-institutional strategy, 45, 55, 68, 80, 93, 95, 103, 109, 112, 123, 130, 139, 146–148, 151 commitment rules, 27, 29, 32, 34–35, 38–39, 45, 55–56, 68, 78, 93, 103, 109, 118–119, 121–122, 124, 130, 135–136, 139, 141–142, 144, 146, 151 Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), 91, 105, 137 constructivism, 3–6, 8, 13–18, 25–26, 35–41, 46, 55, 110, 144, 152–154 containment, 34, 67 Cottam, Richard, 17 Croatia, 143 Cuba, 67 Cunow, Heinrich, 51 currency union, 92, 96, 101–102 Czechoslovakia, 69, 82–83, 86, 92 de Gaulle, Charles, 80 Dehler, Thomas, 10 Democratic Party of Japan (Minshutø), 20, 120, 129–130, 132 détente, 34, 67, 68–69, 80–82, 87, 89, 91 Deutschlandpolitik, 19, 91, 99, 109, 137 Diehl, Guenter, 71–72 directive rules, 5–6, 20, 22, 27–35, 38–39, 44, 55, 57, 100, 109–110, 114–119, 124, 126–127, 129, 132– 136, 140–147, 150–154 Dörries, Ernst Otto, 73 Dower, John, 115, 124, 135–136 Duffield, John, 64 Dulles, John Foster, 122, 124–125, 127, 133 Eden, Anthony, 60 Edström, Bert, 130

eiconics, 16 Eisenhower, Dwight, 124, 126–127 Enabling Law (Ermächtigungsgesetz), 52 Erhard, Ludwig, 68, 87 Erler, Fritz, 11 Europe, 1, 6–12, 16, 19, 35–36, 43–70, 77–96, 104–108, 111, 130, 136–137, 141–154 European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC), 7–8, 43, 54, 58, 60 European Defense Community (EDC), 7–8, 54, 57–58 European integration, 34, 60, 67, 101, 104, 107, 144–145, 148, 151 European Union (EU), 13, 59, 105, 143–144, 148, 151 expressive speech acts, 28–29 Far Eastern Commission, 111 Federal Republic of Germany (FRG), 6–11, 19–20, 34–37, 43–65, 67–69, 74–108, 137–139, 142, 150 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 51 Finck, Albert, 94 Finck, Johannes, 94 Finnemore, Martha, 15 Fischer, Joschka, 150–151 Frahm, Herbert, 75–76. See also Brandt, Willy Frahm, Ludwig, 75 France, 44, 50, 60–61, 68, 70, 79–80, 90, 96–97, 100, 105, 139, 143, 149–150 Free Democratic Party (of Germany, or FDP), 10, 83, 89, 91 German Democratic Republic (GDR), 8, 53, 67–69, 77, 80–89, 92, 95, 98–105, 108, 137 Germany, 2–3, 6–13, 18–20, 23, 34– 115, 134–154; rearmament, 44, 54; war guilt, 53, 77–78, 94, 139, 143. See also Federal Republic of Germany, German Democratic Republic, unification (of Germany)

Index Giddens, Anthony, 26, 154 Goebbels, Paul Joseph, 52 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 19, 34, 91–92, 100, 107–108 Gotthelf, Herta, 52 Gramsci, Antonio, 32, 153 Grand Coalition (Kiesinger-Brandt government), 65, 68, 77, 79 Green Party (German), 98 Grotius, Hugo, 15, 31 Guillaume, Günther, 89 Habermas, Juergen, 33, 40 Haenisch, Konrad, 51 Hallstein Doctrine, 68, 82 Hanrieder, Wolfram, 9 Harpprecht, Klaus, 84 Hatoyama, Ichirø, 20, 116, 126, 128, 132–136 Haubach, Theodor, 52 Haux, Friedrich, 71–72 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 51 hegemony, 32, 37–38, 135 Heine, Fritz, 52 Heinemann, Gustav, 10 Herter, Christian, 63 heteronomy, 32, 37–38 hierarchy, 32–33 historical contingency, 2, 45 Hobbes, Thomas, 22–23, 26, 31, 38, 40–41, 55, 147, 153 Honecker, Erich, 92, 95 Hook, Sidney, 1–2 Hopf, Ted, 16 Hungary, 34, 82, 86, 92 Hutten, Ulrich von, 51 identity. See national identity image theory, 16–17 institutional strategy of order, 7, 10, 19–20, 38–39, 45, 85, 135, 139, 142, 148, 151 institutional structure, 103, 106, 124, 138 instruction rules, 28–33, 36, 64–65, 139

