The Quest for the Lost Nation: Writing History in Germany and Japan in the American Century (California World History Library)

THE QUEST FOR THE LOST NATION

THE CALIFORNIA WORLD HISTORY LIBRARY Edited by Edmund Burke III, Kenneth Pomeranz, and Patricia Seed

1. The Unending Frontier: Environmental History of the Early Modern World, by John F. Richards 2. Maps of Time: An Introduction to Big History, by David Christian 3. The Graves of Tarim: Genealogy and Mobility across the Indian Ocean, by Engseng Ho 4. Imperial Connections: India in the Indian Ocean Arena, 1860–1920, by Thomas R. Metcalf 5. Many Middle Passages: Forced Migration and the Making of the Modern World, edited by Emma Christopher, Cassandra Pybus, and Marcus Rediker 6. Domesticating the World: African Consumerism and the Genealogies of Globalization, by Jeremy Prestholdt 7. Servants of the Dynasty: Palace Women in World History, edited by Anne Walthall 8. Island World: A History of Hawai‘i and the United States, by Gary Y. Okihiro 9. The Environment and World History, edited by Edmund Burke III and Kenneth Pomeranz 10. Pineapple Culture: A History of the Tropical and Temperate Zones, by Gary Y. Okihiro 11. The Pilgrim Art: Cultures of Porcelain in World History, by Robert Finlay 12. The Quest for the Lost Nation: Writing History in Germany and Japan in the American Century, by Sebastian Conrad; translated by Alan Nothnagle 13. The Eastern Mediterranean and the Making of Global Radicalism, 1860–1914, by Ilham Khuri-Makdisi 14. The Other West: Latin America from Invasion to Globalization, by Marcello Carmagnani 15. Mediterraneans: North Africa, Europe, and the Ottoman Empire in an Age of Migration, c. 1800–1900, by Julia Clancy-Smith 16. History and the Testimony of Language, by Christopher Ehret 17. From the Indian Ocean to the Mediterranean: The Global Trade Networks of Armenian Merchants from New Julfs, by Sebouh David Aslanian

Sebastian Conrad

.

THE QUEST FOR THE LOST NATION Writing History in Germany and Japan in the American Century

translated by alan nothnagle

University of California Press Berkeley

Los Angeles

London

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England English translation © 2010 by The Regents of the University of California Originally published in different form in German. © Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Sebastian Conrad: Auf der Suche nach der verlorenen Nation. Geschichtsschreibung in Westdeutschland und Japan, 1945–1960.1. Aufl., Göttingen, 1999. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Conrad, Sebastian. [Auf der Suche nach der verlorenen Nation. English] The quest for the lost nation : writing history in Germany and Japan in the American century / Sebastian Conrad ; translated by Alan Nothnagle. p. cm.—(The California world history library ; 12) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-520-25944-7 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Germany—Historiography. 2. Japan—Historiography. 3. Historiography—Germany— History—20th century. 4. History—Japan—History—20th century. 5. World War, 1939–1945—Influence. 6. World War, 1939–1945—Social aspects—Germany. 7. World War, 1939–1945—Social aspects—Japan. 8. Cold War—Social aspects—Germany. 9. Cold War— Social aspects—Japan. I. Title. DD86.C6613 2010 943.086072'043—dc22

2010013362

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CONTENTS

Introduction

1

1.

Mapping Postwar Historiography in Germany and Japan 14

2.

The Origin of the Nation: Bismarck, Meiji Ishin, 31 and the Subject of History

3.

The Nation as Victim: Writing the History of National Socialism and Japanese Fascism 78

4.

The Invention of Contemporary History

5.

The Temporalization of Space: Germany and Japan between East and West 171

6.

History and Memory: Germany and Japan, 1945–2000 235 Notes

263

123

Bibliography

303

Acknowledgments Index

379

377

Introduction

“There can be no doubt,” German historian Hermann Heimpel declared in 1959, “that the era of a historical perspective based purely on the nation-state has come to an end. Historical studies must take a leap into the planetary future, even when examining the past.”1 The epoch in which the nation and the nation-state were the self-evident and privileged points of departure for an understanding of the past finally—and irreversibly—appeared to be over. Heimpel was not alone in his judgment. It seemed as if the end of the Third Reich, military defeat, and the division of Germany had made “the nation” obsolete as a category of historical analysis. The consensus within the profession was that the nation-state perspective in historiography, in Germany and beyond, had “become baseless . . . since the explosion of the first atomic bomb.”2 West German historians instead pleaded for subsuming the national past within the larger contexts of the history of Europe and the Occident. In postwar Japan, the programmatic statements of historians had a remarkably similar thrust. Here, too, the paradigm of national history was widely seen as anachronistic, belonging to a militarist past now overthrown. After Japan’s surrender in August of 1945 the idea of the nation had “lost its virginity,”3 as Maruyama Masao observed.4 This applied to both public debate and academic discourse. As Takeuchi Yoshimi wrote in 1951, during the postwar years “the problem of the nation [minzoku] . . . was consciously avoided as an academic subject. . . . Even the existence of the nation as such was viewed as an evil imposed by fate.” In response

1

to the aggressive nationalism of the war years, there was now a tendency to ignore the category of nation altogether.5 This programmatic distancing from a national point of reference was common currency both in Japan and West Germany in the early postwar decades. In the wake of military defeat and the end of dictatorship, there was a strong tendency in both countries “to marginalize the nation or even exclude it entirely from the discourse.”6 Japan and West Germany faced an Allied occupation that signaled the temporary end of national sovereignty. The national territory in both countries had been truncated, and excessive pride in the nation’s achievements was abandoned in public discourse. The slogans of a narrow nationalism that had plunged Germany and Japan into war and defeat had been abandoned in favor of integration into Western Europe and into the global camps of the Cold War. Or so it seemed. For as paradoxical as it may appear, the emphatic rejection of national perspectives did not imply that those who interpreted the past indeed abandoned the preoccupation with the nation. To the contrary, all pleas for European, universal, or world history notwithstanding, the nation in both countries continued to function as the frequently unacknowledged center of gravity of historical interpretation. Due to the specific situation after 1945 (defeat and occupation), this renaissance of the nation frequently was not expressed openly, but rather lurked beneath the surface of the texts. Contrary to the proclaimed rejection of national models, historians in both countries were engaged in a quest for what they perceived as the lost nation. To be sure, it was a nation transformed, now articulated within the changed context of the loss of empire and the emerging geopolitical order of the Cold War. But whether relying on ideas or zeitgeist, on the motives of “great” personalities, or on class conflict as prime causes for change, historians in the last instance continued to view the nation as the ultimate agent of historical development. The national past was one of the casualties in the countries defeated in World War II. Both in Germany and Japan, in the moment of surrender the hitherto hegemonic interpretations of history lost most of their validity. In this void, the quest for a representation of the past that both made sense of the “dark years” of fascism and was compatible with a brighter democratic future figured among the central concerns in the first postwar decades. German and Japanese historians were important agents in this process of revising the image of the fascist period and of the modern history of their country. Changing views of the past are part of the larger issue of public memory in both countries. This includes not only memory of the war but also the larger question

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· introduction

of the German and Japanese experience of modernity. The comparative perspective helps to single out the social and cultural specificities that characterized the German and the Japanese situation. More important, it facilitates wrestling the debate away from discourses, prevalent in both countries, concerning the uniqueness of the national experience. Partly because of the transnational context that linked both countries, the debates about the nation and its past in Germany and Japan showed striking similarities across national and cultural difference. These similarities extended to topics as diverse as the paradigm of one ’s own nation as victim of modernity, the “invention” of contemporary history, and the location of Germany or Japan between “East” and “West.” To be sure, there were a number of differences between the two cases: the German and Japanese forms of fascism varied considerably, as did the extent to which the two countries looked back on a history of expulsion and genocide, but also of opposition and resistance to the regime. The postwar situation was different as well: while Germany was divided among the four occupation forces, occupation in Japan was almost exclusively an American affair. Consequently, the dynamics of memory debates were characterized by peculiarities and national specificity. These differences notwithstanding, however, it is fair to say that there were a number of overarching commonalities and, moreover, a set of transnational contexts that directly linked both countries, generating similar problems in dealing with the recent past. First, both countries had experienced military defeat and unconditional surrender. Defeat entailed loss of sovereignty, of some national territory, and of national unity. It was therefore frequently interpreted as the virtual end of modern history. Second, military defeat also implied the loss of empire. The territorial conquests in the European East that had created Germany’s “continental empire,” as Hannah Arendt has called it, were relinquished, as was Japan’s adjacent empire whose roots can be traced to the late nineteenth century. This implied a fundamental reconfiguration of the concept of the nation, even if—as will become clear in the following discussion—the imperial past was on the whole ignored and remained a largely unacknowledged undercurrent of postwar debates.7 Third, military defeat led to the Allied occupation, in which the United States played a dominant role and institutionalized comprehensive political reeducation in the occupied areas. The occupation marked the end of authoritarian government in Germany and Japan and signaled the transition to a democratic constitution. As a vision of future development is crucial to interpreting the past, the incorporation of both West Germany and Japan into the American-led camp of the Cold War

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also implied, for historians in both countries, a firm framework within which to reassess their nations’ histories. Fourth, occupation policy also had immediate consequences in both countries for the way the past was appropriated. The war crimes trials, denazification, and Allied social reform measures were all based on an interpretation of German and Japanese history that was associated with and given further credence by the authority of the victorious powers. In this way, the occupation period also contributed to the stigmatization of the recent past in both countries. The critical perspective on the past not only was an Allied imposition, however, but also corresponded to the self-understanding of many intellectuals and political elites. In both Germany and Japan the political and moral discrediting of the fascist and Nazi period was the basic unspoken assumption that structured every debate on the past. It is against this backdrop that we must also interpret the politics of the past that allowed both postwar societies to come to grips with their recent past—and frequently, by coming to terms with this past, to rework it into the foundation of their own identity. This debate on the stigmatized history of the 1930s and 1940s took various forms. The war crimes trials marked the beginning of the legal review, leading to a series of subsequent trials in the Federal Republic of Germany (but not in Japan) in the 1950s. The legal evaluation of this period (e.g., rescinding the verdicts against resistance fighters and reviewing the demands of former forced prostitutes) has kept the courts of both countries busy ever since.8 At the same time, a series of political measures were designed to ensure the social and above all international reintegration of both postwar societies. These included compensation programs for persons persecuted by the regimes, as well as financial payments to Israel or, in the case of Japan, to Korea.9 In addition, the field of public memory involved a public discourse consisting of speeches and commemorative events, media reports, and symbolic acts.10 Received wisdom has it that public memory in postwar Germany and Japan differed widely. The conventional diagnosis is a marked “lack” in Japanese dealings with the past. An adequate, read critical, dialogue with recent history, it is held, has been absent from Japanese debates. This verdict is usually framed in a language of reproach and accusation. Numerous countries in East Asia and Southeast Asia have repeatedly called on the Japanese government for an official apology for the sorrows that Japan caused the Asian people in the course of the war.11 In Japan, too, many intellectuals and political activists have taken their government to task for what they see as an inadequate stance toward historical reconciliation. The calls for

4

· introduction

compensation and apology have recently contributed to the emergence of transnational interest groups, both within and outside Japan.12 In this context the German example is frequently hailed as a model for Japan to follow. Since the 1880s, critical Japanese intellectuals have turned to the alleged German success story of coming to terms both with Germany’s recent past and with its European neighbors. The German-Polish initiative beginning in the 1950s to produce a joint school textbook, for example, served as an incentive for Japanese and Korean historians in the 1990s. In the Japanese press, but also in Western public opinion, the conviction that in comparison to Germany, Japan has some catching up to do in terms of critically evaluating its own past, is widely shared. This has been the standard narrative in the social science literature as well. Most prominently, Ian Buruma’s Wages of Guilt conveys the picture of a stubborn resistance to historical self-criticism in Japan.13 This standard narrative is replicated when it comes to the issue of history writing. In one of the rare studies that take into account postwar Japanese historiography, Richard Bosworth, in his comparative analysis of different ways of coping with World War II in six countries, reiterates the prevalent notion of continuity and collective amnesia in postwar Japan. “Japanese scholars,” he is convinced, “seem more anxious than are many Western experts on Japan to confess a troubled past.” Japanese historians, according to Bosworth, have essentially eschewed questions of guilt and responsibility, along with inquiry into the long-term causes of Japanese fascism. While German and Italian historians, for example, turned to social history and structural factors in order to explain the conundrum of the 1930s, their Japanese colleagues refused to critically engage with the country’s history. “Japanese contemporary history does, as a consequence, have one special characteristic: the paradigm shift [that] occurr[ed] in all the other combatant societies, has never happened in Japan.”14 As the following chapters argue, this assessment is wide of the mark. A closer look at the immediate postwar decades shows a much more ambiguous picture. In fact, Japan’s recent history was in no way taboo during this time. Instead, Japanese intellectuals and all the important cultural journals conducted intense debates on the issue of responsibility for the war (sensoµ sekinin). These discussions not only revolved around individual or collective guilt but also included a critical reckoning with the prewar authoritarian government system and visions of a future society.15 Within the academy, too, an interpretation that saw fascism and militarism as the logical outcomes of the country’s long history of illiberalism and authoritarianism became hegemonic until at least the 1960s.

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· 5

Indeed, if the way national history was revised and rewritten is considered, the familiar picture is turned upside down: in contrast to the politicized atmosphere among Japanese intellectuals,16 West Germany’s debate over the recent past was at first characterized by what Hermann Lübbe has called “a certain silence.”17 Ralph Giordano went so far as to describe the early Federal Republic’s failure to critically deal with Nazism as “the second guilt.”18 In the literature, the 1950s are generally regarded as a phase when the history of the Third Reich was “repressed.”19 As the following chapters abundantly demonstrate, a critical stance toward the history and traditions of the nation was prevalent in early postwar Japan, while a similar perspective was commonly adopted among German historians only after the 1960s. To date, there has been no English-language study of postwar historiography in either Germany or Japan.20 Though considerable, the scholarly literature in German and Japanese is not vast. In general, it follows lines of inquiry that are representative of the field and that may be characterized by a preoccupation with methodological progress. Most comprehensive studies of history writing, and comparative studies in particular, fall back on a general model of historiographical development.21 That model is based on the fundamental concept of a “modernization” of historical studies that permits scholars to assess both individual works and national historiographies within the general current of the history of the discipline. Methodologically, this perspective rejects a generally conservative political history oriented to the deeds of “great personalities” in favor of a critical, social scientific approach encompassing social reality in its entirety. The usual assumption is that gradual progress toward some kind of “objective,” social history corresponds with the general modernization process and the assertion of a democratic form of society. Against the backdrop of this developmental pattern, postwar historiography in Germany and Japan is generally examined in light of a paradigm shift to a social historical historiography.22 In the German context, Winfried Schulze has presented the most important survey of historical studies undertaken in the 1950s. His work focuses on the issue of whether the political turning point of 1945 also led to a methodological reorientation of the discipline. In this context, Schulze regrets that in the postwar period “the critique of conventional historical studies remained limited to issues of content and led to no methodological consequences.”23 The privileging of method over what was actually said can hardly be phrased more explicitly. The bulk of the summary essays dealing with West German historiography in the 1950s share this assessment.24 And the recent debate over the question whether the social history

6

· introduction

emerging since the 1960s can be traced back to the so-called folk history (Volksgeschichte) of the 1930s betrays a similar longing for clear-cut stages of methodological development.25 In Japan, too, most scholars have examined postwar historiography according to the primacy of method. The only monographic study so far, Tomyama Shigeki’s Historical Studies and Historical Consciousness in the Postwar Period, was written in 1968 and from the clear perspective of Marxist historiography.26 As in other such works the methodological development of historical studies since 1945 is central. The primary concern is to trace the decline of conservative versions of political history and the emergence of social history of Marxist or modernist orientation, respectively.27 In contrast, the following chapters are based on the conviction that limiting the development of historiography to the history of its methodology is reductionist at best. The argument involves three reasons: (1) Restricting one’s perspective to questions of method tends to marginalize what historians actually said, why they said it, and why people found their texts interesting and illuminating. In what follows, therefore, the focus is general issues—nation, modernity, East and West, and so forth—that help situate historical writing within the context of postwar Germany and Japan.28 (2) A preoccupation with methodology promotes the illusion of a retrospective success story, a “Whig history of history,” as Charles Maier once described this tendency.29 The historian of historiography appears to stand upon the summit of disciplinary progress, looking back on his ancestors and searching for their legacies and breakthroughs, but also for retarding moments and “delays.” This perspective then allows singling out “predecessors,” “stagnations,” or “wrong tracks.” Thus the historiography of the early Federal Republic was generally examined by scholars who asked why the paradigm of social history had “not yet” emerged and what barriers blocked the path to methodological advance. In this way previous research was integrated into a metanarrative of long-term methodological modernization that subordinated disparate tendencies to a teleological development.30 (3) This genealogy of methodological progress was based on an epistemology that assumed a given reality entirely independent of the individual scholar. The method of the historian then appeared as a gradually refined instrument with which to approach reality ever more closely. The fetishization of method, in other words, tends to neglect the constitutive aspects of a historian’s activity, which to some extent creates the reality she is examining. Historiographical representation not only reflects external reality but also helps constitute it within the process of narrativization. In light of recent scholarship, the historical method no longer appears as a largely neutral medium of

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nonpartisan access to reality, but rather as an element in a “poetic” operation that creates historical coherency in the first place.31 Building on this threefold skepticism of the prerogatives of methodology, this study takes an alternative perspective. Specifically, it places the concrete political and discursive conditions of historiography at the center. This is not to exclude methodological questions (see chapter 4), but they are analyzed in the context of larger sociopolitical and institutional developments. Thus while academic research frequently treats the works of historians as symptoms, seeing them as a sort of vehicle that merely reflects methodological progress or ideological “standpoints,” this study pays closer attention to what historiography was actually about: bringing content back in. In this way, some of the (spatial and temporal) specificity of 1950s historiography is restored that might otherwise vanish in the prevailing preoccupation with methodology. Thus the main focus is on interpretive strategies, the patterns and argumentative structures that pervade historical interpretations in the early postwar period. With this approach, the central role of the nation in all attempts to revise and reconstruct the past in the years after 1945 comes into view. In both Japan and the Federal Republic, national self-assurance was a central concern in public and scholarly debates. This was by no means a new development, for ever since the nineteenth century the construction of national identity was one of the central tasks of academic history writing.32 After 1945 and the loss of national unity, however, this national self-awareness was increasingly undermined and destabilized. Where could the nation, whose territorial boundaries had become precarious and insecure, be located? How could the nation’s unity, about to dissolve into broader international structures, be based historically? How could one rescue the continuity of a national history seemingly severed by the stigmatization of the recent past? How should one deal with the history of the recent past, whose criminal character seemed to fundamentally challenge the legitimacy of national history? How could one’s own country be positioned within the changed world order, within the reality of the Cold War? These were some of the questions that West German and Japanese historians asked in the postwar period and that appear as leitmotifs in the following chapters. These questions are examined within the framework of a (West) German–Japanese comparison (GDR historiography is mentioned only in passing).33 After 1945, Japanese and West German historians were confronted with what was in many ways a similar situation—making a comparison of these countries both plausible and compelling. The main points have already been indicated above. Both Japan

8

· introduction

and Germany had lost the war, leading to capitulation and the end of the previous (authoritarian) form of government. Both countries had lost their adjacent empires and were faced with the challenge of constructing a post-imperial society. Both countries faced a long-term, transformative period of occupation by Allied troops that also firmly incorporated them into one side of the Cold War divide.34 In addition, the belief that their people had withstood a “bad past” that now had to be interpreted or even “dealt with” was widespread in both societies. The early postwar decades stand at the center of this study. The year 1945, which both countries viewed as “zero hour,” marks both a political caesura and (in the programmatic shift away from nationalistic history writing and, in Japan, the emerging influence of historical materialism) an historiographical turning point. But, in spite of the changed political and discursive conditions, 1945 did not mark a complete break, as is made abundantly clear in the following chapters. Not only the historians themselves but also a series of interpretive patterns and argumentative strategies lived on, even if they did have to be adapted to the changing rules and zeitgeist of academic discussion. Most chapters reach into the early 1960s, which serve as a convenient point of culmination for the early postwar period. In the discipline of history, the year 1960 is marked by symbolic transformations and shifts that further underscore the end of the early postwar years. In Germany in 1961 the emerging Fischer controversy permanently changed the historiographical spectrum; in Japan, 1960—a year of widespread civil protests against the security treaty with the United States—saw the beginning of the end of the dominant paradigm of Marxist interpretations. The first decade and a half of the postwar era therefore appear as an appropriate time frame for analyzing the changing interpretations of the national past in the wake of world war, defeat, and occupation. These questions are taken up in a way that is both comparative and transnational. This study thus connects to recent attempts to go beyond the confines of national history—not to jettison the category of the nation altogether, but rather to better understand its construction.35 The comparative approach allows a focus in both cases on the specificities of political and social contexts, including the issue of terminology and concepts whose translation cannot be taken for granted.36 The German concept of Sozialgeschichte (social history), for example, is not the same as the Japanese shakaishi (social history), but rather is its competitor, as shakaishi frequently connotes approaches that in English parlance are subsumed under the rubric of linguistic/cultural turn. It is clear, likewise, that the meanings of terms such as “fascism” (Faschismus/fashizumu) and “modernity” (Moderne/kindai), much less “culture” (Kultur/bunka), are by no means identical. The comparative

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perspective aims to be sensitive to these issues of particularity, while at the same time it tries to avoid falling into the trap, so typical of both German and Japanese historiography, of narratives of national uniqueness.37 What follows is not a standard comparison in the sense of taking both units of comparison for granted as natural containers of meaning established before the act of comparing begins. Instead, the focus is on the way both nations were constructed and reconfigured in a transnational context. Both Germany and Japan are not conceived of as hermetically restricted units. Instead, the relationality of their modern histories and the transregional power relationships within which they evolved takes center stage. In this way, the similarity of the two situations is not deduced from a universal modernization process (that develops internally within national boundaries) but is treated as the result of transnational relationships and interdependencies. Even if direct relationships between postwar West German and Japanese historiography did not play a central role, both countries nevertheless had fundamental features in common: as a result of American intervention in particular, which influenced the historical conceptions of both countries, not least by inculcating a vision of a bourgeois-capitalist-democratic future that served as a telos for rewriting the past; as a result of the Cold War, which superimposed notions of geopolitics and world order on the quest to revise the history of the nation; and as a result of the dynamics of academic scholarship in both countries, which shared both methodological structures and a common genealogy. The discourses on national identity in Germany and Japan thus cannot be taken as isolated phenomena, but rather were connected through a larger transnational history. Each of the following chapters is framed in a comparative and transnational perspective. At the same time, pre-1945 continuities have been highlighted in all cases, demonstrating that the end of the war did not represent an absolute turning point in West German and Japanese historiography. The first chapter serves as an introduction. The brief sketch of the development of modern historical studies in Germany and Japan is intended to provide context for the later study of postwar historiography. This overview shows that the development of the discipline of history in both countries is usually conceived within identical narratives of methodological development and the paradigm of modernization of historical scholarship. The chapter then argues for a discursive analysis of texts that locates the writing of history in the specific (social, political, cultural) context of the time—against the grain of most historiographical studies that largely abstract from content in their preoccupation with methodological progress.

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· introduction

In both countries, the most heated debates among historians in the 1950s did not deal with the recent and troubled past. Instead, in a sort of proxy battle, debate focused on the founding moments of the modern nation-state. In the second chapter, the ensuing controversies are subjected to an analytical reading on two levels. On the one hand, the historians involved sought to discuss the German Reichsgründung (the founding of the empire) and the Meiji Restoration in Japan in the light of recent events, and were concerned most of all with the question of continuity: did Bismarck’s politics of unification and the Meiji Ishin represent moments of national fulfillment or, rather, the beginning of structural processes that inevitably led to fascism and “catastrophe”? On a deeper level, however, one can read these controversies as discussions on the geographical location of the nation. After World War II, the territorial boundaries of both countries changed significantly, and these shifts led to a preoccupation in historical scholarship with the question of place. Attempts to deal with this problematic were by no means uniform, and differences both within and between Germany and Japan were significant. What united these alternative perspectives, however, was the desire to make the nation the subject of history. The third chapter concentrates on the preoccupation with the recent past. In both countries, historiography focused on the “catastrophe” of the nation, which, on closer scrutiny, implied military defeat rather than the horrors of genocide and aggression. This fed into a larger paradigm of the nation as victim, including the view that the German/Japanese “nation” (the “people”) was the real casualty of these periods of authoritarianism. This perspective prioritized narratives of resistance and extended even to interpretations of the war in which the German/ Japanese soldiers appeared as the true victims. It becomes clear, however, that (contrary to much of the scholarly literature) Japanese historiography developed a much more strident critique of the national past than most German historians, who regarded the Third Reich largely as an exceptional period without close connections to the traditions of German history. Finally, in order to explain the unfortunate turn in their nation’s history, German and Japanese historians resorted to the category of culture, which seemed to account for the pathologies of modernization and also to offer a remedy for the current predicament. Whereas chapter 3 gives voice to various interpretational patterns in the past epoch, the fourth chapter deals with the debate over Nazism and fascism from a methodological point of view. In Germany, the paradigm of the nation as victim was institutionalized as Zeitgeschichte, with its own institutions, journals, and epistemology. An analysis of the founding texts of this subdiscipline shows that one

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can speak here of an “invention” of a category that sets postwar Zeitgeschichte apart from earlier attempts to write contemporary history. In this specific framework, the Nazi period appeared as an exceptional epoch, fundamentally different from the traditions of German (and European) history. This periodization served as a deep epistemological structure that pervaded subsequent interpretations of the Third Reich and excluded from the problematic a discussion of long-term origins of Nazism. Against this background, many conservative historians even perceived the anti-historist Strukturgeschichte (structural history) of the 1950s—a precursor of 1960s German social history—as an ally within an interpretative scheme that precluded questions of responsibility by relying on the anonymous forces of social structures. Processes of methodological change that conventionally are explained in terms of historiographical progress can here be shown rather to be the product of a specific historical moment and the complex coalition of politics, history, and epistemology. In the concluding sections of this chapter, the Japanese version of contemporary history that flourished after World War II is presented as a comparative case. Here, too, debate centered on questions of structure and agency. The controversy surrounding the book Shoµwashi in the mid-1950s, however, had larger repercussions in that it signaled the end of Marxist hegemony in historical studies. In their endeavor to define a German and Japanese “Self,” historians in both countries not only were concerned with a genealogy of the recent past but at the same time widened their scope to deal with what lay beyond the borders of the nation. In particular, it was the notions of the “West” and the “East” that made it possible to position the nation (albeit in different ways) within an imaginative geography that underwent significant shifts in the war’s aftermath. The fifth chapter argues that the image of the “Other” that helped to shape a German and Japanese postwar identity was deeply bound up with questions of power. This became manifest during the occupation period, when the American presence in both countries was articulated with an overarching idea of the West; in Japan, for example, one can show how the concept seiyoµ changed and acquired new meanings through attempts (often conflicting) to reconcile it with the postwar world order. The notion of the East, on the other hand, served as an essentialized Other that made it possible to bring German and Japanese modernization into relief. This version of a latter-day “Orientalism,” this chapter holds, was made possible through a strategy here defined as “temporalization of space,” based on a universalist epistemology that pervaded historical thinking. To explain differences between nations and people, historians replaced such factors as climate, geography, and culture with the seemingly neutral category of historical time. Through this operation,

12

· introduction

itself an attempt to overcome the nationalist ideology of the wartime years, elements of a colonialist logic survived in a postwar discourse that defined itself as progressive and emancipatory. As this chapter makes clear, the postwar hegemony of the paradigm of national history was part of a larger amnesia, in both countries, regarding the imperial past. Finally, chapter 6 extends the discussion to the present. In a broad sweep, it lays out the development of historiography in both countries and discusses the way different approaches have reconfigured the concept of the nation: the rise of social history, women’s history, history from below, and the cultural and transnational turns in historiography since the 1990s. The chapter’s second half makes the case that the postwar history of memory in Germany and Japan cannot be interpreted on its own terms, but rather must be seen as bound up with larger transnational contexts and read as what I call “entangled memories.”

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chapter one

. Mapping Postwar Historiography in Germany and Japan

THE SYNCHRONICITY OF THE NONSYNCHRONOUS: HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE 1950s While the development of West German and Japanese historiography in the 1950s has only rarely been studied as a topic in its own right, there is a broad consensus among historians on its significance. And attribution of this significance could not be more diverse. In the Federal Republic, the historiography of the 1950s is treated as a sort of appendix, as the last gasp of a dying historiographical model. The crumbling traditions of historism were merely continued, it is held, without being infused with new life. The hegemony of political history remained unchallenged; history continued to be state oriented and subordinated to the primacy of foreign policy. Meanwhile, social issues and problems remained just as marginalized as the subdiscipline of economic history. Historiography, most accounts agree, was restricted to the examination of highly selective fields of reality expressed in a nonconceptual language. On the whole, it remained both politically and methodologically conservative. In the consensus of the historians, the postwar years up to 1960 were a period of stagnation in the history of historiography, a lull, and at best a kind of preparatory period. Hans-Ulrich Wehler speaks explicitly of a “peculiar fifteen year incubation period”1 perceived as merely a pre- or posthistory. As a consequence, the historiography of the 1950s was scarcely mentioned in the literature. Histories of the discipline emphasized the historist historiography prior to the First World War.

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As far as twentieth-century historiography is concerned, interest focused either on historians in the Third Reich or else on the take-off of social history following the Fischer controversy (after 1961). Stuck in between these two periods of attention, the development of the discipline in the postwar decades has remained in the shadows as a sort of historiographical stepchild.2 In Japan, by contrast, the historiography of the postwar decade is not ignored but rather celebrated as a shift away from an often nationalistic paradigm firmly in the service of the state, as the overcoming of a historism growing increasingly frozen in positivistic empiricism. In its place, the standard narrative goes, a new historiography had taken the stage—informed by social scientific principles, oriented toward analysis and explanation, and politically critical. After the capitulation of 1945, Marxist historiography had quickly asserted itself and had become the prevailing method of historical explanation. Although traditional (i.e., historist) historiography survived at many universities, it nevertheless almost entirely lost its status as a model for the discipline and for the interpretation of Japanese history. Almost overnight, historical materialism had become the strongest force, and historist political history now led little more than a niche existence. This paradigm shift was often stylized as the threshold from a prescientific treatment of the past to an objective science of history.3 In other words, in Japan the paradigm shift was accomplished after 1945, whereas it was sorely missed in the Federal Republic. To be sure, the Japanese variety of social history in the 1950s was strongly influenced by Marxism and was closely linked to the Communist Party. In this respect it differed markedly from (later) West German social history, which in turn distanced itself from the East German version of Marxism. But leaving these significant differences aside for the moment, this much is certain: the structural and social historical orientation of historiography, the critical perspective on one ’s own history, the emphasis on the historian’s political position, the abandonment of the historist paradigm of understanding in favor of a social scientific paradigm of explanation, and finally also the conceptualization of one ’s own history as a “deviant path” were all common characteristics of a social historical turning point that occurred in Japan in the immediate postwar period. In the Federal Republic it had to wait until the late 1960s. This brief sketch already illustrates the vast differences between West German and Japanese historiography in the 1950s. In respect to both methodology and subject matter, as well as in political terms, we are dealing with two competing, even contradictory historiographical paradigms. The following chapters demonstrate, however, that despite these striking differences a series of parallel themes,

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interpretative models, and discursive strategies can be identified that lay behind the political and methodological differences. But first, a brief overview illustrates how historical writing in the postwar years can be classified in the history of German and Japanese historiography.

GERMAN HISTORIOGRAPHY The history of German historiography is generally presented as a system of stages, according to which the trinity of enlightenment history, historism, and ultimately historical social science represented a secular modernization process. This view, which has above all been propagated by Georg Iggers and Jörn Rüsen (and his pupils, including Horst Walter Blanke), has now virtually attained the status of a sacred canon.4 These three stages of development can also be observed in the historiography of other European countries. In this context, Germany is viewed as exceptional in that its historist historiography has retained its predominance much longer than has been the case in, for example, England or France. Here, historism (Historismus) is conceived as a counterprogram to the historiography of the Enlightenment, which was characterized by the notions of evolution and progress as well as by concepts of natural law. By contrast, the historist understanding of history was aimed against the search for laws of historical progress and instead emphasized the individuality of all historical events.5 The displacement of Enlightenment history by historism went hand in hand with the institutionalization of historical writing as a historical science in the first half of the nineteenth century. The establishment of history departments and specialized professorial chairs as well as the publication of handbooks and methodological works made the “scientification” of history as a discipline possible. At the same time, this institutionalization stabilized the historist paradigm and ensured its long persistence: according to the usual periodization, the epoch of historism lasted into the 1960s and was subdivided into a golden age in the nineteenth century and a phase of slow and agonizing (at least methodological) death from the 1880s.6 Friedrich Jaeger and Jörn Rüsen have described what they call the “disciplinary matrix” of historism as containing the following elements: (1) confidence in scientific objectivity; (2) an idealistic conception of history that views ideas as the bearers of historical events; (3) the historist method, which reconstructed hidden continuity in the events of the past; (4) the epic tale as a narrative form; and (5) the goal of constructing a national identity in which the political content of historiography would be expressed.7

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After the 1890s the “crisis of historism” unleashed ferocious methodological discussions and undermined the field’s self-conception. The cultural historiography of Karl Lamprecht is generally regarded as the greatest of these challenges. Lamprecht sought to transform historiography into an equivalent of natural science by turning to social problems and searching for historical laws and causal links. The bitter resistance of the historical profession prevented the cultural historical approach from developing into an alternative to the prevailing historist paradigm.8 After fighting off this methodological reform project, the historist political history continued to be dominant into the 1960s. Of course, there were always a few original thinkers who formulated methodological or political alternatives to the profession’s conservatism. Otto Hintze was one of them, as were Veit Valentin, Gustav Mayer, and Eckart Kehr. But their ideas remained those of outsiders unable to penetrate the bastions of the ruling paradigm. The birth of social history, the standard narrative goes, was foretold in these “premonitions” but had not yet been induced.9 The two political caesuras of 1933 and 1945 also failed to change the historiographical landscape in significant ways. In fact, for a long time the Third Reich was not viewed as a break in the history of the discipline. This evaluation matched the self-conception of the participants. For example, in 1950 Gerhard Ritter was certain that “today in other countries the depth of the influence of the National Socialist policy of violence on German historiography [is] exaggerated.” He believed that the objectivity principle shielded the majority of historians from ideological blindness and preserved the profession’s scientific character.10 Of course, there were topics in which one had to display heightened sensitivity for the political implications of the past. The Peasants War or the role of Charlemagne were highly symbolic events that could not be discussed without making allowances for political considerations.11 Furthermore, restrictions and various forms of hamstringing, as well as interference in the organizational structure of the discipline, were fairly common. Thus in 1935 Friedrich Meinecke saw himself compelled to pass the editorship of the Historische Zeitschrift to the Nazi Party member Alexander von Müller. And the transformation of the Historical Reich Commission into Walter Frank’s Reich Institute for the History of the New Germany represented the most ambitious attempt to reform the profession according to the Nazi conception of history.12 But the vast majority of historians, the standard narrative goes, viewed this intervention with great skepticism. Adjustment to the political system, it was believed, only rarely exceeded the level of minor and superficial adaptation. For the prevailing historistic tendency of historiography in particular, National Socialism did not represent a serious challenge.13 On the contrary, the forcible expulsion

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of Jewish historians from the German universities helped increase the profession’s homogeneity. After all, many of the banished were among those “outsiders” who had questioned the political and methodological consensus. Their forced emigration thus simultaneously eliminated a potential for renewal and stabilized the continued dominance of the historist paradigm.14 As analysis was centered primarily on the reconstruction of methodological “progress,” historiography in the Third Reich thus appeared as the product of the late historist orientation of the field and was scarcely examined at all. Instead of integrating the historiography into the political context of the time and examining how scientific and social discourse may have overlapped, historians were much more concerned with demonstrating whether German historiography’s historist methodology bore partial responsibility for German society’s lack of immunity to Nazism. More than anyone else, Georg Iggers has made this supposed connection between the methodological premises of historism and the establishment of a dictatorial regime in Germany the centerpiece of his work.15 Not until the late 1980s did historians begin looking at the political involvement of German historiography in the Third Reich rather than its mere methodological implications. The close link between historical writing and ideology, between historical writing and National Socialist politics, gradually moved to the foreground. It was increasingly recognized that the focus of historist historiography on the power state bore numerous correlations and points of contact with Nazi (foreign) policy.16 The flourishing disciplines of “Eastern” and “Western studies” often went beyond mere agreement with the regime ’s political goals and displayed a cooperative, legitimizing character. From this perspective, historians did not appear as the remote residents of the academic ivory tower, but rather as “prethinkers” of National Socialist expansion and extermination policy.17 Peter Schöttler goes so far as to speak of a “language of genocide” that permeated many works of Eastern and Western studies. Even the works of mainstream historians, such as Gerhard Ritter, would have to be included in a broad body of what Schöttler calls “invasion history” that not only welcomed National Socialist expansion policy but also smoothed its intellectual path.18 The historist conception of history thus retained its validity beyond 1945. Well into the 1960s, historiography remained largely confined to the history of politics and great events. The Fischer controversy, which exploded in the early 1960s over the thesis of German responsibility for the outbreak of the First World War, is generally regarded as marking the end of historist hegemony. Given the symbolic status of the Fischer controversy as a turning point, it seems almost paradoxical

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that in methodological terms Fischer’s argument scarcely went beyond the established conventions of the profession. But in regard to the long-term interpretation of modern German history, the Fischer controversy represented a profound caesura that shook the traditional historical conception of professional historians. Even though the debate on Fischer’s book Germany’s Aims in the First World War still largely occurred within standard parameters, historians agreed that it laid the cornerstone for a paradigm shift in the second half of the 1960s. As a result of the expansion of the universities and the rapid increase in the number of positions— which accelerated the generational change of the discipline and which was simultaneously encouraged by the changing political context in the late 1960s—a new historiography asserted itself as a form of historical social science, thus ending the dominance of a historism oriented to the history of events.19 But this notion of an “irreversible caesura,”20 usually dated back to the beginning of the 1960s, has been adjusted somewhat by research in the past few decades. Above all, the idea of Volksgeschichte, which may have “anticipated essential foundations of a later social history,” took center stage in a heated debate in the late 1990s. The controversy focused on the status of methodological innovations during the Third Reich and the historiographical continuities leading to historical social science in the 1960s.21 Volksgeschichte already in the 1930s contained a counterprogram to the prevailing historist political history and had creatively made methodological borrowings from the systematic disciplines—sociology, anthropology, demography, and local history. In this way, historians such as Hermann Aubin, Otto Brunner, and Werner Conze sought to overcome bottlenecks in the historist history of events. While these were indeed innovative methodological approaches, the basic political attitude of most people’s historians (in contrast to later social historians) was a profound skepticism toward modernity.22 Without going into individual cases here, it is nonetheless clear that the emergence of social history cannot be viewed as an unprecedented product of the 1960s and that one cannot avoid asking whether it might have had roots in the Volksgeschichte of the 1930s.23 In parentheses we should note that in the Soviet zone, and later in the GDR, historical studies were committed after 1948 at the latest to the methodology and research agenda of historical materialism through massive state pressure. Most proponents of traditional “bourgeois” historiography left the universities (sometimes more and sometimes less voluntarily) and were often replaced by party functionaries without professional training. In this way, the regime set its critical view of German history in opposition to what it considered the “imperialistic historical conception” of the Federal Republic; at the same time, historist political history

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was replaced with Marxist social history. Following the launching of the Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft in 1953 and the founding of a separate Deutsche HistorikerGesellschaft in 1958, GDR historiography also consolidated itself institutionally and emancipated itself from West German historiography. To be sure, not only was this paradigm shift the result of internal conflicts, but—and this is what distinguished the historiography of the GDR from its counterparts in Japan and the Federal Republic—it was also directed and asserted by direct state repression.24 This necessarily schematic overview explains the relative lack of attention that scholars have given to 1950s West German historiography. The historiography of the postwar years was reduced to the status of an appendix and was considered the last phase of a historiographical ancien régime. The postwar period saw little innovative scholarship, and the orientation of West German historical studies remained historist. And yet the historiography of these years did not represent a monolithic block corroded only in the course of the Fischer controversy. Instead, the historiographical landscape of the 1950s was characterized by contradictory positions and competing approaches. As before, the prevailing direction remained a politically conservative historism as represented by Gerhard Ritter, Siegfried August Kaehler, Friedrich Meinecke, and Hans Herzfeld—although each of these historians had his own agenda. The thematic orientation varied considerably: a political history oriented to the nation-state, as propagated by Gerhard Ritter, was no longer everyone ’s cup of tea. Nevertheless, this, in itself largely heterogeneous group continued to represent the majority of historians and remained the most powerful faction in the profession. This dominance was also symbolically underscored by Ritter’s chairmanship of the Historians’ Association (1948–53). Its strongest competitor in the early postwar years was a Christian (often Catholic)–inspired historiography that took a clear position against Ritter’s version of national history focusing on Prussia. Franz Schnabel was undoubtedly its best-known proponent, but Alfred von Martin, Ulrich Noack, Franz Herre, and Hans and Karl Buchheim could also be included in this faction. Although they were no less conservative than their opponents in political and methodological terms, their southern German, federalist historical conception nevertheless remained a liberal alternative to the power state mentality of traditional historical studies. Apart from these two groups, there were also a number of other approaches with their own respective agendas. To name but a few, the new discipline of contemporary history was institutionalized in Munich in a separate research facility; and chapter 4 pays particular attention to attempts toward a more analytical understanding of

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modern society by means of methodological borrowings from neighboring systematic sciences. In this context it is essential to mention Karl Dietrich Bracher’s version of structural history inspired by political science, along with social and structural history, with their strong sociological influence as propagated by Werner Conze in Heidelberg. But there were also approaches toward a new social historical paradigm in Tübingen (Rudolf Stadelmann) and Berlin (Hans Rosenberg, Otto Büsch). Alongside this, the traditions of national history and Eastern studies were transferred to the territory of the Federal Republic, where they were centered in Göttingen and Marburg. In addition, a series of professional historians who had been driven from the universities after the war as a result of denazification (including Erwin Hölzle, Heinrich von Srbik, Wilhelm Mommsen, and Gustav Adolf Rein) continued to contribute to historiographical debates in the early Federal Republic. In what follows, it is important to keep this diversity of positions and approaches in mind and not to treat postwar historiography as a unified entity.

JAPANESE HISTORIOGRAPHY Not only in Germany but also in Japan the development of modern historiography is generally described in terms of three stages, likewise known as Enlightenment history, historism, and historical social science.25 According to the standard view, the modern history of historiography in Japan began with Enlightenment historiography in the 1870s and 1880s, which was then replaced by a conservative historism oriented on Ranke. The preeminence of this paradigm lasted until 1945, when Marxist social history emerged as the dominant approach. In the following, we take a brief look at the essentials of these three phases of modern Japanese historiography.

1868–1887 In Japan too, Enlightenment history (keimoµ shigaku) is viewed as the genesis of modern historiography. Just as in Germany, social historians in the postwar period retrospectively regarded the enlightened notion of progress as the predecessor of their own “critical” approach. Historism in turn was viewed as an interregnum to which historical science owed its institutional structure and the methodology of source criticism. To be sure, Enlightenment history in Japan during the 1870s and ’80s represented only one of a number of competing paradigms—even if it was the only one that lent itself to use in a genealogy of later social history—and its privileged status was thus the result of a teleological view of the history of the discipline.

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In the 1870s and ’80s, that is, in the decades between the founding of the nationstate (1868) and the institutionalization of history at the universities (starting in 1887), two main tendencies can be distinguished: on the one hand, a government-sponsored historiography that wrote an official history of Japan focused on dynastic history; and on the other hand, an oppositional enlightened history that contributed to a history of the civilizational progress of the Japanese people from a perspective critical of the government. This contrast between official (kan) and critical (min) historiography remained decisive for the later development of historiography.26 The following offers a brief look at both tendencies. The government-sponsored historiography of the Meiji Era employed the Chinese practice of official imperial historiography by command of the ruler. This tradition, which also encompassed source collections and annals of the dynasty, represented the model for the Office of Historiography, founded soon after the Meiji Restoration to establish an official version of events and to legitimize the new state by integrating it into the dynastic tradition.27 Governmental historiography was not monolithic but rather comprised various currents whose interaction had a not inconsiderable impact on the development of Japanese historiography. First, there was Sino-Japanese historiography (kangaku), whose neo-Confucian interpretation of history had long dominated the treatment of the past. In this tradition, in which the history of the imperial house took center stage, historiography was seen as a contribution to the moral foundation of the state. Past events were praised or criticized according to ethical considerations, and their evaluation helped guide the monarch.28 Second, by the end of the eighteenth century a national school (kokugaku) had formed as a departure from this Chinese-Confucian tendency and espoused the cause of liberating Japan from the dominance of Chinese cultural influence. It propagated a restoration of the allegedly still “pure” ancient Japanese legacy as an alternative to the continued importation of Chinese religion and culture. This tradition favored an elaboration of source criticism that was intended to filter the elements of an autochthonic Japanese heritage from the historical documents.29 Third, alongside these two competing tendencies was a form of textual critique (koµshoµgaku) imported from China whose source positivism was adopted and adapted by both the Sino-Japanese camp and the national school. This textual critique, however, went beyond both the Confucian moralism of Sino-Japanese historiography and the national pathos of kokugaku; instead, it was largely interested in critically evaluating texts, investigating facts, and uncovering fabrications. Unlike proponents of the ideologically oriented historiography of the ChineseConfucian and Japanese-Shintomist traditions, historians of the text critical school

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emphasized source critique and philological examination of documents.30 This text critical turn is often viewed as the first step toward the scientification of Japanese historiography, even before the influence of European historism.31 In any case, it is clear that against the background of the koµshoµgaku tradition, the introduction of Rankean source criticism did not necessarily seem a foreign intrusion. Counter to these various currents of state-supporting historiography emerged Enlightenment history (keimoµ shigaku), whose proponents did not belong to a government-appointed bureaucracy but who were largely independent journalists or hommes des lettres. They distanced themselves simultaneously from the dry source positivism of koµshoµgaku text critique, from the virtue discourse of the Sino-Japanese historians, and from the nativism of the national school. And they countered the dynastic perspective of the government court historiography with an oppositional view of the history of the Japanese people. The best-known proponents of this tendency were Fukuzawa Yukichi and Taguchi Ukichi, whose works were strongly influenced by the European historiography of such scholars as Henry Thomas Buckle and François Guizot. Taguchi’s Short History of Japanese Civilization (Nihon kaika shoµshi, 1877–82) was typical of this approach, which examined history in regard to the laws of historical development. For Enlightenment history, past events were not the subject of moral edification but rather the building blocks for a universal history.32 Consequently, Taguchi painted a picture of Japanese history as a triumphant march of progress. The Meiji Restoration (1868) thus appeared as the high point of the Japanese people ’s liberation from material want and spiritual dependence. This social revolution was not brought about, according to Taguchi, by either the government or influences from the West, but instead was the product of the agency of the Japanese people. In the 1880s this optimistic perspective gradually gave way to the more critical view of historians like Tokutomi Sohom and Takegoshi Yosaburom, who continued, however, to follow Taguchi’s metanarrative of development. But in their view, the Meiji Restoration represented not social liberation but merely the promise of this emancipation, because the restoration was no longer viewed as a successful revolution but as an incomplete one. In the eyes of these historians, the makeover of society seemed to have been halted halfway, and from a political and social point of view, the revolutionaries’ idealistic programs remained only on paper. History continued to appear as a progressive process that, however, had stagnated in Japan; democratization and social equality were faced with outdated structures that first had to be overcome.33 In the 1920s, Marxist historiography picked up on this interpretation of Japanese history and also on faith in progress

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and the notion of laws of historical development. But at the end of the nineteenth century, Enlightenment history was still an oppositional force without influence on the institutionalization of historical studies.

1887–1945 In 1887, a year following the reorganization of higher education and the founding of the Imperial University in Tokyo, a history department was established there. The institutionalization of historical studies thus coincided with the inner stabilization of the Meiji state, which culminated in the proclamation of the constitution in 1889 and can thus be viewed as an element of the inner founding of the state. In the founding of the history department, the government drew on the expertise of the young German historian Ludwig Riess (1861–1928), who was viewed as a pupil of Leopold von Ranke and who thus symbolized the prestige of German historist historical studies.34 The history department was founded under his direction, and it was soon complemented by an Historians’ Association (Shigakkai) and a professional journal (Shigaku zasshi) patterned after the German Historische Zeitschrift. In Japan—as in France, England, and the United States—historiography was institutionalized as an academic discipline in the late nineteenth century. The historians who taught at the Imperial University in the following years came from the department’s predecessor (the Tomkyom daigaku) or from the state Office of Historiography, which was now transferred to the university. In this way the various currents of government-sponsored historiography found their way into the new history department, whereas Enlightenment history remained in the opposition, both ideologically and institutionally. As a result of this genealogy, the conflict between the various tendencies of official historiography continued at the university for some time. Gradually, however, the Rankean historist method was grafted upon these different approaches. The historist paradigm had arrived in Japan at a time when the importation of Western institutions was still unconditionally equated with progress (and international recognition).35 Ludwig Riess, who taught in Tokyo between 1887 and 1902, placed particular emphasis on source criticism. In his English-language lectures on methodology, he referred to the works of Droysen and Ranke and focused great attention on the ancillary sciences and questions pertaining to the handling of primary sources. In a programmatic essay in the journal Shigaku zasshi, he demanded an end to historical philosophical speculation in favor of a concentration on gathering, collectively inspecting, and commenting on source material. This source positivism was entirely compatible with the text critical tradition of koµshoµgaku and

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gradually rendered the conflict between the Chinese and national schools obsolete. When a second history department was established at the Imperial University in Kyoto in 1907, it was staffed with graduates from Tokyo (in particular, Riess’s pupil Uchida Ginzom). The creation of additional history departments followed this pattern so that the emerging discipline developed a degree of homogeneity in terms of both interpretation and method.36 The predominance of this paradigm, which was derived from German historism, lasted until the end of the Second World War.37 The strong emphasis on collection of material, text exegesis, and source critique often resulted in a merely descriptive compilation of facts that degraded the historiographical mainstream to conservative positivism ( jisshoµ shugi). Alongside this absolute reliance on source critical methods, the peculiarities of academic historiography in Japan also included the dependence of historiography on the state. Because the Imperial Universities conceived of themselves as existing in a functional relationship to the state, the autonomy of historiography remained limited. Thus a few sensitive areas of the past were subject to an unspoken taboo. This particularly applied to the history of the imperial dynasty. A historian who transgressed these boundaries, which were often dictated less by raison d’état than by etiquette, was subject to removal from university service.38 As in Germany, the historiographical spectrum in Japan was not uniform. Here, too, post-1945 historiography could fall back on “outsider” standpoints. The four most influential groups should be mentioned here. First, the social and economic historical approaches were established in the late 1920s, primarily at the Imperial University of Kyoto. They were presaged by Fukuda Tokuzom, who had studied in Leipzig (with Karl Bücher) and then in Munich with Lujo Brentano, under whose supervision he published the study “Social and Economic Development in Japan” in 1900, and by Uchida Ginzom, who had been influenced by William Cunningham and who became one of the founding members of the history department at the University of Kyoto in 1907. This decidedly non-Marxist tradition was continued by Honjom Eijirom (1888–1973) at the University of Kyoto. Hiranuma Toshirom (Waseda University), Takimoto Seiichi (Keio University), and Tsuchiya Takao (University of Tokyo) can also be included in this economic historical tradition, which, however, met with little response from mainstream historians in the humanities.39 Second, a version of cultural history also assumed an outsider role in relation to the prevailing political history. This included, first of all, Tsuda Somkichi (1873–1961), who taught from 1918 to 1940 at Waseda University in Tokyo. In his studies he attempted to portray the everyday life of the people and in this way to reconstruct the development of Japanese culture. In the process he submitted the

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official imperial annals of early Japanese history to a rigid source critique, which brought him into increasing conflict with the dominant nationalist ideology of the 1930s, ultimately costing him his professorial chair in 1940.40 An important role was also played by Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962), who had gained recognition since the 1920s for his “history from below,” concerned with the fate of the “simple people” ( joµmin). Similar to German anthropological historiography, Yanagita’s work was not free of a nationalist tendency to essentialize the notion of the “people.” Nevertheless, the critical history of everyday life in the 1960s (minsuµshi) picked up on Yanagita’s work.41 The ultranationalist ideology of the war years (1931–45) represented a third challenge to positivist political historiography, confronting it with an essentialistic conception of “people” and “culture.”42 In the intellectual atmosphere of the times, a Japan-centered historiography (koµkoku shikan) developed, centering on the imperial house to which the people owed their loyalty. The best-known proponent was Hiraizumi Kiyoshi (1895–1985) at the University of Tokyo. This “historical conception of the Empire” (the literal translation of koµkoku shikan) was based on Tennom-centrism, on the Shintomistic moral codex, and on a vision of Japanese empire that can be counted among the intellectual foundations of the war in China and Southeast Asia (described at the time as a “war of liberation”).43 As in Germany, most historians sought to stay aloof from the excesses of this politicization and held fast to the objectivity and methodological standards of the profession. After 1945, koµkoku shikan historiography was banned from the universities and was taboo. It enjoyed a certain renaissance, however, in the revisionistic historiography that emerged in the late 1950s.44 Yet the most momentous challenge to the Rankean positivistic canon of the profession was (the fourth point) the emergence of Marxist historiography in the 1920s. Marxism had already gained a foothold among Japanese intellectuals in the first years of the new century, and in the 1920s its influence began to grow in the departments of economics. In 1922 a Communist Party was founded that, despite its politically marginal position, attracted great attention among the country’s intellectuals. Thenceforth, heavily theoretical academic debates had a symbiotic relationship with wrangles over party strategy.45 While historical materialism may have endured an outsider position from the point of view of the history departments, the debates conducted among Marxist economic historians in the 1930s played a decisive role in the development of postwar history writing. This particularly applied to the so-called controversy on Japanese capitalism (Nihon shihonshugi ronsoµ), which erupted over thesis papers in which the Communist Party linked its interpretation of the development of Japanese society with

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the tactical demands of its party program in 1927 and 1932. These theses characterized Japan as an essentially premodern state dominated by feudal remnants, which first required a bourgeois revolution as the preliminary step on Japan’s path to the dictatorship of the proletariat. The starting point for this controversy was thus a snapshot diagnosis of Japanese society in the 1930s. However, the argument was conducted with analyses of the Japanese past, and the preferred field of conflict was the evaluation of the Meiji Restoration. The specific interpretation of Japanese history on which the Communists based their party strategy was backed up by a number of economic historians in the following years. In 1932, this group, which came to be known by the name koµzaha, published, under the leadership of Noro Eitarom, a seven-volume treatise on the development of capitalism in Japan and thus translated the political and strategic issue into an academic and theoretical problematic.46 The positions of the koµzaha group corresponded to the official party line, which in turn had adopted the interpretation of the Communist International in its thesis papers. Koµzaha Marxists such as Hattori Shisom, Hirano Yoshitarom, Noro Eitarom, and Yamada Moritarom emphasized Japan’s backwardness and the authoritarian character of its modern transformation. Both the agrarian sector of the economic base and the political superstructure, which was characterized by the monarchism of the Tennom, was interpreted as having retained their feudal structure. Consequently, the Meiji Restoration, from the koµzaha point of view, did not represent a bourgeois revolution but merely a transition to absolutism.47 An opposing Marxist camp, the roµnoµha group, rejected this view of a derailed Japanese modernization project. This faction had left the Communist Party in 1927 and substituted the strategy of a two-phase revolution as prescribed by party doctrine with the concept of direct proletarian revolution. The term roµnoµha referred to the journal Roµnoµ (Workers and Peasants), which the dissident faction had founded in December 1927, and referred to the demand for a united front of workers and peasants that should replace the Communist Party, the self-styled avant-garde of the working class. Roµnoµha historians such as OMuchi Hyome and Tsuchiya Takao viewed the Meiji Restoration as a successful transition to a modern state. The land and fiscal reforms, as well as the abolition of feudal privileges and restrictions in the first years following 1868, made the massive industrial growth and rise to a modern great power possible. Furthermore, the imperialistic foreign policy after the turn of the century, the functioning constitution, party cabinets, and universal suffrage were further demonstrations that Japan was in no way backward. Whereas the koµzaha believed that Japan retained feudalistic remnants after 1870 and should thus be characterized as absolutist, the roµnoµha emphasized Japanese capitalism’s modern

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character and described the fascism of the 1930s as a logical consequence of an imperialism increasingly supported by a powerful bourgeoisie.48 The conflict between koµzaha und roµnoµha described here remained essential to the dynamics of Marxist debates over modern Japanese history well into the postwar period. In the mid-1930s, these debates temporarily faded away as a result of massive state repression against the Communist Party and those intellectuals who sympathized with it. Many of the Marxist economists returned to the universities only after the capitulation. Then, however, what had been an outsider discourse quickly became the dominant paradigm, which the other members of the historical profession could no longer ignore.