201

Intermediate Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, 92 International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), 15 Iran, 148 Iraq, 146–147, 150 Italy, 2–3 Itø, Hirobumi, 2, 114 Japan, 2–3, 20, 38–41, 110–143, 150–153 Japan Democratic Party. See Democratic Party of Japan Japan Liberal Party (Nihon Jiy¨tø), 116 Japan Socialist Party (JSP, or Shakaitø), 120, 129, 131, 135 Japan-U.S. Mutual Security Pact, 122 Jaspers, Karl, 10 Jeffery, Charlie, 143 Kagan, Robert, 147–148 Kaisen, Wilhelm, 11 Kaiser, Jakob, 10 Kaiser, Karl, 150 Kanamori, Tokujirø, 117–118 Kant, Immanuel, 21, 26, 32, 36–41, 55, 59, 75, 83–86, 147 Katayama, Tetsu, 120, 129–131, 134 Katzenstein, Peter, 9, 140–141, 144, 150 Keil, Gerd, 97 Keohane, Robert, 24 Kiesinger, Kurt-Georg, 19, 36, 65, 68–74, 77–89, 108, 137 Kimura, Tokutarø, 127 Kindleberger, Charles, 24 Kishi, Nobusuke, 134 Kissinger, Henry, 16 Klimmt, Reinhard, 97 Klotz, Audie, 15, 26 Kohl, Cäcilie, 93 Kohl, Hans, 93 Kohl, Helmut, 6, 19, 36, 91–109, 137, 139, 150–151 Koizumi, Junichirø, 136

202

Index

kokutai, 117–119 Konoe, Fumimaro, 116 Korean War, 121, 124 Kosovo, 144 Kramm, Lothar, 97 Kratochwil, Friedrich, 14, 17, 31, 33, 40, 154 Kuhlmann, Emil, 75 Lafontaine, Hans, 96 Lafontaine, Katharina, 96 Lafontaine, Oskar, 19, 36, 93, 96–109, 138 language-oriented constructivism, 17–18, 26, 40 Lassalle, Ferdinand, 51, 75–76 leadership, 1–7, 19, 38, 44–47, 76, 92, 106, 111–112, 124, 127, 133–136, 140–141, 146, 150, 153; studies, 2, 4, 6; style, 46 League of Nations, 115 Leber, Julius, 76–77 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, 22 Liberal Party (of Japan, or Jiy¨tø), 114 Liberal Democratic Party (of Japan, or LDP, or Jiy¨ Minshutø), 20, 128–129, 132–136, 142 Lipset, Seymour M., 11 Locke, John, 26, 31–32, 36–41, 55, 109 London Conference, 60 Luther, Martin, 1 MacArthur, Douglas, 111, 117, 119 Macedonia, Republic of, 145 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 1 Makino, Nobuaki, 115 Manchuria, 114 Mann, Golo, 10 Mann, Thomas, 76 Mannheim, Karl, 11 Maria Laach Abbey, 49, 54 Martin, Lisa, 24 Marx, Karl, 47, 51, 71 Matsumoto, Jøji, 117

Maull, Hanns, 143 McSweeney, Bill, 24 Mearsheimer, John, 143 Meiji Era, 114, 117–118 Meiji, Emperor of Japan, 118–119 Merkel, Angela, 150–151 Mierendorff, Carlo, 52 Miki, Takeo, 127 Mitterand, Francois, 34, 95 Modrow, Hans, 34 Monnet, Jean, 43, 142 Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, 71 Murrow, Edward R., 62 Nakamura, Takafusa, 129 Nakasone, Yasuhiro, 128, 134 national identity, 3, 15–17, 55, 94, 154 National Socialism (Nazism), 7, 10, 48–49, 52–53, 59, 72–74, 77–78, 97, 111, 133 neoutilitarian approaches, 23, 152 Netherlands, 61, 149 Neumann, Iver, 16 Neumann, Sigmund, 52 Niles, Bernd, 97 Nixon, Richard M., 126 Noelting, Eric, 52 normal state, 94, 132 normativity: and order, 30; and speech, 20–21, 27–30, 33; international norms, 15, 38; social, 17, 154 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 6, 11, 35, 44, 54, 91–92, 105, 108, 143–144, 147–148, 151–152 Norway, 76 Nuclear Non-proliferation Treaty, 69 Nuremberg Trials, 77, 111 Nye, Joseph, 140 O’Brien, Conor Cruise, 143 Oder-Neisse line, 69, 82–83, 86, 106 Ogata, Taketora, 132

Index Ollenhauer, Erich, 52 Onuf, Nicholas, 14, 17, 27, 32–33, 36, 40, 154 order, 1, 4–13, 18–25, 30–40, 44–47, 50–65, 69–70, 74, 78–82, 89, 93, 96, 98–125, 128–131, 134–138, 141–144, 148, 152–154; and anarchy, 4–5; cultures of, 40; international, 4, 13, 18, 21–24, 37–38, 44–46, 54–55, 63, 68, 108, 115–117, 131, 135–136, 138–141, 146–153; normative, 30, 152; ordering principles, 12–13, 24 Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), 105 Ostpolitik, 10, 19, 67–69, 79–80, 83–84, 89, 92, 109 Parsons, Talcott, 23 Party of Democratic Socialism (of Germany, or PDS), 98 Pascal, Blaise, 71 Paterson, William, 143 Patton, David, 2–3, 9, 19–20, 142, 154 Pauls, Eilhard Erich, 76 People’s Cooperative Party (of Japan, or Kokumin Kyødøtø), 120, 129–130 Pfleiderer, Karl-Georg, 10 Plato, 48, 51 Plenge, Johann, 51 Pleven Plan, 44, 54. See also German Rearmament Pleven, René, 43 Poland, 34, 51, 69, 82, 86, 91–92, 95, 106, 149 Potsdam Declaration, 119 Price, Richard, 15, 26 Prittie, Terrence, 76 promises. See commitment rules Protestantism, 10, 47, 62, 70–71 Pufendorf, Samuel von, 15, 31 Quadragesimo Anno, 49 Quine, Willard, 30

203

Rathenau, Walther, 76 Reagan, Ronald, 34, 91–92, 95 Remarque, Erich Maria, 76 Renger, Annemarie, 52 Rengger, Nicholas, 22 Renner, Karl, 51 Respublica Christiana, 22 Reuter, Ernst, 11 rights, 12, 31–32, 35–40, 45, 53–60, 63, 71–74, 78, 81–83, 87, 89, 92–93, 98–110, 113, 116, 118, 123–124, 128, 130–131, 134–140, 145, 148– 150, 153; German, 10, 36–37, 60, 63, 82–83, 94, 96, 99, 103, 109, 113, 138; national, 20, 39, 45, 54, 57, 82, 89, 113, 142; strategy of order, 12, 39, 55, 74, 134–136 Ringmar, Erik, 16 Rippert, Ulrich, 102 Rokkan, Stein, 11 Romania, 82, 92 Ross, Jan, 150 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 71 Ruggie, John, 15, 24 rules, social, 21–25, 30–33. See also commitment rules, directive rules, and instruction rules Samuels, Richard, 2–3, 128 San Francisco Peace Treaty, 120–124, 127 Schaub, Joseph, 94 Schmid, Carlo, 52 Schmidt, Helmut, 91 Scholz, Arnold, 52 Schroeder, Gerhard, 97, 106, 143–151 Schumacher, Kurt, 19, 36, 39, 45–47, 51–65, 69, 77–79, 83, 87–89, 94, 97–98, 108, 117–118, 137 Schuman Plan, 58 Schuman, Robert, 43, 58, 60, 142 Schwarz, Hans-Peter, 43, 102, 151 Searle, John, 27, 30, 154 Seiy¨kai Party (of Japan, or Rikken Seiy¨kai, Friends of Constitutional Government), 132

204

Index

Self-Defense Forces (of Japan), 125– 126, 128 September 11 attacks, 145, 153 Shigemitsu, Mamoru, 132–133 Social Democratic Party (of Germany, or SPD), 10–11, 19, 51–53, 56–57, 60–61, 68, 75–80, 83, 88–89, 92–93, 97–102, 106, 108, 131, 137– 138 Social Democratic Party of Japan (SDPJ, or Shakai Minshutø), 128, 131 Socialist Unity Party (of Germany, or SED), 80 Socrates, 51 South Africa, 15, 26 sovereignty, 7–8, 18, 25, 54–55, 59– 60, 82, 110, 113, 118, 120, 124, 127, 130, 138, 142 Spaak, Paul-Henri, 60 Spain, 76, 149 Spanish Civil War, 77 speech acts, 26–32, 37–41, 152 Spofford, Charles, 44 Stoph, Willi, 88 Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, 91 Suárez, Francisco, 15 Suez Crisis, 68 Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers (SCAP), 116–119, 129 Suzuki, Kantaro, 117, 136 Sweden, 16, 76, 84 Switzerland, 74 Taishø, Emperor of Japan, 118 Taiwan Straits Crises, 124 Takeuchi, Tsuna, 113–114 Tanaka, Gi’ichi, 132–133 Tannenwald, Nina, 15, 26 Ten Point Plan (for German unification), 95, 100, 103, 137, 139 Thatcher, Margaret, 34 Thomas, Stefan, 52 Thucydides, 48, 153 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 71, 74