1945–1960 The end of the war in 1945 also marked a decisive caesura for historical studies: from this point onward, not historist political history but rather a Marxist-oriented social history would be the dominant paradigm of Japanese historiography. Within a short time, Marxist historiography advanced to become the hegemonic interpretation of Japanese history. More powerfully even than in France or Italy, Marxism dominated the intellectual discourse in the early postwar period. The founding of separate historians’ associations and professional journals institutionalized the dominance of historical materialism, which soon spread to the history departments. A series of reforms in the university system as well as far-reaching changes in the general structures of discourse contributed to this paradigm shift. The hegemony of Marxist historiography would continue into the 1960s, and even today it arguably remains the most influential force in Japanese historiography. Historiography between 1945 and 1960 can be broken down into three phases. The first years of the occupation, 1945–48, were a phase of optimistic confidence in the progress of history. The historical analysis of Marxist historiography appeared to have been confirmed by reality. During this time numerous works written during the repression of the war years were published, demonstrating the appeal of historical materialism. Alongside these studies emerged a social history strongly oriented toward Max Weber. Centered on the Europe specialist OMtsuka Hisao, it maintained a simultaneously symbiotic and antagonistic relationship with the prevailing koµzaha Marxism. By contrast, conservative, traditional historians were relegated to the margins of the discipline. In the next phase (1948–56), following the so-called reverse course, the anticommunist shift of American occupation policy, and by the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950 at the latest, Marxist historians no longer viewed themselves as euphoric

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commentators on the revolution occurring before their eyes but rather as critics of existing conditions, which they now denounced as political reaction. At the same time, they discovered the Japanese nation as the subject of anti-imperial resistance. Conservative historians also regained some of their influence in this period. Nevertheless, the dominance of Marxist historiography continued unabated, particularly in the field of modern history. In the period 1956–60, the Stalin critique in the Soviet Union induced self-doubt within the Communist Party in Japan, translating directly into methodological debates within Marxist historiography. The mid-1950s also witnessed the beginning of an economic upturn and the dominance of the conservative Liberal Democratic Party. This atmosphere increasingly undermined the critical consensus of historiography, and toward the end of the 1950s the first revisionist interpretations appeared, challenging the Marxist paradigm. As in the Federal Republic, in Japan 1960 is considered a caesura in the development of postwar historical studies. The failure of protests over the extension of the security treaty with America (anpo), in which many left-wing historians had taken part, also signalized the end of the interpretational monopoly of the critical, politically minded historiography of koµzaha Marxism. Modernization theory—imported from America and received in Japan as a conservative reading of history—and the history of everyday life (minshuµshi), as a competitor from Marxist historians’ own ranks, were the tendencies that appeared as alternatives to what had now become mainstream Marxism.

CONCLUSION In both Germany and Japan, the development of historical studies is usually seen as a three-step process comprising Enlightenment history, historist political history, and finally historical social science. Even though this now canonical model of historiographical “modernization” might have tended to force alternative approaches to the margins of the discipline’s history, it described a series of evident commonalities in the sequence of methodological paradigms. These parallels were above all an expression of the transnational character of the development of historical studies. Thus the introduction of the modern discipline of history in most nonEuropean countries occurred in the period of Europe ’s imperialist expansion and was part of a process of nation-state formation—forced by “the West” but also directed against it. The institutionalization of history at the universities founded in this epoch documented not so much an indigenous “modernization” of historical thought as a logic of model and import.49

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The founding of history departments at Japanese universities (as well as the prior introduction of “enlightened” historiography) was part of this process of knowledge circulation. This does not mean that local traditions did not continue to contribute to the particular character of Japanese historiography. But their influence and prestige, as it were, increasingly hinged on the way they were articulated with the supposedly modern Rankean positivist method. Professionalization and institutionalization under the auspices of historism structured the discipline ’s subsequent development. But even beyond the founding phase of modern history, Western historical theory remained influential in the development of Japanese historiography. The new approaches and turning points of European historiography, which the professional journals reported on regularly, were also relevant to the dynamics of the methodological debate in Japan. The reception of historical materialism in the years following the First World War and the boom of Marxist historiography beginning in the late 1920s are prime examples of this. Thus it was no coincidence that the French Annales school and Japanese koµzaha historiography emerged at almost exactly the same time. It is against this background of a long transnational history of entangled knowledges that the similarities in the long-term development of German and Japanese historiography must be understood—even though conventional accounts tend to describe them as the product of a series of internal shifts and transformations. The focus on these parallels inscribes postwar historiography in Germany and Japan onto an identical metanarrative; it was only the moment of the paradigm shift that differed. In the Federal Republic, social history emerged only in the 1960s, whereas in Japan it became hegemonic soon after 1945. Anyone who compares the two countries in the postwar period is therefore tempted to stress the obvious differences: the continuing predominance of conservative historism in the Federal Republic, versus the prevalence of a decidedly post-historist, critical social history in Japan. The following chapters argue, however, that this emphasis on German-Japanese distinctions is itself partly a result of the prevailing tendency to pursue the history of historiography as a history of methodology. The preoccupation with method risks losing sight of the concrete conditions and the specific political concerns of historical interpretations. As will become clear, even the development of methodological “paradigms” does not occur autonomously, but rather can be reconstructed only within social, discursive, and often transnational contexts.

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chapter two

. The Origin of the Nation Bismarck, Meiji Ishin, and the Subject of History

In retrospect, West German historiography of the early postwar years (until around 1960) appears to many observers as a relatively homogeneous and uneventful field. Hardly any discussions were publicly conducted about the appropriate interpretation of German history. This “dearth of controversy” was a characteristic of 1950s historiography.1 Even the hundredth anniversary of the Revolution of 1848, a few years after the end of the war, did not lead to extended discussions about its status in the course of German history. The only exception in this regard was the debate on Bismarck’s unification of the Reich, prompting participation of a wide circle of historians and attracting a certain amount of attention among the general public. In fact, an examination of the Bismarck controversy is especially well suited to an analysis of the West German historical profession and its various interpretive patterns. In sharp contrast to the situation in West Germany, Japanese historians became involved in a whole range of controversies in the early postwar period that aroused professional interest far beyond the close circle of specialists.2 In Japan, too, the debates on the modern unification of the empire during the Meiji Restoration in 1868 enjoyed special status. The Meiji Restoration, in particular, functioned as a kind of gauge for the evaluation of all of modern Japanese history. Both in West Germany and in Japan the process of modern state formation was thus a privileged topic of historiographical debate after 1945. Bismarck’s unification of the Reich and the Meiji Restoration (Meiji Ishin) did not become the centerpiece of German and Japanese history after 1945, but

31

had already had that status since the late nineteenth century.3 These two historic moments had long been viewed as a logical consequence and crowning completion of history. After 1945, however, the focus of the discussion shifted. Now the preoccupation with the epoch of the founding of the empire was based on the fear that the origins of the modern nation-state could be causally connected to its perversion in fascism. Both in the Bismarck controversy of the 1950s and in the conflict over the interpretation of the Meiji Restoration, National Socialism and fascism were thus invisible presences. The debates on the kleindeutsch (Lesser German) unification and on the removal of the Tokugawa Shogunate by the Meiji government can be viewed as proxy battles in this respect. Alongside the continuity question, these controversies were informed by a further concern that gave the discussions a unique momentum. Beneath the surface of the debates, the often explicitly formulated question of the nature and status of one ’s own nation was negotiated. With the end of state sovereignty in 1945, the consciousness of national belonging lost some of its self-evident quality. The historiographical debates of these years demonstrate the central concern with questions of national self-reassurance in both countries. The debates were characterized by serious controversies and conflicting points of view. And yet, as will become clear, beyond all political and ideological divides, even competing and contradictory interpretations were often based on common, albeit mostly unspoken, premises. These fundamental assumptions structured a debate that in both West Germany and Japan, as this chapter argues, centered on a determination of the historical position of one ’s own nation.

LOCATING THE NATION: THE BISMARCK CONTROVERSY the question of continuity Today, scholars agree that the controversy over Bismarck and his unification policy that was conducted in the early years of the Federal Republic occurred “within the framework of the conventional.”4 The issues and questions that defined the controversy had been taken almost unchanged from the research of the Weimar period, as Hans Mommsen has pointed out.5 As I demonstrate, however, on closer inspection of the dynamics of this conflict, it becomes clear that the issues had actually shifted considerably. For unlike the period before 1945, “Bismarck’s . . . work” by now was no longer the acclaimed telos, but rather had become the “problem of German history,” as historian Ulrich Noack of the University of Würzburg stated in 1948.

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Noack spoke of his impression of having “lost the meaning of our entire history.” And since history had now arrived at the “terminus of a great comprehensive development,” it seemed now essential to ask about its origins. Noack thus promoted the “thesis that Bismarck’s . . . policy was detrimental to our overall development.”6 Soon after the end of the war, this continuity thesis took center stage in the academic reevaluation of the past. It was based on the suspicion, or even fear, that National Socialism could not be discarded as a mere arbitrary event, but rather might have to be viewed as a logical consequence of German history. In Allied propaganda, this had been the standard explanation for German Fascism, for which the Allies constructed a line of descent reaching from Luther to Frederick the Great, Bismarck, and Hitler.7 A. J. P. Taylor gave poignant expression to this point of view in his book The Course of German History (1945), which fomented violent reactions from German historians. For Taylor it was “no more a mistake for the German people to end up with Hitler than it is an accident when a river flows into the sea.”8 Even among the German public and in the literature of the early postwar years, this logic gained a broad audience.9 The idea of a lineage of “Great Germans” leading up to Hitler was, to be sure, not new, as it had already been invoked for the sake of legitimacy during the Third Reich. After 1945, writers repeatedly fell back on the old rhetoric, though now it possessed a negative connotation. Thus, for example, a declared Hitler opponent such as Alfred von Martin, who had given up his teaching position in Göttingen in 1933, arrived at “the conviction of the extent to which Bismarck is part of the history of the German catastrophe—that all of this began long before Hitler.”10 However, the vast majority of historians took a skeptical view of this “pseudo and ultra-radical history” of a German deviant path “from Bismarck to Hitler.”11 The historian Siegfried August Kaehler of the University of Göttingen declared in December 1946: “For everything depends on . . . keeping alive the core of German historical consciousness for those who come after us.” What this “core” actually consisted of for Kaehler soon became clear in the course of his remarks: he was concerned with “reestablishing the credibility of 1914, which was destroyed by 1939 and its consequences”—and thus with counteracting the suspicion that the development of the Reich had, after the First World War, already taken a direct course toward the “German Catastrophe,” if not already after Bismarck or Frederick the Great.12

rescuing the nation This also applied to Gerhard Ritter, who was considered to represent that group of historians for whom “Bismarck’s name [was] inseparable from the epoch of

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the most felicitous political and economic advancement that German history, so rich in misfortunes, has ever known.”13 In Freiburg, Ritter had been in contact with circles participating in the July 20 resistance movement and had also spent time in prison after the assassination attempt. After 1945, this “decisive opposition against the Hitler regime” made him a representative of “good Germany” in public opinion.14 He in turn, as a member of the “Clearing Council” of the University of Freiburg, ruled over the future of his colleagues. In 1949, Ritter was elected to the chairmanship of the new German Historians’ Association. His resistance to long-term lines of historical continuity reaching into the Third Reich was thus associated with the dual authority of his office and with his personal biography. His statements possessed a representative character for the national-conservative majority of historians.15 Ritter’s interpretation of Bismarck was based on a model of historical development apparently well adapted to weakening the hypothesis of long-term continuities in the German past. He systematically distinguished two separate epochs in modern history, namely, the era of the European state system and the “iron age” of world politics, which began around 1917. Bismarck, “the last great cabinet politician of European history,” stood “at the end of a past epoch, not at the beginning of our world,”16 and thus must be judged by the standards of his time and not by those of contemporary experience. For the epoch of the European state system wrote its own laws of history that even Bismarck could not resist. Thus the German national movement was to be understood as a concrete and “natural reaction” to the demands of history.17 In Ritter’s words, the movement followed “the course of the century as a whole, this century of national unification movements,” which Bismarck merely implemented through the founding of a national state.18 But at the same time, Ritter believed that this achievement also marked the end of an era. “In world historical terms . . . the epoch of the European state system and the national unification movement, to which Bismarck belonged, already ended during his lifetime.” The European state system was then replaced by a world political order, the beginning of which Ritter traced to the year 1917.19 In this way, Ritter’s historical model hinged on the assumption of a caesura that attributed the Bismarckian empire and National Socialism to fundamentally different periods between which continuity was precluded ontologically. Thus National Socialism reflected the legacy not of the nineteenth-century nation-state but rather of Marxism, which had injected the emerging world order with the insanity of the “struggle for Lebensraum.” In this way, Bismarck and Hitler did not appear in a line of continuity. Instead, they belonged to two epochs that appeared so different that

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Ritter claimed to have found a “gap of two centuries of European history,” rather than the calendrical four decades, between Bismarck and Hitler.20 Nevertheless, the later “catastrophe” of the nation-state within National Socialism always threatened to cast a shadow on the founding of this state. Ritter, too, viewed the domestic political achievements of the empire with increasing reserve, and in the mid-1950s he spoke openly of its “indubitable structural flaws.”21 This interpretational pattern, which praised Bismarck’s foreign policy performance and also admitted the inconsistencies of the Reich’s inner constitution, was widespread among national-conservative historians. Wilhelm Mommsen and Wilhelm Schüssler—both historians who were forced to yield their professorships within the framework of the denazification program—conceded domestic political flaws that relativized Bismarck’s achievements.22 The fact that the criticism did not go further can also be attributed to an argumentative pattern that reflected a generally unquestioned axiom of historist historiography: the inner structure of a society was believed to be determined by its foreign policy. Thus, like all aspects of domestic policy, the structural flaws of the German Empire appeared as consequences of the primacy of foreign policy. The analysis had to emphasize an evaluation of the international situation, within the framework of which the question of German unity had been negotiated. This international situation—the overarching tendency of emerging nation-states—was then deemed responsible for any internal antagonisms. The goal of Bismarck’s policies, national unity, thus already appeared to have been prescribed by the “course of the century”—and all that was left to debate was Bismarck’s method: “blood and iron.”

the catholic conception of history Ritter’s vehement crusade against the continuity thesis was in principle supported by the majority of university historians. They opposed attempts aimed at a critical revision of Bismarck’s image, which experienced a certain boom in the first postwar years. These attempts often relied on the critical Bismarck biography by the legal scholar Erich Eyck, which was published in Switzerland in 1944 but which professional historians received only in the postwar years.23 Eyck criticized Bismarck’s power politics from a left-wing liberal standpoint, arguing that although his policies had no direct connection to Hitler, they nevertheless contributed greatly to the rise of National Socialism.24 In 1949, Robert Saitschick constructed an even more explicit lineage of the “Third Reich” back to Frederick the Great and Bismarck.25 This criticism was picked up on by the Munich historian Franz Schnabel, who had lost his professorial chair during the Third Reich and who was seen by many

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historians in the early postwar years as advocating a renewal of German historical studies.26 Schnabel—who, like Ritter, was a student of Hermann Oncken—turned Eyck’s argument on its head. His criticism was not aimed at the methods—militaristic power politics—but rather at the very aim of Bismarck’s policies, namely, the Lesser German (kleindeutsch) unification. In this goal Schnabel recognized the “destruction of a German tradition” that had existed in a transnational state order. The Lesser German solution had disrupted this tradition and driven Austria from Germany—our “tragedy, as we have to call it today.”27 In this way, Schnabel provided the continuity debate with a specific focal point. For him, the continuity he saw as leading to the “catastrophe” lay in the narrowing of politics to national criteria.28 Schnabel thus formulated an explicit counterposition to the national-conservative historical conception held by the majority of West German historians. At issue was not merely the question of caesuras and turning points but also the nation-state tradition of the German people. In the wake of the defeat and the experience of National Socialism emerged a debate over the dangers of a form of nationalism that appeared to be responsible for Germany’s “catastrophe.” National traditions appeared to have become all the more problematic now that Germany’s unity in geographical-territorial terms was either over for good or had become a figment of the imagination. The argumentative field in which Schnabel operated consisted of two opposite extremes that correlated the nation and the state differently: the concept of the nation-state and the idea of the Reich. In the first case (as for Ritter), the nationstate on a uniform ethnic and cultural foundation appeared to be the organizational form that not only was appropriate to the modern industrialized world but also appeared as the fulfillment of a centuries-long struggle for unity on the part of the German nation. But the Reich idea (as for Schnabel), aimed at a transregional order beyond national boundaries, was likewise touted as representing the “genuine” traditions of German history. For Schnabel, the problem lay in abandoning international, universal traditions as embodied in the Holy Roman Empire of the German nation, and in adopting a popular national ideology. Germany’s “tragedy” lay in the way “that central and eastern Europe dissolved into independent nation-states” and that Lesser Germany, unified under Prussia’s aegis, did not latch onto the transnational legacy of Austria-Hungary.29 Schnabel was not alone in this view. His pupil Georg Smolka, a professor of modern history in Speyer after 1954, also spoke of the “abstract idea of national unity, so foreign to German historical experience,” and considered Bismarck’s nation-state to be a fateful imposition. Following the usual argument of

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the postwar years, he likewise based his rejection of the national order of 1871 on the thesis of a fateful continuity. “The kleindeutsch unified state excluding Austria has brought the German people and Europe few blessings.” These remarks demonstrate that the continuity question was always linked to the question of the “genuine,” “true” alternative course of German history. At least for Smolka it was evident “that the kleindeutsch solution . . . violated the spirit of German and European history.” Thus in his eyes the path from Bismarck to Hitler, which Smolka conceived of as a more or less direct link, not only was fateful but also contradicted “the German character.” It is striking, by the way, that this national “core,” to which both Schnabel and Smolka alluded, not only was an ideal entity but also frequently had geographical connotations. For Smolka, for example, a “universal-occidental and national-German character and will” was both “different from that in the nations of Western Europe” and associated with a specific place within Germany: “principally at home . . . in Austria, as well as in the landscapes of the German West and Southwest.”30 From this perspective, the Lesser German unification seemed to be downright alien to “Germanness.” The contemporary historian Karl Buchheim also viewed the founding of Bismarck’s Reich as an artificial event “that did not recognize the German task in the Southwest, which was demanded by history and nature.” This view called for a revision of Prussia-centered German historiography, focused as it was on Bismarck’s politics of national unity. Buchheim claimed that Germany had abandoned its “natural” path, the one that matched its spiritual core. Only on the basis of a Greater German unification, “only in connection with the old Danube monarchy, would there have been a historical justification for the politics of the German idea; no Weltpolitik on the English scale, and yet”—that still seemed plausible to Buchheim in 1949—“great politics with a broad horizon.”31 These revisionist interpretations stood either expressly or only implicitly in the context of a worldview that can be characterized as a Catholic conception of history. Schnabel, von Martin, Noack, Smolka, and Buchheim were among those West German historians who formulated a Bismarck critique whose arguments were framed by the concepts and formulations of political Catholicism. Notions of a renewed Christianization of an Occident that needed to come to terms with its own traditions were widespread in the postwar years. The numerous Catholic cultural journals played an important role in public discussion. Authors such as Walter Ferber, Walter Hagemann, Rudolf Degkwitz, Emil Franzel, and Eugen Kogon reflected on the future of Germany and Europe from a Christian perspective.32 These considerations were based on a “Catholic” interpretation of German

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history, according to which Luther marked the beginning of the departure from the Reich idea, a development that headed toward an ill-fated conclusion in German unification according to the Lesser German model. Against this background, the entire period in which Prussia exerted major influence on German history appeared as an abortive development characterized by a “lack of living Christianity,” as the Catholic author Max Pribilla emphasized. “An error of at least two centuries of German education and history has ended today in a blind alley.”33 Elements of this Catholic interpretation of history also made their way into the programs of numerous political groups that tended to be part of the federalist movement, but also into the ranks of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and Christian Social Union (CSU); this political dimension underlined the broad influence that this discourse possessed in the early postwar years.34 It is against this background that we must try to understand the Catholic historians’ revisionist approaches. For historians such as Karl Buchheim, “the link with the Christian component” seemed an essential precondition for historiographical interpretation.35 Historians operating within this framework also profited from the plausibility and interpretational competence of a “Catholic” position. Through the creation of professorial chairs reserved exclusively for Catholic historians (so-called Concordat chairs), an institutional basis for a “Catholic” reading of German history already existed. Thus, for certain professorships at the universities in Bonn, Freiburg, Munich, Münster, Tübingen, and Würzburg, the denominational affiliation of the applicants was a major precondition.36 Beyond these administrative structures, numerous Catholic historians in the postwar period felt themselves to be part of their own scientific community, which explicitly distinguished itself from the Protestant and national (i.e., Ritter-led) current of the German historical profession. There were also attempts to institutionalize this line of thought. The Arbeitskreis Christlicher Historiker (Study Group of Christian Historians), founded in various regions of Germany in the late 1940s, loosely linked historians who wanted to sound out the possibilities of a Christian-inspired conception of history. Between 1947 and 1951, mostly in southwestern Germany, a series of conferences dealt with the nexus of the Occident, Christianity, and history. In 1950 the founding of the Institute for European History in Mainz was directly linked to the activities of the Study Group. One of the two departments of the Mainz institute was dedicated to occidental religious history and was run by the Catholic church historian Joseph Lortz.37 To be sure, a scholar’s creed alone did not automatically imply that he or she shared a religiously motivated conception of the past. The Study Group also aimed

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its appeals at Protestant historians and espoused the “rapprochement of the two Christian confessions to the extent that this is possible.”38 Nevertheless, in the way the Study Group viewed itself and was viewed by others, this historical position was frequently perceived as “Catholic.” For example, Franz Herre, Catholic historian and student of Franz Schnabel, accused Gerhard Ritter of having “spoken far too little of the Christian Occident and of the need for a revision of previous historiography from the point of view of Christian-occidental responsibility.”39 This appeal to a Christian West served to distinguish this group from the majority of German historians, who, in contrast, were associated with the idealization of the Protestant-Prussian nation-state. Thus the scientific front line was also defined in ideological-religious terms, and even on the “opposing side” (in what was called the “Ritter club”) some historians stylized the interpretational conflict as a difference of confessional identity. For example, Wilhelm Schüssler took pleasure in ironically pointing to the “sharpened view of the Catholic worldview” with which Schnabel and Buchheim criticized Bismarck’s unification of the empire. To take the wind out of the sails of this “Catholic” critique in his own intervention in this controversy, Schüssler also expressly emphasized Bismarck’s Christian character and established him as a religious European politician.40 These Catholic-Protestant conflicts not only influenced the interpretation of German history but also delimited two important camps in which a struggle raged over the reorganization of the historical profession. The relevance of this front line to the politics of scholarship can be illustrated using the example of the newly founded journal Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht. This journal, which continued the tradition of the prewar publication Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, was aimed in equal measure at both history teachers and university historians. The editorship was correspondingly assumed by one representative from each target group. At the same time, the editors were to represent the denominational groups competing over the interpretation of German history (note that these historical conceptions, again, appeared to possess a geographical component). In October 1949, Gerhard Aengeneyndt from the Klett publishing house in Stuttgart wrote to Karl Dietrich Erdmann: “In view of the current state of affairs, it would be desirable if one north German and one south German, and one Catholic and one Protestant would share the work.”41 Confessional differences were also palpable in the negotiations and intrigues accompanying the refounding of the Historians’ Association. Gerhard Ritter’s plan to found a new organization under his leadership encountered strong reservations among a range of Catholic historians.42 Ritter was also considered highly controversial by the national-conservative majority

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of historians. But above all, the fact that “there is much opposition against Ritter in Catholic circles,” as Hermann Heimpel of Göttingen reported, impeded the smooth implementation of his project. Despite Catholic opposition, Ritter’s election by a large majority as the new chairman at the Munich Historians’ Conference in 1949 expressed the power relations in the German historical establishment.43 Interpretations associated with a Catholic conception of history played an important role in the Bismarck controversy and gave the conflicts their explosiveness in the first place. But here too, the “Catholic” historians remained a minority, and their retrospective attempts to present an alternative path of German history were labeled as empty “Central Europe” (Mitteleuropa) fantasies. After their hopes for a fundamental revision of the interpretation of German history were dashed in the first postwar years, the influence of this Catholic faction declined further and further. Already by the end of the 1950s, confession-based positions had become a rare exception in the profession’s debates.

the exceptional century Like Ritter, most professional historians regarded the nation-state as the natural goal of German politics in the nineteenth century. Wilhelm Mommsen, typically, emphasized: “Bismarck himself rejected all foreign policy striving for a transnational Mitteleuropa, which ultimately unleashed the catastrophe in the march to Prague in 1939.”44 The bulk of West German historians thus agreed that Bismarck must be removed from the line of continuity leading to the Third Reich. “Bismarck was part of . . . the anti-Hitler world.”45 This conviction was mostly based on the assumption of a caesura between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and thus on a strict division between Bismarck’s realpolitik and Hitler’s expansionism. Against this background, as we have seen in the example of Gerhard Ritter, the founding of the nation-state in 1871 continued to be viewed as the highlight of German history. However, this was not a necessary conclusion. Not everyone who rejected the continuity thesis and espoused the “bridge to a better past” had to conform to the project of the nation-state. Alongside the Bismarck apologia of the nationalconservative majority and its (likewise politically conservative) “Catholic” opposition, the Bismarck controversy revealed yet a third approach whose interpretive direction is best illustrated with the lecture Hans Rothfels delivered in 1949 at the first postwar conference of the German Historians’ Association in Munich. Rothfels (1891–1976) had studied with Friedrich Meinecke in Freiburg. In 1926 Rothfels was named professor at the University of Königsberg, where he taught for eight years. Because of his Jewish background, in 1935 he was banned from teach-

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ing and was forced to leave the country in 1938. He emigrated to the United States, where he was granted a professorship at Brown University (and at the University of Chicago after 1945). After the war, Rothfels was one of the few emigrants who took advantage of the opportunity to return to Germany. He became a full professor in Tübingen in 1951 and was thenceforth one of the most influential historians in the early Federal Republic. This is documented not least by the frequent references to Rothfels’s writing by other historians. He had numerous students and provided central impulses for the still-young discipline of contemporary history, which he supported as the long-standing editor of the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte.46 In Göttingen in 1932, Rothfels had made the final speech at the last meeting of the Historians’ Association before the Nazi seizure of power, and thus he linked his appearance in Munich to the “good traditions” of a “better Germany.” Now, in 1949, he spoke explicitly in his role as an exile, which not only supplied him with moral capital but also seemed to promise methodological benefits. He claimed an advantage of objectivity since the emigration experience had placed him in the position of taking a “world historical” look at German history, and not just “a selective national point of view.”47 In the eyes of his colleagues remaining in Germany, this also qualified him to deliver the lecture in Munich. The conservative émigré Rothfels, who emphatically defended Bismarck against any discrediting association with the Third Reich, appeared to be best placed to furnish a rehabilitation of German history with moral and scholarly gravity. Yet although Rothfels was regarded as a “Bismarckian,” he considered a reinterpretation of the Bismarck era as unavoidable. He deemed it necessary to integrate the nineteenth century “into the overall historical development,” meaning that this epoch could be viewed neither as a beginning (of fascism) nor as the end (of national development), or as a goal of history. Instead, he argued, the nineteenth century was “the least universal historical epoch of universal history.” Indeed, it was an “intermediate century whose character within the overall course of history was more of an exception than a norm.”48 Why was this? Rothfels perceived the development after 1848—the triumph of national currents and movements—as “abnormal.” For him, the year 1848 was the “true watershed.” It marked the transition to a period of nationalist ideology and nation-states, which ended only in 1917 with the appearance of the United States as well as the Soviet Union on the stage of world history.49 Rothfels did not, however, owe this transnational perspective only to the transformed perspective of an émigré. It was linked to his personal biography in other ways. His thoughts on the character of the nation-state, which came “explicitly from the experience of the German East,”50 referred specifically to impressions

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Rothfels had gained in Königsberg, where he had spent a period that he later called “years of profound moulding force.”51 Even after returning from his American exile, Rothfels stayed in close contact with his Königsberg students and colleagues. His numerous talks before the German-Baltic refugee association and the Study Group for Baltic History in Göttingen demonstrated his close ties to the East Prussian region and its history. He saw the coexistence of various peoples that he had witnessed in the Baltic region as a model for a peaceful, tolerant, transnational European future. In contrast to the homogeneity of Western Europe, the “confusion” in East Central Europe demanded an “honest renunciation” of the nationstate. In its place, Rothfels propagated a “polity . . . that encompasses several peoples, all with equal rights and equal dignity”52—and this model could someday, he believed, be used to create a European unification, the “desired ideal of a ‘Central European Greater Switzerland.’ ”53 The way Rothfels translated his Königsberg experience into history can thus be regarded as a central ingredient of his conception of transnational units. One finds a similar perspective among a range of his former colleagues in Königsberg, including Reinhard Wittram, Theodor Schieder, and Werner Conze. These notions of Germany’s dissolution into larger organizational forms that would transcend national boundaries thus returned to discussions that had been conducted in the heady atmosphere of the early 1930s.54 Particularly in the context of the so-called Volksgeschichte, which also included the Königsberg historians, approaches to an alternative historiography had been developed that sought to replace the usual nation-state perspective by focusing on the category of the people. In this line of thought, “the people” and the state were not viewed as an organic unity. On the contrary, for the historians of Volksgeschichte the nation-state was an impediment to the fulfillment of the transnational tasks facing the German people. The conceptions of the German people ’s European mission, upon which most works of Volksgeschichte were based, were not always easy to separate from plans for German dominance in East Central Europe, which also motivated National Socialist Ostpolitik. For example, Rothfels’s 1930s dream of a transnational Volksgemeinschaft (a Nazi propaganda term for “people ’s community”) ranging from Bucharest to Reval was questionable in regard not only to its academic plausibility but also to its political connotations. These continuities notwithstanding—there will be more to say about them later on—Rothfels’s postwar Bismarck interpretation cannot be understood only in the context of the Volksgeschichte of the 1930s. Regarding the interpretations of these historians as mere anachronistic relics of a dark past would mean ignoring the overdetermination of discursive formations.

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The genealogical link to the discussions of the 1930s was only one aspect of the shift from a national perspective in the postwar period. For at the same time, these considerations referred to the debates on European integration that were conducted in the early 1950s and that had particular significance in divided Germany. In “On the Crisis of the Nation-State,” which Hans Rothfels delivered as his inaugural lecture in Tübingen in November 1952, he explicitly placed his analysis in the context of an emerging Western European and North Atlantic union. In this specific historical situation, in which the German nation-state was divided and national unity appeared imaginable only within the framework of larger political entities, one could no longer avoid realizing “that the nation-state of the 19th century . . . was not a progressive but rather an outdated, even reactionary form of life.”55 On close examination, this conclusion had clear similarities with competing interpretations. The rhetoric may have varied somewhat, but the core of Rothfels’s thoughts recalled the positions identified above with a “Catholic” conception of history. The logic of Rothfels’s argument did not fundamentally differ from the idea of the German people ’s occidental mission as found in the writings of Franz Schnabel and Ulrich Noack. In both interpretations, the postwar period seemed to offer the opportunity to realize “the unique and different forms of political life”56 that were allegedly reserved to the “Germans,” the “Occident,” or “Central Europe.” The plausibility of this argument could be supported in very different ways: either through an appeal to a “Christian worldview” (Schnabel) or through considerations of the “social structure” (Rothfels) of the polity under examination. However, both approaches shared the reference to an ideological or structural category that remained unexamined in itself and that was derived from a political conviction—namely, that the nation-state as organizational form was not suited to Central Europe. In each case, the result was that the past century had to be viewed as an exception and a deviation in the context of German history, and the concept of the nation-state had to be denounced as a mistake.

gerhard ritter revisited In contrast to Schnabel and Noack, who openly declared themselves to be “enemies of Bismarck,” the converted Protestant Rothfels saw it as his mission to shield from criticism Bismarck’s person, with whom he had occupied himself throughout his scholarly life. In his “attempt to draw a positive meaning from Bismarck’s thoughts . . . in regard to a reordering of German and European affairs viewed from the center, particularly in nationally mixed regions,” he ended up with a bold argumentative line.57 Paradoxically, Rothfels hoped to depict the founder of the

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nation-state as a true European, and the Lesser German solution as a stepping stone on the path to a greater unity.58 Rothfels’s defense of the Reich’s founder in turn aligned him—and this was another paradoxical result—with Gerhard Ritter. For the latter, maintaining the “distinction between . . . a better past and a past . . . ruined by 1933,” and defending Bismarck from the continuity theses of the “Vansittartists” and the “radical pacifist émigrés,” was also an affair of the heart.59 He thus insisted on the weight of irreversible breaks in the course of history that to him seemed to guarantee that Bismarck was separated from Hitler by “a whole world.”60 On the surface of Ritter’s line of argument, this emphasis on an unbridgeable break seemed to rescue the integrity of tradition; however, beneath that surface Ritter’s interpretations also show traces of a long-term continuity that seemed to transcend all caesuras in historical development. And here one can see points of contact between Ritter’s apotheosis of the Reich’s founder and the “positive meaning” Rothfels sought to derive from his work. To be sure, Ritter’s apologia of the nation-state and Rothfels’s plea for a “universalhistorical” abandonment of national forms of organization were strange bedfellows. Nevertheless, the dialectics of Ritter’s argumentation made it possible to derive a Central European aspect of the Lesser German solution and to depict Bismarck as a forerunner of the European Community. Ritter believed it was Germany’s task, independent of all historical epochs, to preserve Central Europe “from a threatening advance of the Russian colossus.”61 This, he held, had been the aim for which the First World War was fought—with which interpretation the veteran Ritter gave the war and his efforts in it a belated justification. And from here he drew a direct line to the next foreign policy involvement of the German Reich. After 1918, he said, the Reich, “the peaceful center of Europe, had an ideal opportunity . . . to form [the natural] bulwark against Bolshevism. This opportunity was vastly increased in 1938, following the occupation of Vienna.”62 Thus Ritter, in the wake of the Anschluss of Austria in 1938, placed his political hopes on the emergence of a unified Europe with a strong German core. Even in 1950, Ritter’s desire apparently had not changed considerably when he republished his twelve-year-old lecture, which expressed this hope. For Ritter, too, national unity had secretly been degraded to an evolutionary stepping stone on the long-term path, unencumbered by the boundaries of worldhistorical epochs, toward German hegemony in Central Europe. “The path of Bismarck and the Kleindeutsche, the path of a gradual formation of power, was thus splendidly validated—in the end it was only a detour, but a salutary one.”63 The sharp world-historical caesura of 1917 that had structured Ritter’s argument thus gradually gave way to a line reaching from 1866 to 1938 and beyond; the apo-

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logia of the Reich’s unification à la Bismarck had been pushed into the background by a definition of the unchanging tasks that history demanded of the German Reich. With the loss of national unity, which a conservative like Ritter sorely felt, only reverting to the alleged historical tasks of the German people could secure some sort of national identity. And for Ritter, as, incidentally, for Rothfels, these tasks lay in the East—in a centuries-old struggle with the “Russian colossus.”

discursive commonalities At this point, a number of striking parallels that permeate the debate on Bismarck’s unification of Germany and the continuity of the nation-state come into view. To be sure, serious political and ideological differences divided the respective camps. Proponents of anchoring German history in a Catholic-Christian West found it difficult to adapt this notion to the Prussian-national conception of Gerhard Ritter, a conscientious representative of Protestantism. In turn, his interpretations seemed scarcely compatible with the vehement pleas against the idea of the nation-state as presented by Hans Rothfels. But transcending these contradictory standpoints, one can see common traits that permitted an agreement among all the political and confessional camps and that functioned as a joint discursive structure for the discussion. Historians fought over the question of continuities from Bismarck to Hitler and about the consequences of national unity according to the Lesser German model. By contrast, it was an unchallenged—and unspoken—assumption among all contributors to the debate that a great future was waiting for the Germans, extending well beyond the Prussian-German nation-state. In this way, the Lesser German unification appeared as a side path, as an aberration—or else as a necessary stepping stone on the path to a more comprehensive form of state organization. The labels for this transnational unity varied: “the Occident in the succession of the Holy Roman Empire,” “European unity,” or “Central Europe.” However, each of these versions could also imply a reaching out, a breaking of national fetters: for most historians, Germany’s historical task seemed to extend beyond Germany’s present borders. And this task was now anchored in the dichotomy of West and East, even of good and evil, which appeared to have become a virtually unquestioned, transhistorical reality in the rhetoric of the Cold War. “Although it is said that one must not measure Bismarck by the world situation of 1918 or 1945,” Franz Schnabel noted, “the fact remains that this world situation was already quite visible at the time.”64 Formulations like this appeared throughout the competing historiographical camps. For example, the historian Ludwig Dehio of the University of Marburg declared that “the division into an

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Eastern and a Western sphere . . . had been in preparation since the eighteenth century.”65 The controversy over the Bismarckian unification of the Reich was thus conducted under the auspices of the emerging Cold War and was profoundly informed by its metaphorical language. In addition, starting in the mid-1950s, the issues of remilitarization and the political orientation of the young Federal Republic also formed the background of the debate.66 Most historians agreed on the definition of the transnational tasks with which history had confronted the German nation. Thus these tasks were not restricted to the nation-state, and that was true for Bismarck apologists like Gerhard Ritter as well; Wilhelm Schüssler had derived the lesson from the events of the recent past that Lesser Germany was too weak.67 In view of this widespread assumption, it becomes clear that the critique of the Bismarckian nation-state was primarily aimed at its lack of military ability to assert itself. The expansionist elements of this argument, all rhetoric to the contrary notwithstanding, are hard to ignore. This expansionist cast even applied to the interpretation of Franz Schnabel, Ritter’s rival, whom many historians saw as a champion of liberal principles after 1945. Schnabel emphatically agreed with the Pan-German Bismarck critic Constantin Frantz that “the kleindeutsch project was nonsense since such an empire would be much too weak to maintain itself in the international struggle of the future.”68 This rehabilitation of the Greater German alternative under essentially power-political considerations was widespread in the postwar years.69 Beyond the ideological debates on the societal order (nation-state versus Reich), the discussion focused mainly on Germany’s role in Central and Eastern Europe. Herbert Michaelis also regretted Bismarck’s Lesser German unification, lamenting the “shrinking” of German influence, the “abandonment of Germany’s eastern position, . . . admitting the decay of its ‘Reich’-capacity to lead people, particularly in the mixed ethnic regions.”70 This opinion was shared by Erwin Hölzle, who in 1945 had been purged from the University of Berlin for political reasons. Bismarck, he claimed, had, without any compelling need, abandoned Germany’s special task in the East, the possibility of an “extended German power basis.”71 This insistence on Germany’s Central European mission, which emerged in many contributions to the Bismarck controversy, was also to some extent a reaction to the military failure of the Lesser German solution in the Second World War; one could say that the plea for a powerful Occident functioned as a belated corrective for Stalingrad. In other words, this distancing from the concept of the nation-state was in no way linked to an abandonment of national projects and aspirations. Thus, despite all the transnational rhetoric, there was no doubt that the German people’s national

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unity still represented the lowest common denominator of state organization. The West German historians could not accept Germany’s division into East and West. All pleas for transcending national identities and state forms encountered their limit at this point. This even applied to Hans Rothfels, in whose vocabulary the terms “nation” and “anomaly” had almost become synonymous. Concerning the GDR, he also spoke of the “natural desire of a German people for unity,” which one must not refuse.72 The idea of the “end of the nation-state” apparently allowed for national borders conceived as broader, but by no means narrower, than the nation-state.73

continuities The various positions in the Bismarck controversy were infused with the binary oppositions of the incipient Cold War. This did not imply that historical interpretations were always consciously instrumentalized for political interests, as East German historians repeatedly claimed.74 It was not so much a historiography in the service of anti-communism as an historiographical discourse that—regardless of the strategic intentions of individual historians—was implicitly informed by the conflicts of the Cold War. At the same time, the accessibility of this discourse was further enhanced by the fact that some of its elements were grafted on argumentational models well known from earlier periods. These models particularly included the “Mitteleuropa” concept, which Friedrich Naumann had presented during the First World War, calling on the German nation to help create a new order for Poland and East Central Europe.75 Following the Second World War there were also other, more recent starting points. For example, in 1950 the Viennese historian Heinrich von Srbik spoke of the attractiveness of a sweeping Central Europe whose “ideas . . . arise . . . from natural conditions” and within whose framework Germany deserved “the transnational leadership task.”76 Before the war, Srbik had been Austria’s best-known historian. After he joined the Nazi Party, he was viewed as a representative of a pan-German historical interpretation that sought to overcome the kleindeutsch/ grossdeutsch conflict and to transcend it through a new völkisch unity.77 This did not quite make him a representative of National Socialist historiography, which particularly celebrated Bismarck’s unification as the “Reich as a deed” (als Tat),78 but after the war his proximity to National Socialist ideology led to his removal from university service. Thus after 1945, Srbik’s decidedly Catholic interpretation of Occidental–Central European history disappeared from the university. But in the journals of the historical profession, his voice continued to be heard.79 Although he did not appear to shift from his previous positions in any noticeable way, the

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rhetoric was nonetheless adapted to the altered situation (a strategy followed by most of his colleagues), and Srbik’s Mitteleuropa visions were now inserted into “the profound idea of a European league of nations.”80 There were similar continuities in the works of historians not as closely associated with the Third Reich as Heinrich von Srbik. If, for example, Gerhard Ritter saw Germany’s task in 1950 as “providing a natural barrier to Bolshevism,”81 this vision of German foreign policy was thoroughly compatible with Ritter’s earlier convictions. In 1938 he had praised the Anschluss of Austria as “the boldest and most felicitous foreign policy action of our new government”—a government “to which the German people has pledged its fate and that of its state in complete devotion and without reservation.”82 Hitler’s foreign policy successes seem to have fascinated this declared opponent of the regime, a fascination to which he was just as susceptible as other national-conservative historians. Thus in September 1939, Friedrich Meinecke—his ideological distance from the Third Reich notwithstanding—wrote the following to Siegfried August Kaehler: “You will also have been delighted by the splendid campaign in Poland . . . but we will have to have a serious talk about the circumstances [das Drum und Dran].” These words document Meinecke ’s satisfaction over the move to transcend what he saw as all too modest national boundaries—and, at the same time, his underlying anti-Bolshevism, which made Meinecke reject the Hitler-Stalin Pact (“the circumstances”).83 As these examples show, the interpretative strategies that West German historians employed after 1945 to reevaluate the defeat of 1945 frequently articulated their decidedly postwar views with earlier tropes dating from the Nazi era and even earlier. These were above all a latent anti-communism as well as the desire to realize a German leadership beyond national boundaries that they continued to view as too narrow. While other topoi of national historiography after 1945 (such as the notion of a positive German “exceptional path”) continued a marginal existence, these two elements survived in the context of the Cold War. This does not mean that these interpretations continued entirely unchanged, but rather that they were rephrased within the political and discursive conditions of the postwar era. Because of the Iron Curtain, anti-communism gained a special relevance, and the partition of Germany, in conjunction with the first steps toward an integration of Western Europe, seemed to make a post–nation-state reality appear inevitable. Following the unconditional military surrender, the concept of transnationality was at first a defensive notion. But the fact that the promise of a German mission had not been irrevocably laid ad acta was shown by the subtle argument that the Marburg scholar Ludwig Dehio undertook at the end of his magnum opus Balance or Hegemony in 1948. Just as ancient

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Rome defeated the Greeks, only to spread Greek culture throughout the world, now the German-Christian core of the West could be carried to all the world by the American victors. “Both have contributed indispensable elements to this development, bonding the victors and the vanquished in a spiritual unity: the victors the broad vessel, but the vanquished from the depth of their suffering its precious content.”84 In this way, the traditions of German history seemed to have proven themselves, after all, to be the true victors of the global conflicts of the twentieth century.

THE DEBATE OVER THE MEIJI RESTORATION As in Germany, historiography in Japan after 1945 was informed by the search for origins. A large portion of the historiographical works after the end of the war demonstrated the need to inquire into the causes of fascism and defeat and to understand the present as the consequence of a peculiar historical development. And in Japan, too, the search for the reasons behind the recent catastrophe concentrated on the beginning of the modern nation-state—after 1868, during the Meiji Restoration, when a number of small domains (kuni) were united under a single government. In historical research, which explicitly evaluated this transitional epoch against the background of experiences of the recent past, the Meiji Restoration was thus interpreted under the auspices of a suspected continuity with fascism. As in Germany, in Japan discussion about the founding of the modern empire was informed by questions concerning a fateful historical continuity. However, whereas in Germany the assumption of structural links between the founding of the Reich and the development of fascism was rejected by a conservative majority of historians, in Japan this notion was a widely accepted premise of scholarly discussion. Particularly during the first years after the war, the majority of historians’ interpretations presumed the existence of long-term structural flaws in the modern Japanese state that almost inevitably produced fascism.

institutional developments Paradigm Shift This critical view of Japan’s history was the result of a comprehensive change of direction within the historical profession that (in Thomas S. Kuhn’s terminology) can be called a paradigm shift. The historiography of the postwar era was characterized by a comprehensive hegemony of Marxist methods and interpretations. During the phase of militarism before 1945 the proponents of kokutai—the metaphysically embroidered ideology of the imperial line, which had

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allegedly embodied the essence of the Japanese people since its mythic beginnings— enjoyed official patronage. After the war kokutai advocates vanished entirely from the scene and historical materialism became the virtually mandatory instrument for the analysis of Japanese history. Even those historians who did not explicitly define themselves as Marxists nevertheless worked with Marxist concepts.85 This fundamental and sustained transformation of the historiographical mainstream and the rapid imposition of Marxist methods and interpretive patterns are not easy to explain.86 As we have seen, a strong Marxist current had developed already in the 1920s, and thus the broad imposition of historical materialism after 1945 was by no means a sudden event. Moreover, after the Second World War, Marxist approaches played a large role in historiography in general, and not only in Japan. Apart from those countries where historical materialism was imposed by a communist government, or where it was at least given privileged status, Marxist interpretations were highly influential in Italian and British historiography after 1945. But particularly in France after the end of the war, Marxism was very much in vogue among intellectuals and soon penetrated historical studies. Against this background, the hegemony of Marxist historiography in postwar Japan does not appear as a unique case. Instead, the exception is the Federal Republic, in which for years Marxist historiography had no impact whatsoever and was shunted off to the GDR as a result of the ideological conflict. If we ask about the internal reasons for a disciplinary paradigm shift, historical caesuras are typically traced back in research to institutional changes. But from this perspective, the transformation of the historiographical landscape in Japan after the end of the war can be made only partially plausible, since the history departments remained virtually unchanged in personnel terms after 1945. The few dismissals were of a merely cosmetic nature. Almost everywhere, the prewar generation remained in office, only sporadically complemented by scholars who had fallen victim to nationalistic purges in the 1930s. Moreover, the staff and students of the colonial universities established in Taipei, Shanghai, and Seoul returned to Japan. Thus it is not possible to speak of a generational shift—not even if we expand our view to include the first university reforms that, under American supervision, transformed the educational scene in Japan fundamentally during the first postwar years.87 The reform of the educational system was one of the central concerns of the American occupation in the late 1940s and was a major characteristic of its reeducation policy. The officers of the Civil Information and Education (CI&E) Section particularly considered the hierarchical structures of the Japanese university

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system as an obstacle to a profound democratization. The decisive means to break up these structures was the general expansion of the university sector through the upgrading of tertiary educational institutions. A small number of institutions in a rigid hierarchy of prestige were replaced by numerous universities that stood in a supposedly equal relationship to one another. Almost the entire nonuniversity sector with its academies for teacher training, technical colleges, and high schools was now expanded and upgraded to university status. Whereas there had been only 49 universities in Japan in 1945, by the end of the occupation in 1952 this number had risen to 220 in an unprecedented expansion of the university system. Not all of these universities taught the humanities or had a history department. Nevertheless, this expansion led to an enormous need for historians on the university level and thus to an expansion of the circle of persons involved in the scholarly interpretation of the past. However, the explosion in the number of universities did not generate new recruitment patterns. As a rule, historians who had taught history in their previous institutions were hired as professors. In general they had studied at one of the prestigious imperial universities, but had not made the leap to a professorial chair. In their training and social origin, but also in their generational composition, this group scarcely differed from the previous historical profession. The expansion of the educational system gave many young graduates an unexpected opportunity to gain a professorial chair. However, in contrast to the situation occasioned by the expansion of the educational system in the Federal Republic in the 1960s—a generational shift was not the outstanding characteristic of the expansion of the historical profession in Japan.88 Decline of Hierarchies The effects of these university reforms, conducted under pressure from the occupation authorities, as well as the changes in the composition of the historical profession, can thus only partially explain the broad influence of Marxist historiography. Therefore, in the following I describe the change in the discursive conditions of postwar Japanese historical studies in order to place the historiographical paradigm shift in its institutional context. The reform of the educational system, after all, did not substantially change the hierarchy of university prestige. This institutional inertia notwithstanding, the conditions within the discipline of history changed after 1945 in ways that helped to level hierarchies within academic historiography. This shift of emphasis was supported by the widespread conviction that, with the end of the war, Japanese society had entered an age of equality and democracy.89 This appeared to grant groups and persons who had previously stood on

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the sidelines and had been perceived only as part of the opposition with the right to participate in the discussion. As a result, players and positions “from the outside” and considered antagonistic and marginal took center stage in the arguments. This softening of existing hierarchies and internal boundaries within historical studies had numerous components. First, it implied the undermining of the privileged position of the former imperial universities. These seven institutions, led by those in Tokyo and Kyoto, both founded in the nineteenth century, had been established by the Japanese government with the explicit goal of fulfilling the needs and demands of the nation-state.90 The bureaucracy and the academic establishment largely recruited their successors at the imperial universities. The close link to the state also expressed itself in the special status accorded through state research promotion. These asymmetrical conditions in the production of scholarship favored a self-understanding that tended to confine the scholarly discussion of history to a closed shop staffed by the graduates of these elite institutions. This changed after the war not only because the imperial universities nominally lost their imperial insignia but also because the circle of persons involved in the historiographical debates was expanded to include the formerly marginal institutions. Second, the monopoly on interpretation held by a discipline of history conceived as a branch of the humanities also eroded. In this way the very foundation of the profession was put into question—not only in terms of content and methodology but also in regard to its institutional base. The history departments—each subdivided into Japanese, Western, and Oriental history—were a component of the philosophy departments (bungakubu). However, in the postwar period, enunciations from other departments advanced to become the most important impulse for historiographical debates. The political scientist Maruyama Masao, who held a position in the law department, and the economic historian OMtsuka Hisao, both of whom worked at the University of Tokyo, provided influential stimuli for a reevaluation of the past that the established historians could not ignore. Third, these stimuli “from the outside” were institutionalized in organizational forms consciously designed to undermine existing hierarchies. The scientific community of Japanese historians had previously been virtually identical to the history departments of the imperial universities in Tokyo and Kyoto. Thus the most important historians’ association, the Shigakkai, had been founded on the recommendation of Riess, a student of Ranke, in Tokyo. Even the authoritative historical journal the Shigaku zasshi (which in terms of its influence was easily comparable to the Historische Zeitschrift, after which it was modeled when launched in 1889) was the chief

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mouthpiece for the department of Japanese history at the University of Tokyo.91 In general, only historians and graduates of the sponsoring institution published there. The historiographical public sphere pretty much ended at the legendary red gate (Akamon) of the University of Tokyo. The Rekishigaku kenkyumkai (Historical Science Society), founded in 1933 to counter this monopoly, pursued the goal of confronting the established structures with a discussion forum that did not adhere to institutional boundaries.92 This historians’ association largely joined young scholars of various backgrounds under its umbrella and viewed itself principally as a critical opposition to an established historical science whose approaches were considered ossified and positivistic and that had not always been immune to nationalistic cooptation. But starting in 1939, the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai increasingly represented a Marxist-inspired historiography. In 1946, it was the first organization of the profession that was refounded after the war, and in subsequent years its annual conferences became the central forum for intensive professional debate. Its journal Rekishigaku kenkyuµ replaced the Shigaku zasshi as the profession’s most important journal.93 In 1946 a parallel journal, the Nihonshi kenkyuµ, was founded, institutionalizing the hegemony of historical materialism in the Osaka-Kyoto region as well.94 This threefold movement of historians who advanced “from the outside” into the center of the profession was complemented by a movement “toward the outside.” After 1945, this overhauled (now largely Marxist) discipline of history had espoused a closer link to society and proclaimed a departure from the ivory tower. This approach encompassed both political activity and the transmission of scholarly findings to broad levels of society. Historiographical debates were consciously conducted on a broader public stage. The cooperation of university and school education was not only promoted but also institutionalized.95 Many historians published in popular journals or aimed at groups previously excluded from the discipline’s discussions. Even the journal Rekishigaku kenkyuµ, which was committed to strict scholarly conventions, sought an audience beyond the boundaries of the discipline; in the first postwar years, it expanded its circulation to some 20,000 copies.96 Limits of the Decline in Hierarchies The multilayered inversion of “outside” and “inside,” of periphery and center, lastingly changed the conditions of historiographical discourse. However, the approaches undertaken to break up academic hierarchies did not entirely shake up the privileged status of the former imperial universities, not least because even historians at less prestigious institutions had generally been trained at the elite universities. Seven institutions that had been founded as imperial universities stood at the top of the pyramid. Although they

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lost their imperial title in 1945, they managed to maintain their renown and their function as state training institutions for the high bureaucracy. At the same time, nearly all Japanese historians were the products of the two oldest universities, in Tokyo and Kyoto. This recruitment mechanism largely continued until long after the war. Before the Second World War nearly all Japanese historians had received their training at these two celebrated institutions. Even after 1945 the situation changed only gradually. As late as 1959, all sixty-two professors teaching in the history departments of the former imperial universities were graduates of these seven elite institutions—fifty-nine of them came from Tokyo or Kyoto.97 Alongside the former imperial universities were a large number of other state institutions, most of which also possessed an independent history department. In 1959, almost 70 percent of the three hundred or so historians at state universities had attended one of the two privileged institutions in Tokyo or Kyoto. Graduates of these two universities even dominated at the private universities. These recruitment patterns, which changed only very slowly, ensured an institutionally guaranteed hegemony of the history departments of Japan’s two oldest universities over some eighty departments at the other universities. The new academic generation of the entire country was trained largely at the two elite institutions in Tokyo and Kyoto. The hierarchy of prestige within the universities was thus not entirely shaken by the internal and external reform approaches. Ultimately, even the flagship of the new approaches in historical studies, the oppositional historians’ association Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, arose from the initiative of young historians at the University of Tokyo. Likewise, the selective promotional process of the educational ministry continued. Even after 1945, the projects that received government funding were almost exclusively those of historians of the (formerly) imperial universities.98 Thus in principle, the university landscape in Japan retained its hierarchical structure. In comparison with the prewar period, however, the anti-hierarchical tendencies discussed above were indeed striking. And these shifts in the discursive conditions were closely linked to changes in historical interpretation. They were the precondition for the enormous upswing of Marxism in postwar historical studies—and at the same time its result.

marxist interpretations of the meiji restoration The most important of the debates that had been conducted outside the mainstream but that became relevant for all analyses of the past after the end of the Second World War was the “controversy over Japanese capitalism” (Nihon shihon

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shugi ronsoµ). The historical significance of these discussions is discussed in chapter 1. This controversy, conducted among Marxist historians, largely revolved around the question of whether a bourgeois revolution (in the sense of the Marxist developmental model) had already taken place within the framework of the Meiji Restoration (1868). The proponents of the koµzaha faction (affiliated with the Communist Party) rejected this notion and regarded the Japanese Empire after 1868 as an absolutist state. In turn, the roµnoµha faction considered the Meiji Ishin to be an, albeit incomplete, democratic-bourgeois revolution. Increasing state pressure during wartime had also reached the universities and driven numerous Marxists from their positions, temporarily putting a halt to the intensive debate of the mid-1930s.99 When the debate resumed after 1945, the front line of the prewar controversy largely continued to inform the competing evaluations of the Meiji Restoration. However, the discussion’s framework had changed decisively. The military defeat and the interventions by the occupation forces had created an intellectual climate in which the self-confident analyses of the roµnoµha had lost much of their plausibility. The reforms carried out under the American occupation were based on the conviction that remnants of the traditional social order needed to be eliminated. American policy, indeed, seemed to implement the diagnosis of the koµzaha. The course of history itself seemed to grant authority to one of the alternative interpretations and to have shunted the competing interpretation into the field of naïve speculation.100 By the mid-1950s at the latest, only a small minority of Marxist historians continued to view the Meiji Restoration as a bourgeois revolution. In the official Japanese report on the International Historians’ Congress in Stockholm in 1960, the koµzaha historian Inoue Kiyoshi denied that the competing roµnoµha interpretation had any scholarly relevance: “There is still an opinion that the Meiji government was not absolutist but bourgeois. However, that is merely a hypothesis and it is not based on concrete political facts.”101 The Romnomha Position In the first years following the war the controversy between roµnoµha and koµzaha still informed the discussion over the Meiji Restoration. Only now could numerous works written or conceived during the war be published, and thus the positions of the controversy on Japanese capitalism were imported into the transformed postwar landscape.102 Particularly in the discussion among economists, the roµnoµha interpretation, which emphasized the indigenous roots of Japanese capitalism and the continuities in its economic development beyond 1945, survived.103 But among historians, too, the interpretation of the transition of 1868 remained influential at first. In 1954, in the first of a thirteen-volume

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series, Kajinishi Mitsuhaya, Oshima Kiyoshi, Katom Toshihiko, and OMuchi Tsutomu formulated a sort of official roµnoµha view.104 They regarded the Meiji Restoration as a bourgeois revolution “carried out by the lower warrior aristocracy [kakyuµ bushi].” In this process the feudalistic Tokugawa Shogunate was replaced by a modern nation-state. The general crisis of the ancien régime led to a palpable financial crisis within the central government (the shogunate) and in the numerous domains, “which was closely connected to the impoverishment of the lower warrior aristocracy.” Within the warrior aristocracy (samurai) a tension emerged between the conservative ruling group and an ambitious lower class. In most of the individual domains these lower samurai were in a position to assert themselves against their betters and to bring about a series of reforms. Thus the roµnoµha historians recognized them as the motor of historical change: “In contrast to the previous conservative leadership class, the lower samurai were a revolutionary group and, unlike the peasants and the common people, they could become agents of social-revolutionary ideas.”105 When, following the landing of American ships in the Bay of Uraga in 1853, the shogunate found itself coming under increasing U.S. pressure, the numerous lower samurai turned against the shogunate government, which in their eyes was not in a position to resist this pressure. However, the reforms in the individual domains that ultimately led to the toppling of the central government were first concerned not with preparing the downfall, but rather with the attempt to rescue the feudal order. It was against their intentions that the lower samurai became agents of the abolition of feudalism and the advent of the modern age. “Even if they assumed the function of a ruling class in the course of the Meiji Restoration,” Kajinishi and his colleagues wrote, “most of them did not intend to destroy the feudal system in the course of this revolution; instead it is clear that the lower samurai pursued the goal of restoring the feudal order. . . . But the nature of their subjective intentions is of no importance here. . . . After the Meiji Restoration they indeed had no choice but to abolish the feudal system. This corresponded to an objective, historical necessity.”106 In the roµnoµha interpretation, the stratum of the lower samurai, which emerged from the ruling class, had assumed the function of the bourgeoisie. The absence of a genuinely bourgeois class demanded a series of theoretical digressions justifying the usurpation of the bourgeoisie ’s historical function by the lower warrior aristocracy. Kajinishi and the handbook’s other authors referred to ideas Lenin expressed in his essays “The Tasks of the Russian Social Democrats” and “Two Tactics of Social Democracy in the Democratic Revolution,” proving that a bour-

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geois revolution was quite possible without a bourgeois class behind it. The inconsistencies that the empirical development of Japanese history revealed in relation to the Marxist developmental model appeared to be balanced out by this recourse to a specific interpretation of the Russian Revolution. The result of this construction was “that the Meiji Restoration introduced a veritable bourgeois revolution— even if it was introduced under the leadership of the lower warrior aristocracy and showed considerable distortions in comparison with the model of a bourgeois revolution.” These discrepancies should be viewed as merely the result of divergent external conditions. Admittedly, the Meiji Ishin was “not a representative bourgeois revolution” and bore “incomplete” and “compromised” traits. “But in its historical essence the Meiji Restoration was a bourgeois revolution.”107 Toµyama Shigeki’s Meiji Ishin By the mid-1950s the roµnoµha standpoint was already a defensive position. The counterthesis that the Meiji Restoration merely marked the transition to an absolutist state form was widespread. One of its most significant proponents was Tomyama Shigeki, whose now classic work Meiji Ishin (1951) codified the interpretation of the koµzaha orthodoxy. Tomyama, who was born in 1914, completed his study of Japanese history at the University of Tokyo in 1938 and subsequently worked as a scholar at the Historiographical Institute (Shiryom hensanjo) of his alma mater. There he was responsible for the publication of documents concerning the foreign policy of the late Tokugawa period. Thus Tomyama did not rely primarily on the results of the “controversy over Japanese capitalism,” but rather drew upon a comprehensive knowledge of sources. In this way his work differed from the often theory-bound studies of the 1930s. His book, whose basic theses he had presented two years earlier in the form of lectures, had an immediate success: the first edition of 7,000 copies sold out in the year of its publication, and an additional 10,000 copies were printed the following year. A seventeenth edition was published a decade later. This success at the book shops was all the more remarkable considering that Meiji Ishin, with its comprehensive scholarly annotations and appendix and its abstract Marxist terminology and hermetic style, made few concessions to popular reading expectations. Nevertheless, Tomyama’s interpretation quickly joined the canon and continues to frame the presentation of the Meiji Restoration in Japanese high school textbooks.108 In view of its unique status, it is worthwhile taking a closer look at Tomyama’s interpretation. Tomyama’s Meiji Ishin was a political history of the restoration.109 As such it differed somewhat from the strongly economic arguments of the “controversy over Japanese capitalism,” but it did not intend to return to the historist traditions of

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political history. Rather, Tomyama’s synthesis was based on the results of social historical research. This became clear in the main thesis of the book, which departed from the isolated analysis of the Meiji Restoration prevalent until then. Tomyama did not conceive of it as a coup d’état of the year 1868, but instead as a longterm societal process. “The Meiji Restoration, which is understood as a historical threshold, is viewed here as a thirty-seven-year-long process of the establishment of absolutism, which began with the political reforms of 1841 and . . . ended in 1877.”110 For Tomyama, the Meiji Restoration marked a transitional period for Japan from a feudal to an absolutist state.111 Tomyama relied on the same model of universal-historical development as the roµnoµha historians had used. However, the evaluations of the two camps varied: according to the koµzaha interpretation, the Meiji Restoration was hardly a successful transition to the modern age, but rather marked the failure of the bourgeois revolution. Tomyama’s depiction began with an analysis of the so-called Tempom reforms after 1841, through which both the central government and the numerous individual domains sought to master their financial distress.112 In these feudalistic reforms, Tomyama recognized not only the beginning of a massive social upheaval but in fact the embryo of the Meiji Restoration: “One can say that the basic forms of the political structure of the Meiji Restoration had already emerged in the political development of the Tempom era.”113 Tomyama saw the fundamental interest and class conflicts of the following decades beginning already around 1840. The old feudal order was in a state of dissolution and was afflicted by financial crises, peasant uprisings, and insurrections in the cities. In the 1840s, the ruling class was in a position to crush the uprisings and give birth to a group prepared for system-maintaining reforms. Decisive for Tomyama, however, was the fact that with the peasant uprisings, the forces of a revolution “from below” were suppressed and replaced by reforms “from above,” typically representing a compromise with the old order. Thus in the 1840s the lower warrior aristocracy in most of the individual domains could assert themselves by instrumentalizing the energies of the popular uprisings in their conflict with the ruling high nobility. The reforms conducted by the samurai after the crushing of the uprisings were no longer aimed at changing the property conditions on the land but rather secured the continuation of the feudal social order.114 Like Kajinishi, Tomyama identified the lower warrior aristocracy (kakyuµ bushi) as the driving force of the reform movement, and also of the further course of the coup d’état of 1868. But in contrast to roµnoµha historiography, he did not ascribe a “progressive” social transformation to this social class: “Assuming that, because their material situation was only minimally different from that of the common peo-

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ple [shomin], the reformers in the lower warrior aristocracy transcended the restrictions of their estate as the dominant feudal stratum and in some form assumed the revolutionary role of the representatives of the interests of the people . . . would be a rash error. Instead . . . they exclusively possessed the consciousness of their feudal estate as a ruling class, which insisted upon strict separation from the people.”115 In Tomyama’s view, following the overture of the Tempom reforms, the landing of American ships in 1853 opened a new act in the history of the Meiji Restoration. The demand to open Japanese harbors for negotiations over trade agreements placed this country, which had been sealed off for some 250 years, in a state of political agitation. Numerous political activists (shishi) among the lower samurai agitated against any concessions to the foreign powers and demanded a violent “expulsion of the Western barbarians” ( joµi ron), to whom the shogunate government had granted the use of a series of ports in 1854. The xenophobic orientation of this militant activism also implied a critique of the shogunate, which was negotiating with the great powers and guaranteed the security of the Western diplomats. In a number of punitive military expeditions in the early 1860s that were primarily aimed against the Chomshum fiefdom in the southwest of the country, the shogunate tried to establish control over the heated atmosphere. At the same time, English and French gunboats in Kagoshima and Shimonoseki demonstrated both the will of the Western powers and the military weakness of the opposing small domains. These combined measures against the bases of the xenophobic opposition convinced the activists of the superiority of Western military technology and led to a change in the political drive of the opposition. Thenceforth, the shogunate was seen as the main adversary, and the politicized portion of the lower warrior aristocracy directed its activities toward the toppling of the central government (toµbaku).116 According to Tomyama’s interpretation, the events that had already announced themselves within the framework of the Tempom reforms in the 1840s were now repeated on a national scale. After the mid-1860s the number of peasant uprisings suddenly increased exponentially; for Tomyama this unrest demonstrated the internal contradictions of the feudal system. The oppositional class of the lower warrior aristocracy suppressed these uprisings, but at the same time it instrumentalized the energies of the people in their struggle against the central government of the shogunate. In addition, the reform-oriented samurai used the person of the Tennom, in whose name the campaign against the shogunate was conducted, and thus aroused the impression of a profound political transformation. But in reality, Tomyama claimed, the point was not to usher in the modern age (the genuinely revolutionary forces were suppressed with the peasant uprisings), but rather to maintain the

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feudal order in a new guise. Strictly speaking, it was a matter of “the universal world-historical process of the assertion of absolutism.” Whereas in Europe this process was accompanied by modern developments, in Japan “the inherited basic order was retained and only the external appearance was changed, while the core remained untouched.” The movement of the lower samurai was aimed “against the collapse of feudal power; in fact, it was aimed at its consolidation.”117 In the coup d’état of 1868, the samurai opposition—operating in the name of the Meiji Tennom—toppled the shogunate government and then asserted itself against the armies of the old order in a civil war (Boshin sensoµ). The oppositional samurai quickly gave rise to an absolutist bureaucracy, which introduced a series of reforms and strengthened the power of the new government in following years. These reforms encompassed changes in the political system, the dissolution of individual fiefdoms, a land and tax reform, and the abolition of the warrior aristocracy, as well as the introduction of compulsory education and military service. Since these measures were not imposed by a bourgeois class “from below” but were ordered “from above,” their inherent potential to bring about modern sociopolitical structures did not come to bear. For example, concessions of political participation rights were immediately undermined by a ban on assemblies and on Christianity.118 The land tax reform changed little for the peasants vis-à-vis the burdens of the feudal era.119 Thus, in Tomyama’s interpretation relics from the feudal era remained characteristic of Japanese society during the Meiji period. Although in the roµnoµha interpretation the Meiji Restoration culminated in a bourgeois revolution, Tomyama viewed the attempt to assert a bourgeois order as a failure. For him, Japanese society in the 1870s was not bourgeois but absolutist. For him, this failure did not imply that the Japanese people had produced no revolutionary forces and depended on help from outside. But unlike the roµnoµha, Tomyama localized these revolutionary energies not in the lower warrior aristocracy but rather in the peasant uprisings of 1866. These peasant uprisings, he claimed, grew into a movement on a national scale and “nearly [reached] the state of a peasant war aimed at bringing about an agrarian revolution.” However, these indigenous approaches to the implementation of a bourgeois revolution were suppressed by the samurai and replaced by system-stabilizing reforms from above (the Meiji Restoration). “While the (bourgeois-democratic) revolution was still maturing from below, the (absolutist) system was being established at great speed by reforms from above.”120 Comparative Considerations The debate between roµnoµha and koµzaha was part of a broad search for the origins of the abortive development of Japanese society,

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which had become obvious by 1945 at the latest. This goal and the controversy over the continuity hypothesis gave the discussions on the character of the Meiji Restoration a great deal in common with the Bismarck controversy in Germany. In Germany, the question of the nation-state took center stage, whereas in Japan the discussion focused on the state ’s modernity. Accordingly, in the Federal Republic the project of the formation of the nation-state became the thematic core of the controversy, whereas in Japan the historical necessity of the Meiji Restoration was left unquestioned, and only the form of its realization—and thus the judgment on its failure or success—was in dispute. As a result, the thrust of the interpretation differed in the two countries. One striking feature is that the various interpretations of German unification, irrespective of their stance toward the continuity thesis, also displayed geographical connotations. One could even say that in the West German Bismarck controversy the definition of the nation was primarily discussed as a search for its geographical location. The debate on the siting of the nation was characterized by a competition between South German–Catholic traditions and the Prussian-Protestant heritage. The pragmatism of the kleindeutsch solution was played off against the utopia of the grossdeutsch solution, and the necessity of founding a nation-state was defended against pleas of the German nation for the transnational traditions of the Holy Roman Empire. By contrast, in Japan the geography of the nation was hardly ever discussed. Not the external boundaries, but rather the internal differentiation of the nation was the subject of competing interpretations. Maruyama Masao’s view may be taken as typical for the thrust of the Japanese discussions: “The concept of the ‘nation’ upon which the modern state and particularly the modern citizens’ revolution are based does not apply indiscriminately to the entire body of members of the state, but rather specifically describes the social class that actively supports the modern state. Thus it also fundamentally excludes the ruling class of the ancien régime.” For many Japanese historians the definition of the nation lay in the definition of its social core.121 This question also structured the debate on the classification of the Meiji Restoration. In traditional national historiography, the Meiji Restoration was described as the product of an alliance of court and warrior aristocracy that developed into a national bureaucracy in the name of the unity of Tennom and people. But in the Marxist interpretation, this image of the homogeneity of the nation was broken down and the social strata were distinguished according to their “progressiveness.” Divergent historiographical approaches also referred to different social groups as

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principal agents of historical development. In the roµnoµha interpretation, the lower warrior aristocracy functioned as a vehicle of modernity. By contrast, the koµzaha denied any progressive quality to these samurai and denounced them as a feudalabsolutist ruling class. Instead, Tomyama identified forward-looking social forces within the peasant uprisings of 1866 and then in the popular rights movement ( jiyuµ minken undoµ) of the 1880s. But even within the koµzaha, sharp debates occurred over the agent of the transformation. In the wake of Hattori Shisom’s 1930s thesis, historians such as Naramoto Tatsuya and Fujita Gorom characterized a class of wellto-do peasants (goµnoµ) as capitalist producers and thus as an engine of social transformation.122 And Hani Gorom, who had studied in Heidelberg from 1922 to 1924 and was one of Japan’s most influential historians in the 1940s, likewise emphasized the revolutionary potential of the Japanese people (jinmin), which became a driving force for change even without the pressure of the Western powers.123 From Class to Nation All these interpretations emphasized the endogenous forces of Japanese modernization, irrespective of influence or pressure from without. Beneath the surface of the search for the revolutionary agent, however, always lurked the question of the relationship between inside and outside. And, indeed, in the course of the 1950s the thrust of the debate gradually shifted from class structures to “national” aspects of the nineteenth-century upheavals. This shift of emphasis, which we will now discuss, was connected with a changed evaluation of the international situation by the Japanese Marxists. Following the capitulation of 1945, the Communist Party greeted the American occupiers as “liberators,” and the koµzaha (which was affiliated with the party) celebrated the postwar reforms as a belated bourgeois revolution. However, this attitude changed with the so-called reverse course of U.S. policy, which by 1948 no longer aimed at internal democratization but rather shifted the focus of its occupation policy toward the economic reconstruction of Japan. In the eyes of many left-wingers the Communist Revolution in China in 1949 underlined the fact that American-occupied Japan was a long way away from a social upheaval. And the beginning of the Korean War in 1950 convinced the majority of Marxist historians that they were witnessing an imperialistic expansion of the United States, which was both colonizing Japan and drawing it into the orbit of its expansion. Against the background of this evaluation, historians also began to reevaluate the Meiji Restoration from the standpoint of the colonial threat.124 In the same year that Tomyama’s Meiji Ishin appeared, that is, one year after the outbreak of the war in Korea, Inoue Kiyoshi, one of the best-known Marxist his-

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torians of the postwar period, published his comprehensive account of the Meiji Restoration. Compared to Tomyama’s book, which collected two-year-old lectures, Inoue ’s book was more immediately informed by contemporary political events and can be read partly as a reaction to American activities in China and Korea. Thus Inoue interpreted the founding of the modern nation-state against the background of a situation viewed as a colonial threat. To be sure, in its essentials his book differed little from Tomyama’s: Inoue conceived of the Meiji Restoration as an incomplete transition from feudalism to modernity, as a failed bourgeois revolution and the imposition of absolutism. Inoue ’s book also relied on the vocabulary of the koµzaha orthodoxy: a list of his favored terms included “distorted,” “incomplete,” “delayed,” and “despotic.” On one central point, however, namely, in his evaluation of the restoration’s international context, Inoue deviated markedly from Tomyama’s view. Tomyama had not seen the pressure of the Western powers on Japan from the mid-nineteenth century onward as an existential threat. Japan, he believed, had not been in danger of colonization.125 But Inoue incorporated imminent colonization into the focus of his analysis. After five years of American occupation, Inoue claimed, the time had come “for the Japanese nation to struggle energetically against imperialism,” against American military bases in Japan, as well as against Japan’s instrumentalization in the struggle against communism.126 This political concern had important consequences for his analysis of nation formation in the nineteenth century: Of course, historiography must take a critical look at the shortcomings of the Meiji Restoration, and I also consider it to have been incomplete. But today it is more important to emphasize the positive significance of the Meiji Restoration. And this significance does not lie in the establishment of absolutism, but rather in the fact that the Japanese people [Nihon jinmin] took the decisive first step toward a modern nation-state and the achievement of national independence. At that time, our people stood at the pinnacle of progress among the Asian nations. Thus even if our current disgrace and our misfortune are related to the Meiji Restoration, its positive significance is nonetheless a historical starting point for the liberation of our captive fatherland and for the struggle for freedom, independence, peace, and a prosperous Japan.127

Inoue accordingly saw the maintenance of national independence as the crucial legacy of the Meiji Restoration. He emphasized the external threat between 1853 and 1871 that made not only economic dependence and political influence but also genuine colonization appear as a realistic danger. Even though his evaluation of

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domestic political development generally matched Tomyama’s, the publication of Inoue ’s work marked a decisive shift of emphasis in the debate on the Meiji Restoration. Now the discussion revolved not around the class character of the new state but rather around the emergence of a modern nation by means of its demarcation vis-à-vis the outside. This change in course of Marxist debates was reflected in the papers presented at the annual conference of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai in 1951. The conferences of the two previous years had been titled “Fundamental Contradictions in the Respective Societal Formations” and “Stages of the Development of State Power,” thus clearly emphasizing the class character of historical development. Now the general topic was entitled “The Problem of the Nation in History.” The perspective of the chronology of universal stages of development gave way to a search for the spatially anchored category of the nation. In this process, the concept of the nation was implicitly transformed. Under the pressure of external conditions viewed as imperialist threat, many Marxist historians began to replace the analysis of internal differentiation with an emphasis on national homogeneity and delimitation to the outside. In the heated discussions at this conference the controversy between Tomyama’s and Inoue’s contrary positions took center stage, particularly in the session on contemporary history. Tomyama repeated his view in a lecture on Japanese nationalism, but in the ensuing discussion he faced heated attacks. The majority of scholars were prepared to agree with Inoue in his view that the international situation was a constituent factor in the Meiji Restoration and to replace Tomyama’s model of endogenous development by an interpretation more closely oriented toward foreign policy. In this emphasis on national resistance against an external threat always lurked the danger of stylizing the Japanese nation—the core of this resistance—as an unchanging essence. Ancient and medieval historians were particularly prone to viewing the essential characteristics of “Japan” in the beginnings of Japanese history. Curtis Gayle has used a distinction made by Amino Yoshihiko to subdivide the Marxist historians of the early 1950s into two groups. On one side was the modernization faction (kindaiha), in which he includes Inoue Kiyoshi, Eguchi Bokurom, and Suzuki Shirom (and also Tomyama). These historians were of the opinion that a Japanese national identity developed only in the course of modern history, particularly under the pressure of Western colonialism. By contrast, the national faction (minzokuha), which particularly comprised historians of the premodern epochs such as Tomma Seita, Matsumoto Shinpachirom, and Ishimoda Shom, proceeded from the notion of the germ of the nation (hoµga), which seemed to guarantee a Japanese identity independent of Western influences. All these differences notwithstand-

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ing, Gayle concludes that the discursive commonalities between the two factions predominated, since a form of cultural essentialism was typical of Marxist debates of the early 1950s.128 In the postwar period, consideration of fundamental characteristics of the nation was made palatable among Marxists by referring to Josef Stalin’s essays on linguistics.129 Stalin’s analysis, which was widely received in Japan, culminated in the thesis that the examination of language yielded statements about the transhistorical characteristics of a people beyond class difference and the dialectic of base and superstructure. At a symposium dealing with this thesis, Ishimoda Shom, the most influential medieval historian of his epoch, revealed a continuity in Japanese folklore and popular culture beyond all social and political transformations.130 In his book History and Discovery of the Nation, which was also published in the heated atmosphere of 1951 and became an immediate best seller, Ishimoda invoked the pride of an unchanging nation and the spirit of community among the people in the face of the imperialistic threat from the United States.131 That same year, Tomma Seita made similar arguments, both in his monograph Emergence of the Japanese Nation and at the conference of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai. From the beginning— that is, in principle even before the beginning of history in the Marxist sense, he discovered, a uniform Japanese nation had existed with a common race, language, and culture. He recognized the essence of this nation in its peaceful development—which had switched to aggression only as a result of external threats. From this perspective, Japan’s militarism and expansionist policy were the result of outside intervention, which now, in the form of American insistence on Japan’s rearmament, once again seemed to be endangering the nation’s essential pacifism. “This book,” he wrote, “is about distant times long ago. . . . But I believe that this . . . report can have a special significance in view of the fact that Japan is about to conclude a peace treaty as well as a security treaty with the United States.”132 Views of the past were thus informed by the political atmosphere of the day and explicitly reflected reactions to the intensifying Cold War. In this regard there was no fundamental difference from interpretations of history in the Federal Republic. As Gerhard Ritter stated at the German Historians’ Conference in 1953: “One of the essential tasks of political history is to determine the historical position of the present through a look into the past and in this way to aid the task of the practical politician.” As the East-West conflict intensified, Ritter himself occasionally connected his own studies explicitly to the Federal Republic’s rearmament plans.133 By contrast, in Japan the majority of historians who expressed themselves politically took sides against the creeping erosion of Article 9 of the postwar constitution,

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which prohibited armed forces. And while Ritter hoped that the United States would protect Germany from Bolshevism, Inoue Kiyoshi described Japan’s relationship to its American protector as follows: “For six years we have been deprived of our sovereignty, [and] we have been placed under the occupation of foreign armies; our fatherland is being transformed into a colony more and more every year, and all of Japan is becoming a military base of a foreign power.”134 Ritter and Inoue stood on opposite sides within the global context of the Cold War. But both positions were committed to the discursive polarities of the East-West conflict, and both also fell back on the nation as the inevitable subject of history. For Japanese Marxists, too, the nation increasingly gained relevance as an analytical category. After 1950, in harmony with the positions of the Communist Party, many historians had come to view Japan as an American colony.135 In the wake of this shift, the analysis of class structure gradually lost its methodological priority. However, this change did not yet imply an abandonment of Marxist premises. According to this logic, nations themselves were now viewed as actors in the international class struggle, and the Asian nations appeared more or less as a proletariat on a global scale. Thus the revolutionary potential was merely shifted from the social to the national subject. Thenceforth, the nation was increasingly taken to be the engine of history, and the definition and spatial position of this nation moved to the center of historiographical attention. As in the Federal Republic, this led to a discussion in which national borders were reclaimed under changed political conditions, with important consequences for the nation’s image. The dogma of the Japanese as a multiethnic people had been the foundation of the state before 1945 and had served as an ideological justification for the conquest of East and Southeast Asia. However, as Oguma Eiji has argued convincingly, after the war this notion was considered to be imperialistic and yielded to a new definition of Japan as a unified nation of homogenous ethnic composition. Taiwan and Korea no longer counted as organic components of a Japanese-led “Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.”136 On the basis of this rupture in Japan’s self-perception, the Japanese Communist Party (JCP) first greeted the American occupation of Okinawa and the Ryumkyum Islands as a liberation of the local indigenous population from the imperialistic yoke of Japanese domination. But soon the liberators appeared as usurpers in their own right, and the JCP called for the return of U.S.-occupied Okinawa to the “benevolent” Japanese wing. This demand was joined by Marxist historians who now recalled Okinawa’s linguistic and cultural proximity to the Japanese nation. To be sure, the commonalities of culture now invoked by historians had been the

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result of a rigid and forceful policy of assimilation on the part of the Japanese government since 1872. But many Marxist historians in the 1950s no longer saw this authoritarian implementation of state power as an act of repression, but rather as an expression of historical laws. Inoue Kiyoshi, for instance, defended the disciplining of the island kingdom in the nineteenth century as follows: “The inhabitants of the Ryumkyum are a branch of the Japanese race; they speak a Japanese dialect and write with Japanese characters. In geographical terms, the islands are the extension of the Japanese archipelago. Sooner or later the political unification of these islands with the archipelago would have become a historical necessity.”137 Ishimoda Shom likewise legitimated the violent imposition of the modern nation-state in the early Meiji period through reference to history. He praised the “progressive movement that produced . . . a uniform Japanese people after the Meiji Restoration” and characterized the cultural assimilation policy as a necessary instrument of this progress. Only through this forced policy could backward areas be opened to the blessings of the modern age.138 In this way, even the colonization of Okinawa was made to fit into the decidedly anticolonial discourse of critical historians. The Marxist model of world history thus enabled historians to award draconian measures that seemed required by historical necessity the legitimizing label of progressiveness.139

the meiji restoration as national revolution In Japan, too, the academic controversy over the status of the empire ’s unification gradually developed into a debate on the position of the nation. This shift in perspective led to a pluralization of the interpretive approaches and also of the debate ’s protagonists. For the topos of the “national revolution” lured conservative historians into a discussion that had largely been conducted within the paradigm of historical materialism and in which traditional political-historical approaches had been stigmatized as being unscientific. Conservative Interpretations At first, the new Marxist orthodoxy encountered particularly stubborn resistance at the former imperial universities. While historical materialism quickly gained a wide circle of followers among students, especially through the activities of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, established conservative historians faced the new approaches with great skepticism. Positivistic historism, considered Ranke ’s legacy, continued to dominate the history departments of the country’s most prestigious institutions. To be sure, the majority of these conservative historians scarcely participated in the postwar debates on the

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new interpretation of the Japanese past. In the early phase of Marxism’s intellectual hegemony, representatives of the old guard remained in their positions, but their status was reduced to that of a silent majority. In the 1950s, however, this picture gradually began to change. The conservative Yoshida government was firmly in office; reconstruction, economic growth, and national sovereignty—and no longer the internal changes through reform and revolution—now stood on the political agenda. Thus the typically conservative description of the Meiji Restoration as a “national revolution” appeared to be compatible with a debate previously conducted largely by the Marxists. The decidedly non-Marxist historiography, which koµzaha historians defamed as “positivism” or officious “academic history,” was by no means homogeneous. Before the war, interpretation of the Meiji Restoration still was largely couched in terms laid out by the state Office for the Source Edition of the Meiji Restoration. According to this interpretive model, the Meiji Ishin marked the return of legitimate rule to the Tennom—that is, the return of state power to its origin. In 1945, as a result of the mythologization of this interpretation and its involvement in the Tennom-centered wartime expansive policies, most scholars distanced themselves from this approach.140 A second current of prewar research, by contrast, had been concerned primarily with the preservation of national integrity against exterior pressure. This view of the Meiji Ishin gained importance after the war and emerged as the standard narrative among non-Marxist historians.141 This continuity with prewar historiography notwithstanding, not every proponent of the thesis of the Meiji Restoration as a national revolution was an apologist for the old order. One example was the historian Oka Yoshitake, who in his 1948 essay “Peculiarities of Modern Japanese Politics” defined the Meiji Restoration as a “national revolution” (minzoku kakumei). While thus connecting to a conservative historiography, his text at the same time bore traces of the intensive debates between roµnoµha and koµzaha that informed the intellectual climate of that time. Oka accordingly adopted the interpretation of the Meiji Restoration as a failed transition from feudalism to modernity, and saw the Meiji period as still informed by the remnants of feudal structures. For him, however, the decisive thrust of the change lay not in the social conflicts, but rather in the reaction to external pressure. In his view, the goal of Japanese politics had been the maintenance of independence, which could be achieved only through resistance to “the West.” Oka claimed that all domestic political and social changes had lain within the prerogative of national preservation. “The concept of the transformation of our country into a modern state stood under the premise of national defense, that is to say the independence

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of our state.” This applied equally to government and opposition. While Tomyama, for instance, had declared the conflict between the government and the movement for popular rights in the 1880s to be an antagonism between absolutism and the driving forces of a bourgeois revolution, Oka viewed all social groups as united in the desire for independence. “The maintenance of national independence was indeed the . . . central concern of the entire people and transcended . . . the conflict between the feudalistic clique system of the government [hanbatsu] and the advocates of democratic popular rights.”142 This accentuation of national unity in the decades-long struggle with the West was a popular trope in non-Marxist quarters. Indeed, nationalist revisionism did not always remain confined to the Meiji Restoration: sometimes it included Japan’s military expansion onto the continent at the turn of the twentieth century, which was then interpreted as a component of national defense. For example, Shimomura Fujio, a historian at the University of Tokyo, went so far as to view the wars against China (1895) and Russia (1905), which in koµzaha historiography had been perceived as elements of imperialist expansion, as purely defensive measures.143 Alongside this patriotic link to the traditional topos of national revolution was a second line of discussion that also picked up on the interpretation of the Meiji Restoration as resistance against an external threat. In contrast to the koµzaha version, which associated Japan’s transition to modernity with “breakdown,” “incompleteness,” and “failure,” this argument stressed the success of national development. This was, to be sure, decidedly a position of non-Marxist historiography, but under the political conditions of the 1950s, even the texts of critical Marxists could on occasion sound like a hymn. “Among the Asian nations,” as Inoue Kiyoshi phrased it, “our ancestors alone defended independence against capitalism and the Great Powers.”144 Japanese history as a success story, and perhaps also as a model for other oppressed Asian nations—this revisionist position was increasingly picked up by historians, particularly after the mid-1950s. And by the time modernization theory emerged in Japan at the latest, this positive evaluation of the Japanese past had become an important and competing paradigm of historical interpretation. Predecessors of Modernization Theory Modernization theory in Japan was largely a U.S. import. It is important, however, not to overlook the fact that it was compatible with a series of approaches that had already emerged in Japanese academia and that eased its reception. Starting in the mid-1950s, more and more voices were heard demanding that research on the Meiji Restoration be freed from the Procrustean bed of Marxist theory and calling for a more positive evaluation of

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Japanese history. Sustained impulses for this discussion came less from historians than from related disciplines in which Marxism’s hegemony had waned sooner. On New Year’s Day, 1956, the renowned specialist of French literature Kuwabara Takeo published his demand for a “new evaluation of the Meiji period” in the highcirculation daily paper Asahi Shinbun. Here he first stated principles he would later repeat more emphatically. “I believe that we should recognize the fact that Japanese modernization in the Meiji Restoration was successful.”145 He particularly admired the pace of Japan’s race to catch up, even if the speed of modernization was linked with social costs. “I do not mean to bypass all the problems industrialization has wrought, but the point is that Japan was a backward nation in Asia, and it became a leading industrial power within the span of one hundred years. This is one of the wonders of world history.”146 The reason for this unprecedented feat lay not so much in mere adaptation as in the uniqueness of Japanese culture. “Japan, too, was economically and in other ways very undeveloped at the beginning of the Meiji era, but it had a unique and relatively well integrated, sophisticated culture,” Kuwabara wrote in his 1957 essay “Tradition and Modernity”—whose very title recalled the soon ubiquitous dichotomy of modernization theory.147 Kuwabara was not a historian, yet his intervention in favor of a reevaluation of indigenous traditions also met with great approval from the historical profession. Kuwabara had been teaching since 1948 at the Institute for Human Sciences (Jinbun kagaku kenkyumjo) of the University of Kyoto, where under his guidance a group of scholars was cooperating on an interdisciplinary project on the comparative interpretation of the French Revolution. One of his colleagues there was the philosopher Ueyama Shumpei, who also addressed the public with a reevaluation of the Meiji Restoration at the end of 1956. He aimed his criticism directly at the koµzaha and its dogma of the incomplete, failed revolution. Ueyama declared the Meiji Restoration to have been a transitional phase, witnessed in every country that was bridging the deep chasm between absolutism and modernity. As one could observe in the English and French revolutions, in this phase the bourgeoisie did not gain absolute power. Thus a remnant of feudalistic power structures at the end of the social upheaval was not a Japanese idiosyncrasy but essentially a component of every bourgeois revolution. Ueyama then sketched out the universal course of this transition phase, thereby suggesting that “the Meiji Restoration [was] a form of bourgeois revolution.”148 Although Kuwabara and Ueyama used Marxist rhetoric in their argumentation, their interpretations were directed against the epistemological monopoly of historical materialism. Both shared a tendency to liberate the evaluation of the modern

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era in Japan from the “feeling of inferiority” they saw in the historiography of the postwar period.149 Japan had regained its political sovereignty after 1955, and by the late 1950s the economic upturn was already palpable. As a result, the koµzaha notion of Japan’s backwardness and need to catch up increasingly lost plausibility in public debate. The theoretical premises of the historical establishment, interestingly, were not necessarily undermined by this shift in emphasis. For example, Ueyama presented his reevaluation of the Meiji Restoration as an internal correction within the framework of the Marxist model. Both Marxist and revisionist approaches, moreover, operated with identical empirical findings. But phenomena that had previously been denounced as feudal remnants and as deficits of national history were now revalorized as the cultural preconditions of an independent and autonomous modernization. Starting in the middle of the 1950s, many Japanese thought history could once again be written from an explicitly patriotic perspective.150 These steps toward a reevaluation of the modern era in Japan represented a serious challenge for the dominant koµzaha paradigm. The revisionists from Kyoto, who, in an allusion to the nationalistic-intellectual group of the war years, were also called the New Kyoto School (Shin Kyomto Gakuha), aimed their pleas for a greater appreciation of the Meiji Restoration at the historiographic hegemony of Marxism.151 The positive evaluation of Japanese culture, tradition, and history stood in stark contrast to Marxism’s emphasis on contradictions, oppression, and backwardness. The Importation of Modernization Theory American modernization theory, which established a foothold in Japan after 1960 and which substantially influenced the academic debates of the following years, linked up with these indigenous approaches in an upgrading of Japanese traditions. The birthplace of American theories of modernization in Japan was the University of Michigan, where during the war, army language programs were established and “area experts” were trained for military and, later, administrative purposes. In the 1950s the Japanese Studies Program in Ann Arbor, which had traditionally strong ties to government agencies, developed into one of the centers of research on Japan along the lines of modernization theory.152 In 1958 Michigan mounted the first Conference on Modern Japan, which would strongly influence Japanese historiography in subsequent years. Japanese history was presented as an example of a successful transition from a feudalistic to a modern society, and was recommended as an example to other Asian nations. These debates did not remain limited to American historians, but were systematically exported to Japan. In August 1960 the first of a series of conferences

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was initiated by American scholars in Hakone, a small spa near Tokyo. The intention was to undertake a complete reevaluation of Japanese history on the premises of modernization theory.153 The Japanese scholars who took part, including Tomyama Shigeki, initially rejected this idea. The anti-Marxist thrust and the close conceptual affinity with American defense policy discredited the thesis of successful modernization among the proponents of the still-dominant koµzaha historiography. But against the background of an economic upturn and entry into a phase of rapid economic growth (koµdo seichoµ), a growing number of historians viewed modernization theory as an adequate interpretation of Japanese history. A number of conservative and pro-American political historians, invariably denounced as “positivists” by Marxists, quickly became modernization theory’s strongest supporters.154 Linked to the academic prestige of American-style modernization theory, the interpretation of the Meiji Restoration as a national revolution increasingly gained academic dignity. Even though the national interpretation had been embraced by koµzaha historians following the outbreak of the Korean War, in modernization theory it contained a decidedly anti-Marxist component. This became clear in the 1962 essay collection in which Sakata Yoshio published the first results of research conducted under the aegis of modernization theory. Sakata explained: “In historical science, there is a widespread conviction that one can explain the history of the Meiji Restoration under the aspect of class conflict. . . . But the economic development was only one condition of social change, not its cause.” For him, the decisive cause was to be sought in the “danger of invasion by a foreign power.” He derived all social changes from the national uprising against foreign danger. Sakata additionally emphasized this causal chain through a conceptual and chronological distinction between the return of power to the Tennom (oµsei fukkoµ) (1853–68) and the actual Meiji Restoration (Meiji Ishin) (1869–73), that is, between a national and a social revolution. Only resistance against external pressure brought about rearmament, which depended on improvements in technology and a comprehensive industrialization, and the latter in turn depended on social reforms. “Thus it was not a social revolutionary movement that conducted political changes, but rather it was those political changes that brought about the demand for a social transformation in the first place.” The Meiji Restoration could not be described as the result of endogenous social processes, whose character was in turn determined by its class basis; rather it represented the Japanese reaction to the threat from outside.155 Thus under the umbrella of modernization theory, and against the backdrop of high economic growth, the Meiji Restoration, which the koµzaha had interpreted as a failed social transformation, was converted into a successful national revolution. A

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failed, incomplete past contaminated by feudal remnants became a successful modernization that others should imitate. This change in the understanding of modern history was linked to a reevaluation of traditional Japanese culture, whose specifics modernization theory treated as resources for autonomous development. Traditions no longer appeared as symptoms of backwardness but rather as conditions for progress. In this way, patriotic pleas for the uniqueness of Japanese culture lost their nationalist stigma, for cultural tradition appeared to have become a significant driving force on the universal path of historical development. Even culturalistic proclamations of Japanese superiority that had boomed during the war and then been marginalized in academic discourse after 1945 now again were invested with academic prestige under the label of modernization theory. Discursive Commonalities In Japan, proponents of modernization theory took the stage as the antipodes of a predominantly left-wing, Marxist historical profession. Both groups mutually denounced each other as American or Soviet marionettes, respectively. This political gulf markedly distinguished the Japanese adaptation of modernization theory from its reception in the Federal Republic. Despite significant reservations, historians fashioning themselves as pioneers of a “critical social history” absorbed notions of a Weberian-Parsonian theory of history in the 1960s and used it as a methodological basis in their attack on conservative political history. As Hans-Ulrich Wehler wrote, “It will be hard to avoid admitting that, at the present time, alternatives to a historically and theoretically differentiated modernization theory are neither easy to recognize nor easy to develop.”156 By contrast, in Japan the symbiosis of American-induced modernization theory and critical social history was an academic red flag. Beyond the political-ideological divide between koµzaha historians and modernization theorists, the competing interpretations of the Meiji Restoration were nevertheless based on common assumptions. Both positions viewed the Meiji Ishin as the historical moment when the transition from feudalism to modernity—the centerpiece of both models—occurred. From the vantage point of historical materialism, bourgeois society may well have been linked to a high degree of social inequality, yet it nevertheless appeared to be an inevitable transition point on the road to an egalitarian order. In this regard, the proponents of Marxist historical philosophy were even more stubborn modernists than the proponents of modernization theory themselves. While the latter recognized the costs of modernization along with its promises, the Marxist celebration of the dissolution of the traditional social order by the modern in most cases lacked any ambivalence.

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Alongside a basic acceptance of “modernity,” further common ground existed in the preoccupation on the part of the various interpreters of the Meiji Restoration with their own nation. This finding may seem paradoxical at first, since historical materialism and modernization theory stood for the attempt to free historical research from a specifically Japanese perspective. Both approaches operated with a universal, world-historical model and promised to overcome historical parochialism. And yet, in historiographical practice, the analysis largely remained within a national framework. Historical “progress” appeared to obey the laws of world history, but—according to the usual perspective of Japanese historians—it did not unfold on a global scale but rather within the framework provided by the nationstate.157 This also applied to the approaches taken by modernization theory. The roots of social modernization were typically found in the legacy of indigenous traditions, which appeared as the internal engine of a society’s take-off on the road toward modernity. Thus ideological differences between rival groups notwithstanding, postwar historiography of the Meiji Restoration was framed in terms of an internalist national history. Even the argumentative patterns showed similarities, regardless of their interpretive differences. Whether in Marxist, modernization theory, or conservative-nationalist discourse, the specifics of Japan’s traditions were made responsible for the success or failure of development. The course of modernization was judged differently, but in almost all interpretations modern Japan appeared as a case of historical exceptionalism.

CONCLUDING REMARKS Both in the Federal Republic and in Japan, debates on the significance of the unification of the empire were subjected to the suspicions of the continuity hypothesis, which attributed the “catastrophe” of the recent past to long-term causes. However, the acceptance of continuity was much less prevalent in West Germany than in Japan. All in all, Japanese historians scarcely questioned this continuity, whereas their German colleagues hardly discussed it. While in Japan the causal connection between the Meiji Restoration and fascism was a veritable premise and not the result of research, for the majority of West German historians the qualitative hiatus between the empire and the Third Reich remained an unchallenged a priori assumption. However, within these continuity debates and as their subtext, the problem of locating the essence of the nation played a decisive role. In both countries various historiographical “schools” competed with one another in defending their diver-

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gent positions as to what the historical “core” of Germany or Japan actually was. All these distinctions notwithstanding, in the Federal Republic the reconstruction of national identity particularly was framed along geographical lines. Here, proponents of “south German,” “Prussian,” “kleindeutsch,” and “grossdeutsch” conceptions fought over the definition of “Germany.” In Japan, by contrast, attempts to locate the essence of the nation were primarily concerned with defining its social core. Particularly among Marxists historians, there were lively and highly controversial debates on what social group to elevate to the status of the true agents of social progress. Thus in both countries virtually all the controversies over the Bismarck and Meiji unifications were informed by the desire to define the place of the nation. This preoccupation with the nation may come as a surprise, considering the self-image of historians in the postwar years. In Japan, Marxist (and later modernization theory) scholarship aimed to replace earlier nationalist, ethnocentric historiography with a universal perspective. And in the Federal Republic, a transnational vocabulary also became commonplace. Broad sections of the West German historical profession declared as their goal not the affirmation of national identity but rather the creation of a common framework of European history. The demand for a European perspective corresponded to the sociopolitical developments of the postwar years. The Marshall Plan of 1947 and the establishment of the European Council in 1949 brought about a public debate in Western Europe concerning European unification. In this context, integrating national development into the broader framework of European history seemed a promising strategy. For Japanese historians, however, this insertion of the Japanese past into transnational contexts was not a viable option. A political union in East Asia was not in view. Such political contexts formed the background against which in Germany, a transnational, “European” perspective was increasingly called for, while in Japan the nation continued to be the natural subject of historical writing. It is important to recognize in this context that this divergent logic of historiographical paradigms cannot be directly deduced from the supposed objectivity of “natural” conditions. Geography and geopolitics do not determine interpretations of the past. While historians’ perspectives are not autonomous, at the same time they also cannot be viewed as merely a reflex of geopolitical “facts.” The traumatic impact of Germany’s division after 1945, to name just one example, was in itself a result of several decades of national historiography. The sense of loss could be explained not least by the fact that national history had characterized the kleindeutsch unification—just seventy-five years earlier—not as a Prussian annexation but rather as the long-desired fulfillment of an historical telos.