Tøjø, Hideki, 111 Treaty of Prague, 86 Treaty on Monetary, Economic, and Social Union (of Germany), 107 Treib, Hans-Georg, 97 Truman, Harry, 121 Two-Plus-Four Talks, 92, 96, 104, 107–109 unification (of Germany), 7–11, 13, 19, 23, 34–35, 38, 43, 45, 50, 53–58, 61–65, 69–70, 75, 80–83, 87–108, 137, 139, 142–144, 154 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), 3, 7–8, 16, 34–37, 43, 48, 50, 53–54, 61–63, 67–69, 79–89, 91– 92, 100, 111, 121, 133, 137 United Kingdom, 44, 60, 79–80, 96, 114–115 United Nations (UN), 37, 136, 146– 148, 151–153; Security Council, 136, 151 United States, 2, 7, 16, 34–35, 39, 49, 59, 61–62, 67–70, 85, 91, 96, 105, 111, 113, 115–116, 119–135, 139– 140, 143, 145–150, 153 Valéry, Paul, 71 Vattel, Emmerich de, 15 Versailles Conference, 48, 51, 115 Vietnam, 128, 131, 147 Voigt, Karsten, 100 Wakamiya, Yoshibumi, 115 Walser, Martin, 94 Waltz, Kenneth, 24, 143 Warsaw Pact, 83, 88, 92, 106 Weber, Max, 26, 33 Weimar Republic, 47–53, 72 Wendt, Alexander, 14–16, 26, 40–41, 152, 154 Westpolitik, 10, 19, 43, 55, 65–69, 80, 89, 109 Wilson, Woodrow, 37, 115 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 33, 154

Index World War I, 46, 48, 51, 70, 75, 95 World War II, 13, 18, 20, 35, 38, 48, 50, 82, 92–96, 107, 115, 138, 145, 150, 153 Yamagata, Aritomo, 2 Yohansen, 115

Yoshida Doctrine, 116 Yoshida, Kenzø, 114 Yoshida, Kotoko, 114 Yoshida, Shigeru, 20, 38–39, 113– 142 zaibatsu, 112, 116

205

This page intentionally left blank.

POLITICAL SCIENCE

Cultures of Order

Leadership, Language, and Social Reconstruction in Germany and Japan Katja Weber and Paul A. Kowert Cultures of Order explores how Germany and Japan each struggled to define an appropriate role for themselves in the postwar international order. In Germany, proponents of institutional constraint fought and generally prevailed over those who stressed national rights. This pattern continued even as Germany achieved unification at the end of the Cold War. In Japan, however, the national rights strategy was more successful, and Japanese leaders have been less willing than their German counterparts to predicate international order on commitment to an emergent institutional framework. In both cases, the choices made by leaders were critical, despite the constraints under which they operated. In this book the authors utilize a constructivist theory of order, emphasizing the distinctive ways language works to normative effect, to explain these debates and how they have contributed to two very different “cultures of order.” “This book builds the case that order, not anarchy, should be at the center of our attention in the analysis of world politics. Katja Weber and Paul Kowert offer an argument that is unique in its combination of theoretical sophistication, a full mastery of German foreign policy, and a comparative perspective that travels as far as Japan. Scholars and students who are distressed by the deep divide between international relations and foreign policy analysis will find in this book a central pillar that will make the task of bridge building much easier.” — Peter J. Katzenstein, Cornell University Katja Weber is Associate Professor of International Affairs at Georgia Institute of Technology and author of Hierarchy amidst Anarchy: Transaction Costs and Institutional Choice, also published by SUNY Press. Paul A. Kowert is Associate Professor of International Relations at Florida International University. He is the author of Groupthink or Deadlock: When Do Leaders Learn from Their Advisors?, also published by SUNY Press, and the coeditor (with Vendulka Kubálková and Nicholas Onuf) of International Relations in a Constructed World.

State University of New York Press www.sunypress.edu