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In this regard, Japan’s situation after 1945 was not categorically different from the German situation. The intactness of Japanese territory was not as self-evident as it might appear today. During the war, Japan had treated its territories in Korea, Taiwan, Okinawa, and Manchuria as provinces; Taiwan had become part of the Japanese Empire in 1895 and was thus assimilated into the Japanese nation-state only a short time after the island of Hokkaido was incorporated. If the loss of these territories was not perceived as a threat to the nation’s territorial integrity, it had to be accompanied by a new understanding of what “Japan” meant. Oguma Eiji has shown how in this regard the discourse on the ethnic foundations of the nation underwent characteristic shifts. During the war, ethnic variety was considered characteristic of the Japanese people (kongo minzoku ron). The Japanese, according to dominant ideology, were an amalgamation of southern and northern Asian peoples, including the native populations of Taiwan and Korea. Their union in the Japanese Empire could thus be interpreted not as an annexation, but as a form of homecoming. However, following the unconditional surrender in 1945, this perspective lost all plausibility. Scholarly literature now began to construct a homogeneous Japanese people (tan’itsu minzoku ron) that dwelt on its peaceful archipelago in ethnic isolation and purity. This view continues to play an important role in the academic and popular self-assurance of the Japanese nation today.158 But just like the definition of what constituted the archipelago’s outer borders, this notion of Japan’s ethnic identity was itself the product of a specific historical situation.159 Thus the various notions of the role of the nation were not merely the natural result of geopolitical conditions but just as much a product of the discursive appropriation of historical-geographical contexts. In consequence, the tired chorus of “the end of the nation-state,” which frequently concluded German historians’ cosmopolitan hymns, was not merely a reaction to the possibly permanent loss of national unity. In the last instance, most historians were not intent on abandoning national unity, notwithstanding all their efforts on behalf of a common European historiography. On the contrary, they perceived Germany’s division into the FRG and GDR as a scandal, and denounced it as an “unnatural,” “unhistorical” construction. The rejection of national history did not lead to a demand for a history of West Germany, but rather to a plea for a European one. The context was to be transnational, European, and Western. This was linked to a rejection of the project of a Lesser German (kleindeutsch) unification. In the postwar years a grossdeutsch historical conception still exerted a certain attraction among historians, this time under the banner of “Europe.” According to this interpretation, the German

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Empire of 1871 had proved to be too small, too weak in its struggle against the (now Communist) East. The overcoming of national history by a European perspective was more often than not linked to a reaffirmation of German geopolitical demands. Cosmopolitanism often went hand in hand with a wide-reaching, essentially imperialistic notion of history. Even the European union—in whatever form it might eventually take—could thus appear as a special task peculiar to the German nation. Even after the often lamented “end of the nation-state,” the nation remained the centerpiece of the interpretation of the past. Even at this historical juncture, when the programmatic plea to transcend national boundaries was almost ubiquitous, historiography essentially remained grounded in a national framework.

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chapter three

. The Nation as Victim Writing the History of National Socialism and Japanese Fascism

Compared with the intensive debates on the nation-state and modernity in the nineteenth century, the discussion over the history of the recent past—particularly in Germany—was characterized by what philosopher Hermann Lübbe called “a certain silence.” Today there is a general consensus that a critical debate over the history of the Third Reich and a scholarly examination of German guilt barely got off the ground in the early postwar years. For this reason, scholars speak of the 1950s in terms of the “repression” of the National Socialist era.1 Even in Japan, discussions during the same period on the criminal character of Japanese expansion policies since the 1930s (the Nanjing Massacre, forced prostitution, bacteriological warfare, etc.) in the early postwar period are usually referred to as partial and highly apologetic.2 Yet this failure to engage in a critical examination of the recent past should not suggest that National Socialism and Japanese fascism remained historical terrae incognitae and were entirely ignored.3 In both countries, there was indeed a lively discussion about the wartime past—even if some of the sensible topics, judging retrospectively, were eschewed. On closer examination, therefore, the concept of repression refers not so much to general neglect as to a selective approach toward appropriating the recent past. This notion of repression, of the “second guilt” (Ralph Giordano), has been a powerful paradigm for critically examining postwar society; at the same time, it has led historians to stress “deficits” and “lacks” and to ignore what was actually said and discussed. In the following it becomes clear

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that German and Japanese historians were very much engaged with the recent past, their chief concern being the rehabilitation of their own nation. Against the background of the political present (the occupation statutes, the loss of sovereignty, territorial restrictions), which appeared to challenge the status of the nation, the desire to reconfirm national integrity was fundamental for evaluations of National Socialism and Japanese fascism.4

POINTS OF DEPARTURE A condemnation of the recent past began in Western Germany and in Japan immediately after the end of the war and was the common point of departure of almost every scholarly interpretation. A glance at public statements from this time shows that West German historians readily concurred on the negative quality of the National Socialist era. This was an unspoken consensus that hardly needed articulation. Only the causes and deeper reasons for the “catastrophe” remained controversial. German historians sang no hymns to the Third Reich, not even those who may have been tempted to do so before 1945. Almost overnight, a positive or even apologetic view of National Socialism had become unthinkable.5 Japanese historians went even further in their outright condemnation of fascism. Immediately following Japan’s surrender, scholars who had criticized the regime and who had lost their jobs during the war were rehired. Particularly the Marxist historians who had faced state repression in the years before, and who could now take the stage “with a clean record,” soon dominated the new intellectual climate. Those historians who had not been as radical and critical in their dealings with militarism in the 1930s and 1940s chose to abstain from the discussion in the first postwar years. Thus in scholarly discourse, rejection of the preceding fifteen years was almost absolute. For both countries it is possible to speak of a discursive break that produced a whole new arsenal of concepts, images, and conventions of articulation for regulating how the recent past could be legitimately interpreted. However, these changes did not occur out of the blue. On the one hand, they need to be situated in a framework in which the politics of the American occupation helped define the parameters of debate. On the other hand, the changes linked up with alternative traditions within Germany and Japan that until 1945 had played only marginal roles. Characteristically, these two trajectories overlapped, and frequently the American initiatives rested on the insights of these alternative perspectives, while at the same time the transnational pressures helped legitimate the claims of hitherto marginal approaches.

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To begin with, unconditional surrender and military occupation contributed in different ways to limiting the range of possible statements about the past. These interventions assumed three forms. First, the war crimes trials, which the Allies held in Nuremberg and in Tokyo, were based on a particular interpretation of German and Japanese history, respectively. Whereas on the surface, judgment was passed in these trials on responsibility for the war and its crimes, issues relating to the prehistory of the war, the character of the authoritarian state, the roots of militarism, and the relationship of the people to the government were also always discussed, sometimes only implicitly or between the lines. The impact of these implicit readings, in particular in Japan, continued well into the postwar period. Decades later, revisionist Japanese historians saw (and still see) the “historiography of the Tokyo Trial” as the enemy a national historiography has to combat.6 Second, the social reforms that the Americans attempted and to some extent achieved in West Germany and Japan transmitted as a subtext an image of each country’s respective past. This could be seen, for example, in U.S. intervention in the process of writing democratic constitutions for Japan (1946) and the Federal Republic (1949). Likewise social reforms such as the attempt at land reform were based on a specific reading of German and Japanese history since the nineteenth century as “deviant paths.” Third, the Allied interventions also assumed more concrete forms and explicitly banned certain views from the field of permissible interpretations. Alongside censorship (and other, more indirect control mechanisms such as the allotment of paper rations), interventions in the choice of personnel in the historical profession regulated the spectrum of legitimate enunciations. For example, the denazification and “purges” (tsuihoµ) at the universities transformed the composition of the historians there and at the same time defined a negative canon of “undesirable interpretations” that thenceforth limited the range of interpretational approaches. To be sure, both in West Germany and Japan, direct purge measures on the part of the occupying powers were rare. In Germany’s three western zones Willy Andreas (Heidelberg) and Wilhelm Mommsen (Marburg) were among the few historians removed from office by the U.S. authorities.7 As a rule, the selection process—which often differed from one state and occupying power to another—was placed in the hands of the individual universities. At some places self-purifying bodies had formed starting in late 1945, of which the group surrounding Karl Jaspers in Heidelberg was the best known. In the American zone, denazification was officially instituted in the universities in January 1946, and the occupying power continued to take part in the process. In the committees set up at each university,

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the professors who were considered to have a clear record held judgment over their colleagues and made suggestions on dismissals that the occupying authorities usually followed.8 The denazification measures primarily affected those historians who were fairly obviously associated with the National Socialist regime. Voluntary resignations were rare. Walter Frank, who had been the president of the newly founded Reich Institute for the History of the New Germany since 1935 and who was the doyen of the Nazi historical profession, committed suicide on May 9, 1945. The first removals from office after 1945 particularly affected those scholars who had been members of the NSDAP before 1933, such as Erich Botzenhart, Heinrich Dannenbauer, and Gustav Adolf Rein, or those who joined the party after the “seizure of power,” such as Karl Alexander von Müller (editor of the Historische Zeitschrift from 1935 to 1944), Erwin Hölzle, and Günther Franz (who had also been a member of the SS). When one compares the numbers of dismissals to the denazification measures undertaken at the universities in the Soviet-occupied zone, or then again with the “Abwicklung” of GDR historians after 1989, one can speak of a lenient and superficial “purge.”9 Winfried Schulze has estimated the number of West German professors “who were at first dismissed ‘for political reasons’ without regard to their later reemployment—depending on their age and other factors” at a mere twenty-four.10 This number shrinks even further if one includes the various rehabilitation measures undertaken in the ensuing years. As a result of the personnel shortage at the history departments, as well as the softening of denazification itself, a reverse flow became effective in the late 1940s, allowing dismissed historians to return to work. In some cases (as, for example, with Willy Andreas) the return was linked to immediate retirement and had primarily symbolic (and financial) significance. Others returned to their old jobs (such as Heinrich Dannenbauer in Tübingen and Percy Ernst Schramm in Göttingen, both in 1949) or were given new positions (including Egmont Zechlin in Hamburg in 1948 and Helmut Berve in Erlangen in 1949). And finally the 1951 statute based on Article 131 of the Basic Law made it possible to “reuse” professors dismissed for political reasons. This law created the basis for the rehiring of all civil servants who had lost their positions for a variety of reasons since 1945.11 Persons who had been employed in the lost Eastern European territories profited most from this regulation, but historians who had fallen victim to denazification also benefited. Thus, for example, Günther Franz (Hohenheim, 1957), Erich Maschke (Heidelberg, 1956), Otto Graf zu Stolberg-Wernigerode (Munich, 1955), Fritz Valjavec (Munich, 1958), and Ludwig Zimmermann (Erlangen, 1954) all returned to the universities in the course of the 1950s.

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In Japan’s universities, the dynamics of the purges (tsuihoµ) were in essence comparable to the denazification measures in West Germany. At the University of Tokyo, Hiraizumi Kiyoshi, the supreme representative of nationalist historiography in the postwar period and in a way the Japanese counterpart of Walter Frank, resigned voluntarily in September 1945.12 There were also voluntary resignations elsewhere, particularly among teachers. Beyond that, many universities undertook anticipatory dismissals. In this way, Japanese scholars hoped to avoid the purges called for in the Potsdam Declaration. These precautions particularly affected scholars who had been politically active in the 1930s and whose statements could be linked with the ideology of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.13 Direct interventions by the U.S. occupying authorities began as early as the fall of 1945. Their first target was the Christian Rikkyom University, where the nationalist wave during the war had led to a ban on Christian-theological instruction, which was associated with the West.14 Afterwards, the occupiers particularly looked toward religion-based institutions and at the University of Kyoto. The nationalist Kyoto School had been established there around the philosopher Nishida Kitarom in the 1930s. Its concepts and interpretations had repercussions in other departments as well. The historical conception of the Kyoto School postulated an alternative world history that—in Hegelian fashion—was intended to found a new “Asian” world order that would overcome European dominance. The notorious conference on “overcoming modernity” (kindai no choµkoku), held in Kyoto in 1942, introduced this program to a broader public. Even if the elimination of Western modernity largely remained a philosophical program that distanced itself from Japan’s imperial wars, the Kyoto School’s historical philosophy bore numerous affinities with the ideology of the Japanese army’s “Greater East Asian War of Liberation.”15 But this form of direct intervention remained the exception.16 Instead, commissions were established at all universities in 1946 to determine the qualification and further employment of the entire faculty. As in the Western zones of Germany, scholars considered to have integrity judged their colleagues. Overall, 24,572 professors from all departments underwent evaluation. Of these, 86 were finally dismissed from university service as unfit—a mere 0.3 percent of all professors.17 Among primary and secondary teachers, the percentage of persons dismissed for political reasons was not higher. By way of comparison, in the western German zones between 10 percent (in the British zone; the numbers for the French zone were slightly higher) and more than 35 percent (in the American zone) of all professors were suspended within the framework of the denazification measures.18 One way to explain this difference is to take into account the large number of

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resignations from office in Japan.19 In many cases the commissions’ work provoked voluntary resignations before the evaluation was complete. For example, of the ten scholars who lost their positions in the economics department of the University of Tokyo, only two departed as a result of official reports.20 In general, one can say that the prominent and prestigious state universities were more strongly affected than smaller and private institutions. The close link between the imperial universities and the state meant a deeper involvement of their prominent representatives in state expansion policies after 1931. The department of Japanese history at the University of Tokyo was particularly hard hit. All professorial chairs in that department were vacant following the dismissal of Itazawa Takeo and the resignations of Hiraizumi and Nakamura Komya in 1947. It is important to note, however, that for most historians such an expulsion did not mean the end of their academic career. Those who did not immediately find a position at a smaller and less prestigious institution in the 1950s could expect their reinstallment. Just as Article 131 in the Federal Republic permitted historians to return to the universities, in Japan the shift in educational policy following the end of the occupation in 1952 ensured the successive rollback of American university reforms, including personnel decisions.21 All in all, the number of Japanese historians driven from their chairs for political reasons after 1945 was even lower than in the Western zones of Germany. Apart from this numerical difference, however, German historians—even those who became permanent victims of denazification—continued to remain close to the core of the profession. Wilhelm Mommsen, Fritz Valjavec, Erwin Hölzle, Wilhelm Schüssler, and Franz Petri, to name but a few, continued to publish in the relevant professional journals after their dismissal, or else were involved in large projects, such as the Historia Mundi at the Institute for European History in Mainz. By contrast, in Japan the exclusion affected a smaller circle of persons, and yet the break with the profession’s conferences and forms of discussion were more rigid. The strong Marxist trend in Japan contributed to a state of affairs in which the voice of discredited nationalist historians attracted less attention after 1945 and the important scholarly publications remained largely off-limits for them. The discarded historians often met one another again at the smaller universities. Forced dismissal, in other words, did not automatically block access to all other institutions; to the contrary, new hiring in less prominent positions was the rule. Thus at the Shintomistic Kokugakuin University in Tokyo and at the Military College (Bomei daigakkom), numerous proponents of a Tennom-centered ultranationalistic view of history congregated in the 1950s. However, their influence on the historical profession remained marginal.22

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This excursion into the political interventions in historical scholarship under the U.S. occupation demonstrates the extent to which the project of rethinking the past needs to be placed in a transnational context. At the same time, it is important to recognize that what appeared to many contemporaries as a caesura in the history of the discipline was not the product of external pressures alone. In fact, the caesura was partially rhetorical, obliterating the strands of continuity between wartime and postwar thinking. The impact of indigenous German and Japanese perspectives was twofold. On the one hand, the occupation’s view of history owed considerably to native sources and was thus deeply embedded in earlier debates conducted among German and Japanese historians. As is shown below, the views of Jewish émigrés to the United States and their narratives of German history proved an influential resource for occupation perspectives; the same was true for the analyses of Japanese Marxist historians that found their way into occupation policies through the mediation of “Japan hands.” On the other hand, certain prewar interpretations and approaches could be endowed with additional prestige and credibility when supported by occupation interventions. This was obvious, for example, for sociology in Germany, which had flourished in the 1920s and was now resuscitated in a new, American form.23 I argue in chapter 5 that a version of modernization theory had developed in Japan before 1945, upon which American theories of modernity modeled on the works of Max Weber and Talcott Parsons were later grafted. Much of what may appear as a cultural imposition, and certainly did seem so to many contemporaries, reveals itself upon closer scrutiny as a complex interplay of actors linking earlier debates to a postwar setting shaped by military occupation and American hegemony.

NATIONAL SOCIALISM AND JAPANESE FASCISM AS A TOPIC OF RESEARCH At the end of the 1950s, there was consensus among German historians that research on the history of National Socialism was essentially complete. “There is perhaps no period in German history about which we know so much as about the years from 1933 to 1945. . . . To be sure, some details may still be corrected. There are still some figures about whom we would like to know more. But what happened then is now essentially known.” 24 Thus spoke Karl Dietrich Erdmann in 1961 when he reviewed research on the Third Reich. Paradoxically, this judgment was passed at a moment that, according to scholarship today, was characterized by a virtual neglect of the Nazi period. The 1950s are viewed in retrospect as a phase

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in which a critical examination of the recent past, particularly Nazi extermination policy and genocide, largely failed to take place.25 How do these two judgments fit together? The following reconstruction of contemporary debates illustrates that it was not a general neglect of the history of the Third Reich but rather a particular emphasis that produced a selective reading of National Socialism that in retrospect was referred to as a “repression.” The selection of topics and fields of study were the result of concerns that can be summarized as follows: How could the traumatic military defeat be explained while preserving the integrity of the nation, whose core—as the historians involved sought to demonstrate—was not affected by either crime or defeat? This basic question dictated both the perspectives and the subjects of research and made other issues appear peripheral and marginal.

the catastrophe West German historians who spoke in public about the recent past viewed the Nazi era as a massive catastrophe. The term “catastrophe” experienced a rapid boom in the literature pertaining to the Third Reich and its position in the continuum of German history.26 The best-known and most frequently cited example of this early treatment of National Socialism was undoubtedly The German Catastrophe, by eighty-four-year-old Friedrich Meinecke, published in 1946. The book was incidentally also received with great interest in Japan and was published there in translation in 1951.27 For Meinecke, National Socialism was a product of what he called the “two waves of the age,” which he saw in competition with one another since the nineteenth century: the “double revolution,” that is, the events of 1789 in France and the Industrial Revolution, brought about socialism and nationalism as antagonistic ideologies. Meinecke viewed National Socialism as the failed attempt to overcome this fundamental dichotomy of modernity. This perspective placed the genealogy of the Third Reich firmly within the larger framework of European modernity. At the same time, Meinecke emphasized that in Germany the two waves of the nineteenth century had been of a “very special character.” By this he was referring to Prussian militarism, which was also the preferred target of popular and journalistic studies looking for the long-term origins of National Socialism. Meinecke, in other words, located the roots of the Third Reich in not only the European but also the German past. “The responsibility and guilt of the German bourgeoisie in everything regarding the catastrophe and particularly the rise of National Socialism is not small.”28 It would be no exaggeration to say that this oscillation between a European-modern and a specifically German genealogy of National Socialism marked the boundaries within which the etiology of the Third Reich has thenceforth moved, up until this day.

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In Japan, too, there was a widespread belief that fascism had plunged the country into the catastrophe. This was also the official government view of events. On August 28, 1945—two weeks after the surrender—Prince Higashikuni’s government demanded critical reflection on the part of the Japanese people. Under the slogan “collective confession of the 100 million” (ichioku soµzange), the Japanese people as a whole were to assume responsibility for the past—a responsibility from which only the Tennom was excepted.29 This postulate was diametrically counter to the demands voiced by the political opposition. Critical historians differed specifically on the question of guilt; the people were not to blame for what had happened, but rather the Tennom was to assume responsibility. These political differences notwithstanding, however, these historians agreed with the conservative provisional government in their estimation that the period between 1931 and 1945 represented an exceptional period, a “dark valley” (kurai tanima) in the nation’s history.30 Among the (largely Marxist) Japanese historians who commented on current political affairs, the evaluation of the “catastrophe” was not so deeply tinged with a rhetoric of shock as in Germany. While Gerhard Ritter and a majority of conservative German historians believed that “the German people had arrived at the absolute low point of its fate” and viewed the task of scholarship as ensuring that this people “does not abandon all hope,”31 the positions taken by Japanese historians were significantly less pessimistic. To be sure, professional historians in both countries styled themselves as representatives of an opposition to the old regime that now could say its mind. However, in Japan the Marxists linked their criticism with hopes for profound reforms of Japanese society. For this reason the end of the war signaled not only an ending but also liberation and the possibility of a new beginning. Hani Gorom, for example, interpreted the end of the war as the successful conclusion (with international help) of the 2,000-year struggle of Japanese workers and peasants against internal suppression.32 Marxist historians saw the tumultuous phase of the immediate postwar period in which the social reforms of the occupying power were implemented as the moment of revolutionary transformation. However, this euphoric atmosphere soon subsided once it became apparent that the ideas of the U.S. occupation forces and of the Japanese Marxists were not compatible. Starting with the ban of the general strike in February 1947—or at the latest by the political “purge” of the Communists in 1949—the Americans no longer appeared as liberators from the yoke of fascism but rather as a repressive army of occupation themselves. With the beginning of the “reverse course” in late 1947, the priority of occupation policies no longer lay in democratic reeducation but

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rather in a pragmatic economic policy founded on anticommunism.33 This end of the brief flirtation between Japanese Communists and American occupiers also induced Marxist historians to alter their evaluation of the end of the war. In 1953– 54, following the outbreak of the Korean War, which once again underlined the United States’ anticommunist policy, the Communist-oriented historians’ association, Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, published a five-volume history of the Pacific War. By then, the surrender of 1945 had already lost much of its liberating character. The defeat was now explicitly described as a “catastrophe” (hakyoku), and Japan was defined as a country occupied by its enemy. This restriction on its freedom was in turn linked to the “unequal treaties” that Japan had been forced to conclude with the United States under the threat of military force in the mid-nineteenth century. “The Japanese nation has once again become a suppressed nation. And this time the suppression is not as gentle as before, but rather is the result of the colonial dominance of imperialism at the highest level.”34 In the 1950s, then, an interpretation gained currency that the end of the war in 1945 brought Japan a period of occupation and recolonization. This was true not only for nationalistic perspectives but for Marxist historians as well. This notion of an occupied country, by the way, was also shared by some West German historians, at least in the first years after the end of the Third Reich. Peter Rassow, for example, breathed a sigh of relief that “we have survived the transfer from the Nazi occupation to that of the Americans.”35 And even Friedrich Meinecke thought that the “age of external foreign rule” had arrived, which had been preceded by an “age of inner foreign rule.”36 From these formulations one can readily glean that the notion of the “catastrophe” did not in the first place refer to the vanquished dictatorship and its inhuman crimes, but rather to military defeat and the occupation by a foreign power. Consequently, Hans Herzfeld viewed not only 1945 but also 1918 as “catastrophes of modern German history.”37 Theodor Schieder, with characteristic nuance, spoke of “the events following 1933 and the catastrophe of 1945.”38 In Japan, likewise, the standard periodization suggested that the break with national traditions occurred only in 1945. This dividing line between the prewar (senzen) and postwar (sengo) periods declared all events before August 15, 1945, to be the “prewar period,” thus declaring not the beginning of the war or the fascist period but rather the country’s first occupation to be the turning point in Japanese history.39 Most West German and Japanese historians thus agreed that it was above all their own country that had had to suffer a “catastrophe.” The military occupation, the territorial losses, and the loss of national integrity motivated this sense of desolation over the events.

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Walther Hofer’s concluding comments in his documentary volume on National Socialism were typical of this perspective: Indeed, the historical balance of the twelve-year reign of National Socialist leadership and rule is dreadful. Not only all of Germany and half of Europe lay in rubble, but the legacy of Bismarck, the unity of the Reich were squandered, the labors of the Prussian kings destroyed, a centuries-old historical development, namely German colonization in the East, was reversed, the soldiers of the Soviet Union stand at the Elbe, and Europe is now faced with one of the greatest threats in its history. The name of Germany was burdened with the greatest crimes of human history and desecrated in the most appalling way.”40

the cultural paradigm Thenceforth, one of the central tasks of historical interpretation would be to understand this “catastrophe” of national history and to inquire into its origins. Within this problematic, the nation’s entire past was scrutinized. It is striking that the explanatory method that found the greatest acceptance in both West Germany and Japan was based on a correlation of national character with National Socialism and/or fascism. Thus to many commentators the recent past appeared as the product of a cultural substance—or, conversely, as the contamination of this very substance “from the outside.” From this perspective, either totalitarianism was already present, as a sort of bacillus in German and Japanese culture, or else it appeared as the result of a cultural import. Only a return to the original and pure traditions of the nation, then, promised a fundamental “overcoming” of this past. Maruyama’s Analysis of Fascism In Japan, efforts to arrive at an understanding of fascism and its cultural roots were particularly linked to the work of Maruyama Masao. Maruyama (1914–96) studied in the law department of the University of Tokyo and rose to assistant professor there in 1940. During the Pacific War he was stationed in Hiroshima, where he also witnessed the detonation of the atomic bomb. Only thirty-one years old at the end of the war, Maruyama appeared in public in a series of essays over the ensuing years in which he presented a profound analysis of Japanese fascism. The enormous effect of his writings quickly made him one of the leading intellectuals who sought to link the democratization of the country with a critical reexamination of its past. In his own words, his works were written “in resistance to a tendency to bury those phenomena of the 1930s and 1940s, whose perversity was clear to everyone, as ‘accidents’ or as exceptions in the tomb of the past.”41

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And yet Maruyama’s analyses not only were aimed at the conservative apologists, as these words might suggest, but also challenged the Marxist interpretation of fascism that began to occupy center stage in the first postwar years.42 The starting point of his analysis was the question of how to understand the formation of ultranationalism (choµkokka shugi) without succumbing to socioeconomic reductionism. “Scholars have been mainly concerned with the social and economic background of ultra-nationalism,” he wrote. “Neither in Japan nor in the West have they attempted any fundamental analysis of its intellectual structure or of its psychological basis.”43 Thus in his influential essay “The Theory and Psychology of Ultra-nationalism,” which first appeared in the journal Sekai in May 1946, Maruyama undertook an analysis of the ideological aspects of fascism. For him, only a successful diagnosis of this abortive development promised a lasting transformation of Japanese society. “Ultra-nationalism succeeded in spreading a many-layered, though invisible, net over the Japanese people, and even today they have not really freed themselves from its hold.”44 Maruyama referred to the ultranationalism of the 1930s and 1940s as “fascism,” though he clearly distinguished it from the analogous political development in Europe. For in Japan, “fascism did not burst on the scene from below as it did in Italy and Germany”45 Instead, “the fascist movement from below was completely absorbed into totalitarian transformation from above.” In Maruyama’s eyes, this special form of fascism, which was not based on a revolutionary mass movement but rather incorporated fascist energies into an authoritarian regime imposed “from above,” revealed Japanese fascism’s “premodern character.” “In the final analysis it was the historical circumstance that Japan had not undergone the experience of a bourgeois revolution that determined this character of the fascist movement.”46 In his historical genealogy, Maruyama emphasized the fact that—in contrast to Europe—the separation of the public and private sphere never developed in Japan. That is why the responsible, free individual of modern civil society failed to emerge in Japan. Instead, an ideology that defined social relationships as elements of a family structure and that covered both public and private spheres dominated all areas of society. As a consequence, morality and ethics did not develop as independent systems of norms but rather remained linked to the hierarchical social structure. This ideological framework stood in the way of a differentiation of power from the rule of law; what was more, it prevented the emergence of the modern individual, simultaneously inhibiting the possibility of a political movement in a revolutionary fashion “from below.” In contrast, in Germany, Maruyama argued, “Hitler as the Führer was regarded not as the head of the family or the clan,

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but as a public, öffentlich leader. The insistence on the family system may therefore be termed a distinctive characteristic of the Japanese fascist ideology; and it is connected with the failure of Japanese fascism as a mass movement.”47 This analysis, which made a world-historical deviance (the absence of a bourgeois revolution) responsible for the failure of the individual and subjectivity to develop in Japan, was the most influential postwar attempt to locate Japanese fascism in history. It is obvious that Maruyama understood fascism as a thoroughly modern development that in turn assumed the existence of the modern individual and his or her autonomy and responsibility. In this respect Maruyama’s evaluation intersected with Marxist orthodoxy, for which modern society also represented a precondition for the emergence of fascist regimes. And yet Maruyama differed from contemporary Marxist interpretations in the eclectic diversity of his approach, which integrated psychological and social scientific approaches in his analysis. On closer reading, however, this insistence on the modernity of fascism produced an argumentative logic that made Japan’s world-historical backwardness the primary object of criticism. After all, according to Maruyama’s interpretation, not only did Japan become fascist because it had failed to become thoroughly modern, but it had also failed the project of fascism itself. For Maruyama a self-aware, free individual was the condition for a (modern) fascist movement. Since this condition had not been fulfilled in Japan, “it is only to be expected that the fascist ideology of Japan, based as it was on the positive support of such a class as the pseudointelligentsia, should be far inferior in quality and even more absurd in content than those of Germany and Italy.”48 In the Japanese, “failed” variant of fascism, Maruyama localized an irrationality that put it in a different class from its European models. “German and Japanese fascism left the same trail of destruction, chaos, and destitution in the world; but there is a striking contrast between the situation in Germany, where thought and behavior were entirely consistent, and that in Japan, where the two were remarkably at variance.”49 As a result, it was not the criminal character of the fascist regime (which was merely presumed) that took center stage in his study, but rather the alleged backlog of modernity in Japanese society that had led to a state of affairs in which even Japanese fascism seemed premodern and irrational, a cheap imitation of the real thing: Japanese fascism as a derivative discourse and practice. Viewed from this perspective, Japan’s military leaders were not even proper fascists: “When later they were turned adrift and reverted to being lone individuals, no longer able to depend on superior authority, how weak and pitiful they showed themselves to be! At the war crimes trials, Tsuchiya turned pale and Furushima wept; but Göring roared with

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laughter. Among the famous war crimes suspects in Sugamo Prison how many are likely to display the arrogant impudence of Hermann Göring?”50 The unconditional admiration of Western modernity sometimes took bizarre forms. For Maruyama, even Hitler’s decision to attack Poland, which had unleashed the Second World War in Europe in September 1939, served as a yardstick to measure Japan’s lack of subjectivity and individuality.51 Maruyama’s studies were primarily directed at the “repression” of recent history and its ideological roots. In contrast to the attempts to reduce fascism to the status of an “accident” by insisting on the positive traditions of Japanese history, Maruyama urged “diagnosing the lack or . . . pathological analyses of Japan’s intellectual structure and/or behavioral forms.”52 For him, the cultural “legacy” was not a reservoir of Japan’s pure and unspoiled qualities but was itself profoundly implicated in the ideological-social causes of the recent catastrophe. Cultural Traditions as a Remedy In West Germany, in contrast, the tendency to view the nation’s cultural traditions as a refuge untouched by the shocks of war and National Socialism was widespread among conservative historians. For Friedrich Meinecke, the only hope of “renewal” in 1945 rested on the reassertion of the cultural achievements of the past: “The places where we must resettle in a spiritual sense have been shown to us: the religion and culture of the German spirit [Geist].” At the same time, Meinecke felt that a cultural “awakening” was necessary, and he recommended this be carried out by effectively subtracting the past 150 years of modern German history and picking up the threads of the German classics. “The work of the Bismarck era has been destroyed by our own guilt, and across its ruins we must find our path back to the time of Goethe.”53 In this way he believed that the cultural core of the nation, in danger of being destroyed in the course of the “catastrophe,” could be preserved: “In every German city and large town we would like to see form a community of like-minded friends of culture that I would love to give the name ‘Goethe Community.’ ” Upon this basis he hoped for the “rescue of the last remnant of German popular and cultural essence that has been left to us.”54 Early statements of Japanese historians contained no such vehement pleas in favor of the immaculate national traditions. To be sure, in Japan, too, the idea of national uniqueness played an important role. For example, Maruyama Masao concentrated his research, as he admitted in retrospect, on the “specific peculiarity of Japanese politics and of the cultural patterns that underlie them.” However, for him, these specific qualities were not to be found in the grandiose achievements of a unique Japanese culture, but rather in its deficiencies and shortcomings.

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Thus Maruyama spoke of his “obsessive concern exclusively with the pathological aspects of my own society.” This preoccupation with the unique, with the nation’s essence, thus had its place not only in postwar West German historiography but in Japanese research as well. And yet the overall thrust could not have been more different. Maruyama linked the discovery of national peculiarities with an effort to eliminate them from Japanese society. “It will be apparent that . . . my conscious intention . . . was to expose myself and the body politic of my own society to a probing X-ray analysis and to wield a merciless scalpel on every sign of disease there discovered.”55 For Meinecke, by contrast, the historian’s task lay not in extirpation but rather in preservation. As he himself put it, he was in search of the unchanging German essence, of the “German character indelebilis.”56 This nostalgic longing for a cultural homecoming, of which Meinecke was a prominent example, seemed to suggest that the collapse into barbarism could be traced only to external influences. For many historians the French Revolution appeared as the historical event that marked a fundamental break with tradition and whose shock waves were also palpable in German society. “We will one day have to explain whether and to what extent the relationship between the two historical phenomena of the French and the National Socialist revolutions should be understood not only analogously but also in terms of genealogy.”57 In his book German Catastrophe, Meinecke reconstructed both the German and the European roots of totalitarianism and thus marked the boundaries within which the debate continued to take place. Historians frequently made use of both arguments, which were not diametrical opposites but could be used in a complementary way. Gerhard Ritter was among those particularly eager to pounce on the search for the non-German origins of National Socialism. “Today,” he wrote, “everyone is anxious to seek out the ‘roots of National Socialism’ in German history. A thoroughly necessary business, indeed. . . . But it would remain without result if we would limit this search to Germany. It was not some event of German history but rather the great French Revolution that decisively loosened up the firm soil of European political traditions.”58 National Socialism as a Product of Modernity The recurring references to the bourgeois revolution in France manifested the deep skepticism that conservative German historians felt toward modernity. As Ritter’s comments illustrate, Nazism’s historical origins not only appeared to lie outside Germany’s borders but were also linked to the beginnings of modernity itself. The recourse to “outside influences” was thus supplemented by what can be called a temporal argument. The French Revolution represented both a “foreign” culture and the invasion of modernity with

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all its concomitant features into European history. According to Gerhard Ritter, who summed up this point of view paradigmatically in his book Europe and the German Question in 1948, two factors came into play: secularization and the democratic movement, both consequences of the Industrial Revolution. These two developments represented the repertoire that most studies by conservative scholars referred to. In Ritter’s opinion, both developments in the nineteenth century already paved “the way to the modern total state.”59 This conservative perspective made it possible to place the emphasis at different points as needed. Historians arguing within a Catholic framework particularly emphasized the consequences of secularization and saw Nazism as the logical outcome of a “century without God.”60 By contrast, Ritter aimed his argument against the imposition of democratic government. In democracy, he said, the will of the people is sovereign, incontestable, and thus total. Democracy, he believed, already bore within it the seed of totalitarianism. These statements were based on a profound resentment toward the modern era, a phenomenon that can be seen as the distinguishing feature of the West German historical profession in the 1950s. Fear of the consequences of the technologicalindustrial revolution, expressed in warnings about “mass society” and the loss of traditions, was widespread.61 Paradoxical as it might seem, however, many conservatives at the same time saw Western democracy as the only effective defense against Soviet totalitarianism. As Jean Solchany has shown, in the face of the Communist threat, the democratic form of government guaranteed by the Western allies represented the last alternative to the unlimited rule of “mass man.” Democracy with a conservative spin functioned as a guarantee against the totalitarian potential that democracy seemed to embody at a fundamental level. The boom in theories of totalitarianism in the 1950s must be understood against this background. To be sure, the totalitarianism theory approach also served to relativize the monstrosity of the Nazi dictatorship. The equation of Stalinism and “Hitlerism” seemed to take much of the sting from the “evil past” of the Third Reich. On the other hand, the dominance of totalitarianism theory also documented the reconciliation of the antimodernism of the 1930s with the democracy of the 1950s. The antidemocratic notion of fear of modernity was easily projected onto the “exaggerations” of the principle of popular sovereignty in the socialist world. In this way an antimodern attitude found ways of aligning itself with the conservative democracy of the Adenauer era.62 Nazism as a product of the modern age—that was the counterposition to an interpretation (such as Maruyama’s analysis of Japanese fascism) that interpreted dictatorship as a result of structural shortcomings of culture. It is interesting to observe, however, that many German historians who took the antimodern

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perspective continued to describe the imposition of “modernity” using the metaphor of invasion. Localizing the origins of modernity in the French Revolution, therefore, appeared a matter not only of chronology but also of geography. If National Socialism was viewed as a product of modernity, then as a result its roots had to be sought outside of German history. Gerhard Ritter was among those who highlighted the European (i.e., non-German) character of the dangers modernity allegedly brought with it. For instance, racism had been founded “by the Frenchman Gobineau”; and even when Ritter mentioned “the prophetic figure of Nietzsche,” he emphasized that the philosopher “considered himself a European, not a German.” And finally, Hitler himself had been an immigrant. For Ritter (and not only for him), the contamination of German political culture followed the logic of importation. “Even anti-Semitism played no politically significant role in Germany before 1914. . . . Hitler brought it from the festering ethnic chaos of the Danube region into Germany.”63 In other words, the ideological foundation of the Nazi crimes did not lie in Germany but in Europe. “Deep down in its core,” Ritter concluded, “National Socialism was in no way an original German growth.”64 Japanese Fascism as a Cultural Import In Japan, as we have already seen, Maruyama’s emphasis of fascism’s internal cultural roots had a broad public impact. But in Japan, too, approaches emerged that sought to understand the negative aspects of the country’s own history as a consequence of foreign influence. One proponent of this theory of imported militarism was the conservative historian Tsuda Somkichi (1873–1961). Tsuda dedicated himself to the reconstruction of indigenous Japanese popular culture, which in his view rested on the nation’s uniform ethnic basis. In contrast to the imperialist ideology of the war years, which saw Japan as a mixed population (a position that was instrumentalized to legitimate claims to territories in Korea and China), for Tsuda, Japan had been a homogeneous nation from the beginning. This ethnic homogeneity had also been the reason why Japanese history was not characterized by subjugation and repressive policies but rather had progressed in an inherently peaceful fashion. As an island people (shimaguni) the Japanese had maintained only limited relations to other peoples and thus had not developed any expansionist intentions. Tsuda saw the Tennom as the incarnation of the Japanese nation’s peaceful character.65 Seen from this perspective, the aggressive and imperialistic forces in Japanese history appeared as the result of centuries of borrowing from Chinese culture. The warlike character that Tsuda detected in the expansionist policies of the Second World War was therefore a result of cultural importation that, as such, was

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irreconcilable with the Japanese national character. He viewed adopted elements of Chinese culture, such as the writing system and Buddhism, as a form of hegemonic knowledge that had nothing to do with the reality of the Japanese people. On the contrary, Chinese culture had been an instrument for suppressing the Japanese people through the sinicized ruling class. This foreign culture was transmitted through, among other means, the use of written characters (kanji), which Japan had adopted from China in the sixth century. Thus, as an expression of his longing for the “pure” Japan, Tsuda demanded the abolition of Chinese characters.66 Incidentally, some Marxist historians, too, called for this abolition. An essay published in 1946 by Hani Gorom in the University of Tokyo’s academic newspaper likewise demanded the end of Chinese graphic hegemony. Behind the countless and complicated symbols, Hani perceived the remnants of feudalism, which was keeping the Japanese people from genuine democratization. Like Tsuda, Hani also discredited Chinese culture as hegemonic knowledge: “Culture is a product for the use of the ruling classes, and thus this culture is also feudalistic. . . . The complicated Chinese characters serve feudal rule and have nothing to do with the people.”67 But despite this parallel argumentation, Hani differed from Tsuda in the thrust of his critique of tradition. Even if Hani’s essay was not devoid of nationalist overtones, his plea against Chinese influence was essentially a call for modernity. For the Marxist Hani, unlike the nativist Tsuda, the Chinese characters were not so much foreign as old, which meant backward. And while Tsuda wanted to replace the kanji with the genuine Japanese syllabic characters (hiragana), Hani favored what he saw as the universal medium of modernity, namely the Latin alphabet. It is important to recognize, however, that posing a dichotomy between the peace-loving Japanese people and an aggressive culture imported from abroad (China) was not only a conservative strategy. Indeed, it emerged as an integral part of Marxist discourse as well. Regardless of the internationalist rhetoric of historical materialism, the nation remained a largely unquestioned point of departure. Particularly following the “nationalist turn” of koµzaha history writing in 1950–51, the thesis of a suppressed, neocolonized Japanese people gained new currency. Against the backdrop of the Korean War and government rearmament plans, Marxist historians translated their political opposition into a search for the peaceful and antimilitarist traditions of Japanese history. In a study on ancient Japan, Tomma Seita described a homogeneous people that developed peacefully and rejected all expansionist inclinations. Only under the influence of cultural imports from China, which the rulers used as an instrument for suppressing the people, did Japan also develop militaristic, expansionist policies. After 1951 the absolute dichotomy

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between the people and their rulers, as well as between Japan and China—a dichotomy long employed by conservatives like Tsuda Somkichi—became an integral part of Marxist discourse as well. This binary opposition tended to support the argument that the cultural roots of militarism and the Second World War came from China and not from Japan itself.68 In the search for the causes of National Socialism and Japanese fascism, the recourse to the notion of a national culture played an important role. As has become clear thus far, this explanatory model could be instrumentalized by historians of various orientations in different and contradicting ways. Common to all of these approaches, however, was the assumption that history was the product of a more or less autonomous development of nations, a development already present like a germ within those nation’s own respective cultural codes.

victims and resistance Running through the postwar analyses of National Socialism and fascism was a pattern of argumentation easily reconciled with the cultural paradigm (particularly the interpretation of fascism as a product of a foreign cultural legacy). Both in West Germany and in Japan the notion was almost universal that one ’s own nation should be viewed as the real victim of the recent epoch of totalitarianism. Thus in studies written on contemporary history the gap between the people and the government played a central role, as it seemed to prove that the nation’s integrity was not fundamentally affected by the events of the recent past. Germany and Japan as “Occupied Countries” The distinction between an innocent people and a criminal clique of militarists—a dichotomy reinforced by the war crimes trials in Nuremberg and Tokyo—was a common assumption across different schools and factions of West German and Japanese historical studies. For example, Gerhard Ritter insisted on the distinction “between the German people and its National Socialist leadership, between a better past and a present that has been profoundly contaminated by the revolution of 1933.”69 Friedrich Meinecke saw this very distinction as the basis from which to launch a national renaissance. “As shocking and shameful as it is that a club of criminals managed to submit the German people to its rule for twelve years and to persuade a large portion of this people that it was following a great ‘idea,’ precisely this fact contains an element of relief and consolation. The German people in its essence had not succumbed to a criminal mentality, but rather merely suffered from a serious one-time infection from a poison administered to it.”70

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The argumentational structure employed in Japan followed a similar logic. The official language of the American occupiers spoke of “crimes committed by the militarists against the Japanese people,” whose greatest victim had been the integrity of the Japanese nation. “The crimes of the militarists not only have visited untold suffering and misery upon the Japanese people but have succeeded in destroying the respect that Japan formerly enjoyed in the eyes of the world.”71 This divide between vast numbers of victims and only a few perpetrators rapidly became the consensus among both conservative and critical historians. Particularly in the Marxist camp, the Japanese were soon styled as a suppressed people who were thus not discredited as the subjects of Japan’s future history. The History of the Pacific War, published by the Marxist Rekishigaku kenkyumkai historians’ association, stated categorically: “Among the wars of modern Japan there was not a single one that could gain the genuine support of the Japanese people. The people hated wars of invasion and opposed them. However, it [the people] was suppressed by the rulers, and the path to push this opinion through in political terms was barred to it.”72 The “entire Japanese people,” Inoue Kiyoshi added, was “locked . . . in a giant military prison by the military apparatus.”73 This hypothesis of the suppressed people provided the parameters within which the bulk of studies on National Socialism and fascism were situated. According to this logic, Hitler’s “seizure of power” and the government takeover by the Japanese militarists were not due to the abandonment of democracy on the part of the people, but were rather a usurpation on the part of the militarist elites. Fascism in Germany and Japan, the argument went, never enjoyed general acceptance. “It is worth keeping in mind,” insisted Walther Hofer, “that even in this last, still somewhat free election [in March 1933] the majority of the German people was not willing to grant Hitler unlimited authority to take over the reins of German history.”74 The Marxist historian Hani Gorom, likewise, emphasized that the Japanese people struggled to the last to rescue the parliamentary system.75 According to the prevailing opinion, fascism was forced upon fundamentally democratic peoples. In a study promoted by Hans Rothfels on “popular opposition” in the 1930s, Bernhard Vollmer spoke of the Third Reich as a time “of the ‘internal occupation’ of Germany.”76 This conviction moved historians to devote particular attention to the repressive mechanisms of the authoritarian state. In the Federal Republic this meant that as long as National Socialism was not entirely reduced to the person of Adolf Hitler (“the outstanding, central figure in that epoch of German history”),77 historians focused particularly on the Gleichschaltung (forcible coordination) as well as the executive powers of the Nazi state,

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particularly the SS. In fact, preoccupation with the internal structure of Nazi rule was widespread in the early 1950s. This focus is evident in the articles published in the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, in which the first densely empirical studies on different aspects of the Third Reich appeared. The first volumes primarily contained studies of the inner structure of National Socialism, for example, on the Enabling Act, the “Röhm coup d’etat” of 1934, the SS, and Gleichschaltung.78 This research focus contributed to the rapid formation of a reading of National Socialism that corresponded to the paradigm of Germany as victim. According to this view, the nation had been subjugated by a hermetic power apparatus that left little room for independent action—and that also scarcely needed popular cooperation. In Japan as well, the nation was regularly depicted as a helpless victim of a militaristic oligarchy. This certainly applied to conservative interpretations, which also exculpated the civilian government and merely cast blame for authoritarianism and the war of expansion on a few radical officers. But Marxist historians, as well, tended to cast the state as a monolithic apparatus intent on suppressing the people. However, in contrast to West Germany, source-intensive studies on individual aspects of the system of dominance in Japan remained rare. Japanese historians were primarily interested in the causes of fascism and war (a question scarcely addressed in Germany until the mid-1950s) and less so in a detailed analysis of wartime authoritarian structures.79 Tennoµ System Fascism In Japan it was the Marxists who long held a monopoly on the analysis of recent history. Conservative members of the profession shared a tacit understanding that history should be looked at only from a distance. This meant that only events preceding the Meiji Restoration (1868) were worthy of serious scholarly study. In fact, the University of Tokyo did not even have a department of modern history until well into the 1960s. Although students certainly studied themes of recent Japanese history and even wrote master’s theses (sotsugyoµ ronbun) about them, such a specialization was not propitious for academic careers.80 These reservations about contemporary history (which were certainly present in the Federal Republic as well, although less explicit) ensured that the history of the twentieth century was the domain of Marxist historiography. Here the focus lay not so much on a minute reconstruction of the political system as on general causes, that is, long-term developments and socioeconomic structures. Seen this way, virtually every interpretation of the Meiji Restoration was intended, as it were, as a contribution to understanding the recent past.

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Apart from inquiries into structural causes of fascism, the other concern of Marxist debates was its theoretical classification. Controversial discussions focused on the terminology for the period 1931 to 1945 and its relationship to the Marxist model of development. Historians of the roµnoµha faction generally used the concept of fascism (in the Leninist sense). Since they viewed the Meiji Restoration as a successful bourgeois revolution, they interpreted the expansive polices of the 1930s as an expression of the crisis of monopoly capitalism and described the underlying social formation as fascist. The party-affiliated koµzaha faction found it difficult to follow this interpretation since in its view no bourgeois revolution had taken place in Japan before 1945 and thus no social basis appeared to exist for fascism. To be sure, koµzaha historiography found itself confronted with the problem of reconciling the absolutist elements of the political system, which koµzaha historians placed at the center of their analysis, with the undeniably capitalistic aspects of the Japanese economy. Thus in the 1950s the compromise formula of Tennom System Fascism (tennoµsei fashizumu) gained general acceptance. According to this notion the absolutist state apparatus assumed the historical function of fascism. This construction was intended to explain the uneven modernization of Japanese society—rapid economic development together with feudal remnants in the political system.81 As a result, detailed research on the political, ideological, and institutional developments since the 1930s were subordinate to these often scholastic, sectarian theoretical debates. As a rule, a rigid dichotomy between “the rulers” and the suppressed people was decreed more than it was actually examined. It was frequently represented in the form of a heavily schematic binary opposition: semifeudal monopoly capitalism forced the country into war, while the people resisted this aggressive policy. The entire Japanese people (Nihon jinmin) was stylized as a hotbed of resistance. However, the only illustration given for this general “resistance” was the Communist Party. For historians this narrow empirical basis did not represent a serious problem, since “those who oppose the Communist Party also oppose democracy.”82 The party was represented as the pars pro toto of the entire suppressed nation. The theoretical antagonism of Marxism and fascism transformed the entire Japanese people into a broad movement of resistance.83 The German Resistance The concept of resistance used in this interpretation as a virtual synonym for the Japanese people likewise in Germany assumed an important function in regard to the rehabilitation of the nation. In the view of most historians, the resistance against the Nazi regime was equivalent to “the true and genuine Germany.”84 As such it appeared ideally suited as a way to link up again

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with the traditions of Germany as a new basis for national reassertion. However, the reconstruction of a tradition running from Weimar to July 20, 1944, and finally to the democratic constitution of the Federal Republic first had to overcome Allied objections to anything connected with the German resistance. In fact, Allied policy after 1945 was more concerned with eliminating the German resistance from public memory. Thus there were no public commemorations of July 20 until the 1950s, and even the first studies on the history of the resistance appeared not in Germany but rather in Switzerland and the United States.85 The first extensive survey to be printed in Germany was Hans Rothfels’s 1949 study German Opposition to Hitler, which had been published in Chicago a year earlier. Americans’ suspicion toward what they saw as the aristocratic, undemocratic, and militaristic July 20 resistance movement was also the background against which Rothfels felt he had to justify the opposition to Hitler. Thus he directly countered the accusations circulating within the American public. Rothfels emphasized that the conspirators were not merely a small group, but instead a widely diversified movement. Moreover, they did not only come together when defeat seemed inevitable, but had already taken shape long before the war. In addition, the group could not be reduced to a common social basis. The allegation that the resistance movement was “aristocratic” was therefore inaccurate, particularly since Rothfels was convinced that he could prove the democratic and European character of this resistance movement. The case he presented, however, implied not only a rehabilitation of the resistance movement but also a new evaluation of the German nation. Rothfels averred that his study led “to a result that may well be called a ‘justification.’ ” It led to “a justification of the human spirit ‘in extremis,’ ” but also “to a justification, as I believe, . . . of considerable sections of the German people.”86 While Rothfels formulated his rehabilitation of the German nation from an outside perspective and against the background of the American debates,87 the discussion in the early Federal Republic was situated within an entirely different problematic. Many Germans still accepted the Nazi verdict of the July 20 group, namely that they were traitors and as such not suitable as objects of national identification. As late as 1954 the historian Siegfried August Kaehler of the University of Göttingen admitted: “It is as if a taboo hangs over this event; people do not like to speak about this July 20. But if it does happen, the whole range of contradictory opinions erupts forth with the greatest passion.”88 Hermann Mau and Helmut Krausnick of the Munich Institute for Contemporary History, who presented a first general survey in their volume German History in the Recent Past, 1933–45, thought it necessary to emphasize that resistance against Hitler as supreme com-

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mander was legitimate. “Nothing would be more unjust and unhistorical than . . . to judge—much less condemn—[the resistance] according to the usual and justified standards of normal legal and state conditions.”89 The early proponents of this academic and political rehabilitation were primarily concerned to defend the German resistance against the charge of antinational “treason.” But it was not long before historians began to see it as the very incarnation of national values, as the “uprising of a spiritual and moral elite of the German nation against the criminal regime to whose clutches the German people had consented.”90 This was also the thrust of Gerhard Ritter’s voluminous biography of Carl Goerdeler, which he published in 1954. He proclaimed that the resistance embodied the “ideals of a new and better Germany and of a new and better Europe.” For him, reconstructing this story was a patriotic task.91 To many historians, the history of the resistance appeared as a convenient point of departure for attempts to redefine the German nation. It was not the crimes of the Nazis but rather the opposition that represented the true traditions of the German people. But although the Nazis had excised the resistance movement from the body of the nation, this postwar redefinition was frequently based on its own forms of exclusion. As Ritter pointed out, “Not everyone who for some reason was unsatisfied with the Hitler regime, who criticized it and resisted it in some way, can be included in the ‘German resistance movement’ in the way I mean it here.” In other words, not every form of opposition was part of the true core of the German nation that Ritter sought to reconstitute. He was particularly vehement in arguing that socialist opposition against National Socialism (“it included a lot of primordial roughhousing and the romanticism typical of secret societies”) did not deserve the honorary title of “resistance.” In his evaluation of the Rote Kapelle group, Ritter made it clear that the socialist opposition had perverted this noble idea: This group apparently had nothing to do with “German resistance”; one should have no doubts about this. It stood squarely in the service of a foreign enemy. It not only sought to persuade German soldiers to defect but also betrayed important military secrets to the detriment of German troops. Anyone who, as a German, is capable of doing that, in the midst of a life and death struggle, has detached himself from the cause of his fatherland; he is a traitor—and not only according to the letter of the law.92

Beyond issues of morality, Ritter was concerned with the question of the immalleable “German” core, the substance of the nation. The term “resistance” permitted at once inner distinctions within the population and a social definition

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of the nation. Thus in postwar West Germany the bourgeois, military, and church sources of resistance emerged as central themes both of public debate and academic research. These groups were consequently viewed as predecessors of West German society. By contrast, opposition movements from the working class, particularly the trade union and Communist resistance, which played no role in the resistance studies of the 1950s, were excluded from the “national resistance.”93 This dichotomy was dictated by the increasingly prevalent theory of “totalitarianism,” which, incidentally, led to surprising coalitions. For example, in the late 1950s the Institute for Contemporary History was commissioned to write an expert opinion on the question of whether membership in the “Black Front” justified exclusion from state reparations payments. This group of former Nazis surrounding Otto Strasser had distanced itself from the Hitler regime and was finally persecuted during the Third Reich. Wolfgang Abendroth, who took responsibility for the report, arrived at the conclusion that this group had “clearly aimed itself against National Socialism . . . and against every form of totalitarianism” and that its contribution to the resistance thus deserved recognition.94 For many historians this focus on the resistance represented the continuity of German history. They subtly managed to interpret even the “dark sides” of history as documenting moral superiority. Within this logic, Gerhard Ritter claimed that the history of the German people during the Third Reich was nothing less than a model for other nations: “It is encouraging that there was such a rebellion of conscience within our people—a rebellion of genuine moral outrage against the triumph of power—the power of evil, but without any regard for the so-called ‘national interests.’ Is there a second example of this kind in recent European history?”95

the second world war The History of the War in a Time of Defeat In West Germany, the recent past was almost universally depicted as a traumatic experience, as an “abyss.” To be sure, the term “German catastrophe” was mainly associated with the military defeat in 1945 and the end of national integrity rather than with the Holocaust and the mass killings of entire population groups. For this reason, the academic debate over the military history of the Second World War gained particular relevance. Alongside the examination of the inner power structures of the National Socialist state, whose “totalitarian character” made the nation appear as a victim of repression, and alongside resistance studies with their discovery of the “other Germany,” the treatment of the Second World War was the third thematic focal point in West German studies of the Nazi period in the 1950s.

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From the beginning, this focus was also a reaction to a public debate. One thrust of scholarly study of the Second World War aimed at taking the wind out of the sails of revisionist memoirs. During the 1950s a number of memoirs appeared in which leading former military officers addressed the public with their own versions of the war in order to provide a retroactive justification for their political-strategic decisions. Faced with this apologetic literature, historians attempted to counter the growth of “legends.”96 For example, Siegfried August Kaehler ranted: “If followers of Hitler and Himmler appear . . . and claim that the fantastic and malicious European policies of National Socialism were sensible and justified, one must do everything to reveal such insolent claims for what they are: distortions of the truth.”97 At the same time, the majority of West German historians were interested in preserving the achievements of the Wehrmacht and of the bulk of German soldiers from blanket condemnation—a motive that took particular prominence during the debate over German rearmament in the mid-1950s.98 This conflict of interest was best solved by analytically detaching the activities of the Wehrmacht from National Socialist policies and insisting on a dichotomy between the “clean” army and Hitler’s criminal expansionism. According to this logic, the Reichswehr had been forced into line by the Nazi leadership and almost appeared as the first victim of Hitler’s policies. Most historians did not see the Wehrmacht as a Nazi organization. At least, as Waldemar Besson argued, one could claim “that the Wehrmacht was one factor that . . . after . . . many attempts on the part of the Nazis to penetrate it, still sought to retain its own spiritual face.”99 As one result of this distinction, most scholars limited themselves to the purely military aspects of the war and felt justified in ignoring its National Socialist character. This tendency was corroborated by the fact that the main emphasis of these studies was usually not on researching the war’s causes but rather on analysis of the defeat. West German historians rarely asked questions pertaining to the war’s long-term and possibly structural causes, which dominated the Japanese debates. For unlike the First World War, the Second World War did not “break out” in 1939 but had been planned well in advance. Thus the widespread “Hitler-centrism” (the product of a methodological intentionalism) allowed West German historians both to ignore long-term processes and to remove responsibility for the war from the shoulders of the German nation. Walther Hofer, whose Unleashing of the Second World War of 1954 quickly became a standard text, typically reduced the issue of causes to the “riddle . . . of the unfortunate and terrible personality of Hitler, without which the Second World War is unthinkable. Again and again, certain lines of development, which historians would like to trace back to their origin, get lost in decisions and

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evaluations that arose from the confused brain and sick soul of the German dictator. Again and again, the search for the original source of decisive and fateful decisions cannot help but land in psychological, indeed psychiatric studies.”100 That is why historians who studied the war concentrated on conventional questions of diplomatic relations with other countries and military explanations of the defeat. One important center of war historiography was the University of Göttingen and included Percy Ernst Schramm, Richard Nürnberger (beginning in 1955), and Walther Hubatsch (to 1956). In addition, there was a collection of archives at the research desk of the Institute for International Law in Göttingen, where HansGünther Seraphim processed the records of the Nuremberg Trials. Against this background, numerous dissertations on the early phase of the Second World War were written in Göttingen as early as the 1950s.101 Brave Soldiers versus Irresponsible Leadership Schramm, before being taken prisoner by the Allies, had been responsible for the war diary at the German High Command beginning in 1943. After being banned from teaching from 1946 to 1948, he returned to Göttingen, where, among other topics, he gave lectures on the Second World War.102 Kaehler’s student Walther Hubatsch, who had undertaken projects for Walter Frank’s Reichsinstitut during the Third Reich, likewise produced a series of studies on the history of the war.103 Justifying his interest in military history, the tin-soldier collector and reserve officer Hubatsch referred to “the legitimate question of the meaning of these sacrifices.” He particularly emphasized “those inner values that were lived and then sealed with death over the course of six years—obedience, loyalty, discipline, comradeship, performance of one ’s duty until death, the subordination of one ’s own person, and dedication for the community. Should all these values be buried with our dead?”104 Hubatsch’s studies were thus a classic hymn of praise to the strategic achievements of the military operations and the sacrifice of the soldiers. “The admirable, death-defying mission of German soldiers of all branches of the Wehrmacht, of front-line troops and reserve units” in a “joint endeavor that was as difficult as it was successful,” thus received a historiographical justification that was supposed to last long after the “catastrophe” of National Socialism.105 In his search for an explanation for the defeat, Hubatsch employed an intellectual device quite common at the time: the separation between the political decision makers and the “front-line troops,” which we have already encountered in another context as the dichotomy between National Socialism and the German nation. In Hubatsch’s interpretation, the heroic will of the soldiers could be broken only because negli-

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gent (National Socialist) policies squandered all strategic and military successes. In a cautious replay of the old “stabbed in the back” theory, the German soldier of the Second World also appeared to have remained undefeated on the battlefield. “The German soldier of the Second World War, tough even on senseless missions and in hopeless situations—no one can deny him that—deserved a more responsible leadership!”106 For Hubatsch, who explicitly formulated his interpretation from the point of view of the German army (a perspective that led to chapter headings such as “The Enemy’s Military Situation”), the German army and the German nation appeared as the true victims of the war. Not merely the occupied peoples but “the entire German people in all its tribes and classes bore the greatest sacrifices.”107 This dichotomy between the innocent people and the criminal Nazis, a founding opposition of the entire discourse on the history of the Third Reich, also structured the evaluation of the war—which was, after all, a subject that at first glance seemed to deny such a dichotomy (particularly the characterization of the Wehrmacht as victim).108 Josef Matl, a professor for eastern European history in Graz, referred to this contradiction at a conference of the Institute for Contemporary History: Here we have the unparalleled heroism and eagerness of the soldiers, particularly the German soldiers, who in the majority were not Nazis, and also those who fought alongside them with their own national units. In addition, there was the unparalleled willingness to make sacrifices on the part of the home front. But we can note an equally unparalleled idiocy of political action on the part of the Nazi leadership and its policies in the occupied and dominated countries. I believe that old Bismarck and Metternich would have turned over in their graves if they had seen the incompetence which Hitler and Mussolini showed in constructively reorganizing the European peoples, the incompetence to manage one ’s own omnipotent powers in a manner that was bearable for the other peoples.109

In these last sentences we can still sense some of the hopes that recalled the project to overcome the “Lesser German solution” in light of the defeat of 1945. For example, “the profoundly serious idea of a European league of nations” (von Srbik) that was intended to legitimize Greater German plans for Mitteleuropa appeared to justify the Wehrmacht’s territorial conquests in the name of European unity. The expansive gesture with which the “constructive reorganization of the European peoples” was demanded as late as the 1950s made it possible to appropriate the history of National Socialism within the discourse of a “democratic anticommunism” and its rhetoric of “the Occident” and “Europe.” This strategy is evident, for example, in Paul Kluke’s discussion of the possibility of a German-led Europe

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following the victory over France. Kluke, who earned his doctorate under Hermann Oncken and who had taught at the newly founded Free University of Berlin, served as director of the Institute for Contemporary History in Munich from 1953 to 1958. At a conference sponsored by this institute, entitled “The Third Reich and Europe,” Kluke emphasized that in the summer of 1940 the “effort to create a new order” had emerged as a “pressing concern of the time.” It was no accident that Kluke considered the time for this reorganization to have arrived at precisely the moment of the French defeat, when the “reordering under the leadership of a hegemonic power” could not be prevented “by a great powers rivalry such as that with France.” “So perhaps we . . . should ponder the significance of this moment in order to consider . . . the possibilities of a reorientation of the European family of peoples.”110 The German People as a Victim of the War Thus in the 1950s the Second World War joined the inner power structure of the regime and the resistance movement as central themes of historical research. By contrast, other topics, such as the genocidal policy toward the Jews, which a later generation came to see as the core of the Nazi reign, were largely eclipsed. In the first decades after the war, the Holocaust was not among the central themes of West German historical studies.111 But this is not to say that no steps were taken toward the study of the genocide. These included the voluminous source collections and documentary editions that the Jewish historian Joseph Wulff began to publish in the 1950s. Wulff, who lacked academic credentials, was discredited by members of the profession as an amateur and remained a marginal figure.112 But there were also efforts from the ranks of the historical establishment. The journal of the Institute for Contemporary History in Munich, the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, published in its first set of issues in 1953 the “Gerstein Report,” by an eyewitness to the mass gassings. However, in ensuing years the research of the genocide proceeded only at a slow pace.113 Eugen Kogon’s book on the SS, likewise, had appeared as early as 1947. The focal point of his study lay on the concentration camps, but not on the extermination camps; as a consequence, the treatment of political prisoners, not the Holocaust, took center stage.114 This perspective changed only toward the end of the 1950s but mainly in the 1960s. The Eichmann and Auschwitz trials once again shoved the genocide into public consciousness, which also manifested itself in the historians’ turn toward questions of racial and extermination policy. Wolfgang Scheffler published his overview of the persecution of the Jews in 1960. And the Institute for Contemporary History regularly prepared expert reports in connection with the trials. Particularly Martin Broszat, Hans Buchheim, and Helmut Krausnick devel-

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oped a detailed picture of the extermination policy’s organizational and functional links, a description also made available to the public in two essay collections.115 And yet the close dovetailing with courtroom investigation led to a state of affairs in which, in historical research, too, the perpetrators stood in the center and the victims appeared as mere marginal subjects. The category of the perpetrators was implicitly limited to a small group of “monsters” operating in secret. The German people in its entirety was rarely charged with collective responsibility. On the contrary, the German nation often appeared as a victim in its own right, which had endured the most appalling suffering because of the genocide. Walther Hofer, for example, concluded his chapter “The Persecution and Extermination of the Jews” in 1957 with the following characteristic twist: “Thanks to the immeasurable crimes of the National Socialist regime, Germany’s name was desecrated and condemned like that of no other nation before.”116

“a valuable national legacy”: the second world war in japan Terminological Debates Not only in the Federal Republic but also in Japan, the war was one of the preferred terrains of controversy. In contrast to the case in Germany, the main issues of the debate were not military and diplomatic. Instead, discussion revolved around the war’s historical meaning—and how the interpretation of modern Japanese history was affected by the evaluation of the war. Even differences in academic vocabulary mushroomed into vicious controversies and demonstrated that not only questions of tactics and military strategy were at stake, but the self-understanding of the Japanese nation as well. The explosiveness of these controversies is already evident in the fact that determining an interpretation of the war had been one of the earliest concerns of U.S. occupation policy. In December 1945 the Civil Information and Education Section of the U.S. armed forces published an official version of the war in all of Japan’s national newspapers. By its very title, “Historical Articles on the War in the Pacific,” the report pointed to one of the focal points of future evaluations of the war. The report relegated the open war that Japan had conducted in China since 1937 to a mere appendix to the conflict that had begun with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941. And the conflicts in Manchuria, which had already begun in 1931 and culminated in the formation of the Japanese puppet regime in 1932, were merely classified as a “prologue to the Second World War.”117 This chronology of events, paradoxically, recalled the official periodization by the Japanese government during the war, which likewise had distinguished among

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three conflicts: the conflicts in Manchuria after 1931 were called the “Manchurian Incident” (Manshum jihen), which was distinguished from the “China Incident” (Shina jihen), starting in 1937. When the war against the United States was declared in 1941, the political need arose to create a new term that would situate the war. Different terms were proposed, among them “Pacific War,” which did not receive government approval. Instead, on December 15, 1941, the official terminology was announced, treating the conflict with China since 1937 and that with the United States as a single war: “We are calling the current war against America and England, together with the Chinese incident, the ‘Greater East Asian War.’ The term ‘Greater East Asian War’ refers to the goal of creating a Greater East Asian order and does not mean that the area of the war is limited to Greater East Asia.”118 The term “Greater East Asian War” (daitoµa sensoµ) was thus closely linked to the nationalist propaganda that had styled the Japanese colonization of China and Southeast Asia as a liberation struggle of all Asian nations. As a result, the use of this term was banned by the U.S. military administration in December 1945, and the term “Pacific War” was prescribed in its place. The terminological replacement had a double effect. Ostensibly it was directed against revisionist historiography that sought to justify the war as a gift by the Japanese to suppressed peoples of Asia. At the same time it implied a fundamental shift in the mental map of the war: the geographic center of the war was no longer China, where Japanese armies had fought for nearly fourteen years, but rather the sites of conflict with the United States. The criminal character of the war did not derive from the crimes on the Chinese mainland, this terminology seemed to suggest, but rather from the “impudent” attack on Western civilization. Despite this interpretive imbalance, the imposition of this new term was highly effective and continued to last long after the occupation had ended. When Ienaga Saburom presented his now classic study of the war in 1968, he chose to focus primarily on the Chinese dimension of the war. Nevertheless he felt compelled to use the title The Pacific War for fear that his readers would otherwise misunderstand him.119 The Marxist Interpretation of the Pacific War Japanese scholarship explicitly concerned with the experience of war appeared only following independence— after 1952. One of the reasons for this delay was the scarcity of sources, which was repeatedly lamented.120 In view of the interpretive monopoly that Marxist historians exerted in the field of modern history, it is hardly surprising that the first extensive presentation of the war was written from the perspective of historical materialism. The Marxist historical association Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, under the supervision of

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the historian Eguchi Bokurom, organized a conference series on the history of the war and published the results in 1953–54 in a large five-volume collective work titled The History of the Pacific War. Here, too, the official term from the occupation era was retained, though the study mainly emphasized the war in China. In the foreword by Inoue Kiyoshi, the whole of modern Japanese history was described as a “history of relentless wars” in which the peaceful moments between two military conflicts merely served to prepare for the next war. However, this militaristic past did not correspond to a warlike national character, for “the Japanese people is just as peace loving as other proletarian peoples in the world.” In the same way, the argument of a fateful war that had been forced upon Japan by the country’s geographic and demographic situation was rejected as imperialist and deterministic. Instead, the war could be explained by pointing to its social base and function: “Japan was pulled into one war after another by the Tennom system and the semifeudal land ownership system as well as inextricably linked monopoly capital . . . and to their advantage.”121 In the ensuing thirteen hundred pages, readers were treated to a detailed depiction of the events from the orthodox koµzaha perspective, which was concerned with providing a broad world-historical perspective. The book defined the Second World War as the entire complex of military actions starting with the Manchurian conflict. It began not with the German attack on Poland in 1939 but rather in Asia in 1931. “The ruling class in Japan assumed the role of igniting the flame of the Second World War.”122 This war, the result of the numerous contradictions of the imperialistic world system, was understood as the interaction of three problematics that could be separated from one another analytically. In the interpretation of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai historians, the Second World War was, first of all, a traditional conflict among the imperialist powers, as expressed in the line drawn between the Axis powers and the Allies (beginning in 1939). Second, it was also an antifascist defensive struggle led by the Soviet Union against Germany, Japan, and Italy. This front line (particularly after 1941) existed not only between but also within most of the participating states. Third, the term “Second World War” also encompassed the national liberation struggles of peoples oppressed by Japan, Germany, and Italy in Africa and, above all, in Asia.123 This account of the war represented the standard interpretation among historians far into the 1950s. The main emphasis was on the war in China, interpreted as a conflict between the Chinese people, as represented by the Communists, and the Japanese ruling class. The war against the United States, as a result, faded into the background. From the Marxist perspective it was not much more than a typical conflict between two imperialistic states that illustrated the instability of the

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capitalist system. However, despite their profound awareness of the war in China and Southeast Asia, most historians largely ignored the concrete colonial reality in the territories occupied by Japan. Just as on the domestic scene, the mechanisms of social repression were condemned in general terms but not studied empirically.124 The Japanese crimes on the mainland battlefields, in particular, were scarcely looked at during this period. The Rape of Nanjing had been an issue at the Tokyo Trials, but academic studies of this event began only in the 1970s.125 In fact, biological warfare and forced prostitution were not seriously studied until after 1990.126 Hiroshima and Nagasaki It is striking that in early postwar historiography, the dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki played only a subordinate role. In many accounts of the war the function of the atom bomb as the weapon that ended the military conflict was registered more or less without comment. In the academic writings of the 1950s, Hiroshima only rarely served as a symbol of injustice or as the basis for a revisionist, apologetic interpretation of the Second World War.127 The marginalization of the atomic bomb in scholarship had many causes. For one thing, until the mid-1950s contemporary history remained the unchallenged domain of Marxist historians, who interpreted the world war not as a conflict between Asia and “the West” but rather as an imperial aggression by Japanese militarists on the Asiatic mainland. Within this context, Hiroshima merely marked the end of the war of expansion in China and Southeast Asia, while the conflict with the United States was not of central concern. For very different reasons in the conservative spectrum, due to Japan’s foreign policy partnership with the United States and the development of a Japanese atomic energy program in the 1950s, any critical examination of the dropping of the atomic bombs was the exception.128 Above all, the rigid censorship practiced by the U.S. occupation authorities contributed to an atmosphere in which a critical debate over the events of Hiroshima and Nagasaki failed to materialize for many years. Ironically, the United States represented itself as the guarantor of the freedom of the press and unrestricted public discussion, both of which had been heavily restricted before 1945. The postwar constitution of 1947 expressly banned every form of censorship. Nevertheless, in the first postwar years, freedom of expression was tightly restricted. In a directive from the American supreme commander on September 10, 1945, one could read: “Freedom of discussion . . . is encouraged by the Allied Powers unless such discussion is harmful to the efforts of Japan to emerge from defeat as a new nation entitled to a place among the peace-loving nations of the world.”129 Based on these

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vague regulations, all printed materials were to be submitted to the U.S. censorship authorities, who were primarily concerned with criticism against the policies of the occupying power. In this way a “closed discursive space” emerged, as Etom Jun has characterized it, whose boundaries were largely determined by the changes in American occupation policy. Some commentators have even suggested, although this is somewhat of an exaggeration, that the restrictive information policy of the United States scarcely differed from the censorship of the war years.130 Under the aegis of this general information policy, all reports, literary materials, and analyses concerning the dropping of the atom bomb and its consequences were subject to censorship. Thus, throughout the American occupation, only a small number of essays and books dealing with the problematic of the atom bomb were published. The first photographs of the destruction to be made available to the Japanese public appeared in August 1952 in the magazine Asahi Graph— after the end of the occupation. A famous report by the physician Nagai Takashi from Nagasaki was given a printing permit in 1949 after the Americans instructed Nagai to include a chapter about Japanese war crimes in the Philippines.131 In the first seven years following the end of the war, the issue of the atom bomb was largely avoided in public discussions. It is worth noting that the atomic bomb was not the only taboo of postwar history; discussion of the war crimes of the Japanese “Unit 731” in Manchuria was also avoided. For years, this infamous special unit conducted human experiments on thousands of prisoners of war, testing biological and chemical substances aimed at the development of bacteriological warfare. However, the occupation authorities classified the results of this research as militarily significant and confiscated them. They also sought to persuade the scientists involved to cooperate with the U.S. military. For this reason, these crimes were not included in the Tokyo war crimes trial and, in later years, were still kept secret on the instructions of the occupation authorities.132 One effect of this policy of censorship was the remarkable caution with which Japanese historians dealt with the atom bomb. The official American version of the war stated simply, “It was decided to use this weapon immediately in an effort to shorten the war and save thousands of lives.” Afterwards, some brief information was provided on the bomb’s technical details, but no statements were made on the destruction or the victims.133 Likewise Japanese historians in the immediate postwar years usually contented themselves with brief mentions of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in order to explain the decision to surrender. This pattern gradually changed after the end of the occupation in 1952. An important turning point was the so-called Lucky Dragon Incident in 1954. A

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Japanese tuna boat and its crew were contaminated by the effects of the American atomic bomb tests on the Bikini Atoll. Almost immediately a massive protest movement exploded across Japan, which now not only was supported by the Socialists but also developed into a national movement under the leadership of Yasui Kaoru. The anti-atomic movement fashioned Japan into the world’s only victim of the atom bomb (yuihitsu no hibakukoku), thus corresponding to the paradigm of Japanas-victim that structured the ongoing debate over Japan’s recent past.134 In the course of the intensifying conflict between the two superpower blocks, the dropping of the atom bomb soon began to be interpreted within the context of the East-West conflict. The depiction of the Second World War in the standard work of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai sharply criticized the fact that half a million people had fallen victim to the United States’ anti-Soviet power politics.135 By the mid-1950s this had become the standard perspective among Marxist historians. Hiroshima was now considered not so much an integral part of the Second World War as the first blow against the Soviet Union in the incipient Cold War. Likewise, in History of the Shoµwa Period, in which Tomyama Shigeki and two other koµzaha historians examined contemporary Japanese history from a Marxist perspective, the dropping of the atomic bombs was dealt with in just a few sentences. According to the authors the historical significance of the bombs was limited, as they had not been sufficient to move the Japanese government to capitulate. Not until the Soviet Union’s intervention, these Marxist historians were convinced, did the Japanese militarists realize they were fighting a losing battle.136 The Greater East Asian War (Daitoma sensom) Soon after the end of the occupation in 1952, a revisionist current emerged that crusaded against the coalition of Marxist and Allied historiography. As early as 1953 a twelve-volume collection of memoirs by former soldiers appeared. Titled The Secret History of the Greater East Asian War, it was the first postwar book to reuse the war’s tabooed name. The same applied to the four-volume history of the war by the former colonel Hattori Takushirom (1910–60). During the occupation, Hattori had worked for five years in the historiographical department of the U.S. Army, which had originally commissioned him to write the work. He had access to the records of the Imperial Headquarters and used them to compose a purely military history of the war. Already in the foreword, Hattori made it clear against whom this war had essentially been fought: he quoted Fichte ’s “Addresses to the German Nation,” written at the time of the Napoleonic occupation, in which he saw an historical parallel to the U.S. occupation of Japan. While Marxist historians specifically interpreted the

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war as an act of imperialistic Japanese aggression against the “innocent” Chinese people, Hattori primarily viewed the “Greater East Asian War” as a conflict with the United States. Of the book’s more than sixteen hundred pages, at least fourteen hundred were devoted to the events following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. By contrast, Hattori dealt with the colonization of China only on the margins and did not even mention the Rape of Nanjing of 1937. This selection of what should even be considered a historical “fact” was destined to point the interpretation of national history in a different direction—which is exactly what Hattori had intended. His interpretation emphasized the “profound fatefulness” that characterized Japan’s path to war.137 The common theme of the revisionist publications in the 1950s was a turn away from what was viewed as the degrading Marxist historiography in favor of an alternative understanding of the nation. Takeyama Michio’s Intellectual History of the Shoµwa Period (i.e., the years following 1926, the time of Tennom Hirohito’s accession to power) was a classic example of this point of view. Typical of this approach was the emphasis on the fatefulness of Japan’s modern development, from the modernizing reforms forced upon it by the West to the war it ended up fighting against that very same West. The entire Japanese nation—including its civilian and military leaders—was thus presented as a victim of world history that should be rehabilitated in toto.138 Apologetic Source Positivism This was also the interpretational thrust of the vast source edition Path to the Pacific War, with which large archival holdings were first made available to the public in 1962–63. The seven-volume compilation was published by Tsunoda Jun, an expert on diplomatic history who had served as department head at the Parliamentary Library in Tokyo and later as a professor at Kokushikan University. Under his supervision fifteen historians edited documents from the files of the Foreign Ministry and other ministries as well as the Japanese armed forces. The result was a detailed diplomatic and military history of the period 1930 to 1941 the reconstructed Japan’s path to the war with the United States. To be sure, the scholarly commentaries that accompanied the edited sources did not deny a certain continuity in Japan’s territorial expansion after 1868. But unlike the Marxist or American literature, Path to the Pacific War did not depict the Second World War as the result of a unified, intentional policy on the part of Japan’s leadership. Instead, Japan was represented as having “skidded into” this war. The authors did not entirely deny Japan’s share in the emergence of the military conflicts: for example, they uncovered the involvement of central Tokyo

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military commands in the preparation for the Manchuria conflict and the navy’s central role as a warmongering force. But in general Japan’s officers and politicians appeared as loyal and honest servants of their nation.139 Critical Marxists historians excoriated this publication. For them, the account was apologetic and followed the logic of the militaristic view of history prevalent during the war years and even visible in rhetorical strategies such as the avoidance of the term “imperialism” in the description of Japanese policy in the 1930s. But the main critique was that the authors avoided the issue of responsibility for the war of aggression and thus provided a distorted (nejimage), bloodless interpretation of the events that was limited to positivistic diplomatic and military history.140 And yet the explosiveness of this controversy did not arise simply from differences of interpretation, as manifest in the conflicting narratives of the war in the works of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai and the Tsunoda group. Not only the subject of history—the Japanese nation, which was identified and defined differently than in the Marxist literature—was at stake here but also the legitimate subject of history writing. On the level of the politics of memory, the wrath of the Marxist historians was caused by the fact that the conservative historians around Tsunoda Jun were granted access to extensive archival collections, whereas their Marxist counterparts were accorded no such privilege. While Marxist historians remained an oppositional force after 1945 and frequently took an aggressive stance toward the government, the Tsunoda group’s depiction of the war enjoyed generous official support. The cooperation of various ministries as well as the agencies of the Japanese army and navy made it possible for Tsunoda to base his studies on an extensive use of primary materials and consequently claim a monopoly on authenticity and academic rigor. The Marxists, in turn, were accused of poor use of sources, lack of empirical analysis, and concentration on the supposed causes of the war, which ignored “real” events. Only knowledge of the government files, the Tsunoda group held, made historical objectivity possible. Incidentally, this was also the perspective that held sway among American historians. While the research produced by members of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai was almost entirely ignored (“their writings seem confused and dogmatic”),141 there was plenty of praise for the “impressive number of objective diplomatic and military historians” who had participated in Tsunoda’s project. “The result was a collection of remarkably objective essays.”142 As a result, scarcely a single work of Marxist hue—which, after all, virtually monopolized academic debate at the time—was translated into English. Among the few works of Japanese historians that did get translated, incidentally, was a multivolume selection of the Tsunoda group’s compilation.

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In the Federal Republic, the return of archival materials by the Allies was linked to the stipulation that they be made available to scholarship at all times and on an equitable basis.143 This was not the case in Japan. For one thing, the Americans were less systematic in impounding archives than they were in Germany. Moreover, the documents of the Tokyo war crimes trials were only partially published (a marked difference to the German situation). Holdings still in American hands were not filmed and catalogued as in the Federal Republic.144 In the absence of official document publications or an official history of the war, governmental authorities thus had a measure of discretion regarding which interpretation of the recent past they should sanction. In fact, the majority of historians in the Tsunoda group were affiliated with the government in one way or another. In addition, publication of their work was financed with funds from the foreign, finance, and defense ministries. The result was a master narrative of Japan’s modern history different from that favored by the Marxist historians: the “fateful war” was not presented from the point of view of China or the Soviet Union, but explicitly as “history . . . with Japan as its subject [Nihon o shutai to suru].”145 The “Logical Consequence” of Modernity Thus, after the late 1950s, academic (largely Marxist) accounts, which pilloried the war as an imperialistic war of aggression, were now faced with an increasingly broad range of revisionist literature. Both sides pointed their arguments at one another and accused their respective rivals of a lack of academic rigor. But common to both sides was their joint emphasis on the war’s significance for the identity of the nation. Across the political and methodological differences, all participants in the debate characterized the war as a “national legacy.” For Marxist historians, the Japanese people—just like the suppressed peoples of Asia—were the real victims of a war perpetrated by the militaristic Japanese ruling class. The revisionist historians did not share this separation of the nation into the people and its rulers. Instead, they saw the entire nation as a unity that was forced into war against its will. While the Marxist historians were particularly concerned with searching for the war’s socioeconomic causes, the revisionist scholars understood Japan’s entry into the war as the product of historical “fate”—a term that played a decisive role in all revisionist accounts (and that bore striking resemblances to the concept of historical necessity in the Marxist discourse). In this way, Japan appeared as both the object and the victim of world history. It was a nation under attack that could assume only limited responsibility for the lost war. According to this interpretation it was history (or fate) that had determined,

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long in advance, the decision to wage war with the United States. The philosopher Ueyama Shumpei, whose reinterpretation of the Meiji Restoration is examined above, expressed this notion clearly in an essay published in 1961. As others had before him, Ueyama emphasized the “unique national experience” of the war, whose historical roots he chose to locate in the period of Japan’s “opening” in the nineteenth century. He characterized the opening of the country and the ensuing modernization as a response to the threat from outside. The turn against “the West” was, for him, already implicit in the logic of the Meiji Restoration. “The decision to open the country implied with virtual logical necessity a course of development that could not help but lead from the dissolution of feudalism to the Industrial Revolution, and then to the invasion of underdeveloped countries all the way to the collision with the advanced powers.” Thus for Ueyama, every criticism of the “Greater East Asian War” was also a criticism of the foundation of modern Japan, namely, the Meiji Restoration. If Japan back then did not want to lose its sovereignty, “then there was no other path than that of war.”146 Revisionism from Outside the Academy In the interpretations of Hattori Takushirom, Takeyama Michio, Ueyama Shumpei, and also Hayashi Fusao, the Second World War came across as a historical necessity, as an essential component of the nation’s self-preservation.147 In the process, the war was largely reduced to the conflict between Japan and the United States and was stylized as an anticolonial struggle between the “East” and the “West.”148 In many cases the term “Greater East Asian War” (daitoµa sensoµ) was strategically remobilized. The American occupiers had banned its use, and now its proponents sought to pick up on its promise of the Asian peoples’ liberation. This return to the propaganda of the war years signalized the reemergence of the ultranationalist voices (koµkoku shikan) that had been pushed out of the universities within the context of the postwar political “purges.” No such emphatic justification of the war could be found in West Germany. The fundamental rejection of National Socialism was generally accepted in the early Federal Republic. It is interesting to note that Japanese revisionism originated not so much with the historians as outside the discipline. The Tsunoda group’s source edition was initiated and supported by government historians and government money; Hattori Takushirom was a military man. Some of the revisionist accounts were authored by scholars of nonhistory faculties. Takeyama Michio taught in the German department of the University of Tokyo. Ueyama was a philosopher at the Institute for Human Sciences (Jinbun kagaku kenkyumjo) at the University of

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Kyoto. Finally, Hayashi Fusao, who presented his revisionist depiction of the war in 1964, was a writer. Representatives of academic history certainly reacted to these challenges, but the stimuli for them did not come from the historians themselves. Yet another forum for the revisionist challenge from outside the academy was the debate over textbooks for history instruction, which had been waged vehemently since the mid-1950s. In these debates, left-wing, usually Marxist historians were struggling against an extremely conservative bureaucracy within the Ministry of Education. The connection between academic historical studies and history education in schools was very close in Japan. In view of the indoctrination of the nationalist view of history before 1945, the largely Marxist historical profession laid great emphasis on the link of teaching and scholarship. Close cooperation arose between the historians’ associations and the various history teachers’ associations, including joint conferences.149 In addition, numerous Marxist historians authored survey texts on Japanese history that were also often conceived as school textbooks. In 1951 the overview of the Shigakkai historians’ association listed more than twenty general standard texts on Japanese history, which were complemented by a large number of survey texts on constitutional, social, economic, and cultural history. As a comparison, in the Federal Republic the first handbook on German history to appear in the postwar period was presented by the historian Peter Rassow only in 1953.150 This does not mean that there were no attempts in the Federal Republic at cooperation between historians and history teachers. The most prominent example was the journal Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, founded by Karl Dietrich Erdmann at the University of Cologne with Felix Messerschmid (director of the Württemberg Academy for Education and Instruction in Calw). It served as a joint forum for historians at schools and universities.151 Several historians, such as Gerhard Ritter and Franz Schnabel, took part in writing and publishing history texts for the schools. Others, such as Karl Dietrich Erdmann, Hans Rothfels, and Leo Just, participated actively in the planning of textbooks and lesson plans.152 But in contrast to the Federal Republic, where academic accounts and depictions in schoolbooks closely corresponded, textbooks in Japan developed into a battleground in the debate over the correct interpretation of the past. During the occupation, schoolbook licensing practices, based on the school statute of 1948, were still fairly liberal. That changed in 1953 when, following the withdrawal of occupation forces, the conservative “rollback” in school policy subordinated all schoolbooks to the central authority of the Education Ministry (Monbushom). This

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new competence, which was expanded in 1958 through the linkage of textbooks to central instructional guidelines, gave the ministry the opportunity to censor unwelcome interpretations—and, on the level of school instruction, to establish an official state interpretation of the nation’s history.153 The particular attention that Marxist historians lavished on the problem of history education after the war created a situation in which at this junction—state recognition of textbooks written by scholars—a conflict was inevitable.154 The Ienaga Trials This conflict became particularly apparent in the debate over the textbooks of the historian Ienaga Saburom. A recognized expert in Japanese religious and intellectual history, in the first years after the war Ienaga was viewed by the Marxists as something of a reactionary—not least because of his skepticism regarding the democracy prescribed by the United States. But starting in the early 1950s, Ienaga increasingly turned to questions of social history and became politically active on the political left. As a result his textbook for upper-level history instruction, which he submitted for approval in 1952, strongly resembled the picture painted in Marxist handbooks. But when, following the introduction of the central licensing procedure, Ienaga’s work was rejected in 1956, an increasingly public debate ensued over the interpretation of Japanese history, the freedom of scholarship, and the power of the state over education. Ienaga’s book was accused of one-sidedness, and he was asked to make revisions, which he largely undertook. Following a new ban in 1963, Ienaga re-created the original and sued the Japanese state in 1966. He based his case on the right to freedom of expression and on the parental right to educate one ’s children, both laid out in the Japanese constitution. The trial and its various ancillary procedures lasted into the 1990s.155 The censorship was aimed at photographic illustrations of Japanese war crimes as well as texts that allegedly highlighted Japan’s responsibility for the Second World War more than the Monbushom deemed appropriate. In addition, ministry officials insisted that what they judged to be the war’s positive consequences should be mentioned as well. But above all (and this effort was visible throughout the evaluation of Ienaga’s work by the Educational Ministry’s textbook division), the Japanese nation should be presented as a homogenous unit undivided by inner conflicts. Thus, for example, the ministry rejected illustrations of political demonstrations that challenged the prescribed unity of people and government. Ienaga, by contrast, did not describe the totality of the Japanese people as the core of the nation but rather— according to Marxist orthodoxy—merely focused on the “driving forces” of a particular epoch: the peasants and, in the modern era, the workers.156

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History from the Perspective of the Japanese Education Ministry It was hardly a coincidence that the schoolbook inspection office (kyoµkasho choµsabu) in the Education Ministry rose to become the most important rival of Marxist historiography. A whole range of historians who, before 1945, had belonged to the nationalist movement surrounding Hiraizumi Kiyoshi had found jobs there. Hiraizumi was considered one of the most prominent representatives of a nationalist interpretation of history (koµkoku shikan) that had been driven from the universities in the context of the “purges.” Some of his students now found employment in the Education Ministry, where they created a niche for opposition to the Marxist hegemony. They advocated pride in the Japanese nation, as was evident, for example, when the education minister, Okano Seigom, proclaimed to the Japanese parliament in regard to the correct evaluation of the war: “The fact that Japan took on so many enemies and fought them over four years . . . proves our superiority.”157 This conviction also characterized the perspectives of the historians in charge of licensing schoolbooks, of whom the Hiraizumi student Murao Jirom was the best known.158 Murao’s view of history can be gleaned from his survey history The Life of the People, published in the mid-1960s. In place of the social antagonisms of class struggle, Murao pleaded for the notion of a homogeneous nation: “The feeling of community and the love within the nation, which shares language and history, should bring people together beyond their individual differences.” Historiography, he said, was also a contribution to the constitution of this homogeneous national community.159 This statement implied that the recent past should not be depicted in a negative way, as done by the Marxists. Thus Murao praised the Meiji Restoration and the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5 as “modern Japan’s service to Asia.” “The Asian peoples,” he said, also “thanked Japan” for its role in the “Greater East Asian (Pacific) War.”160 These words reflected an alternative understanding of Japanese history diametrically opposed to the Marxist view. Through the mechanism of centralized schoolbook licensing, this fundamental opposition led to an ironic situation in which mainly Marxist historians wrote the textbooks, which were then promptly censored and evaluated by the nationalist experts in the Ministry of Education. After their approval, the books then served as instructional material for the largely critical, leftist establishment for history teaching, in a society that in turn was becoming increasingly conservative in the course of the 1950s. But these complex interactions not only informed the discussion over the textbooks but also formed part of a broad debate on the interpretation of the past in public memory. Particularly in the second half of the 1960s—when the official centennial celebrations of the Meiji

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Restoration rolled around, and when, in 1967, the mythical, twenty-six-hundredyear anniversary of the founding of the empire (kigensetsu) was reintroduced as a national holiday—the conflict between Marxist scholars and the conservative establishment structured the controversies surrounding the symbolic representation of Japanese history.161 The interpretive gap that opened up between broad sections of the Marxist historical profession and the conservative government and bureaucracy thus lay much deeper than the contradictions that drove the West German debates. Not least, this had to do with the way Marxist thought was banned to the territory of the GDR, and thus a conflict that was worked out within Japanese society was, so to speak, sourced out to a different state within the framework of the East-West rivalry. Another factor playing a role in this opposition of scholarship and politics was the fact that the critical distance many Japanese intellectuals maintained toward the official treatment of the recent past was much greater than that in West Germany. At the same time, the restorative tendencies within the bureaucratic apparatus were probably greater in Japan than in the Federal Republic.162 One may note a paradox in the fact that it was particularly those Japanese historians who felt so strongly about the political and social relevance of their activities who came into greatest conflict with portions of society. For example, Uehara Senroku, a historian at Hitotsubashi University, proclaimed that if historians did not intervene themselves in political issues, “they also cannot engage in scholarly research, and even if they did so, it would remain without meaning.”163 In the Federal Republic, such explicit statements concerning the political role of historiography were rare. Instead, most historians cultivated the image of the nonpartisan scholar who disdained to condescend to the depths of party political sniping. On the contrary, the public attention that academic research received was sometimes even treated as a threat to the pursuit of objective knowledge. Hans Herzfeld was one among those delighted to sing the praises of the ivory tower: “For [the historian], this public sphere means a burden and even endangerment, or at least a complicating impediment to his actual productive work.”164

CONCLUSION After 1945, the task of interpreting National Socialism and fascism confronted West German and Japanese historians with special difficulties. Unlike the interpretation of earlier periods, the discussion of the recent past in both West Germany and Japan was possible only from a critical, even hostile position. Bracketing the question of

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the “true” intentions of individual historians, it is obvious that the distancing from National Socialism and fascism after 1945 was to some extent a precondition for participation in academic discourse. The radical distancing from the recent past—from a period, that is, when the majority of historians were not known to have uttered a critical word—must be viewed as an extraordinary phenomenon with little precedent. Reference merely to the criminal character of the regimes in Germany and Japan before 1945 explains little; the situations in the two countries were simply too different. The almost ubiquitous discrediting of the recent past was not the logical reaction to learning about criminal events of the pre-1945 period, but rather can be understood only as a fundamental interpretive shift effected within the framework of the post-1945 discourse and its transnational context. Despite this fundamental distancing from the history of the immediate past, both German and Japanese historians underscored the fascist era as a crucial part of the national tradition. Even such Marxist historians as Tomyama Shigeki pointed out the significance the war could have as a “valuable national legacy” for the formation of a “new Japan.”165 In Germany, Peter Rassow was among those who asserted the value of the Nazi experience as an ingredient of national identity: “National consciousness also feeds on the great periods of historical suffering and elation. . . . The sorrows that the Hitler tyranny, and the horrific fall into the depths in 1939–45, has brought to bear upon us—those are all nation-forming forces . . . they are ours and they will always be ours.”166 Focusing on the recent past as an element of national traditions galvanized the emergence of narratives in which the nation was viewed as the real victim of war and tyranny. As a consequence of the distinction between “people” and “rulers,” fascism’s criminal traits appeared as the work of a small group of militarists who deceived, extorted, and suppressed the broad mass of the people. This dichotomy shaped the analysis of virtually all spheres of society. It is important to recognize that the efforts to rehabilitate the national past were in no way restricted to the conservative spectrum of historians. In Japan, the trope of “the people as victim” was a regular component of Marxist historiography. In Germany, as well, the focus on the nation transcended all political fronts. Even the left-liberal historian Veit Valentin, who was forced to emigrate during the Third Reich and who could scarcely be suspected of cultivating revisionist intentions, proclaimed his “faith in immortal Germany” in his essay “The Meaning of the Second World War” in 1947. In a section on the “character of the German people,” which concluded his History of the Germans, he wrote, “No reasonable person will attempt to persuade the Germans to cease being German.” From this concentration on the nation and its cultural

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essence, Valentin derived his hope for a better future: “Through memory of its culture, its old courage and greatness, the German people will achieve a rebirth. We believe, in spite of everything, now and for always, in the future of the German people.”167 Across political and methodological differences, and notwithstanding all pleas for international perspectives, most historians in the postwar period were ultimately concerned with a “quest for the lost nation.”

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chapter four

. The Invention of Contemporary History

The preoccupation with the recent past was not a question of hermeneutics, of discursive regularities and strategies of interpretation, alone. At the same time, the confrontation with the “dark chapters” of history was interwoven with institutional structures and was determined by the parameters of a specific methodology for contemporary history research. This “method,” as I argue in this chapter, was by no means a neutral instrument designed to ensure a close approximation of reality. Instead, the methodology and axiomatic assumptions of contemporary historians were deeply and in complex ways integrated into the sociopolitical context of their development and formulation. The establishment of contemporary history (Zeitgeschichte) is thus examined as a specific response to the political challenge posed by the need to come to terms with the fascist past in the postwar years.

DEFINING CONTEMPORARY HISTORY contemporary history as a period The treatment of post-1900 history, which historians had to some extent experienced themselves, was exceptional in German historiography in the middle of the 1950s.1 Within the accepted framework of the discipline, treatment of the recent past, which was still too close for comfort, regularly encountered fundamental reservations. As late as 1955 Karl Dietrich Erdmann believed that researchable history

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ended shortly after the turn of the century. He spoke of a “half century as the period of time that is necessary to bring an event to historical maturity. Once this distance is achieved, then our judgment can begin to move independently of personal and political considerations.”2 As a consequence, attempts to examine the immediate past encountered even greater reservations. Since modern history in general was viewed as an extremely precarious object of knowledge, confrontation with the epoch just passed—for example, the history of the Third Reich—met with resistance at every turn. A widespread aversion to deal with the “dark years” of the nation’s history thus corresponded with a discourse on the epistemological difficulties of such an endeavor. Even Friedrich Meinecke, who as early as 1946 had published his influential book on the “German catastrophe,” warned of the dangers of an all too hasty analysis of the dictatorship that Germans had happily just overcome.3 Fritz Wagner, modern historian at the University of Marburg, emphasized the structural dilemma: “As long as we ourselves stand in the flow of the issues that we are examining, our lack of distance is not a source of strength but rather a weakness that cannot be made good by any degree of meticulous research.”4 Besides the general methodological issue of how to write about the immediate past, the peculiar character of Germany’s recent history posed an additional double problematic. For one thing, many historians believed that the totalitarian traits of the late regime revealed the dangers of modern mass societies. History in the modern age no longer appeared to be reducible to the intentional actions of individuals. Instead, it appeared more and more embedded in the complex processes of a de-individualized society. Therefore, a different look at historical sources seemed necessary, as Hans Rothfels emphasized: “Here, more clearly than in any other historical epoch, ‘Quod non est in actis non est in mundo’ is an erroneous conclusion.”5 The historical past seemed only partly explainable by individual decisions and strategies as recorded in documents. Thus the twentieth century confronted historians with the question of how to reconstruct individual actions, responsibility, and guilt within the context of the anonymous structures of mass society. On the other hand, the search for a history of the present was motivated by political considerations. In fact, within academic and political discussion, research into National Socialism was being perceived as an important basis for a new democratic society. In a February 1947 application requesting special funding for research on the Nazi era, the Länder Council stated: “For political and cultural reasons the study of the Hitler period . . . is a pressing task of the new democracy. The national-political reeducation of the people must be founded upon a deep

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knowledge of the history of our times. The depiction of the Hitler era is of special importance in this endeavor.”6 The call for the privileged treatment of the history of National Socialism, however, may very well have also formed part of an immunization strategy. The demand for a special institute, that is, the administrative segregation of the history of the Third Reich—which would then be researched with specially devised methods—could also be understood as a detachment of National Socialism itself from the continuum of German history. What is more, the call for special research institutes implied that National Socialism could not be understood on the basis of knowledge of German history and its traditions but only as a phenomenon sui generis. Postwar historians were thus faced with a threefold problem: the methodological resistance to a “history without distance” (Michael Freund), the epistemological challenge of modern mass society, and the politically motivated need for a privileged and, at the same time, institutionally quarantined study of National Socialism. The instrument with which this Gordian knot was to be severed was what can be called the invention of contemporary history. It was an invention, indeed, as most historians perceived the institutionalization of contemporary history as an outright departure from standard practice, as something decidedly new. Martin Broszat, for example, who would subsequently rise to become one of the Federal Republic’s most prominent contemporary historians, emphasized the novelty of the new subdiscipline: “The term contemporary history and the praxis of contemporary historical research and teaching have been established in Germany only after 1945.”7 The Definition of Contemporary History as a Period This verdict sounds surprising at first. After all, neither the term “contemporary history” nor the treatment of the immediate past was really new. On the contrary, a significant portion of the historiographical tradition fits into this genre. The great works of ancient historiography were works of contemporary history: this applied to Herodotus’s Persian War, to Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, and to Polybius and Tacitus. Caesar’s Gallic War was a historia sui temporis. In the Greek and Latin tradition, the term historia connoted experienced history. Thus we can say that historiography in general already contained a strong contemporary element. In both medieval and modern historiography, contemporary history had always played an important role. For example, in England, contemporary history looked back on a long tradition, and in France, l’histoire contemporaine dealt with history since the French Revolution. In Germany, too, there were numerous examples of a preoccupation with the “epoch of

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contemporaries” (Hans Rothfels). Particularly following significant breaks in political history, historians felt called upon to write the history of the immediate past. In 1849 Bruno Bauer wrote his history Fall of the Frankfurt Parliament, and Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels wrote their Revolution and Counterrevolution in Germany. In their lectures, academic historians such as Niebuhr, Droysen, Sybel, Treitschke, and Gervinus dealt at length with contemporary historical events, not least the founding of the empire in 1871. Moreover, Ranke had distinguished “recent” history from “the most recent history” (1789–1815), adding the epoch of the “history of our time” (after 1815), to which he dedicated more than thirty lectures over his long career.8 Thus treatment of the directly elapsed past was in no way without tradition in Germany. And even the term “contemporary history” was hardly a neologism, but was already being used in Germany as early as the seventeenth century. Among modern historians, Justus Hashagen had explored the possibilities and limitations of a “Zeitgeschichte” in numerous essays during the First World War.9 Regardless of this long genealogy, those German historians who dealt with the topic in the early 1950s unanimously placed the novelty of the project in the center of their discussion. Indeed, the programmatic essays that established the “new” discipline contained virtually no reference to the long tradition of contemporary historical writing.10 These texts document the conviction that historians after 1945 were confronted with a challenge fundamentally different from any before. In the debate after 1945, contemporary history no longer figured as a mere methodological challenge, but increasingly referred to a special period of history. It was Hans Rothfels who most compellingly formulated this idea of contemporary history by defining it as a specific area of study. In his frequently cited comments in the first issue of the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte in 1953, he outlined the historical period that alone qualified as the object of contemporary historical study: The term contemporary history . . . is therefore based on the view that a new epoch in world history first began to reveal itself in the years 1917–18. . . . Only with the peculiarly synchronized double event, the entry of the United States into the war and the outbreak of the Russian Revolution, did the new constellation become genuinely universal. At the same time, the conflict of peoples and states was permeated and shot through by societal conflicts of the most profound kind. On a basic level, as early as 1918 the Washington-Moscow antithesis had become very real, . . . until in 1945 the polar division begins to emerge once more. The shared and new quality in all of this is the fact that ideological and social movements show effects crossing national boundaries to a degree foreign to the age of the nation-state.11

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In this way Rothfels correlated the subject of contemporary history not only with the epoch of contemporaries but also with a profound caesura of “real” history. At the same time, Rothfels’s definition makes it obvious that, from the very start, contemporary history was situated in the context of the new polarized world conflict, namely, the Cold War. Rothfels’s argument for an epochal threshold of 1917 was soon established as the standard periodization of contemporary history. Virtually all attempts to develop a theoretical foundation for the new discipline referred back to this chronology.12 Contemporary history was now considered a special way of dealing with a special epoch of world history: as a specific method, but also as a distinct period of history. In this way the concept emancipated itself not only from the legacy of Justus Hashagen but also from French and English traditions. In this respect it was considered to be something new. As Paul Kluke, director of the Institute for Contemporary History in Munich from 1953 to 1959, emphasized, “Events have occurred that can provide a binding position for all European nations. . . . From now on an isolated national existence is no longer possible anywhere; the global age has begun and with it a truly new world epoch from which we can date our own contemporary history.”13 Initially, in terms of disciplinary boundaries, this epoch ended in 1945. While the historians at the German Institute for Contemporary History, founded in East Berlin in 1946, increasingly used the term “contemporary history” in line with the Marxist periodization system to subsume the events of postwar history, in West Germany the epoch of contemporary history ended with Germany’s capitulation at the end of the Second World War. Historians in the Federal Republic, Hans Buchheim stressed, had the task of researching National Socialism, and therefore contemporary history “cannot go beyond the year 1945, 1948 at the latest.”14 Martin Broszat agreed: “For the discipline of contemporary history in the narrow sense . . . the year 1945 represents a provisional natural boundary.”15 It is worth noting that the “basic desirability” of incorporating the postwar period in the working program of the Institute for Contemporary History was first expressed at a meeting of the scientific advisory board in September 1959.16 And when Thilo Vogelsang published his “introduction to the problem” of a history of the postwar period in 1973, he constructed an epoch of “more recent contemporary history” (“neuere” Zeitgeschichte) for the period after 1945.17 In other words, “contemporary history,” as it was conceived following the Second World War, did not merely denote the confrontation with one ’s respective recent past but also implied the preoccupation with a very particular period of (primarily German) history. It is in this sense that we can speak of the “invention of contemporary history.”

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the institutionalization of contemporary history The Institute for Contemporary History The Institute for Contemporary History was founded in Munich in 1950 as a joint organization of the federal government and the states. From the beginning, the founding of the institute was linked to a political mission. Paul Kluke, general secretary of the institute from 1953, was convinced of his office ’s social relevance: “In this activity, the historian, . . . the backwards-facing prophet, will become the physician and teacher of his people.” Academic proof of the errors of the past could guide the people back onto the correct path. Contemporary historical research “will therefore influence the entire range of political behavior. Thus the historian bears a great responsibility.”18 In September 1950, Interior Minister Gustav Heinemann signed the articles of confederation of the German Institute for the History of the National Socialist Period, which was then renamed the Institute for Contemporary History in May 1952. This founding had been preceded by a turbulent planning phase starting in 1947 in which different interest groups struggled over the research facility’s orientation.19 State government representatives particularly had underscored the future institute ’s political character. The historians involved had instead argued the necessity of academic autonomy. One of these was Gerhard Ritter, who took part in the deliberations on behalf of the Historical Commission in Munich. In 1949, the first attempt at founding the institute, with CSU representative Gerhard Kroll as the intended director, failed because of bitter resistance by Ritter and the German Historians’ Association. These conflicts revolved not only around administrative questions and the lofty ideal of the freedom of academic research but also around the orientation of the institute as a whole. Kroll represented a Catholic worldview that conceived National Socialism as the result of an abortive historical development beginning with Frederick II and Bismarck. His view and Gerhard Ritter’s hagiography of Prussian Germany were worlds apart. Thanks to support from the Interior Ministry, the second attempt to found the institute was successful. The young private docent Hermann Mau became the organization’s first general secretary, on Franz Schnabel’s recommendation. Mau had been trained in medieval history under the supervision of Hermann Heimpel in Strasbourg, but after the war he specialized in recent history. Neither Gerhard Ritter nor Gerhard Kroll were suitable for the office at the time, because of their public opposition. It was under Hermann Mau that the institute began its real activity in 1951. Its first membership roll included Hans Buch-

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heim, Karl Buchheim, Helmut Krausnick, Hermann Foertsch, Helmut Heiber, and Martin Broszat.20 Establishment of a German Institute for the History of the National Socialist Era was an important step toward academic research on the Third Reich. The Munich institute demonstrated the political will and readiness of professional historians to confront the dark chapters of the German past. Supported by public funds, it oversaw the preparation of the first systematic studies of the history of National Socialism. The institute took the stage with a series of source editions partially published in its own journal. These activities aroused enormous international interest. An evaluation published in the Journal of Central European Affairs in 1960 stated: “Scholars throughout the world interested in National Socialism recognize the excellence of the publications of this Munich institute. . . . Their publications, and the backing of the Bund and Länder governments for their work, deserve to rank beside the material reparations still being paid to the victims of Nazi barbarism. . . . The Institut für Zeitgeschichte is a symbol of postwar German Zivilcourage.”21 But at the same time, the establishment of a separate research institute also symbolized the detachment of National Socialism from the historical context of German history. While university historians preoccupied themselves with the traditions of German history, the Third Reich, as it were, stood under quarantine. Many historians saw Nazism as a mere error, an anomaly of German history. Despite all their differences, Gerhard Ritter and Franz Schnabel, both of whom had cooperated in the institute ’s planning, agreed on this point. The vast majority of West German historians did not view Nazism as an organic component of their national history, and this conviction was reflected in the organizational structure of the research conducted on it.22 The special role allotted to the Third Reich in history was reproduced in the establishment of its own institute and its own professional journal. One could not “deny,” Hans Rothfels proclaimed in his introduction to the institute ’s journal in 1953, “that ‘contemporary history as a project’ must contain a considerable degree of specialization and that for this reason a special journal is justified.” The pages of the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, which was edited by Rothfels, represented a special forum entrusted with researching National Socialism. In the first issue, Rothfels continually underlined the special character of contemporary history, which “concerns very specific applications and very specific difficulties, an adaptation and at the same time a continuation of timehonored principles under conditions unknown to any previous epoch.”23 The recurrent reference to the world historical caesura of 1917, which made it possible to speak of a separate historical period approachable only with special

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methods, seemed to justify the special treatment of National Socialism. At the Institute for Contemporary History the Third Reich was not placed in the context of German history but tended to be treated as unique. This exclusion implied that questions concerning long-term, structural causes were largely left unasked. After all, the history of the nineteenth century was the domain of the universities. The invention of “contemporary history” in the sense of research on a specific period legitimized a chronological self-restriction that was then virtually codified by the Munich institute. As a result, National Socialism typically did not appear as the result of long-term internal developments, but rather as the product of an allegedly “Western” modern age that to many appeared as an outside influence. The “fundamental understanding that has now been gained,” proclaimed Martin Broszat in 1957, was thus already prefigured by the organizational structure of contemporary historical research: “National Socialism cannot be understood solely as a result of German history.”24 The interpretation of National Socialism as the great “exception,” so typical for postwar West Germany, corresponded to its relegation to a special institute. Contemporary History at the Universities It should not be overlooked, however, that the institutional detachment of contemporary history did not represent an impregnable cordon sanitaire. The founding of the Munich institute did not mean that the universities entirely abstained from dealing with the recent past. In fact, themes of contemporary history were treated both in lectures and seminars. In the summer semester of 1957, thirty-nine courses were offered at sixteen universities on problems of contemporary history. To be sure, less than half of these courses explicitly touched on German history, and the Third Reich was the focus in only nine cases.25 This provisional overview points to a more general trend that is even more striking if one looks at the history departments: while there were many courses on the twentieth century, National Socialism was usually left out. This need not surprise us. In 1960—at the end of the period under examination— the war had been over for only fifteen years, and given the scarce literature on the subject, a lecture on the Third Reich represented a particular challenge. But while this “suppression” may not have been intentional, we can nonetheless note that the establishment of a special research institute for contemporary history corresponded to its relative neglect in the universities. Of course, the manner in which the Third Reich was examined varied from place to place. For example, at the newly founded Free University of Berlin, courses on contemporary history dominated the curriculum.26 A series of visiting professor-

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ships, staffed particularly with émigrés who lived in the United States, provided for a critical perspective on the recent past. Above all, the visit by Hans Rosenberg (from Brooklyn), who taught in Berlin over two summer semesters in 1949 and 1950, was highly influential.27 Franz Neumann (Columbia University), Fritz Stern (Columbia University, 1954), the philosopher Hermann Goldschmidt from Zurich (winter semester 1955–56), and Adolf Leschnitzer (City College, New York), who regularly lectured on the history of Judaism starting in 1952 and was then appointed honorary professor in 1955, all passed through the Berlin department and presented a critical view of German contemporary history. But the history of the twentieth century also appeared in the courses of “established” scholars. Paul Kluke, later the director of the Institute for Contemporary History, taught at the Free University until 1954, primarily on the history of the Weimar Republic. And Hans Herzfeld, who moved from Freiburg to Berlin in 1950, as well as the modern historian Richard Dietrich, offered courses on the history of the twentieth century almost every year.28 In addition, the Friedrich Meinecke Institute of the Free University closely cooperated with the Berlin Academy for Politics, which reopened in 1948. The students at the academy were allowed to study and earn their doctorates at the Free University, and productive collaboration soon emerged at the level of the teaching staff as well. Most of the academy instructors also offered courses at the Friedrich Meinecke Institute. In this way the contingent of contemporary history courses again increased significantly. Above all, Walther Hofer and, starting in the mid-1950s, Karl Dietrich Bracher, Georg Kotowski, and Walter Bussmann regularly gave lectures on the history of the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich. In fact, between 1955 and 1959, Bracher alone offered eight courses on German history between 1933 and 1945, and Walther Hofer delivered fourteen lecture courses and/or seminars on the history of National Socialism over an eight-year period, complemented by additional courses on the prehistory of the Third Reich and the Second World War. Thus, as far as Berlin is concerned, it is possible to speak of a broad range of contemporary history courses that were not restricted to the Weimar Republic but also included the history of the Third Reich. Incidentally, the course topics stayed within the framework typical of Nazism studies at the time: foreign policy and the Second World War took center stage. Starting in the mid-1950s, the dissolution of the Weimar Constitution and the “seizure of power” enjoyed greater interest; as the 1950s drew to a close, the resistance movement became a popular subject. At the University of Tübingen as well, some 25 percent of courses concerned topics in contemporary history. But the preoccupation with the history of the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich was almost exclusively the achievement of one

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historian—Hans Rothfels. After his return to Tübingen in 1951, Rothfels regularly gave lectures and seminars on contemporary history wherein here, too, the emphasis lay on the history of the Second World War and the resistance. Added to this were the Tübingen lectures by Lieutenant General Hans Speidel, “Alliance Problems of Recent History.” Speidel, who had been Rommel’s chief of staff during the war and who served as a military expert for the West German government after 1945, sat on the advisory board of the Institute for Contemporary History in the 1950s. Thus in Tübingen the courses on the recent past had a profoundly military and politically conservative bent. Other courses were highly conventional: the Prussian reforms, Bismarck, and German historiography in the nineteenth century were the most popular themes. Lectures on diplomatic relations and European history in the nineteenth century rounded off the course catalogue. Yet, as far as integrating contemporary history into the canon is concerned, the history departments in Berlin and Tübingen were exceptions. In Heidelberg, for instance, where Johannes Kühn, Werner Conze, Reinhart Koselleck, and finally Erich Maschke (who was suspended after the war and then rehabilitated in the mid1950s) taught modern history, the Third Reich remained a sort of poor cousin. About 11 percent of all history courses dealt with the twentieth century, but the Third Reich hardly figured in them. It was not until 1955 that a special lecture course on the Nazi dictatorship was offered—tellingly enough, it was dedicated to the resistance movement. Before 1960 none of the historical dissertations written in Heidelberg explicitly discussed the history of the Third Reich (and only three were about the war). The sociology department proved to be more open to the topic, and a few studies on National Socialism appeared under the influence of Alfred Weber and Herbert Sultan.29 Nor could one exactly call the University of Bonn a hotbed of fascism research. In Bonn, Max Braubach, Fritz Kern (until 1947), Richard Nürnberger (1949–55), Walther Hubatsch (after 1956), Franz Steinbach, Paul Egon Hübinger (after 1958), and Stephan Skalweit taught recent history. Of the forty-eight dissertations written at the History Seminar before 1960, five dealt with the history of the Third Reich, but the topics were restricted to foreign policy and the history of the war. By way of comparison, over the same period Max Braubach alone supervised eleven dissertations dealing with the history of elections in the second half of the nineteenth century, particularly in the Rhineland (in Cologne, Aachen, Trier, and the Sieg district). Works in contemporary history thus remained marginal and continued to kowtow to the traditional primacy of foreign policy. This same pattern of reducing National Socialism to its military dimension could also be noted at other universities. In the 1950s, Göttingen distin-

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guished itself as a center of research on the Second World War.30 Overall, topics concerning the Nazi era represented only 8 percent of the modern German history dissertations defended at German universities before 1960. Most of these theses dealt with questions of foreign policy and military history, while the regime ’s inner power structures were examined only in exceptional cases. Thus, to sum up this brief overview, contemporary history was certainly the object of research and teaching at the universities. However, the treatment of National Socialism remained the exception to the rule—and was often limited to conventional questions, typically the topics of the resistance movement and the Second World War. At some universities it took years to overcome this fundamental resistance to contemporary history as a whole.31 In the major scholarly journals, as well, the Third Reich was discussed only on the sidelines. Between its refounding in 1949 and 1960, the Historische Zeitschrift published only three articles on aspects of National Socialism. Two of these, incidentally, were reviews of books by Gerhard Ritter and Friedrich Meinecke.32 Nor was the frequency of contemporary historical topics significantly higher in the Vierteljahrsschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte or in Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht.33 The majority of historians tended to delegate the treatment of Nazism to the independent research institutions. It is important to note, however, that this was not only an expression of a systematic “repression” of the recent past, as it is usually interpreted. It simultaneously corresponded to the demands made by contemporary historians to be granted institutional independence. For instance, Hans Buchheim, a long-term associate of the Institute for Contemporary History between 1950 and 1966, pleaded for the institutional detachment of contemporary history from the universities: “To me, contemporary history appears interesting and important as a methodological variant for advanced students. But it is not really appropriate as a subject for dissertations.”34 Contemporary History between East and West Contemporary history not only was an academic project but at the same time was part of an emphatically political mission. Research into the “dark side” of the recent past was seen as a contribution to a democratic future. But the political message of German contemporary history was also aimed toward the outside—toward both the East and the West. The Institute for Contemporary History was founded to counter the “‘antifascist’ pseudo-truths coming to us from the other side.”35 Accordingly, contemporary history as studied in Munich distinguished itself by the way that “it could develop freely and was not forced to serve propagandistic goals, as in the Soviet Zone.”36

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West German scholars saw their task as a political one that, however, must not be allowed to degenerate into pure propaganda. Hence, the Institute for Contemporary History represented a counterweight to the East German explanation of fascism as the inevitable outcome of German history, a view that in the West was perceived as a blanket denigration of German traditions. At the same time, scholarly refutation of what German historians considered one-sided interpretations was also aimed at the West. Before the institute was even founded, concerned politicians considered having the organization argue against the charge of Germany’s historical guilt. To do this it would be necessary to stress the Allies’ responsibility for Hitler’s rise to power as well as the heroic German resistance movement against Nazism.37 When discussing the resistance, one must not “limit oneself to July 20th,” insisted Ludwig Bergsträsser, the modern historian from Darmstadt and chair of the institute ’s advisory board, “because evidence of a broad resistance movement still has foreign policy significance today.”38 From the very beginning, one of the institute ’s tasks was not to leave research on Nazism to foreign countries. Thus before his election to the office of general secretary of the institute in 1950, Hermann Mau proclaimed, “Research on the National Socialist period is a German task.”39 Thus German contemporary history was conceived as a corrective to the foreign “misinterpretations” of German history with which Germans increasingly saw themselves confronted in the context of the Nuremberg Trials and the ongoing Allied occupation. The theory of “collective guilt,” the far-reaching Allied reform demands, and the praxis of denazification and reeducation were frequently perceived as “misunderstandings” that arose primarily from the Allies’ woeful ignorance of German history. “It is apparently impossible,” Fritz Ernst mused, “to impart the factors of the unique German experience to a world that lacks the necessary preconditions. It is, after all, a specifically German lesson we have learned or at least could learn.” Ernst, historian at the University of Heidelberg, was thinking specifically of what he saw as the defamation of the July 20 resistance movement, which many Americans dismissed as an aristocratic-nationalistic clique. For Ernst, such a verdict was the result of an excessive hermeneutic distance. “Those who have lived under a dictatorship know what resistance means. Those who have never lived under a dictatorship will have a hard time grasping it.” Only those who had lived through them, only true contemporaries, appeared in a position truly to understand the events.40 Thus a “historiography by Germans” was presented as nothing less than an epistemological necessity. Interpretations by foreign historians, in particular, were

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declared to be misjudgments traceable to the methodological impossibility of an observation “from the outside.” The reality of the Third Reich, German historians argued, could be grasped only by those who had lived it themselves, who themselves had “gone through these ordeals.”41 But this talk of “experience” and “understanding” sounds familiar. To what extent, one is tempted to ask, was contemporary history anchored in the traditional “understanding paradigm” of German late historism? Contemporary History as Methodology In his summary of the “German catastrophe” in 1946, Friedrich Meinecke wrote of the “whiff of the atmosphere of the time [Zeitatmosphäre] in which our fate took its course, and which one must know in order to understand this fate in its entirety.”42 Anyone who lacked this intimacy also lacked the necessary preconditions for a fair evaluation, as Fritz Ernst lamented: “One continually encounters depictions that show German people as objects, and one asks oneself with bewilderment, are those supposed to be real Germans, are those supposed to be real living people?”43 Such objectification without recourse to empathy, the argument ran, could only draw a distorted picture; the German people would appear as a remote object and no longer as a legitimate subject of history. The clear will on the part of many West German historians to ward off a “denigration” of German history on the part of non-German historians corresponded to the premise that only personal empathy with the subject guaranteed historical understanding. This emphasis on individual “understanding” was the foundation of the methodological credo of historism, which retained its validity well into the postwar period. According to this approach, the task of the historian lay in “erasing his own self, as it were,” in Ranke ’s words, in order to gain access to the aims and intentions of historical actors.44 This historical empathy, which according to the guidelines of the profession, was the fundamental precondition of every objective interpretation, appeared to lend itself even more to the study of contemporary history than to older epochs. A hermeneutic distance appeared not to be present at all, since the historian had experienced this past himself. Paul Kluke was typical in his view that “re-experiencing [the past] becomes all the more intensive, forceful, convincing the closer we approach the period that we wish to depict.”45 Thus personal experience functioned as the precondition of historical cognition and guaranteed contemporary history a methodologically privileged status—at least in the eyes of its proponents. At the same time it served to exclude unwanted information, a point made clear by

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Konrad Barthel (who would later become a professor of contemporary history at the University of Frankfurt): Understanding can become more perfect the closer we move to that which we wish to understand in chronological and cultural terms. This applies in a very strict sense, for example in the fact that certain experiences of an extraordinary character cannot be transmitted at all. Situations such as those of life under a totalitarian regime are probably so unique, so exclusive to our epoch, that later epochs cannot understand the experience, and such experiences certainly cannot be reconstructed from even the richest treasure trove of known facts. We know what strange ideas the Americans have about life in the Third Reich.46

In this way, methodological premises were articulated with the desire to leave the interpretation of the history of the Third Reich to the Germans themselves as part of a highly symbiotic structure.

contemporary history as a topic If contemporaneity promised to yield the “most appropriate” interpretation, it was only a short step to delegating scholarly authority to the historical actors themselves. As Paul Kluke put it: “One can thus only rarely take the surviving documentation of political activities in the dictatorship at face value; everything becomes ambiguous and subtle. One has to know the situation” in order to gain a reliable understanding.47 The specific problem of German contemporary history appeared to suggest an academic treatment of the Third Reich by persons who themselves had participated in the events. Not an objectifying distance but rather the greatest proximity possible to the bearers of events was held to be the key to historical understanding. Hitler’s Table Talk From this perspective, it may have been more than coincidence that the first publication of the German Institute for the History of the National Socialist Period was not a critical, distanced analysis of events. Instead, it let the actual players take the floor once again: in 1951 the institute published Hitler’s Table Talk in the Führer Headquarters with virtually no commentary whatsoever. This publication was intended “to bring to light the truth, or at least a significant piece of it,” as Gerhard Ritter wrote in his introduction.48 The book consisted of the stenographic reports of two ministry officials who, on Hitler’s orders, recorded the dictator’s table monologues between July 1941 and August

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1942. This record of a decision maker in action promised insights into the reality of a time that seemed impossible for an uninvolved historian to capture. The scholars in charge of the project abstained entirely from adding critical annotations “for the sake of the documents’ immediate effect”49 and, in Rankean fashion, in order “to show ‘how it really was.’ ”50 In his brief foreword, Henry Picker—who recorded most of the notes himself— pointed to some of the revelations that the readers could expect. These comments included his reflections on the fascination Hitler exerted on the people surrounding him. Picker recalled Hitler’s “pronouncedly human conduct” and hoped that an unannotated record of his statements would create “an impression of directness of a kind that books written in retrospect from memory simply cannot impart.” Picker himself appears to have succumbed fully to Hitler’s personality. When the dictator looked him up and down “with his somehow compelling, remarkably large blue eyes,” Picker “already felt . . . that extraordinary aura that Hitler so supremely radiated.”51 This apparently was to be the type of knowledge that could be transmitted only by eyewitnesses and the historical actors themselves. In his introduction to Hitler’s Table Talk, Gerhard Ritter also confessed his admiration for Hitler’s “astonishing oratorical skill and sparkling temperament.”52 It was only in the small print at the end of the book that Ritter alluded to “errors, exaggerations, and falsifications of historical truth” that the editors had decided not to comment on “out of a variety of considerations.”53 The “empathy” that contemporary history allegedly demanded and that was possible only through “coexperience and co-suffering” (Miterleben und Miterleiden), as Paul Kluke put it, should not be blocked by any intermediary—and distancing—authority. In this way the interpretation of the history of the Third Reich remained duty bound to the perspective of the actual actors—even the perpetrators.54 Indeed, there was a certain affinity between the understanding paradigm with its Romantic roots, its interest in the unique and unrepeatable, and research on Nazism by displaying “empathy” with the mind of “the Führer.” This “understanding” resembles the epistemology of the Führer cult in the way it concentrated on the phenomenon of Adolf Hitler while excluding (and exculpating) the German people. This trust in a hermeneutic that made Adolf Hitler himself not only an object of investigation but also the first author of the Institute for Contemporary History did not escape controversy. Publication of Hitler’s Table Talk, which originally appeared serialized in the tabloid Quick, encountered massive public criticism.55 Even Gerhard Ritter was forced to defend himself before the advisory board of the Institute for Contemporary History, parrying accusations that he was not sufficiently interested

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in a critical study of National Socialism.56 Similar protests had already arisen in the winter of 1950 when Ritter tried to leave the historiography of the Third Reich to one of its protagonists. He had nominated the former Nazi Party member Michael Freund as the institute’s first secretary. However, Freund’s candidacy was shot down by public criticism and protests from the American authorities.57 Such attempts to study the Third Reich by falling back on the expertise and the authorities of the period were hardly exceptional. Contemporary history in the postwar period generally made use of experiences that gave Michael Freund’s expression “history without distance” unintended ambiguity. On the one hand, many prominent contemporary historians of the Federal Republic could rely on their scholarly activity during the Third Reich. Götz Aly has pointed out that the roots of contemporary history during the 1950s—in both institutional and personnel terms—can be traced back to the East Prussian Office for Post-war History, founded in 1935. This institute, directed by Theodor Schieder, examined both the present and the period following 1918. Helmut Krausnick, who worked as a fellow at the Institute for Contemporary History and who served as its director after 1959, belonged to the office from 1938 to 1944.58 On the other hand, the privileges accorded the voices of historical players also promoted an uncritical examination of the recent past. To be sure, writing the history of Nazism in the words of its own protagonists was not exactly standard procedure. Noted fellows of the Institute for Contemporary History such as Hans and Karl Buchheim and Ludwig Bergsträsser could scarcely have been suspected of whitewashing the history of the Third Reich.59 And yet, even though one cannot speak of a general revisionist stance, it is nevertheless surprising to see the degree to which the institute ’s publication forums were made available to former Nazis who then proceeded to write their own history.60 Soldiers by Themselves When the Institute for Contemporary History organized the conference “The Third Reich and Europe” in Tutzing in 1956, Josef Matl, a professor for Slavic studies and European history at the University of Graz, appeared to be especially qualified to speak on the problem of military collaboration. Matl had served as a Wehrmacht officer in Greece and on the Balkan peninsula after January 1941, where he was in charge of coordinating collaboration activities. He now spoke as someone who knew this material from direct personal experience, with all the methodological benefits such a position seemed to guarantee. However, in his lecture he did not always succeed in abandoning the perspective of an involved player in favor of the more distanced attitude that would have

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behooved a presentation at a scholarly conference. Matl essentially described the events the way “we in the Wehrmacht” experienced them at the time.61 Thus even ten years after the end of the war, the point of view of the Nazi invasion army set the tone at the conference. This situation is worth pondering for a moment. Matl did not deliver his lecture somewhere on the academic periphery, but at a conference intended to demonstrate the institute ’s European consciousness. For the first time, the organization invited numerous European historians in the hope of gathering laurels abroad for Germany’s treatment of Nazi history. One may even speak of a step toward a European integration of German contemporary history.62 Yet Matl was not the only speaker whose vision of Europe occasionally wandered off toward a justification of Nazi war policies. His lecture followed comments by Paul Kluke, director of the sponsoring institute, who actually extolled the possibility of a Europe under German leadership, which had first emerged in 1940. In doing so, he entirely lost sight of the victims of German expansionist policies. This revisionist attitude became particularly clear in Matl’s comments on the issue of local resistance, whose motives remained unintelligible to him “since I was on the other side.” Matl saw resistance to the Nazi occupiers as a threat to German dominance—and he combated it as a Bolshevik front. “In my view, the real question one must ask in evaluating collaboration or resistance is not so much ‘for or against the Nazi regime,’ but rather ‘for or against the communist world and social order.”63 In this way—and equipped with the double authority of his own experience and the academic renown of the Institute for Contemporary History—it was possible to assimilate the history of National Socialism with the rhetoric of the Cold War and to redefine his own role as a vanguard of anticommunism. Hermann Foertsch likewise justified his own historical interpretation using the hermeneutic advantage of his own observation and participation. Foertsch (1885– 1961) had joined the Reichswehr Ministry in 1925 and in 1934 became head of the “domestic” department in the Ministerial and later Wehrmacht Office. In 1938, after the so-called Fritsch crisis,64 he was promoted to colonel, and in 1944 he was made an infantry general. He was acquitted in 1948 in the Nuremberg “Südostprozess,” the sequel to the main trials that dealt with German generals who had been active in southeastern Europe. In October 1950 Foertsch became a fellow at the Institute for Contemporary History, where he stayed until 1952 to write an intimate account of the Fritsch crisis of spring 1938, which he had witnessed with his own eyes. His study, Guilt and Fate, appeared in 1951 as the second publication in the institute ’s series (after Hitler’s Table Talk).

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Foertsch’s text was packed with comments intended to dispel all doubt about the authenticity and truthfulness of his report. The author continually assured his readers of the reliability of his observations, which could only have been made by an eyewitness. It was not the distanced scholar, but rather only a person who had actually been there who “knows how few people knew of the actual events, who comprehended the true links between them, and how few people had any insights into the mind of a man [Hitler] who was a master of deception and a master of lies, and remained so until his end.”65 Personal experience and proximity to the object of observation were paraded as the privileged conditions of a historical epistemology. On February 4, 1938, the “Fritsch crisis” ended with the dismissal of Field Marshal von Blomberg and Supreme Commander Baron von Fritsch. Using the pretext of personal affairs, Hitler rid himself of two undesirable generals and in the process took personal command of the military. And since military leadership under the civilian Hitler proved disastrous during the Second World War, Foertsch located the decisive moment on the road to “catastrophe”—which from his perspective clearly meant Germany’s capitulation and occupation—in the spring of 1938. According to this logic, if Hitler had not usurped command of the army, Germany would have won the war and the army would have borne neither moral guilt nor responsibility for the military defeat. For Foertsch, it was not the start of internal repression, of the war, or of the extermination policy, but rather the Fritsch crisis that was the “turning point in the history of the National Socialist era.”66 The privileged status accorded personal witness thus frequently led to historical tunnel vision. To be sure, writing history without recourse to personal experience was scarcely possible. In the postwar period, there was no “outside” point of view, since every observer had also been a witness of one sort or another. This did not, of course, necessitate handing over the history of the Wehrmacht to former generals, though in view of the available sources and the scarcity of documents, even this decision had a certain plausibility. But beyond such political and methodological considerations regarding who should be allowed to write the history of Nazism, a central difficulty in this entire project became increasingly clear—a difficulty to which we should now turn. Irrespective of the question of who authored the account, the problem of how to arrive at objective judgments seemed particularly pressing in the case of contemporary history, despite all the advantages that proximity to the object of study represented. It was a truism that contemporary history profited from hermeneutic proximity, but at the same time, the evaluation of the past suffered from this same lack of

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distance. Historians felt that they lacked an understanding of the developments that ensued from the event under investigation, that is, its consequences and results. In other words, what was missing was what historian Fritz Wagner called the “reach into the future,” which seemed necessary in order to arrive at an objective evaluation of the past. Only the effects, not the genealogy of an event, produced its historical meaning. The fundamental problem of contemporary history lay in the impossibility of estimating these effects. There were “ways out,” however, as Fritz Wagner assured his colleagues. The lack of temporal distance must—and could— be compensated for by a conceptual and methodological stance that guaranteed distance from the topic. Wagner’s solution, and this is why we are looking at it in more detail, pointed to the expansion of contemporary history into structural history. “In order to circumvent propagandistic distortions, scholars have sought to orient themselves on the scientific laws of social life. The generalizations of sociology and political science may possibly ease the reach into the future that the struggle for contemporary history bears within itself. Causal links, whose questionability still troubles us today, may be understood better thanks to nonchronological laws of social behavior. . . . The transitory nature of our observations can be combated by epistemological methods allowing the use of models, types, and analogies.”67

structural history Contemporary History and Structural History The link between contemporary and structural history that Wagner pointed to was well established within the Institute for Contemporary History, as well. According to a retrospective published by the institute in 1973, “Contemporary history necessarily implies a distancing from certain problematic traditions of German historism. For it is evident that research on National Socialism and its causes does not confirm Ranke ’s—somewhat overstated—thesis of the God-immediacy of each historical individuality and epoch.”68 Obviously, this evaluation was written from the perspective of the 1970s, when structural and social history were firmly established as alternatives to the historist paradigm of “understanding.” But already in the 1950s, the conviction that contemporary history demanded a methodological reach beyond the usual canon was widespread. These scholars believed that beyond the individual and specific character of historical events, functional and structural connections operate “behind their manifestations” and represent a “deeper” reality beyond concrete existence.69 German contemporary history, after all, was preoccupied with a historical period characterized by mass movements, propaganda, and totalitarian structures. In

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this transformed reality, historist hermeneutics no longer seemed sufficient. The epoch’s uniqueness seemed to demand a special methodology. Describing the tasks of the new discipline at the launching of the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, Hans Rothfels demanded that the journal “help to overcome the ‘sector borders’ of the political, the socioeconomic, and the spiritual.” In this way contemporary history would “best be in a position to grasp the structural and essential qualities of a period that was in many ways based on totality.”70 The insistence on expanding into structural history, as demanded here by Hans Rothfels, referred to the specific character of modern societies, which had also been used to legitimate the “invention of contemporary history.” Thus the pleas for structural and contemporary history operated with the same arguments. But the commonalities went even further. Both contemporary and structural history suggested an interpretation of Nazism that perfectly matched most historians’ conservative political stance. As we have seen, the special administrative treatment accorded research on the Third Reich could imply that the roots of Nazism did not lie in German traditions but rather in the general development of the twentieth century. And the call for an articulation of structural and contemporary history tended to push the inquiry into long-term causes further into the background. The fallback on social structures emphasized the special characteristics of the period and not specific long-term national traditions. At least, this is how Hans Buchheim understood this particular methodological challenge. The task was now to “understand the National Socialist period more and more as a paradigm of the typical dangers of the twentieth century as a whole, as an example of totalitarian rule.”71 From this perspective, Nazism appeared not as a result of German history but as a product of the modern age. The structural historical expansion of contemporary history likewise corresponded to a specific politics of interpretation. Other historians also emphasized points of contact between contemporary and structural history. For example, Werner Conze, whose name was most closely linked to the project of a modern “structural history,” emphasized this link: “In structural terms, contemporary history is the history of the technical-industrial age. In order to grasp its structure in its principles, conditions, and transformations, there is need for an intensive methodological and internal link with the systematic sciences—more so than for the history before the Industrial Revolution.”72 But the actual form this structural history should take was by no means uncontroversial. This becomes clear when we look at how professional historians reacted to Karl Dietrich Bracher’s influential interpretation of the final years of the Weimar Republic.

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Bracher’s Dissolution of the Weimar Republic Karl Dietrich Bracher’s voluminous study The Dissolution of the Weimar Republic was reviewed from a variety of conflicting perspectives following its appearance in 1955. The former Prussian ministerial director Arnold Brecht, who had experienced these events up close, predicted that Bracher’s book would “long remain the most important reference work” on the end of the Weimar Republic.73 In his review in the Historische Zeitschrift, Werner Conze described this “impressive work” as “the first substantial study of the Weimar Republic . . . [one] that moves us forward in scholarly terms.” But at the same time—and this judgment reflected the opinion of most historians—to Conze, Bracher’s study was “methodologically questionable in its very foundations.”74 After the war, Bracher had studied history and philosophy in Tübingen, with Rudolf Stadelmann, among others. Stadelmann, who died an untimely death in 1949, was one of the few West German historians after 1945 who displayed openness toward social history. Stadelmann dealt with contemporary themes in his seminars, making use of the documents of the Nuremberg Trials as early as 1946–47. After these studies, Bracher—who was a POW in the United States from 1943 to 1946—went to study at Harvard, where he came into direct contact with American political science. In 1950 he was drawn to the reopened Academy for Politics, where he studied under Otto Heinrich von der Gablentz, Eugen Fischer-Baling, Walther Hofer, Ossip Flechtheim, and Karl Fraenkel. With his dissertation on the last years of the Weimar Republic, a study combining historical methodology with political science approaches, Bracher broke new ground. Bracher’s monumental work consists of two large parts. One might even get the impression that they were reserved for the two competing methodological approaches. In the first part, 250 pages long, Bracher reconstructed the “problems of the power structure,” which represented the background and the context that caused the actual process of dissolution. In it, he described the development of the Weimar Republic and then analyzed individual social groups and the structural conditions necessary for the survival of democracy. He devoted detailed chapters to political parties, totalitarian mass parties, paramilitary groups, ideology and social structure, bureaucracy, economic conditions, and the Reichswehr (this last section written by Bracher’s associate Wolfgang Sauer). This “structural historical” section provided no social history context, but rather a largely constitutional and institutional analysis of the Weimar Republic. Although the diachronic examination reached back into the shadows of the nineteenth century in a quest for the causes of the insufficiently democratic consciousness of the German bourgeoisie,

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most chapters were concerned with the political culture of the Weimar Republic. The considerably longer part that followed this political science exposition was devoted to an analysis of the “steps toward the dissolution” of the Weimar Republic. Bracher described the historical sequence of events from the end of Hermann Müller’s grand coalition to Hitler’s appointment as Reich chancellor on January 30, 1933. These chapters traced the phases of “the loss of power” under Brüning and the “power vacuum” under Papen and Schleicher that already anticipated the end of the democratic form of government. Bracher intended to create a link between the “specifying and typological” dimensions of his study, as Hans Herzfeld emphasized in his introduction.75 He believed this was guaranteed by the combination of the complementary points of view of political and historical analysis. Werner Conze underscored Bracher’s innovative methodology in his review for the Historische Zeitschrift: Bracher’s work “deserves recognition.” Conze thought the questions asked in the book, concerned as they were with exemplary and typical processes, went well beyond traditional political history. “The . . . tendency of historical studies, which is essential in any profound study of the modern world, toward stringent examination, eschewing vivid narrative, and which also meets the systematic demands of political and social science, has thus been served in a fruitful way.”76 Criticism from within the Profession But despite this praise, Conze came out with fundamental criticism.77 He argued that Bracher’s choice of terminology lost sight of “the variety of the historical material.” Bracher’s categories had been taken from political science and were thus abstract concepts taken from the present. “One has to ask to what extent such terms formally prejudice a certain view of the subject . . . in question.” Conze was above all concerned with the notion of democracy, the pivot of Bracher’s study. Conze felt that such a universal, ahistorical concept distorted the reality of the 1920s.78 As Bracher has noted recently, this accusation “from more or less traditional historians like Werner Conze” reflected “an older notion of scholarship that either was entirely positivistic or was still oriented on values that were predemocratic and that considered any thought that the structures and development of democracy were a necessity and an irreversible historical fact and project, as unscholarly.”79 In any case, Conze ’s objection was not only of a methodological but also of a political nature. He believed it was problematic and “disturbing” that Bracher’s conceptual predecision led to a distorted view of German history. Bracher had described Germany’s constitutional progress as an “abortive historical development” and welcomed the transition from the empire to

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the Weimar Republic as the “removal of absolute monarchy by the parliamentary republic.” Conze particularly condemned the negative evaluation of the empire as one of many “distortions” that prohibited an “unbiased access” to German history. Thus he saw the work as being “methodologically questionable to its core.”80 Most German historians reacted skeptically to Bracher’s attempt to enrich history through analytical questions. Thilo Vogelsang of the Institute for Contemporary History marked off the boundaries of the historical discipline in regard to Bracher’s work: “It was not Bracher’s intention to present a piece of historiography.”81 Particularly his attempt to examine the last years of the Weimar Republic in regard to their typical aspects encountered massive reservations. For example, Waldemar Besson (1929–71) insisted on the irreducibility of the German (Weimar) experience: “Historians must emphasize the uniqueness of the development of parliamentary democracy into the total state rather than subordinate the Brüning era to a ‘typical model.’”82 But the most important objection, which was fundamentally directed against structural analysis as a whole, bemoaned the disappearance of the individual behind the anonymity of collective structures. Waldemar Besson summed up this critique in his own comments. “It is hardly fortuitous that in Bracher’s book the actors themselves receive short shrift and appear to be virtually crushed beneath the weight of the structures.”83 Besson’s own book, which also concerned the dissolution of the Weimar Republic (using Württemberg as an example), can be viewed as an intensive confrontation with Bracher’s theses. Besson, too, was open to input from the political sciences; Theodor Eschenburg had been one of his advisers, and after specializing in history, he assumed a chair for political science in Erlangen.84 But in his evaluation of Bracher’s work he insisted on the individualizing method of historist historical study. For Besson, it was not the structural conditions of sociopolitical development, but rather the intentions of the respective actors that had to be at the center of every historical study. “The personal core is more vital,” he declared, “than ever before.”85 Considering the ferocity of academic exchange, it is surprising that a closer look at Bracher’s study shows that even in his account, individuals had by no means succumbed to the weight of structures. In fact, Bracher’s work consisted of two parts in which the sociopolitical structures and the intentions and actions of the players were treated more or less separately. The second voluminous part of the study was essentially dedicated to the detailed reconstruction of the “events”—the goals and motivations of the political actors. As a later section of this chapter makes clear, this dichotomy of structure and behavior was not limited to Bracher’s work but was a general characteristic of

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structural history in the 1950s. The very structure of Bracher’s Dissolution embodied this opposition of conditions and behavior. Against the background of the social, economic, and political factors depicted in the first part of the book, the historical players regained their freedom of action in Part II. Here the reader encountered personalities guided not so much by the circumstances operating behind their backs as by their subjective motives and cunning strategies. “On January 12, Hitler canceled a dinner with Ribbentrop; the only one who showed up was Papen, who feared an impediment to further negotiations following the expected Nazi election victory.” The accusation that the political science approach was impersonal was not borne out by Bracher’s narrative. “The unfolding of the meeting on January 22 speaks a different language. At 9:00 P.M. Papen appeared at Ribbentrop’s house, followed by Hitler and Frick, Göring and Körner an hour later, while Meissner and Hindenburg Junior—for the sake of secrecy—drove from the opera in a taxi. Yet Hitler did not begin his conversation with Papen but went straight to Oskar von Hindenburg”—and so on.86 It was indeed difficult to claim, as Besson did, “that in Bracher’s book the players received short shrift” and were left empty-handed facing the superiority of the structures. Particularly in his closing chapters, entirely devoted to chronology and a personal perspective, Bracher conceded the effects of individuals’ intentional actions. For example, he evaluated Hitler’s meeting with Papen in the house of the Cologne banker Schröder as follows: “The fact remains that January 4, 1933, and its political results must largely be explained as an act of revenge on Papen’s part. . . . Few events so clearly reveal the personal, subjective factors that they ultimately set into motion.”87 Even if scholars largely concluded that Bracher’s book demonstrated “to what extent . . . the author lacks a sense of the nuances and problems of human characters,”88 and even if numerous historians merely claimed to see “only structures and more structures” in the book,89 the real issue must be sought elsewhere. After all, in Bracher’s version of structural history, individuals were not primarily marginalized by structures, but were separated from them. Beyond the question of the relative balance of structural necessity and individual freedom, the theoretical problem was rooted in the fact that in Bracher’s account, structure and behavior mutually excluded one another. The rigid division of Bracher’s Dissolution into two methodologically distinct parts was thus an expression of what we might call the structuralistic conception of structure upon which the work was founded. Structure was essentially understood as a mold into which the players’ actions could be poured. By the same token, the player’s structural conditions could be presented largely without mentioning the players

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themselves; the social structures were, so to speak, taken as givens and appeared as a space free of agency. Furthermore, individual behavior appeared to be possible only where anonymous processes and conditions withdrew and opened up ranges of action. The absence of the historical actors from the structures corresponded to a concept of action that permitted “agency” only in a structure-free sphere. Structural History as a Palliative Regardless of the criticism spewed upon Bracher, many historians saw the incorporation of structural historical elements as a meaningful expansion of contemporary history, at least as long as these structures did not excessively limit individuals’ range of action. As Paul Kluke suggested, “In order to grasp this period, we will have to advance into much deeper levels” than had been customary in traditional historical research. In modern mass society, the study of mere events must “appear as a mere embellishment that allows no valid statements about the building’s structure.” Thus contemporary history implied an expansion of historians’ methodological equipment; history had to turn “for advice to all disciplines dealing with collective phenomena, to sociology, political theory, political science in the broadest possible sense.” Contemporary history, he claimed, was virtually unthinkable without support from the social sciences. “A constant exchange must occur between contemporary history and its neighboring disciplines.”90 Structural history not only appeared attractive for methodological reasons but also pointed to an interpretation of the recent past widespread among contemporary historians anyway. From the point of view of many historians, a structural historical approach corresponded to an interpretation of the Nazi era that focused on the power of circumstances and reduced individual and collective responsibility to a minimum. Werner Conze observed this tendency with considerable skepticism: “A certain social historical complex may become a comfortable excuse not to touch the unpleasant ‘hot potatoes’ of political history.”91 Conze distanced himself from this attitude, realizing that many historians were adopting such a change of perspective not because of methodological considerations but rather for political reasons. For many historians, however, the structural historical emphasis on the general represented a methodological parachute they could always reach for when the usual procedure of “empathy” and “understanding” left them in a hermeneutic tailspin. Particularly the “dark riddle of German history” (as Siegfried August Kaehler described it) that National Socialism represented in the thinking of German historians could be dissolved in the transcendent structures of modern society. In this regard, fusing contemporary history with the structural historical approach functioned as not so much a methodological challenge as a palliative. It

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suggested that National Socialism could not be explained solely by tracing the specific course of German history but only by relying also on the structural contexts of modern mass society. Thus instead of conceding the failure of German historical traditions, it now seemed sufficient to describe the traditional instruments of political and intellectual history as inadequate to the task of explaining the history of the twentieth century. Even such a staunch historist as Friedrich Meinecke, in his quest for the roots of the “German catastrophe,” pleaded for an adoption of social and structural history.92 And for Theodor Schieder, structural history at least partially meant relieving Germany’s national history of its National Socialist burden: “Our historical situation has become so questionable that we can no longer entirely understand it from the sequence of our own special historical development.”93 The influence of totalitarianism theory further supported an interpretation of the recent past that did not emphasize typically German characteristics but rather “totalitarian” and thus “modern” factors. Just as contemporary history detached Nazism from the continuum of German history by granting it a separate historical period and its own research institutions, the specific methodology employed— contemporary history merged with structural history—was compatible with an interpretation of the Third Reich as the great anomaly of German history. “The further fundamental insight we have gained is: National Socialism cannot be understood as a result of German history alone.” For Martin Broszat it was obvious that only the resort to the structural processes of the modern era would lead out of this impasse: National Socialism “is just as much a typical phenomenon of the epoch, a manifestation of forces taking shape in twentieth-century Europe, which as a result becomes only entirely comprehensible in the context of the universal transformation that has occurred in Europe and the world in the twentieth century in sociological, intellectual-psychological, technical, and political terms.”94 To avoid being misunderstood: a structural interpretation of history does not automatically imply an apologetic interpretation of the recent past, as the Sonderweg (deviant path) historiography since the 1960s has amply shown. However, it is obvious that structural approaches in contemporary history were welcome in part because they appeared to shore up the thesis of the exceptional character of the Nazi era. The structural history of the 1950s drew part of its attractiveness from the fact that it formed an often unconscious symbiosis with an evasive interpretation of that past. This helps to explain why the conservative West German historical profession embraced structural history, which might otherwise have been perceived as a threat. Thus to a certain extent the coalition of contemporary and structural history made it possible to detach the recent past from the nation’s history. In addition, it

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dovetailed with the victim perspective that dominated research on the history of the Third Reich. The premise of a structurally based contemporary history suggested that Man was no longer the master of his existence and thus appeared as an object, as a victim of history. The restriction of agency indicated a reduction in personal, but also collective responsibility. Only a small group of political (and military) leaders still seemed to be in a position to make decisions and effect changes. In this way, it seemed possible to rehabilitate the German nation, presented as a passive object of historical events. This was not least a result of the underlying concept of structure, which we will now look at more closely.

the structural conception of structural history The Genealogy of Structural History The establishment of contemporary history in the 1950s formed a context within which structural history was made palatable within the traditionally oriented historical profession. Its roots, however, were much older, as the genealogy of social and economic history goes back to the late nineteenth century. However, economic and social history did not undermine the dominance of political history before 1945, for they remained “sector sciences” deemed suitable for only a peripheral area of history.95 The structural history of the 1950s was a renewed attempt to overcome this marginalization. As Werner Conze, one of its strongest proponents, understood the concept, the call for structural history implied an amalgamation of political and social history into a new and more complex unity. “The point is to turn social history into political history and to lead it out of its isolation. It is no less political than the history of events in the framework of the state has always been.”96 But this transformation of “social history” into a comprehensive and synthetic form of structural history had its forerunners, as has become increasingly clear in recent years. The Volksgeschichte (ethnic/folk history) developed in the 1930s particularly foreshadowed structural history.97 Volksgeschichte adopted approaches from neighboring sciences—national history, sociology, folklore and anthropology, demography, and “racial science”—and in this way considerably expanded the thematic and methodological canon of the discipline. At the same time, Volksgeschichte was ideologically and politically linked to Nazi-era debates. Within Volksgeschichte, Ostforschung (Eastern studies) was particularly implicated in the population, structural, and finally extermination policies in Eastern Europe, which it not only legitimized but actively supported. The shift in methodological perspective and the political thrust of many studies associated with Volksgeschichte went hand in hand.98

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After 1945 the leading proponents of Volksgeschichte attempted to “purify” their approach from its ideological contamination in order to make it acceptable under the sobriquet of “structural history.” For example, when it came time for Otto Brunner to edit the fourth edition (1959) of his book Land and Lordship, which had first appeared in 1939, he tacitly replaced the term Volk with Struktur.99 The sociologist Hans Freyer and the historians Werner Conze and Theodor Schieder submitted their own pet concepts of Volksgeschichte to an intellectual denazification in the 1950s. During the Third Reich, Freyer—who held considerable sway over Conze—saw the Volk as a bridge between state and society, that is, as an authority that could reunite the disintegrating segments of modern society into a new totality. Then in the 1950s he abandoned the notion of the healing potential of the Volksgemeinschaft (national/racial community) and accepted the inevitability of industrial society. It was no longer the hope of overcoming the modern world, but rather an increasing (if not approving) acceptance, that characterized the relationship of structural history to modernity.100 In other words, the predecessors of structural history were not to be found in contemporary history, but in the Volksgeschichte of the 1930s and early 1940s. And yet the link between contemporary and structural history was hardly accidental. It was only in a sort of intellectual coalition with contemporary history that the structural historical approaches actually materialized and became acceptable for a majority of historians. This did not mean that structural history remained limited to the field of twentieth-century history. Instead, many works of structural history looked at the social changes of the nineteenth century. But within a historical profession still ensconced in the traditional methods of historism, structural history met by far the least resistance when linked to contemporary history. Rejection of Marxism and the Annales School The social history session at the Twenty-First Historians’ Conference in Marburg in 1951 was the first opportunity after the end of the war to discuss the project of structural history before a broad academic audience. The main lecture in this session was entrusted to the sociologist Hans Freyer, whose work had exerted a powerful influence on 1930s Volksgeschichte and on postwar structural history. Freyer particularly emphasized the development of society as a category after the bourgeois revolutions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He argued that the profound historical transformation that had begun with the bourgeois and industrial revolution also required a new methodology. Traditional approaches should be enriched by the methods of sociology, and Freyer therefore emphasized the “demand for a sustained and planned coopera-

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tion between both sciences.” However—and this was decisive—such cooperation must not lead to history’s subordination to sociological laws. Freyer saw this as “a danger to the relationship between sociology and history,” and he had no doubts about who was to blame for that: “Historical materialism is . . . the most extreme case of this danger.”101 Postwar historians across the board condemned Marxism, and thus Freyer’s critique clearly represented a larger consensus. And yet it was remarkable that nearly every positive comment on structural history was accompanied by a distancing from Marxism. The second lecture in the session, in which Siegfried Landshut spoke on “the sociological-historical conception of Marxism,” served the same purpose. In his comments Landshut described a point of view that Freyer had denounced as “sociologism”: in the historical understanding of Marxism, the individual was degraded to a passive object of broader structures.102 Theodor Schieder, who commented on both lectures, raged against “this sociological-economic doctrine of salvation.” For Schieder too, “the danger of overestimating the economic determination of history” was “principally the danger of Marxist sociology.”103 The rejection of Marxism was frequently combined with a distancing from the French variety of structural history, namely the Annales school. Structural historians like Schieder or Conze took an ambivalent stance toward the Annales and tempered whatever praise they gave it with skepticism.104 In fact, for structural history to be accepted by traditional historians, it was essential that it not be identified with the Annales. Gerhard Ritter, in particular, discussed the Annales project at length in a number of critical statements, the first coming in a long intervention at the 1950 International Historians’ Congress in Paris.105 He argued that one cannot “observe the mass production of ‘syntheses in cultural history,’ as has become common in most countries today, without anxiety.” Ritter was highly skeptical of all attempts to write a history of cultures and mentalities. He opposed the Annales school’s structural categories with his historist understanding of history: “History mainly interests us as the realm of Man’s creative spontaneity, thus of freedom in contrast to the bonds of nature.”106 He did not entirely reject the legitimacy of economic and social historical perspectives, but pointed to the long social science tradition in Germany, which made the importation of foreign methods unnecessary: “Germany did not need French sociology and Marxist economic theory to arouse interest in problems of social and economic history.”107 Pleas for Structural History (Conze and Schieder) By contrast, Ritter and many other West German historians were much less critical of the sociological approaches

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touted by Freyer, Conze, and Schieder.108 Ritter’s preference for the German variety of structural history to foreign imports was not mere intellectual patriotism. Ritter in particular felt that German structural history was less of a danger to the historist paradigm, which remained binding for most scholars. And this belief was not without justification. Otto Brunner, himself a denazified proponent of Volksgeschichte, who had to wait longer than most of his colleagues—until 1954—before he was finally granted a new professorial chair (in Hamburg), assured Ritter during a session on structural history at the Bremen historians’ conference of 1953 that he did not want to “ignite methodological conflict.”109 He helped ensure that the theoretical program of “structural history” was not presented as a declaration of war against the historist conception of history with its focus on historical personalities and political history. Instead, in many respects the reform project could be understood as an expansion and cautious adaptation of traditional methods. This particularly had to do with the manner in which structures were treated vis-à-vis individuals. The two most influential programmatic statements on structural history flowed from the pens of Werner Conze and Theodor Schieder. Both had worked in Königsberg in the 1930s and had belonged to the inner circle of Volksgeschichte during the Nazi years. In the early Federal Republic as well, they remained among the most influential German historians. Werner Conze (1910–86), who was given a chair at the University of Posen during the war, moved to the Universities of Göttingen and Münster after 1945, finally receiving a call to the University of Heidelberg in 1957. There, in that same year and with the support of the historian Paul Hübinger of Bonn University, who was employed by the Interior Ministry, the Study Group for Modern Social History was established. Its inaugural meeting was attended by historians Otto Brunner, Theodor Schieder, Ludwig Beutin, and Wilhelm Treue and the sociologist Carl Jantke of the University of Hamburg.110 Numerous articles and dissertations appeared in the following years within the purview of the Study Group, which were then published in Conze ’s series The Industrial World. That Conze is today considered one of the founding fathers of German social history is due not only to his own publications but also to his role as a spiritus rector for new research topics.111 Conze ’s 1957 article “Structural History of the Technical-Industrial Age” was the theoretical underpinning of the Study Group and a key text for the structural history project as a whole. Conze had borrowed the term “structure” from Fernand Braudel and the Annales school—partially because the alternative jargon from the old days, as Otto Brunner admitted, “bore a heavy ideological burden.”112 In Conze ’s eyes, “history as structure” was a characteristic of the modern era.

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He spoke of a world historical caesura at the end of the eighteenth century which he saw as “the deep cut” that had determined history ever since. The “technicalindustrial age” fundamentally distinguished itself from earlier epochs in the way structural processes and material restraints decisively limited the individual’s freedom of action.113 Regardless of the increase in material constraints in the modern world, Conze resisted the notion of an all-powerful structure. In this regard he was not so very different from the other participants in this debate. “The primacy of phenomenological-structural historical interest,” he wrote, “does not force us to accept the often suggested and postulated acceptance of a predetermined inevitability of development.” Conze countered the “sociologisms” of the Annales school and Marxism with the notion of a free space for the autonomous individual. Modern society “increasingly requires the creative personality who is willing and able to make relatively free and responsible decisions. Constraining structures not only determine a person; they also pose a challenge for acting individuals to transform them.”114 For Conze ’s friend and colleague Theodor Schieder as well, the question of negotiating between the social structure and individual experience took top priority. Schieder (1908–84) was one of the most influential postwar German historians. He supervised many dissertations and, as the editor of the Historische Zeitschrift (after 1957) and chairman of the German Historians’ Association (1967–72), he also held representative offices within the profession.115 Schieder, too, had been among Hans Rothfels’s disciples at the University of Königsberg and was given his first professorship there in 1942. He was called to Cologne in 1947, where he taught until his retirement in 1976. Like Conze, Schieder can be seen as part of the Königsberg Volksgeschichte movement in the Third Reich. Like Conze, he also dedicated himself to contemporary history. And like Conze, he was one of “the great proponents of a modern and broadly conceived social history.”116 In his influential 1962 essay “Structure and Personality in History,” Schieder defined the relationship between the material constraints of the modern world and the role of the individual, which had already come up in Conze ’s own statements on the matter. For Schieder, too, “structures had become a central concept” in every attempt to understand modern history. It seemed to him “indisputable” that “the defining structures of industrial society” also implied a palpable “narrowing of the sphere of personal and sovereign decisions.” For Schieder, as well, the transformation of social reality following the Industrial Revolution demanded a methodological adaptation: “Today, no historiography can do without the notion of structure as a fundamental term for social phenomena.”117

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For Schieder the history of modern industrial society was characterized by the increase in the number and potency of structural constraints and anonymous processes that threatened to narrow the individual’s freedom of decision and behavior. Yet the creative power of the personality, though restricted, was in no way entirely lost: “Even then the greatest individual maintains his place in history.”118 Thus the way Schieder negotiated the categories of structure and agency can be described as a drawing of boundaries: the players’ action begins only where structures cease to exert their influence. Social structures for him were not reproduced by the actions and behavior of individuals but were treated as givens when the autonomous individual decided to act.119 At this point the commonalities between Conze ’s and Schieder’s project and Karl Dietrich Bracher’s notion of structural history become evident, commonalities that characterized 1950s German structural history in general and that helped it—in the specific context of West German contemporary history—to gain broad acceptance, or at least tolerance, among professional historians. After all, the added category of structure—which neatly separated the realm of structural necessity from that of individual freedom—could easily be hitched to the traditional paradigm of history as the study of persons and events. This particular concept of structure, which limited action, did not undermine the discipline ’s methodological foundation, but rather promised to gradually modernize it. Unlike the Annales school or historical materialism, West German structural history in the 1950s did not appear to threaten the established historical profession. Nor was it intended to do so, as Werner Conze later assured his nervous colleagues.120 But the particular notion of the structure of structure, which guaranteed the tolerance of professional historians in the 1950s, continued to shape the works of social history in the 1960s and 1970s. The new paradigm of social history, then, which promised a fundamental paradigm shift, bore traces of this earlier debate that in turn can be understood only in the context of the immediate postwar period.121 According to this postwar notion of structural history, the spheres of structure and behavior remained mutually exclusive categories. Only “the great man” appeared in a position to act autonomously, while the structure appeared an amalgam of “passive factors.” Faced with the expansion of anonymous processes in modern society, it was possible to act only as a destroyer, founder, or preserver of structures in the “highest region of history.” Thus Schieder felt legitimized to limit the use of the new quantitative methods to the sphere of structural behavior, while the “great personalities” were to be treated as exceptions. It seemed to him that quantitative factors “are less suited to indicate the influence of the great individual

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than the habits of the many individuals who do not stand out as a result of great actions or achievements.”122 This dichotomy between the “great men” and the broad masses that were left at the mercy of anonymous processes was not far removed from a restricted notion of structure that made sense even to Gerhard Ritter, the most prominent representative of historist political history. For Ritter, too, “the value of socioeconomic observations” could not be dismissed out of hand. “The economic links and group interests of all kinds” constituted a phenomenon with which the historian of the modern era was forced to reckon. For him, “history” basically began at the point where “personalities” began to rise above structural constraints. Only the culturecreating individual was capable of performing historically relevant actions. At the same time, “in every people there are broad groups and strata of people whose struggle for existence does not reach beyond everyday life into the sphere of high cultural creation.” Ritter believed himself justified to speak not only of the interface between personality and structure, as Schieder had done, but to explicitly outline a “divorce of historical life and life without history.”123 The Structure of Structure Thus a specific structure of structure characterized the structural history of the 1950s and eased its integration into the historist canon of methods. The underlying notion of structure was thoroughly compatible with the dichotomy of necessity and freedom, which also underlay the traditional conception of the personality raising himself above the power of conditions. For Theodor Schieder, too, the debate was all about amending historism, not replacing it. From this perspective, structure was not constituted from the actions and behavior of the participants but tended to remain anonymous, brought about not by individuals but by the “modern age.” As a result, people had to adapt themselves to these anonymous processes and could expect to do no more than fill the structures. The broad majority of people, the “masses,” could not transcend the structural conditions of action. “We must humbly face the fact of how narrow the framework is, indeed how the ordinary human being . . . is left with scarcely any free decision over his life.”124 Historical action appeared possible only in residual areas, in which the few remaining historical individuals could realize their intentions in an autonomous manner. The limiting character of this concept of structure led to a segmentation of social reality that did not challenge the historist ideal of the holistic and absolute personality, but rather underscored it. This notion of structure dovetailed with the methodological standards of the profession, and was thus easier to accept than such competing models as those of

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the Annales school or Marxism. At the same time, West German structural history asserted itself in a coalition with the new discipline of contemporary history. Historians believed that structural history could explain the German “catastrophe” without at the same time fundamentally questioning national traditions. Reference to structural dynamics appeared capable of explaining Nazism as a perversion or pathology of modernity, thus taking the onus off national history. As Waldemar Besson said, one could “recognize the starting point of social scientific questions in the troubled situation of the national polity after 1945.”125 Structural historians were essentially left in charge of the dark side of modernity, leaving everyone else free to celebrate the historical achievements of the German nation.126 In view of this evolution, one can speak of a threefold dichotomy whose poles were articulated with one another in complex ways: the dichotomy of structure versus individual freedom, which was characteristic of German structural history; the dichotomy of National Socialism (as understood according to totalitarianism theory) as a product of modernity versus the venerable traditions of German history; and finally the dichotomy of an institutionally detached contemporary history (its topic viewed as a special period to be examined with special methods) versus the continuum of German history. This matrix of binary oppositions involved a certain affinity among such diverse notions as the use of a both limiting and additive concept of structure, the notion of the German people as victim, the interpretation of National Socialism as an exception to German history, and the separate institutionalization of Third Reich studies. This linkage underlines the fact that the “invention of contemporary history” and the project of structural history were appealing, in part because they seemed to allow the generation the “German catastrophe” had so humiliated to reconstruct its national identity and rehabilitate German history.

CONTEMPORARY HISTORY IN JAPAN the “invention of contemporary history” Not only in Germany but also in Japan the special role that the recent past played in public memory contributed to the emergence of contemporary history. This “invention of contemporary history” revealed a series of parallels but also a number of characteristic differences vis-à-vis its West German counterpart, which we shall take a brief look at here. First, much as in the Federal Republic, Japanese historians initially had to overcome fundamental reservations about research on contemporary history. As a result of the war crimes trials in Tokyo, as well as the

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discussions about individual and collective guilt conducted in the early postwar years, debates on the war period informed public consciousness. But for university historians, the academic study of the events of the 1930s and 1940s was perceived as crossing a frontier, trespassing on virgin soil. “Selecting contemporary history as the subject of academic research,” wrote the Marxist historian Fujiwara Akira in the early 1960s, “was virtually impossible” before the end of the war.127 The reason for this was that in Japan the examination of modern history was taboo. The history of the period following the Meiji Restoration (1868) was only rarely the object of academic historiography. The universities offered virtually no courses on modern history. In a report presented at the Eleventh International Historians’ Congress in Stockholm in 1960, Inoue Kiyoshi lamented: “Before and during the Second World War, the Japanese university historians almost entirely ignored the study of history after the Meiji Restoration—particularly after the promulgation of the Meiji Restoration in 1889—and it is still neglected today.”128 Within the largely conservative academic profession, modern and recent history continued to be marginalized after 1945. But due to the emerging dominance of Marxist approaches, the perspective on the modern period changed fundamentally. Japanese history following the opening of the harbors in 1854 and particularly after the Meiji Restoration, which had previously been understood as “the long present” and thus had not become a legitimate object of historiography, now received a new status. Following the dramatic caesura of the year 1945, the period leading up to the end of the war appeared as “modern history” (kindaishi), as the prehistory of a present that arguably began in 1945. Against this background, historians began examining the history of the 1930s and 1940s. In view of this expansion of the legitimate area of historical studies, which made the recent past “acceptable” in academic terms, it is possible to speak of an “invention of contemporary history” in Japan, as well. As in the Federal Republic, the term “contemporary history” (gendaishi) was generally associated with a specific period of history.129 It replaced the most recent epoch of the traditional periodization of Japanese history, which was based on dynastic change. According to the traditional framework, 1926 marked the beginning of the reign of the Shomwa-Tennom and thus inaugurated a new epoch and indeed a new system of counting years and dating events.130 Marxist historians, by contrast, demanded that this caesura be abolished. The sequence of dynasties, they argued, had become obsolete as a historical category. In formulations recalling the symbolic toppling of le citoyen Capet, they proclaimed: “In the modern state, the death of the individual Tennom [tennoµ kojin] is no more than a random event that

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has no meaningful connection to historical processes, and it has no meaning whatsoever for the question of periodization.”131 Instead, they looked to such decisive events as the outbreak of the First World War, the Russian Revolution, and in Japan the so-called rice revolts (kome soµdoµ), massive hunger riots after the end of the war in 1918. However, the abandonment of the traditional periodization was not complete. Between the lines, the traditional system continued to shimmer through even in Marxist discourse. Although Marxist historians generally relied on the Western calendar, it was frequently supplemented with the monarchical dating system. As a consequence, even the beginning of the Shomwa era did not appear as a meaningless break; although in Marxist discourse the driving forces of history were located at a deeper level, ironically, the supposedly superficial changes at the pinnacle of the monarchy were not entirely irrelevant. For at the same time—in the mid-1920s— Marxists noted a crisis in the capitalist system and an intensification of the class struggle, so that the new accession to the throne in 1926, “while at first a chance coincidence, nevertheless gave this period a historical meaning.”132 This interpretation was supported by the fact that the year 1925, which saw the introduction of universal male suffrage and the accompanying repressive security laws directed primarily at the Communist Party (chian ijihoµ), was a historical caesura for historians of every variety. In other words, the turn from the traditional form of periodization, viewed by Marxists as a premodern relic, was an ambivalent endeavor in which elements of different discourses overlapped like the layers of a palimpsest. Thus it was hardly accidental that the most important work of Marxist contemporary history bore the rather traditional title History of the Shoµwa Era (Shoµwashi). As in the Federal Republic, Japanese contemporary history encountered massive reservations from professional historians. And the criticisms were virtually interchangeable: in both countries, scholars criticized the incompleteness of official documents as well as the difficulties arising from the vast bulk of source material that would need to be evaluated. At the same time, they argued, it was impossible to evaluate the history of one ’s own time without bias. The historian himself was a participant and hence could not overcome his lack of distance. Ultimately, a whole range of non-Marxist historians rejected the very notion of contemporary history. In a review of the book Shoµwashi, which is discussed at length below, one scholar wrote: “In a word, it is utterly impossible to write contemporary history—which means abandoning the field of scholarliness.”133 However—as in the Federal Republic—such skepticism could not prevent the establishment of contemporary history in the 1950s. In contrast to the German

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case, however, this development never led to a separate institution; the Institute for Contemporary History in Munich had no counterpart in Japan. The closest Japan came to such an organization was the Institute for Social Science (Shakai kagaku kenkyumjo) at the University of Tokyo, created after the war. Founded upon a deep faith in the emancipatory and democratizing effects of the social sciences, this research institute employed legal scholars, political scientists, economic historians, and general historians. Their common project was a transdisciplinary analysis of Japanese society.134 This was one of the few places in the academic world where research into the modern period was carried out—while at the universities, courses on contemporary history remained rare. For example, until the 1960s the department of Japanese history at the University of Tokyo had no chair for modern (post-1868) history. Thus the field of contemporary history was largely left to critical Marxist historiography—and to young scholars at the beginning of their careers. This led to a situation in which themes of contemporary history, including the history of fascism, were treated in students’ master’s theses long before they became the topic of lectures and seminars.135 To be sure, the discussions in the first decade after the end of the war mainly concentrated on issues of terminology—for example, the appropriate name to give the war or the debate on the “fascist” character of the preceding epoch. It was only in the mid-1950s, and thus only after the end of the occupation, that a concrete debate on contemporary history got going on a large scale. People then spoke of a “contemporary history boom.”136 Thus, for example, the five-volume History of the Pacific War, discussed earlier, appeared under the auspices of the historians’ association Rekishigaku kenkyumkai. However, the most influential work of contemporary history was the History of the Shoµwa Era, which had huge repercussions in the profession when it appeared in 1955.

the controversy over the book

SHO m WASHI

The History of the Shoµwa Era (Shoµwashi) was a collective effort on the part of three Marxist historians. Tomyama Shigeki (born in 1914), whose 1951 study on the Meiji Restoration had already become a classic, was undoubtedly the best known among them. His colleagues were Imai Seiichi (born in 1924), who, like Tomyama, taught at the state university in Yokohama, and the military historian Fujiwara Akira (born in 1922). All three had graduated from the University of Tokyo. Their book, the first comprehensive account of Japanese contemporary history, which reached to the year 1955 (and thus did not match the time limitation characteristic of West German contemporary history), attracted great attention and unleashed a series of critical reactions. The book can be seen as the classic interpretation of twentieth-century

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Japanese history from the point of view of koµzaha Marxist historiography. For that reason, criticism of the work was aimed not only at its specific interpretation of the recent past but also, in fundamental terms, against the hegemony of historical materialism. The controversy over History of the Shoµwa Era was thus essentially a proxy war in which the entire development of the postwar historical profession and historiography was under scrutiny. The book’s basic point of view was an explicitly political one. The recent war, the authors said, must never be repeated. For this reason “the truth . . . of the past” must be promoted, lest it drown in the flood of apologetic memoirs that had arisen since the early 1950s. The crucial question concerned the war’s causes and the role the Japanese people played in it. “Why did we, the Japanese people, become involved in the war and become carried away by it? Why could it not be prevented by mobilizing the forces of the people?”137 The authors then proceeded to examine Japanese history between 1925 and 1945 (the chapter on the postwar period was inserted as an appendix) in a critical light. Shoµwashi was a political social history that accorded economic and social processes considerable influence. The thrust of their argument was that the war was an expression of the crisis of Japanese capitalism; the Japanese people had been unable to put up an adequate resistance to the oppression of the bourgeois ruling class and thus had been bullied into waging an imperialist war. Numerous aspects of the Marxist interpretation of contemporary history are discussed in the previous chapter and do not need reexamination here. We therefore mainly look at the controversy sparked by Shoµwashi, whose contours vividly illustrate the conflicts within the Japanese historical profession. The massive criticism arising soon after the book appeared found its most emphatic expression in the writings of Kamei Katsuichirom. Kamei criticized the way that Tomyama, Imai, and Fujiwara essentially depicted the war era in the same way as the wartime nationalist historians (koµkoku shikan) had done, whom the Marxists claimed to reject. The nationalists, he continued, had divided historical personalities into “loyal servants” and “rebels,” thus handing out scorecards for judging how they stood on the national issue. “But the evaluation of history underwent a change along with the lost war,” Kamei argued. “What I found particularly disturbing was the fact that this revolutionary tribunal against the historical players was conducted without any restraint. The previous ‘loyal servants’ were eliminated and the ‘rebels’ were transformed into heroes.” Thus the Marxist revision of the historical conception led to an inversion of the scorecards, to an “exchange of persons.” Historical materialism had merely “replaced the ‘loyal servants’ and the ‘rebels’ with the idea of ‘reaction’ and ‘progress.’ ”138

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Criticism was thus first aimed at the authors’ simplistic, politically motivated “settling of scores” with Japan’s national history. Kamei (1907–66) himself was not a historian, and he was no Marxist. At least, he was so no longer. He had come into contact with Marxism during his studies at the University of Tokyo starting in 1926, and he had joined a number of more or less Marxist groups. After his arrest in 1928, he spent more than two years in prison and was allowed to leave only after he promised to abandon all political activity. Against the background of this police pressure and the transformed political situation, Kamei distanced himself from Marxism in the early 1930s and turned to nationalist ideologies. Kamei, who was one of his country’s best-known literary critics, propagated the notion of “cultural Pan-Asianism” during the war. He was one of the participants in the notorious conference “Overcoming Modernity,” which in 1942 demanded the substitution of Western modernity with a “New World Order.”139 It is important to note that the controversy began not with the criticism of a historian but with an intervention from outside the profession. This mechanism was typical for the conservative and largely nationalist opposition that began making itself felt—although hesitantly at first—in the mid-1950s. Nor was the timing of this attack entirely arbitrary. After all, in intellectual discourse the years 1955–56 represented a profound break: for the first time the dominance of Marxism—particularly in historiography—was being challenged on a broad front. In other respects as well, these years were perceived as a caesura: in 1955 the phase of rapid growth began, lasting until 1973. In the same year, the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) united the factions at the conservative end of the political spectrum and established a political monopoly broken only in 1993. Both in economic and political terms, the year 1955 was devoted to laying tracks that would remain in place for many years. In 1956 the government declared the postwar period at an end (mohaya sengo dewa nai), as the economy once again reached the levels of the prewar period. The major cultural journals also devoted special issues to the end of the postwar period. Just as important, however, was the inner crisis of Japanese Marxism, which also came to a head in the mid-1950s. In its 1951 platform, the Communist Party described Japan as a quasi-colony dependent on the United States and lashed out at its semifeudal social structures. But as Japan swiftly developed into an economic powerhouse, this radical point of view lost plausibility, and in 1955 the party recognized the need for a drastic course correction. At the legendary Sixth Party Congress (Roku zenkyom) in July 1955, delegates condemned the party’s left-wing sectarianism and submitted the party’s policies of past years to a fundamental self-criticism. This was not without effect on Marxist historiography, which had maintained a close

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relationship with the Communist Party (numerous koµzaha historians were members) and was now plunged into a slough of self-doubt. The Hungarian Uprising of 1956 and the criticism of Stalin expressed at the Twentieth Party Congress of the CPSU that same year combined to make the dilemma of Marxist historiography a veritable identity crisis.140 In more general terms, the Shoµwashi controversy was part and parcel of the global critique of Marxist orthodoxy, and the debate had thus a number of commonalities, political and theoretical, with the New Left movements in Europe and the United States and their rejection of dogmatic Marxism. Fish and Vegetables: The Shomwashi Controversy It is against this background that one must view Kamei Katsuichirom’s criticism of The History of the Shoµwa Era, which several other historians subsequently joined. This political context gave the debate its unique momentum; this was, incidentally, about the same time that Marxist history textbooks began to be censored. The criticism had a variety of focal points, but the common denominator—showing clear parallels to the debates in West Germany—was the issue of the relationship between structure and experience. This was the framework in which questions of presentation, the dynamics of the class struggle, the relationship of base to superstructure, and the role of the individual were discussed.141 Kamei’s criticism was first aimed at the narrative weaknesses of Marxist historiography. “When I recently read the book Shoµwashi, I nearly choked on its bad style. My first impression was that it was a high school term paper. And any high school student could write this way if he were given a certain quantity of sources and the necessary instructions. . . . The text basically reads like a courtroom transcript. It is written in typical bureaucratic style. But historians—no less than authors—must have a good style.”142 This accusation reflected not only the critical stance a literary scholar might hold toward historiography but also the reservations traditional historians had about a historical analysis based on the social sciences. Individual events, Kamei feared, were at risk of disappearing behind the anonymous language of historical materialism. However, the koµzaha historians were primarily concerned not with the narrative embellishment of individual events and persons, but rather with the clarification of collective processes—as became clear in Inoue Kiyoshi’s response: “Historical science and literature have different ways of talking about human beings. But the individual person does not create the history of the class society. . . . This is done by the class conflicts in which the contradictions of the productive forces and productive relations find their human and subjective expression.”143

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The History of the Shoµwa Era was driven by the dialectics of class conflict. Its momentum arose from the way it described the contrast between the “dominant” and “suppressed” classes. Kamei, however, charged that, as a result of the prerogative of structures, the Japanese people (kokumin) virtually disappeared. This was particularly clear, he said, in the treatment of the war’s causes: “When one reads the book Shoµwashi, one discovers only soldiers, politicians, and entrepreneurs who wanted to impose the war with violent means, and then on the other side the Communists and liberals, who resisted them; but the people, who swing from one pole to the other, are nowhere to be seen.” According to Kamei, one could not claim that the war was simply forced onto the entire Japanese people. Instead, the Japanese people had harbored anti-Chinese resentments since the nineteenth century, which contributed considerably to their willingness to invade China.144 But for Inoue Kiyoshi, who defended the book in the journal Rekishigaku kenkyuµ, the mouthpiece of the koµzaha Marxists, the Japanese people ’s hatred of China only underscored the power of class conflict, beyond the intentions and individual prejudices of the historical actors. “In the last instance, Kamei is insisting we write that the national character demanded the war—and not that the people gave in. . . . He finally ends by saying that the guilt of the ruling class dissolves in the guilt of the common people. If you ignore the class structure of history, that’s the result you get.” However, the national character Kamei was speaking about was not an ahistorical essence, Inoue held, but rather was itself the product of history, and that meant the history of class struggle. “The contempt of the Chinese had been implanted in the Japanese by the ruling class since the Meiji era.”145 If one viewed the war in China as essentially a product of Japanese class antagonisms, the question was to what extent agency and political decision making played a role at all. The charge laid against the authors of Shoµwashi was that they had reduced politics to an effect of the socioeconomic base. This was an accusation that earlier had been expressed by Maruyama Masao, by OMtsuka Hisao, and by the political scientist Ishida Takeshi. In the controversy over the book Shoµwashi, it was above all the European historian Shinohara Hajime of the University of Tokyo who made a case for the autonomy of the political. Contemporary history, he argued, was not the mere effect of a determining social structure, but rather was concerned with the interdependencies of structure and politics. “From this standpoint, historical events do not result from the arbitrary decisions of a handful of politicians, nor only as simple reflexes of the socioeconomic base.” The goal of historiography, he urged, must lie in paying attention to the interactions of both spheres.146

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Finally, the most strident criticism was the claim that Shoµwashi had effectively abolished human beings. This fundamental charge encompassed most other points of criticism, even if they were discussed separately as well. “While the history books before the war . . . placed the emphasis of their narrative on the activities of ‘great’ politicians who stood at the pinnacle of the political decision-making process,” wrote Shinohara Hajime, “people now criticize the way human beings have been submerged in the political and economic structures and are no longer to be seen.”147 The thesis of the absence of human beings (ningen fuzai) was thus concerned with the ubiquity of structural categories that did not simply restrict the agency of the individual but rather eliminated it altogether. For Kamei Katsuichirom this represented the central weakness of Marxist historiography as a whole, and his criticism of Shoµwashi was simultaneously a devastating critique of the paradigm of historical materialism. “History is the history of people. That is obvious. . . . Climbing into history means stepping inside various people at the risk of being led around by the nose. Is not part of the charm of writing history to be found in the fact that one recognizes all kinds of contradictions and cannot be certain of oneself at the moment of passing judgment? And is it not true that both ultranationalist [koµkoku shikan] and Marxist historiography is flooding us with a history in which this uncertainty no longer exists?”148 Kamei took a stand against the determining power of structures—against what Gerhard Ritter and Werner Conze called sociologism—and insisted on the historian’s task of placing that which is individual and atypical into the center of his or her studies. He challenged historians to empathize with individuals of the past, to abandon the judgments and measures of the present, and to do justice to the players in their own time. “That is extremely difficult, but the ability to see people within the context of their own time is one of the conditions that decide a historian’s quality.”149 The majority of the historians involved in the debate, however, agreed that the growth of structural elements typical of modern society made a structural historical approach necessary and inevitable. The dynamics of mass societies with their anonymous processes limited the sovereign individual’s freedom of action and could no longer be understood without resorting to abstract structural categories. Contemporary history as a special period demanded recourse to structural history. Strange as it might seem, in some cases historians even blamed the national characteristics of Japanese contemporary history—and not the general structure of modern society—for the way the person-oriented, individualizing method had met its limits. According to this view, not modernity but rather uniquely Japanese cultural char-

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acteristics rendered a “history of great men” difficult: “As a result of the systematic irresponsibility of Japanese policies before 1945, the cretinism of Japanese politicians, and in addition, the lack of trustworthy biographical studies, it is naturally much harder to outline the personalities of politicians than in other countries.”150 By contrast, the koµzaha historians touted their own understanding of history, which they cast in the objectified language of structural concepts. They held it to be the key to understanding not only the modern age and Japan but every place and epoch in human history. The task of the historian, they claimed, lay in transcending the opinions and notions of the historical actors. “There is no doubt that there is a deep gulf between comprehensive, objective history and personal experience,” Tomyama Shigeki (one of the authors of Shoµwashi) emphasized.151 Inoue Kiyoshi made a systematic distinction between the Marxist notion of history and what he considered obsolete, bourgeois historism. “Kamei and I place different demands on historiography, and that is why we fail to understand each other.” Whereas Kamei was interested in the ambivalence an observer encountered in the evaluation of an individual, Inoue asked about “the laws of social development; . . . the objective conditions for a transformation of the current Japanese society; . . . the location of the subject of this transformation; [and] the underlying contradictions, but not in order to feel uncertainty in the face of these contradictions, but rather to solve them.” In a word, the function entrusted to the historian was entirely different in Kamei’s view, and that is why he could never find what he was looking for in Marxist historiography. Thus his criticism arose from “nothing more than the dissatisfaction one experiences when one tries to buy vegetables in a fish shop.”152 Marxist Self-Criticism The pivotal question of these various critiques centered on the compatibility of structural processes, which could operate behind the players’ backs, with personal experience. As in West German debates on the possibilities and limits of structural history, the Shoµwashi controversy was essentially understood as a confrontation between the historist paradigm of understanding through vicarious empathetic experience and the social historical claim to explanation, as it was particularly represented by the koµzaha (but also by “modernists” such as OMtsuka Hisao and Maruyama Masao). The negotiation of individual actions and the power of structures was the central problematic of this battle. Whether one claimed to see the “swinging” of the people between the poles of war enthusiasm and resistance, whether one demanded the autonomy of politics vis-à-vis the socioeconomic base, or whether one ultimately lamented the “absence of human beings,” the basic point was always the retrieval of human “freedom” from the

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realm of necessity. The criticism of The History of the Shoµwa Era was a plea for the freedom of the individual beyond the dominance of social structures. In this book, Kamei said, “the strength with which individual persons are sketched is extraordinarily weak. While, for example, Tanaka Giichi, Konoe Fumimaro, and Tomjom Hideki appear as representative types of an epoch, there is a complete lack of interest in their . . . untypical qualities and their subtle transformations. . . . In this way, the subject of the narrative dies.”153 There is no doubt that koµzaha historiography did not always resist the temptations of standardized vulgar Marxism. The dialectic of base and superstructure, as well as the tenet that there were preset stages of historical development, was often used in downright mechanistic patterns (and with growing dogmatism), with the result that the source material was merely squeezed into preformed molds. Under the dictates of Marxist orthodoxy, the socioeconomic processes assumed an interpretive dominance. Any form of action, let alone culture and mentalities, became mere products of an economic determinism. The criticism of this economistically biased, overstructuralized model of historical development was thus not entirely unjustified, and even numerous Marxist historians conceded that historical materialist discourse had become a bit stiff in the joints. In addition, Japanese Marxism had been in a political crisis since the mid1950s and was thus extraordinarily vulnerable to public criticism. In order to regain some of its interpretational flexibility, an intensive round of methodological critique began within the scientific community of koµzaha historians. For instance, in October 1958 the professional journal Rekishigaku kenkyuµ published a roundtable discussion titled “History and Man: On Problems of Contemporary History.” As early as 1957 the Marxist historians’ association Rekishigaku kenkyumkai chose for its annual conference the topic “methods of postwar historiography: a selfcriticism,” which was symptomatic of the overall insecurity that koµzaha historians felt.154 This malaise was also evident in Inoue Kiyoshi’s first public self-criticism. Kiyoshi published a fundamental critique of the determinism within the Japanese version of historical materialism. His point of departure was a comment by Lenin from 1917 in which the Russian leader stated his conviction that he himself would not live long enough to experience the revolution. In this uncertainty in predicting the future, in even predicting the revolution, Inoue recognized the fundamental precondition of any social analysis. Thus one must not—as was so characteristic of much of koµzaha historiography—directly deduce the chances of revolution or political upheaval from economic conditions (or, as it were, from the program

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of the Communist Party). Inoue admitted that his own works in contemporary history, as well as The History of the Shoµwa Era, suffered from “this scholarly and political weakness,” for which he blamed “insufficient scholarly courage.”155 Above all, the Marxist laws of world history must not be applied mechanistically; historians must give greater credence to the ambiguities and unpredictability of the political sphere.156 Tomyama Shigeki responded to the criticism by conceding that the omnipotence of economic structures was restricted by the free space in which political actions could take place.157 The massive criticism and above all the self-critical reactions on the part of the koµzaha historians eventually culminated in a complete reworking of The History of the Shoµwa Era. Tomyama, Imai, and Fujiwara published The Revised Version of the History of the Shoµwa Era (Shoµwashi shinpan) in 1959, taking into consideration numerous suggestions and points of criticism. The analysis this time began not with the Shomwa era in 1926 but before the First World War. Specifically, it granted greater significance to the dynamics of political processes and also to conflicts and strategies within the political classes. After all, the authors stated in their foreword, “the need to achieve a substantial understanding of politics is painfully obvious.”158 These course corrections demonstrated the increased status of agency and the phenomena of “superstructure” in Marxist historiography. Not least, this shift in focus expressed itself, as we have discussed, in the way the category of the nation was rehabilitated in Marxist circles. The partial withdrawal from the dogmatism of Marxist laws of development and the mechanics of base and superstructure was aimed at dissolving the already ossified structures of the postwar historical establishment and at bestowing koµzaha historiography with a new flexibility.159 But for many historians of the younger generation, the controversy revealed the limits of Marxist historical studies as a whole. This challenge to the koµzaha orthodoxy, as expressed symbolically in the revised version of The History of the Shoµwa Era, marked the beginning of a secessionist movement among left-wing critical historians. In concert with the failure of the protests against the security treaty with America in 1960, which had once again mobilized the public, the Shoµwashi controversy marked the beginning of Marxist history’s gradual loss of influence, a decay that essentially continued into the 1990s. Alongside conservative political history, a “history from below” (minshuµshi) emerged in the 1960s. It was inspired by Marxism, but at the same time aimed against the koµzaha establishment and emphasized the perspective of the historical actors and the agency of “simple people.” It can

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thus be seen as a direct reaction to the Shoµwashi controversy.160 These developments underscore the significance of the controversy and, at the same time, the importance accorded the methodological question of how to negotiate between social structures and the intentions of individual actors. Criticism of Marxist historiography was primarily aimed at its comprehensive concept of structure.161

CONCLUSION At almost the same time that the debate over contemporary and structural history flared up in Germany, particularly surrounding Bracher’s Dissolution of the Weimar Republic and Werner Conze ’s essay in the mid-1950s, a bitter controversy arose in Japan over the status of structure and agency in contemporary history. However, the importance of the two debates differed greatly: in the Federal Republic the discussions remained limited to a small group of historians, while the late historist consensus of the majority was hardly challenged. To the methodologically and politically conservative majority, structural history was always a marginal phenomenon. Thus it should hardly surprise us that Karl Dietrich Bracher was never offered a German professorial chair in history.162 The version of structural history propagated by Werner Conze and Theodor Schieder showed greater longterm effects within the discipline. However, it was not until social history took off in the late 1960s that the earlier debates on structural history were accorded significance retrospectively as part of the genealogy of social history. In the 1950s the challenge of structural history had not yet polarized the profession, but rather remained restricted to the periphery of the discipline. By contrast, the controversy over the book Shoµwashi was of central significance for the Japanese historical profession. In its bitterness and long-term effects, the Shoµwashi controversy more resembled the German Fischer controversy at the start of the 1960s. Within the framework of these debates, the bastions of koµzaha Marxism, which had held sway in its vulgarized form over historical studies, were finally razed. For many of those young historians who abandoned Marxism in the course of the 1960s, the Shoµwashi controversy shook the foundations of the Marxist paradigm for the first time. The two debates may be read as mirror images of one another: whereas in the Federal Republic a handful of outsiders tried to assert structural history against the resistance of methodological traditionalism, in Japan (Marxist) structural history had been firmly established after 1945 and was now in turn under siege from a historist political history, which since the war had been driven into a corner.

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In the Federal Republic, the new discipline of contemporary history represented a sort of academic biotope within which structural historical approaches could thrive. This unique constellation did not actually create structural history, but it did ease its integration into the mainstream. In its original form, structural history appeared to be more or less restricted to contemporary history. Thus its reception in the early Federal Republic was not so much the expression of disciplinary “progress,” though this has been the usual assumption in a historiography that privileges questions of method but detaches these “methods” from both the content and specific context of history writing. Rather, structural history’s favorable reception was the product of a specific situation: in the postwar period the dominant interpretation of recent German history and the challenge of structural history appeared to complement each other in subtle ways. Aside from these differences, the debates in the Federal Republic and Japan revolved around the conceptualization of “structure.” In the Japanese Shoµwashi controversy, Marxist structural functionalism and a historist understanding of the individual confronted each another. Koµzaha Marxism fell back on a functional notion of structure in which human actions scarcely registered; Kamei and other critics of the Shoµwashi underscored the individual’s freedom of action, which was not entirely determined by structures. The form of structural history proposed by Werner Conze and Theodor Schieder in Germany operated with a notion of structure conceived as an add-on, an appendix. Structures and free spaces occupied by acting subjects, one might say, stood side by side unmediated. To be sure, there were huge gaps between the historist and structuralist camps, and sometimes within them, too. All these differences notwithstanding, however, we can see a set of shared assumptions that bridged the competing positions. All participants in the debate on structure and agency based their methodological arguments on an ontology that broke down reality into mutually exclusive spheres. Structures accordingly were understood as processes of “the base,” which granted individuals no (koµzaha), limited (Schieder), or considerable (Kamei) range of action. This rigid opposition of structure and agency as segmented spheres of reality appeared to justify different, even contradictory methodologies—the social scientific analysis of structures as well as empathy toward the acting subjects. In this way, structure and agency were constructed as binary opposites that kept recurring in the guise of necessity versus freedom, alienated masses versus ingenious personality, of socioeconomic conditions versus autonomous subject. The mutual exclusiveness of these concepts precluded acknowledging the structuring power of discursive formations—which were instead viewed as either

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economically predetermined or, on the other hand, as independent of structure (as the product of the free intentions of sovereign subjects). This led to an essentialization of socioeconomic structures on the one hand and the autonomous subject on the other, stimulating endless debates on a priori and derivative phenomena, on hierarchies and priorities, on the primacy of “inside” and “outside.”

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chapter f ive

. The Temporalization of Space Germany and Japan between East and West

A critique could be carried out of this devaluation of space that has prevailed for generations. Did it start with Bergson, or before? Space was treated as the dead, the fixed, the undialectical, the immobile. Time, on the contrary, was richness, fecundity, life, dialectic. MICHEL FOUCAULT, Questions on Geography, 70

Ienaga Saburom, historian at the Pedagogical University (Kyomiku daigaku) in Tokyo, opened his New History of Japan, published in 1947, with a color reproduction of a world map from the seventeenth century. In the period of the Tokugawa Shogunate “the Japanese people directed its gaze at the world for the very first time,”1 Ienaga explained, simultaneously intimating the need to return to this perspective in the postwar period. His placement of the world map at such a prominent place suggested that now Japanese history, too, could be viewed from no other perspective than that of world history. The situation was very similar for many German historians after the war. For Gerhard Ritter, “in world historical terms . . . the epoch of the European state system and the national unification movement was . . . over. . . . The scene of great politics expanded into a global dimension: from the system of the European pentarchy to the system of world powers, from national politics to world politics.”2 The plea for a world-historical perspective was widespread in postwar German and Japanese historiography. However, this demand was usually linked less to a geographical expansion of scholarly range than to the integration of history into a universal historical process. Unlikely as it may seem, the appeal to world history emphasized not a spatial but rather a temporal category. The underlying periodization could assume very different forms. For the Japanese Marxists it meant the laws of developmental stages, which pointed all nations toward modernity; for the conservative Ritter, an “Iron Age” had begun that was informed by the conflict

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between two hegemonic powers. But in both cases it appeared evident that each nation now had to submit to general historical laws—in the face of which only setbacks (Ritter’s view of the Third Reich) or delays (as Japanese Marxists viewed the modern history of their country) were possible. This emphasis on a uniform historical time was tantamount to disdain for geographical differences. The majority of historians no longer wished to refer to separate, unique developments, as propagated by the authoritarian regimes in Germany and Japan in the 1930s and 1940s. Even though it might seem paradoxical to announce the prerogative of time over space in the form of a world map—that is, with a decidedly geographical representation of the world—Japan’s peculiarities were now viewed merely as the result of backwardness and no longer, as before 1945, as the point of departure for visions of an alternative geopolitical hegemony. Consequently, on Ienaga’s world map, Japan was to be found on the outer margin because now, following their defeat, “the Japanese knew their country’s position in the world.”3 While thus differing from older, Nipponocentric cartographic conventions, however, even his new world map could not do without a center; and this center no longer lay in Japan, but in Western Europe. Even though historiography often concentrates on the history of one ’s own nation, it is only by locating a country’s history within larger frameworks that the nation’s past is endowed with historical significance. Explicitly and often only implicitly, German and Japanese historians situated their country’s history within the broader context of European, Asian, or world history. Different strategies were employed here. On the one hand, the nation’s history could be integrated into larger wholes such as Occidental, Asian or Western history (for example, German history as European history). On the other hand, the evaluation of national history depended on what happened elsewhere and thus required knowledge of what could be viewed as the norm and model, as an achievement or a setback (as in the case of Japanese history as a “deviant path”). Also, the nation’s past was unintelligible without relating it to what happened beyond its borders. Notions of the national Self depended on the differential positioning vis-à-vis its Others and was defined ex negativo through a chain of exclusions within a framework of binary opposites. The concept of Japan, for example, was interrelated with notions of “China,” “Asia,” or “the West” through a logic of difference. Thus, the history of Asia (toµyoµshi) and the West (seiyoµshi), institutionalized in departments separate from Japanese history, also contributed to the historiographical production of “Japan.”4

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Such discursive effects were often unintended. Indeed, the underlying geographical categories (such as East or West) were typically viewed as neutral terms, as empty stages on which historical events happened. Geography was viewed by most historians as a stable network of coordinates that ordered reality and structured analysis without in any way influencing the course of inquiry. But even these supposedly purely descriptive concepts were charged with meaning. Apparently transhistorical subjects like “Japan” and “Germany,” “West” and “East” were not unchangeable and were continually modified in each interpretation. In this way historiography contributed to the transformation of central categories while providing them with the legitimating guise of historical duration. The loading of geographical categories with historical meaning may be understood as analogous to a pattern that Edward Said famously described as Orientalism. Said’s term refers to a discursive construction of the Orient set in opposition to a superior West. As an integral component of imperialist power relations in the nineteenth century, this discourse reduced the Orient to the status of a passive object and treated it as part of European prehistory. In this imagined geography, the image of the Orient not only reflected an existing reality but also provided an essential contribution to its construction. For Said, it was essential not to view Orientalism merely as the result of rhetorics. Instead, he followed Foucault in describing it as a discursive formation, anchored in institutional practices and power relations. This notion of discourse thus explicitly encompasses the level of social and political practice. In this interplay, the “Orient” is thematized and in the process constituted in a specific way; at the same time, boundaries are defined, creating a discursive space within which discussion of this object is henceforth confined. Understood in this way, Orientalism is a mechanism that influenced the perception and construction of the Other far beyond Europe ’s relationship to the Near East (Said’s subject of study). A closer look at German and Japanese historiography, too, reveals a wealth of discursive tropes that betray an Orientalist logic. For example, historians in both countries produced their own constructions of “the East,” often with explicitly Orientalist features. In a similar vein, one could describe the idealized historiography of “the West,” such as that practiced in Japan after 1945, as “Occidentalism.” Here, too, the political imbalance was transformed into an image of the West that institutionalized this asymmetry and was treated as a virtually immutable transhistorical essence.5 The many studies of Orientalist patterns of argumentation have mainly been concerned with the period of European imperialism (and, at that, mainly in literature); their persistence in postwar scholarship has rarely been studied.6 But

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as becomes clear in the following, the modernist historiography of the postwar period, which explicitly proclaimed the rejection of the imperialist historiography of the war years, continued to operate within an Orientalist discourse. Sometimes this is evident in an openly derogatory characterization of the Other. But more important was a theoretical construction permitting the incorporation of cultural stereotypes into the allegedly neutral, universal system of scholarship. The attribution of identities within the language of scholarship followed a mechanism that I propose to understand as a temporalization of space. “Temporalization of space” refers to a mode of explanation that conceives of the difference between two phenomena as a temporal gap. In this way, historiography reduces the problem of space to the category of time. Spatial difference rarely entered historical discourse, and then only indirectly. It was usually provided with a temporal index, making it possible to study nations and their history on a timeline of historical development. Political-military and economic inferiority was defined as temporal backwardness, and a feeling of superiority was rationalized as modernity and progressiveness. All differences could be traced to the problem of different velocities within a scheme of unidirectional development. Space—whether understood as cultural space or a specific area on the map—largely disappeared as a category. Consciously rejecting an essentializing rhetoric considered full of racist assumptions, the strategy of temporalizing space permitted an apparently neutral, nonpartisan analysis of historical processes. Not an unchanging national character but merely the “delayed” moment of “takeoff ” on the common path to modernity seemed now responsible for unequal development. An entire rhetorical arsenal including “latecomer,” “backwardness,” and “synchronicity of the nonsynchronous” transformed historical study into chronometry and replaced the old vocabulary of importation, influence, and imitation. Political-economic differences were thus stripped of their geographical components and described as conflicts between the future and the past. One of the effects of this interpretive scheme was to conceive of the postwar nation on the basis of an erasure of empire. Both in Germany and in Japan, postwar recovery was predicated upon a virtual amnesia about the imperial past. Coming to terms with the recent history of internal repression and outward conquest was typically conducted with a focus on internal social conflicts, not on imperialism in Ukraine or Manchuria. Put in general terms, the hegemony of the paradigm of national history that I trace throughout this book served as the epistemological framework of the postwar nation in the wake of an unacknowledged loss of empire. The concepts of East and West, too, were mostly stripped of their con-

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crete geographic connotations. Thus, postwar historiography tended to erase links to concrete territorial conquest and the experience of domination, and instead employed spatial references as abstract markers of progress and backwardness.

THE WEST “the west” in japanese historiography In his memoirs, Irokawa Daikichi, who had been the figurehead of history from below (minshuµshi) since the 1960s and who later became one of Japan’s best-known historians abroad, recorded a succinct impression of the immediate postwar period. At that time there were frequent exhibitions in the National Museum in [the Tokyo district of] Ueno. When, for example, we went to exhibitions of great European masters, to Cezanne, Van Gogh, or Rouault exhibits, we really stood riveted in front of the pictures. It was not so important whether the works of Cezanne, Van Gogh, or Rouault were great art. When I stood in front of these pictures and admired the modern flair and energy of civil society, freedom, and cool human relations that these pictures exuded, I, as a Japanese standing in front of them, felt like a somehow obtuse, powerless, premodern being. The deep gap that lay between this world of pictures and the reality of the Japanese standing in front of them nearly drove me to despair.7

This admiration for European modernity not only reflected the aesthetic taste of Tokyo intellectuals but was also characteristic of the gaze that postwar Japanese society directed toward the West. Among historians, preoccupation with Europe was an important element in the quest to find explanations for the failures of the recent past and also a guidepost for Japan’s future development. European history played a double role in historiography: on the one hand, it was explicitly researched and taught in the departments of Western history (seiyoµshi). German, English, and French histories were the principle components of this inquiry into European history. Beyond that, a theoretical essence of Western history was also an implicit component of most interpretations of Japanese history. The terms and concepts as well as the presupposed caesuras and stages of development corresponded to expectations based on a particular interpretation of the European past. In this respect, the West continued to serve as a model for Japanese history.8 Like Japanese historiography in general, European studies in Japan also underwent great changes after 1945. After the war it was above all the group surrounding OMtsuka Hisao of the University of Tokyo that dominated Japanese history

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writing about England, France, and Germany. For historians in OMtsuka’s tradition, the intensive study of eighteenth-century Europe was not an end in itself but was also intended to provide a yardstick for the future development of Japanese society. In their view, European, particularly English, history embodied an international historical norm that Japan may have failed to achieve but that it sought to emulate. Thus the transition from feudalism to bourgeois society was understood as a universal process that every nation necessarily would undergo. This implied that an analysis of the French Revolution, for example, enabled the historian to draw conclusions about Japanese society as well. In this way, Japan regularly figured as a subtext in the interpretation of European history. The France specialist Takahashi Komhachirom, who worked closely with OMtsuka in Tokyo, emphasized this aspect in the introduction to his volume on European economic history, published in 1947. The goal of these studies, he wrote, was to examine “the development of the structures of the modern world in Western Europe,” for they embodied “the stages of development of world history in their ‘pure, classical’ form.” The object of interest was not Europe itself but rather the conclusions to be drawn for Japanese society. “Even if this is only a hypothesis at present, we can nevertheless say that from the perspective of classical European development we can deduce a new point of view for the analysis of Japanese society as well.” Therefore, through his research into French history, Takahashi claimed to provide “an analysis of the concrete conditions under which Japan can properly and correctly embark on the path laid out for it by world history.”9 Looking at Europe as a way of looking into the future—that had been the basic perspective of Japanese historiography ever since the Meiji Restoration. The cultural slogan of the 1870s was bunmei kaika, which is often translated as “civilization and enlightenment,” and it called for the adoption of Western culture and institutions. The view of history reflected in the texts of this period was likewise based on the notion of a uniform modern era that would now reach Japan as the first Asian country. In this context, the Japanese developed a Whig history of their own whereby they conceived of all of Japanese history as a struggle for increased freedom, popular rights, and a liberal state. The so-called enlightenment history of such authors as Fukuzawa Yukichi, Taguchi Ukichi, and Tokutomi Sohom interpreted the Meiji Restoration as a decisive if still insufficient step on the path to the ideal society already realized in Europe. This historical understanding, also characteristic of Marxist thought since the 1920s, was based on an idealization of the West and the will to transform Japanese society accordingly. Fukuzawa (1835– 1901), one of the most important historical thinkers in this phase before the insti-

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tutionalization of historical studies, encapsulated this self-understanding in the famous formula datsua-nyuµoµ: he thus postulated the “departure from Asia” and the “submersion in Europe.”10 The notion of the West as a model not only structured the interpretation of world history but was also manifest in the institutions of academic history. Symptomatically, within the history faculty that was founded at the University of Tokyo in 1887, Japanese history was not a subject of research; instead the institutionalization of historiography began with a department entirely dedicated to European history. It was only a few years later that separate departments for Japanese history (1889) and for the history of the Orient (1902) were established. This tripartite division of the history departments according to geographical criteria has survived to the present day and remains a special characteristic of Japanese historiography.11 But in the 1880s, the academic subject of history exclusively referred to studying the European past. Ludwig Riess (1861–1928), who traveled from Berlin to the University of Tokyo in the service of the Japanese government, had introduced the modern discipline of history—that is, historical studies operating under the ideological and methodological premises of German historism. Riess himself lectured in English and addressed questions of historical methodology in the spirit of Droysen, universal history after the model of Ranke ’s World History, and English constitutional history. In his seminars he trained Japan’s first generation of European experts, but also a few future historians of Asia. In the history of Japan, domestic traditions were maintained for a time; but by the time Riess’s students Kuroita Katsumi (1874–1946) and Tsuji Zennosuke (1877–1955) were called to professorial chairs in the department of Japanese history in the 1920s, the methodological and ideological apparatus of historism had asserted itself throughout Japanese historical studies.12 This historist tradition, known in Japan as academic historiography, was influenced by the bourgeois-liberal credo of the organic development of nation-states. From this perspective, the European nations had already organized themselves into modern states and thus provided a model for the young nations of Asia. In a general way, Europe seemed to embody the future that Asia still had before it. According to this view, history writing about Europe had the function of describing models and paradigms that Japan could import and emulate.13 Against this conception of history characteristic of academic historism, Marxist historiography, which had been growing in influence since the 1930s, represented a significant shift in perspective. For historical materialism, the true future, the socialist utopia, lay beyond Europe but was universal. Therefore the path to be taken could no longer rely on

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political and cultural imports, but rather had to be embarked upon autonomously through revolutionary surges within each individual country. According to Marxist understanding, the history of the West was itself determined by the universal laws of development; thus the European experience was not an object of emulation and imitation but merely a yardstick that helped periodize one ’s own history. The OÂtsuka School This Marxist shift of perspective was representative of historiography after 1945—even non-Marxist historiography. The historiography of the OMtsuka School, to which we now turn, grew out of a rejection of and conflict with Marxist historiography. To recall, within the context of the “controversy over Japanese capitalism,” the Marxists factions of roµnoµha and koµzaha had fought over the historical conditions of the transition from a feudal to a capitalist society. In keeping with the premises of historical materialism, this debate was largely conducted in the field of economic history. Therefore, issues such as the relations between large landholders and small tenants, rent levels, and the effects of the early-Meiji-era tax reform took center stage in lively discussions.14 It is against the background of these theoretical debates, conducted on the basis of voluminous empirical research, that one must situate the work of OMtsuka Hisao. OMtsuka (1907–96), who attended Uchimura Kanzom’s Bible courses in the late 1920s, had studied in the economics department of the University of Tokyo. From 1939 to his retirement in 1968 he taught European economic history there and was one of the central figures of the intellectual debates of the postwar period.15 OMtsuka expanded the Marxist problematic by strategically complementing it with the theoretical approaches of Max Weber. He explained the “extra-economic constraints” that the koµzaha blamed for the failure of Japanese modernization in the 1870s as remnants of a “patriarchal dominance” that had manifested itself in a particularly pronounced fashion in Asia. The Asian form of community (kyoµdoµtai), which OMtsuka saw as characterized by paternalism, stagnation, common property, and despotism, had prevented development of the kind of entrepreneurial spirit to which Weber had attributed the emergence of capitalism in Europe. This fusion of Marxist and Weberian approaches proved to be extremely fruitful and would long influence not only historical studies but also other social sciences.16 For OMtsuka, too, analysis of the transition from feudalism to capitalism was the central concern of historical research. Since Europe appeared already to have passed this threshold, the study of European history seemed to provide a convenient yardstick for measuring a Japanese development in which capitalist modernity—OMtsuka shared this conviction with the koµzaha—had not yet been achieved.

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In keeping with Marxism, he distinguished two historical paths that promised to lead to industrial capitalism: one, the development of capitalism from trade capital, had no revolutionary significance in his eyes. Trade had existed in all epochs, and the accumulation of capital in this way derived merely from profiteering and thus had no genuinely modern character. For OMtsuka, only the emergence of industrial capital in the hands of early-capitalist middle classes—the second path—promised a successful and complete transition from feudalism to capitalism.17 In his exhaustive studies of English history, OMtsuka cited the independent yeoman farmers and small craftsmen in the countryside as the driving forces behind this development. Only after these middle-class producers managed to assert themselves against the financial and trade monopoly of a class of rich merchants was the way free for development of the right to carry on business and thus for a capitalist differentiation of the middle classes into entrepreneurs and wage workers.18 However, OMtsuka was not only interested in the (Marxist) question of the historical agent of the transition from feudalism to capitalism. Instead, the psychological and cultural preconditions for the development of an entrepreneurial mentality took center stage in his argument. With Max Weber (and against Lujo Brentano) he described the development of a “professional ethic” as the precondition for a complete transition to a modern capitalist society. In his essay “Freedom and Independence” in August 1946, he illustrated this idea by using Benjamin Franklin as an example. He contrasted this modern ethic with Japanese paternalism (oyagokoro), which he described as follows: “Those who assume a leadership position above us are expected to exercise parental authority. The people, or the ‘lowers,’ are to obey this authority. The leaders who, like parents, possess this authority display ‘love and mercy’ to those beneath them, to those who obey them. In any case, according to this pattern people are treated as immature. In fact . . . being immature is even viewed as a virtue. . . . One can thus say that the people in our country possess no inner originality [ jihatsusei].”19 Thus for OMtsuka, these hierarchical structures, combined with the absence of rational forms of social solidarity, were among the cultural roots that he blamed for the distorted development of modern Japanese history. OMtsuka’s psychoeconomic history sought explanation not in the economic base but rather (in the Weberian tradition) in a superstructure phenomenon, namely, Japanese mentality structures. The survival of despotic, premodern forms of dominance was the reason why Japan could not develop an independent entrepreneurial ethic. The path out of this blind alley appeared to lie only in the adoption of the “modern type of human being” à la Franklin; that is, “inner autonomy, rationality, a consciousness of social

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solidarity, as well as . . . a realistic emphasis of economic life. . . . When a decisive portion of the people transforms itself into this ‘modern type of human being,’ modern productivity . . . will be the result, and also the endogenous development of democratic rule.”20 OMtsuka’s object of study was European, particularly Dutch and English, history; however, his texts displayed an argumentative tension that derived from the implicit contrast to Japanese development. For example, in his essay “Productive Forces in East and West,” published in the journal Chuµoµ koµron, OMtsuka examined the role of the English rural population as a driving force of capitalist development. His argument was typical of the strategy of temporalizing space. Thus, rather than painting a picture of contemporary Great Britain as a model to emulate, he compared Japanese society before 1945 with England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. He characterized both societies as feudalistic anciens régimes on the threshold of capitalism. But while the yeomen and the rural middle classes in England, with their “modern, i.e., democratic social character, . . . became the subject and agent of the modern society,” the peasant classes in Japan failed their historical task. Thus there was a clear “distinction between the agrarian productive forces in England and our country—in more general terms, between East and West”—which OMtsuka explained by referring to an entrepreneurial ethic. But in his eyes, these differences were not immutable. According to OMtsuka, there was no insuperable geographical, cultural, or even “fateful” distance between England and Japan, but merely a span of three centuries that now had to be caught up. The task, therefore, was not so much to learn from England as to accelerate, to achieve coevalness.21 Thus, this strategy of the temporalization of space possessed a clear emancipatory component. The underlying universal process of modernization applied equally to all societies. The history of nations could be reduced to a global linear-time axis. In this way, every society was given the perspective of independent development, and this development was not conceived as the result of outside intervention, but seemed to exist like a germ within every society. Differences no longer appeared as the expression of inherent deficiencies; they merely implied that the next development level had not yet been attained and that each deficit was thus only a matter of temporal backwardness. At the same time, this emancipatory approach to non-European history did not challenge—but rather reinforced—two fundamental assumptions about the nature of world-historical development. First, the argumentative and narrative model already showed the historian which way history was headed; that is, “Western” moderniza-

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tion appeared as the natural goal of non-European development, as well. Against the backdrop of the international situation following the Second World War, this assumption appeared thoroughly plausible; furthermore, it was also theoretically prefigured by the Weberian problematic (which remained fundamental for OMtsuka), namely, the question of the reasons for Europe’s uniqueness. The superiority of capitalist Western Europe was thus a historiographical premise and at the same time appeared as the telos of history. Second, this model also showed how such temporal backwardness could be caught up, independently of any empirical investigation. In the Weberian tradition OMtsuka sought and found the cause for the obvious economic and social differences in the field of culture; consequently, only modernization of culture under Western influence promised modernization of society (OMtsuka’s “modernization of the modern type of human being” [ningen ruikei no kindaika]).22 One can scarcely exaggerate the influence of the OMtsuka School on the historiography of the first postwar decade. Although established historians of a historist bent occasionally expressed reservations about the new direction, students and young scholars fell under the sway of this social-historical approach with its universalizing problematic. But these hegemonic tendencies notwithstanding, there were also movements counter to the (Tokyo) interpretation of European history, and they were largely concentrated at the University of Kyoto. These latter scholars tended to deal with European history against the backdrop of a less critical analysis of Japan’s own past. For example, Kuwabara Takeo rejected a negative evaluation of the Meiji Restoration and instead postulated its fundamental equivalency to the French Revolution. In research on England, too, historians in Kyoto tended to arrive at interpretations antagonistic toward the OMtsuka School perspective. The group around Ochi Takeomi, in particular, viewed the gentry rather than the middle classes as the motor driving the emergence of English capitalism. In contrast to OMtsuka, the comparison of English and Japanese development for Ochi was largely a matter of convergence. From his perspective, Japanese modernity was not backward but instead was on a thoroughly equal level to that of the West.23 Ochi’s and Tsunoyama’s “gentry thesis” demonstrates that the OMtsuka School’s interpretation possessed no unlimited hegemony. But particularly in the decade following the world war, the OMtsuka School’s influence (which also affected studies on Japanese history) was immense and occasionally assumed the character of orthodoxy. Irrespective of their political and interpretational differences—and this was typical for the structure of the debate—the competing participants in the discussions must be seen as actors in a shared discursive field. Both the revisionists around Ochi and the historians in the OMtsuka tradition operated within the

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framework of a common paradigm: although historians argued about the subject (shutai) of the transformation (gentry or rural middle classes), the direction of historical development as well as its turning points and general stages remained the unchallenged premises of historical inquiry. And even though the gap between Japanese and English history was measured by different yardsticks, the idealization of the English path—the hypostatizing of the West as a model—was the touchstone of all the positions in this debate. Thus despite their competing approaches, historians of the OMtsuka School after 1945 were clearly the dominant force in Japanese history writing on Europe. Alongside the two Marxist factions (roµnoµha and koµzaha), they formed a third historical school viewed both within and from without as a distinct group known as OMtsuka historiography (OÂtsuka shigaku). Corresponding to the different national paths to modernization, diverse subgroups formed within this school. English studies stood under the clear influence of OMtsuka’s work. French history and particularly the French Revolution were the territory of Takahashi Komhachirom and his disciples. Takahashi taught at the Institute for Social Science (Shakai kagaku kenkyumjo) of the University of Tokyo. He stood much closer to Marxism than did OMtsuka, and his research therefore had a much stronger economic-historical orientation. Finally, Matsuda Tomoo, who had become acquainted with OMtsuka and Takahashi in a study group at the University of Tokyo during the war, was interested in the Prussian form of capitalism and the emerging bourgeois society in Germany, whose various facets, including nineteenth-century music—he examined. The economic history of OMno Eiji also developed within this context.24 In the related social science fields, as well, the OMtsuka group attracted a whole range of confederates who, in the contemporary discussion, were referred to as modernists (kindai shugisha). Common to all of them were both the opinion that the country’s backwardness could be explained by premodern structures in Japanese culture and an emphatic call for modernity along Western lines. The political scientist Maruyama Masao, discussed earlier, explained fascism as a product of feudal remnants within the Japanese personality structure, and he emphasized in particular a specific lack of subjectivity (shutaiteki ishiki no ketsujo).25 Like OMtsuka, Maruyama postulated the emergence of a modern personality as the precondition of social modernization.26 The legal scholar Kawashima Takeyoshi, who also taught at the University of Tokyo, authored a highly influential sociological study in which he maintained that the family structure of Japanese society stood in the way of a self-generating democratization. He explicitly blamed Japan’s backwardness on the Confucian tradition and particularly the “family piety” it entailed.27

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This line of argument clearly illustrates how the questions and results of the OMtsuka School’s historiography of Europe had a wide reception and also influenced the historiography of Japanese history. As OMtsuka himself emphasized, the study of European history had a double meaning: on the one hand, it was “a contribution to the concrete understanding of ‘the West’ [seiyoµ’ no shin]”; on the other, this image of the West served as a background against which “Japanese peculiarities—that is, similarities and differences, the concrete question of whether the development of a modern capitalism, in the Western European sense, has occurred in Japan,” could be examined.28 Thus Western European modernization functioned as a norm in the evaluation of Japanese history. The assumption of universal laws of world history—one of the founding premises of early postwar historiography—implied the classification of Japanese history against the background of preexisting ruptures and stages of development. This remained unchallenged, by koµzaha, roµnoµha, and the historians influenced by OMtsuka alike, despite their differences. In this way, Japanese history was supplemented with an index deriving from a particular reading of European history. A good example is an article published in the academic journal of the University of Tokyo in 1946 in which OMtsuka Hisao expressed his enthusiasm over the “reforms that . . . we did not think possible in our wildest dreams during the ancien régime, . . . reforms that have been carried out by the [American] army of occupation.” He particularly saw the liberation of the peasants as a “splendid” achievement. To be sure, the historical significance of this remarkable event was hardly self-explanatory: “The fact that a . . . complete land reform and peasant liberation could have crucial significance for the peaceful democratic and particularly economic development of a New Japan and could function as a keystone may have been difficult to grasp.” In fact, the importance and historical function of these reforms were “surprisingly difficult . . . for us Japanese to understand,” even if “they become entirely obvious the moment we compare them to West European, that is, above all English and American, history.”29 For OMtsuka the drama being played out on the Japanese stage assumed meaning only through this European subtext. Only a reading of the European past made it possible to evaluate these seemingly disparate events. Only a comparative analysis of European history revealed that “in world historical terms, the land reform and peasant liberation are the social foundation and historical driving force behind the establishment of modern society.”30 Yet OMtsuka was not insinuating that the Japanese had to ape the European model. The example of Western history did not “force our country . . . onto a Procrustean bed” of historical development: “Japan

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is neither England nor America, nor is it France or Russia.” This differentiation, however, did not lessen the significance of the agrarian reforms as a world-historical turning point: it was a “necessary transition phase,” a “general fact” according to the laws of world history; “and in this respect there is neither East nor West.”31 These hypostatized laws of world history, however—and this was rarely reflected upon—were derived from Europe ’s historical experiences. In this way, a specific reading of Western European history served as a yardstick for the evaluation of the Japanese past. One might say, paraphrasing Dipesh Chakrabarty, that Japanese historiography thus consisted of variations on European history, albeit appropriated for strategic purposes.32

japanese encounters with “the west” The metaphorical presence of the West coincided and corresponded with the presence of the U.S. occupation in postwar Japan. In the early postwar period, a complex and highly ambivalent interplay emerged between occupation politics and historical analysis. On the one hand, occupation measures could be seen, both by Marxist and nationalist historians, as based on censorship and prescriptive forms of imperialist domination. On the other hand, the occupation was frequently understood as the incarnation of a hyperreal West, and the American reform measures were therefore regarded as steps on the path to a universal modernity. Two forms of influence can be discerned. First, a series of interventions by the occupying authorities implied an understanding of Japanese history upon which the reform policies were based. Second, U.S. policy also directly and explicitly intervened in the formation of a new, “improved” conception of Japanese history. The Notion of History in the Tokyo Trial and the Occupation Reforms After the end of the Second World War, Allied troops occupied Japan for seven years. In practice, this occupation was almost exclusively a United States affair.33 The measures carried out in this period under the U.S. General Headquarters (GHQ) not only contributed to the rapid transformation of Japan’s postwar society but also influenced Japan’s view of its past. Among all the interventions of the occupation period, the war crimes trial in Tokyo, conducted from 1946 to 1948, was of special significance. In a fashion similar to the Nuremberg Trials, an international court of law tried the defeated in the name of the “international community.” But in Japanese public opinion, the trial was largely viewed as a U.S. project. This was partly because the list of the accused was assembled with political expediencies in mind. Particularly the decision by General Douglas MacArthur to give the Japa-

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nese emperor immunity aroused the vehement opposition of the Communist Party and numerous Marxist historians.34 The view of history underlying this trial was based on a conspiracy theory that the army of occupation formulated in the first official proclamation following the end of the war: the responsibility for the aggressive expansion policy and the unleashing of the war devolved not upon the Japanese people but rather a ruling elite that had been conspiring against world peace.35 The people, as well as the emperor, were seen as having been taken hostage by a militarist clique against their will. In the Tokyo trial, the circle of defendants was restricted to twenty-eight accused parties. Concomitantly, the trial contributed to a reading of the recent Japanese past that cast it essentially in domestic terms. As suggested by the official wording of the indictment, the trial dealt with a war whose causes lay at home and could be addressed by measures of social reform: “In dealing with the period of Japanese history with which this Indictment is mainly concerned it is necessary to consider in the first place the domestic history of Japan during the same period. . . . Indeed the answers to the questions ‘Why did these things happen?’ and ‘Who were responsible for their occurrence?’ will often only be found if the contemporaneous history of Japanese domestic politics is known.” The country’s entire political structure, therefore, had to be taken into consideration if the causes of imperialism and aggression were to be identified. Upon this premise, the trial emphasized reconstructing the social militarism that had determined Japanese policy since the 1930s.36 These broad notions about the character of Japanese society and its history also provided the foundation for the elaborate reform program that U.S. occupation officers developed and attempted to execute in the ensuing years. Among other things, this agenda encompassed reforming property relations in the countryside, decentralizing and liberalizing economic activity, combating militarism in the schools and army, making fundamental changes in the educational system, and creating a democratic constitution. This laboratory experiment in fundamental social reform from the outside was based on the assumption that the entire sociopolitical makeup of Japan revealed premodern traits incompatible with a democratic society. Thus the reforms were intended to liberate the country from the historical stage of feudalism and set in motion a sustained process of social modernization. In regard to the land reform, the GHQ (on December 9, 1945) stated that its goal was “to remove economic obstacles to the revival and strengthening of democratic tendencies, establish respect for the dignity of man, and destroy the economic bondage which has enslaved the Japanese farmer for centuries of feudal oppression.”37

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The reform planners shared this thesis about feudal remnants within a premodern Japanese social structure with the Marxist historians of the koµzaha. In the view of koµzaha orthodoxy, too, the Meiji Restoration represented an incomplete, compromised transition to a modern society, and from this perspective the post-1945 social reforms functioned as a sort of belated bourgeois revolution. This consensus regarding how to evaluate Japanese history led the Communist Party to welcome the U.S. troops initially as liberators—as the executors of world-historical laws. Consequently, historians were largely enthusiastic about the democratic reform policies. However, this did not mean that they viewed the bourgeois-democratic revolution as an American gift—or as an imposition; that would have contradicted not only their national pride but also their confidence in the systematic progress of history. “There is no question,” Takahashi Komhachirom insisted, “that this agrarian reform represents a necessary result of the structural historical contradictions that were an integral component of the specific land ownership system of Japanese capitalism. Thus they cannot be explained by referring to outside pressure.” Takahashi thus framed social development as historical necessity within a national framework and resorted to an internalist narrative further corroborated by the occupation authorities’ politics of history.38 As paradoxical as they may appear at first glance, the parallels between the occupation policy and the koµzaha interpretation of history certainly did not appear out of thin air. After all, the argument of the failed revolution and a feudalisticabsolutist Japanese society had already been developed in the “controversy over Japanese capitalism” in the 1930s. These theses (themselves influenced by Western theoretical discussion, particularly in the Comintern) entered American analyses of contemporary Japan through the writings of the Canadian historian E. H. Norman. Norman (1909–57) had spent his entire youth in Japan as a missionary’s son and was one of the few Western scholars who had a fluent command of the Japanese language. He was in close contact with a number of Marxist historians, including Tsuru Shigetom and Hani Gorom, and under their influence he analyzed the results of the “controversy over Japanese capitalism” in his Japan’s Emergence as a Modern State. In Norman’s view, too, the Meiji Restoration had failed in its historic mission and had led to the development of an absolutist, fundamentally premodern society. Although this interpretation was strongly influenced by the koµzaha historians, Norman’s writings represented a principal foundation of U.S. occupation policy. In 1946 Norman himself had worked in the Far Eastern Commission in Washington, D.C., and had been heavily involved in formulating this policy.39 Here we may witness the closing of a hermeneutic circle. The historical interpretation

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of the koµzaha historians, which entered U.S. occupation policy through Norman, now appeared to have received incontrovertible confirmation in the reality of the reform measures. Since, as Marxist historiography saw it, “historical necessity” placed a bourgeois revolution in the saddle in 1945, this seemed to prove retroactively that the Meiji Restoration had failed in the task. The confrontations between koµzaha and roµnoµha (which viewed the Meiji Restoration as a successful bourgeois revolution) seemed to have been decided by history itself, regardless of the fact that the occupation reforms themselves were based on the koµzaha interpretation. As Takahashi Komhachirom emphasized, “The ‘democratic revolution’ in Japan after the war demonstrates post festum that the Meiji Restoration and its land reforms did not fulfill the historical task of a bourgeois revolution.”40 American Politics of History This mutual penetration of historical interpretation and policy manifested itself with particular clarity in the direct intrusions the occupying power made into Japanese attempts to reinterpret their own history. The U.S. measures included a detailed politics of history that used a critical image of the Japanese past to win the population’s support for a policy of profound social reform. Thus in the fall of 1945, nearly all school history texts were confiscated. From January to October 1946, history instruction was halted entirely pending the preparation of new, more “democratic” teaching materials.41 The new history books were ordered and approved by the GHQ.42 On the university level, measures included purges of academic personnel. Direct and indirect intervention by the Allies changed the composition of the historical profession and thus implicitly limited the realm of possible interpretation. But American views on the development of Japanese history were promoted not only by a restrictive policy of censure and censorship but also through a new historiography of Japan. In addition to E. H. Norman and his active involvement in the occupation, the work of the celebrated American anthropologist Ruth Benedict on the cultural structures of Japanese society was highly influential in postwar Japan. Her book The Chrysanthemum and the Sword appeared in Japanese translation in 1948, and over the ensuing four decades, it sold more than a million copies in seventy-eight editions. In 1946 Benedict, who spoke no Japanese and had spent no time whatsoever in Japan, had been asked by the U.S. Office of War Information to prepare a study of the enemy’s mentality. Her thesis on the Japanese “society of shame,” which differed from the modern social order of the West particularly through the dominance of vertical relationship patterns, corresponded to, and sometimes influenced, the image of premodern elements in Japanese culture

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as described by the historians of the OMtsuka School. For example, Kawashima Takeyoshi’s investigations of the social and mental connotations of Japanese family structure pointed to his intensive preoccupation with Benedict’s work.43 Whereas the impact of Norman’s and Benedict’s books was based on their authors’ academic prestige, the official American historiography of the Second World War took the stage with the political authority of the military victor. Thus from December 1945 to February 1946 Japanese radio, under instructions from the GHQ, broadcast a documentary series that, under the title Now It Can Be Told! was intended to acquaint the population with the American interpretation of the recent past.44 Parallel to this, from December 8 to 17, 1945, the Civil Information and Education Section of the U.S. Pacific forces printed its version of the recently ended war in all of Japan’s national newspapers. The name, duration, and evaluation of the Pacific-Asian conflict were laid out and thenceforth constituted the boundaries within which academic debates were supposed to take place. In order to avoid any misunderstandings, the text explicitly stated: “The crimes committed by the militarists . . . will be . . . documented by unimpeachable sources until the story of Japanese war guilt has been fully bared in all its details. . . . One of the most far reaching of these violations . . . has been their consistent suppression of the truth.” Occupation authorities, in other words, attempted essentially to prestructure the space within which this historical “truth” could be discussed.45 This “American” perspective on history, associated with the political and ideological prestige of the United States, thus formed one of the contexts in which interpretations of the Japanese past were situated. It also enabled historians to endow their views with additional authority, while it allowed others to blame the occupation for the perseverance of particular points of view. As late as 1968, the historian Ienaga Saburom held the occupation responsible for interpretational paradigms that had been established in the first postwar months but continued to hold sway over Japanese historiography.46 And when in November 1982 the conservative prime minister Nakasone formally called for overcoming the “historical conception of the Tokyo trial” (Toµkyoµ saiban shikan), he clearly was associating a view of history he rejected with an import from the outside.47 To be sure, this historiography à l’américaine was scarcely a monolithic block one could either join or reject. This becomes obvious when we contrast two snapshots—from the beginning and the end of the period under discussion here—of what were considered American evaluations of Japanese modernity. In the immediate postwar period the reform measures and the officially announced historical interpretation revealed considerable affinity with the interpretation of

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Marxist koµzaha historiography. As we have seen, nineteenth- and early-twentiethcentury Japanese society was characterized as premodern and dominated by feudal remnants and patriarchal social hierarchies. Comprehensive social reform was seen as essential to eliminating the “modernization brake” of the Japanese-Confucian tradition and setting democratic development in motion. By the 1960s, few traces of this axiom of the backwardness of Japanese history remained in American scholarship. On the contrary! Modernization theory began its ascent in the United States in the 1950s, and it soon took hold of the East Asia departments of the great universities. American history writing on Japan was now under the influence of this development theory (not least because of the immediate impression of Japan’s economic growth), which viewed modernization on the American-Western model as a possibility for every country. The year 1960 saw the start of what can be called a wholesale importation of modernization theory to Japanese history departments. That year, at the so-called Hakone Conference in a resort town near Tokyo, American historians attempted to convert their Japanese colleagues (including Tomyama Shigeki, Maruyama Masao, and Kawashima Takeyoshi) to the new gospel. From this perspective, Japan was no longer treated as the world’s problem child, but rather as a model for other Asian nations to follow. This example of successful modernization was primarily ascribed not to economic factors but rather to the emergence of a modernizing elite and to shrewd political decisions made at the crossroads of historical development. Increasingly, precisely those phases of Japanese development that had previously been interpreted as failures were now declared to be successes. The Meiji Restoration no longer appeared as a failed bourgeois revolution, but rather as an example of the rejection of colonialism and a successful transition to a modern industrial state. “Japanese tradition” was no longer considered to be an “obstacle” but rather a catalyst to a modernization that could stand on its own two feet.48 The systematic attempt to export the analytical paraphernalia of modernization theory to Japan had a concrete political background. In 1960, the year of the Hakone Conference, the Japanese-U.S. Security Treaty was up for renewal. This imminent event had already led to widespread violent demonstrations. Numerous Marxist historians had joined with the Communist Party in resisting a policy they viewed as an expression of renewed U.S. imperialism.49 Modernization theory, which—unlike historical materialism—elevated a nonrevolutionary modernization to the status of a historical norm, was aimed at the Marxist conception of history underlying these protests. The conference in Hakone, financed by the Ford

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and Asia foundations, was thus also an academic instrument in the service of an anticommunist East Asia policy. This meshing of scholarship and politics was further emphasized by the appointment (also in 1960) of Edwin O. Reischauer as U.S. ambassador in Tokyo. Reischauer was a Japan specialist at Harvard University and always understood his academic activities in a political sense. His interpretations of history were explicitly aimed at the Marxist preponderance in Japanese historiography. “This classical Marxism is our true foe in Japan,” he wrote. “I have never shirked from an opportunity to inflict a blow against it. Of course, one does not use such words. The words I do use are: ‘Taking on a new view of history.’ ”50 Public argumentation for this revisionist view of history continued to be one of Ambassador Reischauer’s most important activities in Tokyo in the following years.51 Thus over the different phases of the postwar period, “American” interpretations of Japanese historiography could take very different forms. Their impact was enhanced by the fact that they presented a claim to truth deriving from a characteristic blend of political and academic authority. Harry Harootunian has been outspoken in criticizing this collusion of geopolitics and scholarly influence as a new phase of imperialism and colonialism without actual territorial conquest. Modernization theory, in particular, “prompted Japanese to incorporate American expectations to fulfill a narrative about themselves, produced by others, elsewhere.” Seen this way, Japanese historiography always stood under the influence of an interpretation that had been prefabricated by someone else. As Japanese historians adopted modernization theory, they incorporated this American image of Japan and formulated it as a self-realization. “What I would like to suggest,” Harootunian declares, “is that America’s Japan became Japan’s Japan.”52 What I would like to suggest, however, is that things were more complicated. First, “American” perspectives on Japan were deeply entangled with debates among Japanese intellectuals, as I have indicated above—just as discussions among Japanese Marxists, for example, were conducted in a discursive field already permeated by the doctrines of the Comintern.53 The search for the “origins” of particular perspectives and approaches tends to gloss over the complexities of a process in which Japanese historians negotiated different strands of thought under the conditions of the U.S. occupation, but not determined by it. Second, recent scholarship has suggested that the impact of the modernization concept owed not so much to its American pedigree as to its indigenous Japanese roots. We have already discussed the work of Kuwabara Takeo and Ueyama Shumpei, who offered influential analyses of Japanese modernization long before

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Reischauer took office in Tokyo. Moreover, it is fair to say that the bulk of “progressive” Japanese scholarship after 1945—both in its Marxist and modernist garb—was framed in terms of modernization narratives. What is more, a large number of texts that proved influential for the postwar reconfiguration of history had been published, or at least written, during the war years—including ones by Hani Gorom, Shinobu Seizaburom, Ishimoda Shom, Tomma Seita, and Matsumoto Shinpachirom. The convenient and ideologically charged division between wartime and postwar scholarship thus does not hold.54 Indeed, recent studies have brought to the fore the extent to which the work of prominent postwar thinkers who symbolically stood for the clean break with a contaminated past had genealogies that intimately tied the postwar democratic departure to the wartime debates about mobilization. An interesting controversy has evolved about the question of whether the postwar theories of OMtsuka Hisao and Maruyama Masao, in particular, can be interpreted as continuous with their early and for a long time largely unacknowledged work produced under wartime conditions. In the case of Maruyama, this refers to his reservations about individualism and an autonomous notion of civil society, his embrace of the idea of social mobilization under the tutelage of the state, and his wartime nationalism. For OMtsuka, at stake is the degree to which his concepts of productivity and economic ethics were tied conceptually to the state ’s wartime demands.55 What is at issue here is not so much the unveiling of dark roots of postwar democracy—analogous to the debate about Volksgeschichte in Germany in the late 1990s. What is important, rather, is to assess the ways in which postwar notions of subjectivity, development, and modernity had a genealogy tied up with forms of social mobilization and state-led modernization during the war years, both in Japan and in Manchuria. However this issue is resolved, it is important for our purposes to recognize that the concept of modernization had Japanese roots that went back to the 1940s and cannot be reduced to an import from “the West.” To be sure, these concepts were not identical—indeed, Maruyama was one of the staunchest critics of modernization theory Reischauer style. However, competing and contested visions of modernization coexisted, and the reception that the Hakone Conference had in Japan needs to be situated within this larger context.56 Changing Conceptions of the West While “the West,” as mainly represented by the United States, thus played a palpable, if ambivalent, role in postwar politics of history, the notion of the West was transformed as well. Ever since the institutionalization of history as a scholarly discipline, the West (in the form of seiyoµshi)

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possessed an exemplary character for Japanese history and its interpretation. But the connotations of this spatial metaphor were subject to constant change. Before 1945, Germany had served as a model in both education and historiography.57 Inspired by Ludwig Riess, historians streamed to German universities to become acquainted with the customs of Western historiography. But the allure of the German example faded considerably after 1945. Many scholars explicitly blamed the “catastrophe” on Germany’s influence on prewar Japan. Yanaihara Tadao of the University of Tokyo, for example, explicitly associated different areas of society with a geographical index: “Japan developed in a German way from the point of view of government, and in British and American ways from the point of view of society.” The government, the bureaucracy, and the state universities were “German,” while the opposition, the political parties, and the private educational institutions bore an Anglo-American character. The transition from the U.S. to the German model of school education was particularly fateful, as it paved the way for an ultranational education. Japan had thus followed Germany’s “deviant path” and had inherited the consequences—fascism and defeat.58 When, after the war, scholars began to draw the obvious conclusions from this experience and founded the Institute for Social Science at the University of Tokyo as a sort of intellectual weapon against fascism, Humboldt’s university was no longer the model. The institute ’s first dean, Nanbara Shigeru, explicitly distanced himself from the pre-1945 glorification of Germany: “Social scientists had glorified Nazi Germany and had neglected the genuine power of the United States in establishing the idea of a ‘model country.’ ”59 In a word, after 1945 Germany ceased to be an unchallenged component of a West worth imitating. The West, frequently evoked as it was, was not a transcendent entity and was constantly reconfigured in the context of a transformed global context. This redefinition at times assumed marginal but nevertheless significant form: the oldest and most influential professional journal, Shigaku zasshi, responded to the changed constellation by henceforth publishing the abstracts of its articles in English instead of German.

american occupation and west german historiography Reciprocal relations between historiography and the Allied occupation characterized the relationship between historiography and politics in both Japan and Germany. In West Germany too, the Allied occupation provided one backdrop to the emergence of postwar German views of history. As in Japan, the American, British, and French presence frequently stood for modernity and suggested to some

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the direction in which future developments would lead. And in Germany, too, the catalogue of interventions by the occupation conveyed an “American” interpretation of German history that would engage historians for decades to come. In Germany, the post-1945 occupation was not an exclusively American matter as in Japan. Germany’s division into four occupation zones led to a fragmentation of cultural and reform policy, based on alternative notions of the German past. Particularly the Soviet-influenced social reforms in the Eastern zone were informed by an understanding of German history that viewed fascism as the logical consequence of German society’s authoritarian and military character. This interpretation not only served as a model for the fledgling East German historical profession but also provided a convenient target for West German historians as they developed their own master narratives. Thus from the very start, West German historiography was implicated in the growing gap between East and West. In the three Western zones too, the English, French, and American occupiers pursued independent policies that served to transmit their own interpretations of German history. Particularly in the first years of the occupation, the administrative separation of the three Western zones manifested itself in distinct cultural and educational policies.60 The first object of this unequal treatment was school history instruction, which was halted in the three zones at different times and later restarted with new and regionally distinct series of textbooks. Denazification policy also occurred with varying momentum depending on the respective occupying power. In the American zone, for example, the proportion of dismissed university professors was significantly higher than in the British and French zones.61 Direct interventions in the university system also contributed to changes in the parameters of historical studies. To be sure, university reform remained limited to a few corrective measures. This distinguished the German situation from the Japanese, whose educational landscape was deeply transformed by U.S. occupation reforms. The few reform efforts undertaken in Germany included the efforts by British occupation officers to reorganize the Technical University of Berlin, and the founding of the Institute for European History in Mainz under the influence of French cultural policy. The most momentous intervention was the founding of the Free University of Berlin under U.S. auspices in 1948 as a reaction to East German cultural policy.62 The differentiation of occupation policies clearly distinguished the situation in West Germany from the relatively homogeneous situation in Japan. Nevertheless, in Germany, U.S. occupation policy had the most sustained influence and generally informed the occupation era’s image as a whole. Particularly in educational policy and in political “reeducation” measures, American policy

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remained dominant, despite competing British and French models. By 1949 at the latest, with the introduction of the U.S. Special Projects Program, with its transzonal research funding, a uniform and U.S.-dominated policy was asserted in the Western zones.63 Impulses from the U.S. military government played a decisive role, particularly in the institutionalization of political science as well as the broad implementation of empirical research in sociology.64 As in Japan, the Allies’ interventions encompassed an entire catalog of corrective measures that were supposed to directly or indirectly inform the foundations of postwar German historiography. These included a legal reckoning with National Socialism in a series of trials, of which the Nuremberg Trials attained the greatest symbolic importance. As in the Tokyo trial, whose indictments were drafted on the Nuremberg model, a group of chief war criminals faced judgment. Like the Tokyo trial, the Nuremberg Trials can be viewed as based on a conspiracy thesis and an assumption of individual responsibility that demanded prosecutions. Accordingly, the prosecutors made a painstaking distinction between a criminal government and a fundamentally innocent people.65 At the same time, U.S. occupation policy in Germany also initiated a profound social reform whose basic thrust was negotiated between competing factions among the occupation officers.66 In the first month, punitive notions predominated, deriving from Henry Morgenthau’s concept of transforming Germany back into an agrarian state. For example, this was reflected in the image of Germany presented in the official U.S. Army newspapers published in early 1945, intended to acquaint Germans with the American interpretation of reality.67 This image of Germany, laid out in Directive JCS 1067 and conveyed to the training officers in the School for Military Government and Civil Affairs Training School, was based on the notion of a deviant historical path that had distanced Germany from the rest of Western civilization.68 By the failed revolution of 1848 at the latest, an authoritarian militarism had gained the upper hand and informed the social structures of the “delayed nation.” This early version of the negative Sonderweg thesis owed its plausibility to the academic texts of German émigrés such as Franz Neumann and Carl Schorske, whose writings played a large role in the formulation of U.S. occupation policy.69 The Émigré Perspective German émigrés like Neumann and Schorske not only contributed to the consolidation of an American image of Germany but also functioned as transmitters of this interpretation into postwar German discourse. During the 1930s a total of 134 German historians emigrated, the vast majority of them

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to the United States. Most of the émigrés represented a liberal branch of German historical studies whose proponents had already been marginalized in the Weimar Republic and were almost entirely driven from the universities during the Third Reich. Since only a small portion of them returned to Germany after 1945, it is fair to say that an entire school of historical interpretation was cut off from West German historiography.70 Only 21 such historians made their way back to German universities, including Golo Mann, Hans Rothfels, and Hans Joachim Schoeps. Some of them, particularly Hans Rothfels, played an outstanding role in the 1950s. But alongside the returnees, a whole series of historians who preferred to remain abroad nevertheless sought participation in the German discussions by periodically assuming guest professorships in Germany. During the 1950s the influence of these émigrés, who seemed to possess an authority bestowed on them by history itself, was remarkable. In certain respects they represented an American view of German history. After all, the majority of them returned to Germany from the land of the victors, and the thematic, methodological, and interpretive innovations they championed were regularly associated with the alleged U.S. origin of these approaches. The emigrant historian Hajo Holborn, for example, a former disciple of Friedrich Meinecke, ostentatiously referred to his report on the Allied occupation of postwar Germany as “An American View.”71 And in the introduction to his History of Modern Germany, he emphasized, “My transformation into an American has given me a much broader perspective on all things German.”72 To be sure, a historian’s association with “America” did not always guarantee additional prestige. When Fritz Epstein aspired to the position of director of the Munich Institute for Contemporary History, Rothfels wrote to him that the appointment of an émigré to this position would give the organization the image of a “Morgenthau Institute” and was thus out of the question.73 The implication of the association of a conception of history with “America” could thus vary. Nevertheless, this episode also demonstrated both the close identification between émigré historiography and “America” and the mechanism of a discursive overlap of scholarly and political authority. Whereas in the Federal Republic, returning émigrés brought about a change (albeit negligible) in the staffing and, to some extent, the methodological-interpretational thrust of the historical profession, in Japan, this kind of rejuvenation of historical studies “from the outside” did not take place. Regardless of the repressive measures to which oppositional scholars saw themselves exposed from the 1930s on, virtually no Japanese historians fled the country. This had to do with the character

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of the authoritarian system that established itself in Japan following the outbreak of the war in Manchuria in 1931 and that Marxist historians referred to as fascism. In contrast to Hitler’s Germany, the suppression of the opposition was not automatically equivalent to social exclusion or physical extermination. On the contrary, the strategy of the secret police (tokkoµ) was aimed at conversion (tenkoµ) of “deluded” scholars who had fallen prey to “un-Japanese” (largely Marxist) heresies, and at their gradual reintegration into the national community.74 This applied particularly to critical scholars who since the mid-1930s had been deprived of their institutional base. In fact, many Marxists bowed to this pressure and integrated and cooperated with the common national project. That is not to say, however, that everyone finally submitted. For those who refused any cooperation whatsoever, internal emigration was the most frequent form of accommodation short of abandoning one ’s convictions. For example, the Marxist historian Hattori Shisom, who had been one of the most prominent participants in the “controversy over Japanese capitalism” since the early 1930s, withdrew from the scholarly debate and survived the war as a worker in a soap factory. Hani Gorom, who spent time in prison, ceased publishing and refrained from all political activity. Another option was employment at one of the colonial research institutes on the Chinese mainland, where state control was not as rigid and where particularly Marxist scholars carved out various niches for themselves.75 Although these forms of inner emigration should not be seen as exact parallels to the geographical emigration of German historians during the Third Reich, after the war the starting points for both were similar. Both groups returned to the universities with clean gloves and could assume important positions as soon as they were deemed unsullied by nationalist involvement. Comparatively speaking, however, the influence of the Japanese Marxists was considerably greater than that of the émigrés returning to Germany. In any case, it is not possible to generalize about a German émigré historiography; the work of Hans Rosenberg and Hans Rothfels, for example, differed too greatly. Nevertheless, we can observe the development of an interpretation of modern German history typical for a large number of émigré historians. This applies even more when we consider the German historians who remained in the United States after 1945 and who—through their lectures and essays appearing in German journals—exerted a noticeable influence on West German historical studies. A prime example of this tendency was Hajo Holborn’s essay “German Idealism from a Social Historical Perspective.” Holborn (1902–69) had taught in Berlin and migrated to the United States in 1933, where he taught modern history at Yale

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University. During the war he worked in the Office of Strategic Services, where he helped develop U.S. policy toward Germany. After 1945 he preferred to stay in the United States. In his influential essay appearing in the Historische Zeitschrift in 1952, Holborn wrote of the political weakness of the German bourgeoisie, which was rooted in its economic backwardness. “There was no strong, self-confident bourgeoisie . . . in Germany.” Even if the “social history” programmatically announced in the title was hardly noticeable within Holborn’s rather traditional history of ideas, he did address the structural deficits of the German Empire that would come to preoccupy social historians beginning in the 1960s.76 Such an emphasis on continuity between the empire and the Third Reich, which could be measured by the development of social structures and which abandoned the moralistic viewpoint of the historist history of ideas, was typical for the German émigré historians—as it was, comparatively speaking, for the Japanese Marxists.77 In their interest in long-term structural continuities, there were many similarities between Japan’s Marxists and the German émigrés—not only in their function as an anti-fascist opposition but also in the thrust of their interpretation. However, the koµzaha and roµnoµha arguments relied more heavily on economic history than the studies of the German émigrés, who were mainly influenced by a form of intellectual history prevalent in the United States. Even though their immediate impact may have been marginal, some émigré historians were to have a long-lasting influence on German historiography. The key figure here was Hans Rosenberg, who emigrated to the United States in 1936 and first taught at Brooklyn College before being called to the University of California at Berkeley in 1948. Despite the best efforts of the University of Cologne, he did not return to Germany permanently, but spent time there in 1949, 1950, and 1955 as a guest professor at the Free University of Berlin and in Marburg. He made a particularly lasting impression in Berlin, where he acquainted a young generation of historians with social- and economic-historical approaches. His students included Gerhard A. Ritter, Dietrich Bracher, Gilbert Ziebura, Gerhard Schulz, Otto Büsch, Wolfgang Sauer, Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Fritz Ansprenger, and Friedrich Zunkel. Hans-Ulrich Wehler later praised Otto Büsch’s dissertation, “Social Militarization in Old Prussia,” as an “outstanding, in this form unique” study and thus both emphasized the marginal status of social history in the 1950s and pointed to Rosenberg’s Berlin activity as the origin of later German social history. Rosenberg had indeed “blazed a trail for social history.”78 However, we should not overlook the fact that Rosenberg remained an exception. Overall, the influence of the émigré historians on West German historical studies was negligible.79

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The View of History behind the Occupation Reforms Much greater than the impact on their West German colleagues was the influence of the émigré historians on U.S. policy toward Germany. The image of German history that served as the ideological base of U.S. occupation policy in the first months was comparable to E. H. Norman’s interpretation of Japanese history. Both views described a world-historical deviation that characterized both Germany’s and Japan’s path to modernity. Proponents sought reasons for these distortions of modernity in the defeated peoples’ mentality structures. Within this context, in Germany, too, studies attempted to plumb the “national character” of the vanquished. One counterpart to Ruth Benedict’s The Chrysanthemum and the Sword was David Rodnik’s anthropological study on the postwar Germans, in which, much like Benedict in Japan, he cited the “German group personality” as the essence of Germans’ premodern mentality.80 Benedict’s thesis of the verticality of social relationships also found its counterpart in American studies of Germany. For example, a conference of psychologists and anthropologists sponsored by the U.S. State Department and held at Princeton University in 1950 set itself the task of examining the following issues: “German history reveals many aspects of German national life that had value. Where, when, and how did the German people lose the ‘way of development’? What are the reasons for the present hierarchical structure of German society? Can ways be found to overcome it? Why is it that liberalism has never taken hold in German political life, and what is the significance of that fact?”81 On the basis of this understanding of history and society, many reform bureaucrats of the early occupation period in Germany viewed fundamental social and economic reorganization as the precondition for lasting democratization. An important aspect of the reform program was land reform, which was the centerpiece of sociopolitical intervention in Japan. The land reform plan had been part of a joint Allied program to comprehensively reorganize agricultural property in Germany. On the U.S. side, this plan was based on the conviction that the dominance of the Prussian Junkers represented a serious barrier on the path to democratization and had to be broken. The émigré historian Carl Schorske similarly described class antagonisms in German society as the social origin of fascism. The sociopolitical concern behind American land reform in Germany largely matched the goals that also motivated the Japanese land reform.82 But in political practice, the interventions undertaken in Japan and Germany differed greatly. In Germany, radical reform plans were seriously pursued only briefly before the “reconstructionist” faction gained the upper hand in occupation policy. Economic reconstruction now took priority, not the democratization of a

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premodern society. This turnabout also transformed the character of land reform plans; in mid-1946 General Lucius D. Clay announced that the military government was no longer interested in sociopolitical reform. By the time of Secretary of State James F. Byrnes’s famous speech in September 1946 and the announcement of a new occupation directive in July 1947, this change in emphasis informed U.S. policy toward Germany. This Realpolitik variation of U.S. policy, too, was based on a specific reading of the German past. This interpretation of history replaced the dogma of backwardness by resorting to the allegedly healthy democratic traditions of German history. According to this view, which undergirded occupation policies particularly in later years, Nazism was not the logical result of but rather a regrettable deviation from the path of German history. The appeal to the normality of Weimar was thus the foundation for U.S. policy toward Germany in the late 1940s and displaced the more critical, radical view of the social reformers. This perspective distinguished occupation policy in West Germany from that in Japan. Interventions in property relations and the social structure, which formed the core of reform policy in Japan, remained superficial in West Germany. While U.S. occupiers in Japan saw democratic revolution as necessary in order to overcome feudalistic structures, it appeared that in Germany democracy merely needed to be reactivated. It would be wrong simply to conclude that this difference in occupation politics was warranted by the different histories of the two countries. On the contrary, just as in West Germany, conservative historians in Japan interpreted the fascist period as an exception and sought to pick up on the democratic development of the prewar period. Parallel to the Weimar Republic, in Japan too, a democratic governmental system had come to life in the 1920s, a tradition to which the country’s liberal-conservative forces hoped to return. Indeed, in the 1950s, after the transformation of U.S. occupation policy, return to the so-called Taishom Democracy of the 1920s represented an integral component of the new occupation discourse. But in the immediate postwar years, the histories of both countries were still seen as binary opposites. What was more, this contradictory interpretation of the German and Japanese past had very real effects and structured occupation policies. The cultural tradition shared by Germany and the United States could make institutions and traditions appear as modern or democratic at the same time as their exact equivalent in Japan was branded the progeny of feudalistic structures.83 This mechanism could, for example, be observed in regard to the steps taken toward university reform in both countries. Democratization policy set great store on educational reforms, and thus in March 1946 an American delegation

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(the Education Mission) was sent to Japan to evaluate the democratic potential of schools and universities. At the end of a three-week examination of the existing Japanese educational system, the Americans drew up a report and set of reform recommendations that demanded a far-reaching adaptation of Japanese education to the U.S. model. These recommendations did not hesitate to demand drastic interventions in a Japanese culture that the delegation viewed as authoritarian and undemocratic. For example, Chinese pictograms, which took years to learn and thus threatened to exclude part of the population from the flow of information, appeared as both a hindrance on the path to democracy and a focal point of nationalist reaction: their abolition would cut the postwar generation off from the military propaganda of the prewar years at one blow; at the same time, the introduction of the Roman alphabet would simplify American censorship. But the decisive argument referred to the reform’s democratic potential—it could be the first step down the path to global peace. “Why shouldn’t Japan lead the way in reducing the number of world languages?” the report demanded. “That would be a great contribution toward peace.”84 This faith in a direct relationship between writing and the state system or, more generally, between cultural tradition and democracy, was a mainstay of U.S. educational reforms in Japan. In Germany, by contrast, the Americans backpedaled on their more aggressive measures; even in cases where reform projects were attempted, the occupation authorities frequently gave in to vehement opposition, as in the aborted plans to abolish the Gymnasium.85 The university system in particular, which in Japan became the object of large-scale Americanization, was scarcely touched and survived the occupation period virtually unchanged. This corresponded to a general American respect for the German academy. Numerous U.S. occupation officers (or their academic teachers) had studied at German universities and both honored and respected the Humboldtian university system. Even the official educational delegation, sent to Germany in August 1946 on the model of the Japan delegation, proclaimed its highest esteem for the German universities: “No country . . . has contributed more generously to the common treasures of our civilization.”86 Unabashed admiration on the one hand was matched by reformer’s contempt on the other—even though the university systems in Germany and Japan revealed more than a few superficial parallels. After all, the founding of the universities in Japan as well as the development of an advanced education sector largely followed the pattern of German institutions. But the fact that the Japanese universities were organized according to the German model did nothing to soften the negative evaluation they received. On the contrary, in Japan it was precisely

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this “German” quality which made Japanese universities appear to the American experts as the incarnation of an authoritarian, premodern institution.87

the german historical profession joins “the west” The foregoing examples suggest that the fact of Germany’s integration into the modern “West” served as a founding assumption of U.S. occupation policy, while in Japan integration into the “West” was the ultimate goal of this policy. The cultural and theoretical rhetoric employed to rationalize the insinuated differences between Germany and Japan could not always completely disguise the essentializing and racial foundations of this evaluation. The drafters of occupation policy simply never questioned Germany’s status as part of Europe and the West. This also matched the self-perception of West German historians. In historiography as well, Germany’s classification in the Western European context was seldom challenged as a premise of historical interpretation. Friedrich Meinecke proclaimed “out of German and into European history” as the order of the day, thus putting the profession’s consensus into words.88 One could list numerous such statements from other historians: Germany appeared to have become more European, even more European than other nations, as historian Karl Dietrich Erdmann stressed in the first edition of the new journal Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht in 1950: “There is no European people today that is more greatly aware of its natural interest . . . in a limitation of individual state sovereignty in favor of a European union than is the German people.”89 Overcoming the Antagonism between Kultur and Zivilisation German historians had not always sought to write the national past into European history. In the interwar years most historians had viewed German history as a chronicle of a people structurally different from the West, characterized by its geographical location in central Europe (the so-called Mittellage theory) and its national character (religiously introverted, philosophical-speculative, and apolitical), aspects that had given the Germans a historical role as intermediaries between East and West.90 In the course of a lecture series at the Historische Gesellschaft in Berlin entitled “German Unity as a Problem of European History,” Hans Herzfeld in 1960 reviewed this notion of a German deviant path. He noted a “wave of Europe rejection” in the 1920s, which he described as “an illness,” as a “loss of faith in Germany’s historical status within Europe.” German intellectual history in the interwar years had been characterized “by a total detachment of German Kultur from Western

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Zivilisation,” which now must be overcome: “A detachment of Germany from the fate of Europe, which is linked to the West, has become unacceptable, both in the idea and in the reality.”91 Herzfeld’s conviction was widely shared, and in the course of the 1950s the rhetoric of Kultur and Zivilisation faded to a whisper. But it did not vanish entirely. The Catholic historian Ulrich Noack served as the executive director of the Nauheim Circle, which propagated a policy of neutrality for the Federal Republic between NATO and the Eastern Bloc. Noack based his idea on the concept of the Mittellage, which he felt legitimized the “neutralization of Central Europe.”92 Gustav Adolf Rein, to cite another example, called for a German view of history explicitly articulated to counter the European perspective being forced on Germany by the Allies.93 Many of the historians of Eastern Europe, whom I discuss in more detail below, cherished notions of a special German role in the East. Finally, Walther Hubatsch, well known for his studies on the military history of the Second World War, continued searching for a means by which “the alien Western– Anglo-Saxon and Eastern-Soviet life forms could be kept away from the European continent.”94 But these voices, multifaceted as they were, remained marginal within the profession. For most historians these slogans belonged to the past. They perceived Germany’s incorporation in European history as a new task for the historical profession that went hand in hand with the beginnings of political integration.95 And yet the European rhetoric used by numerous historians in the 1950s was hardly an unprecedented neologism of the postwar era. Even during the war, and certainly by the time of the German attack on the Soviet Union in 1941, references to Europe experienced a boom among German historians. Thrilled by Europe ’s sudden (and bloody) unification by force of arms, historians had begun to reinterpret German history in the spirit of Nazi ideology and create a new paradigm. In 1941, Fritz Hartung, Theodor Mayer, Fritz Rörig and others published a study, The Reich and Europe, in which Paul Ritterbusch explained in his foreword: “Our history and that of Europe are fatefully linked. But this time it is . . . the German people that, as it re-creates its own history, is simultaneously shaping and creatively realizing a new historical order for Europe.”96 The conception of Europe expressed in these essays was frequently informed by the prevailing ideology of race and empire. In 1940 Hermann Aubin saw Germany’s European mission as “establishing a . . . state order . . . in which racially alien subject states are organized around a German core state.”97 Formulations like this were no longer to be found in the postwar years. In keeping with the transformed character of the European unification process of the 1950s, the ingredients of the European idea had changed as well. In this way it is possible to speak of a

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distinct and discontinuous European discourse in the postwar period that became independent of the discussions of the early 1940s. Sometimes the qualitative difference between the new discourse and the earlier notions was stated explicitly.98 Nevertheless, here too, the year 1945 did not represent a complete break between the wartime and postwar period. Particularly in regard to Eastern Europe, despite all the rhetoric extolling democracy and equality, the idea of Europe in the 1950s still contained elements that evoked some of the imperialist notions of the war years. After 1945, numerous articles in historical journals discussed the “elements of a European view of history,” some of which were drafted jointly with non-German historians.99 Historians of this ilk founded their own publications and used them as forums for a transnational, European interpretation of history. These included the Europa-Archiv (1945) and the general-historical journals Saeculum (1950) and Die Welt als Geschichte (1935, restarted in 1950), which provided considerable space for European issues. The Institute for European History in Mainz, which had originally been founded as a private institution in 1950, was dedicated to an integrated history of Europe. The institute ’s founders pursued the goal of “merging the national with the universal in order to arrive at a truly European view of history free of nationalist, traditionalist, and confessionalist prejudices and misconceptions.” In addition, “the consciousness of Occidental unity and wholeness should be awakened and reinforced.”100 The Location of Europe In the course of this Europeanization, the notion of Europe was never fixed, but was constantly transformed as well. The alleged unity of Europe remained hypothetical and had first to be conceived or created. The mere desire for political unity did not guarantee a European identity. “Today more than ever,” declared Peter Rassow, “in our age of integration policy, Europe is mistakenly viewed as a block, as a complex that, so to speak, has always formed an intellectual unit.”101 Thus in numerous essays, German historians endeavored to identify some sort of European core that could also help justify the integration of German history in the European context. The cultural center of this concept of Europe, it goes without saying, was assumed to reside in Western Europe. With respect to the history of peripheral regions, as in the case of Spain, this assumption needed additional explanation at times.102 But in general, the “Western” character of a historiography co-financed by the European Council and to some extent institutionalized by the occupation powers (as in Mainz) was unquestioned. Many historians used this definition of Europe to garner support for their attempts to rewrite German history by shifting

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its cultural and geographical center accordingly: Eugen Ewig, a medieval historian at the Universities of Mainz and Bonn and later a cofounder of the German Historical Institute in Paris, pleaded for a westward shift of the old Prussian-dominated concept of Germany—from Berlin to Bonn—since, as he put it, Germany’s true center lay in the Rhineland. “It is no coincidence that, in an era which is striving for European unity, the focal point of our national life has shifted back to the Rhine. This represents an important precondition for the mission of Rhenish Germany, which throughout its history was able to accomplish its German mission only in universally minded epochs.”103 Thus Europe appeared to lie in the West, and this definition paradoxically extended beyond Europe itself. As it seemed impossible to “sketch the term ‘Europe ’ on a map with clear borders once and for all,” the concept was open to negotiation, as a result of which the United States was frequently thought to form part of this cultural Europe.104 Most historians had no doubt “that America is included within Europe on account of the community of political interest that exists between it and the currently free Europe. . . . This membership rests on the harmony of their cultural foundations.”105 With these words, Martin Göhring opened the major conference of the Mainz institute, “Europe: Legacy and Mission,” in 1955. In the very year of Germany’s integration into NATO, the inclusion of the United States was not only called for programmatically but was also reflected in the composition of the conference ’s participants. The so-called “representatives of intellectual Europe” consisted of scholars from all the Western European countries, complemented by academics from Canada and the United States.106 While Eastern Europe remained bureaucratically excluded from the constitution of the new Europe, U.S. history now appeared to have become relevant to Europe—in fact, it seemed to have become a component of European history.107 It is worth noting parenthetically that the West of the Japanese modernist historians looked very similar. As their most notable representative, OMtsuka Hisao, explained, it “mainly encompasses England and the United States of America.”108 This shift in emphasis not only characterized the intellectual location of “Europe” but could also be measured in institutional developments. In the 1950s, several universities laid the groundwork for a systematic analysis of American culture, usually at American prompting or at least with American funding. America institutes subsequently arose in Munich (1949), Frankfurt (1950), Cologne (1951), and Berlin (1953), all of whose founding was directly motivated by political interests.109 To be sure, these institutions did not focus on history. Only the Cologne institute maintained a chair in U.S. history, starting in 1955 (Dietrich Gerhard). In

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Berlin this task was assumed by guest professors (Gerald Stourzh assumed the first professorial chair in U.S. history in 1964); in Munich, Heinrich Stammler took a position as an academic assistant; and in Frankfurt, too, the first chair for history was established at the America Institute only in 1972.110 This astonishingly late institutionalization of U.S. history, which basically began only within the framework of university expansion in the 1960s, was mirrored by developments in Japan. At the University of Tokyo, Takagi Yasaka had assumed the Hepburn Chair of American History in 1924, although officially it formed part of the law department. By contrast, the history departments largely ignored U.S. history far into the postwar period. Inside the departments for Western history (seiyoµshi) the new discipline had a hard time holding its own against the traditional triad of German, English, and French history. While the history departments largely rejected an institutionalization of U.S. history in the 1950s, the subject strongly appealed to students; for example, at the private Waseda University, nearly one out of four students of Western history selected a topic from U.S. history for his or her graduation thesis. At the pinnacle of the prestige pyramid, namely the state universities of Tokyo and Kyoto, the situation was the same.111 The number of publications on U.S. history, as well, was astoundingly high.112 Europe’s Demarcation from the East While the definition of Europe was thus open to expansion in the West (even across the Atlantic), Europe was simultaneously sealed off from the East. At its most general level, this demarcation was based on integrating Europe into the transcendent binary of Orient and Occident. Peter Rassow, among others, referred to this dualism in late-Hegelian terms: “Europe— this word should only be uttered by those who see Europe’s essence in the ability to produce enormous conflicts and in the overcoming of the same on a higher level within new systems. We know of no parallel in the high cultures of the Indians, Chinese, or Japanese.”113 This dichotomy was fundamental for all attempts to determine the essence of Europe.114 In most cases, the binary scheme went along with a profound sense of European superiority. For Martin Göhring, who incidentally was the director of the department of universal history at the Institute for European History in Mainz, the differentiation between the Orient and the Occident “did not occur for the sake of Europe but for the sake of the world. It is not arrogant to say that the European is, so to speak, its salt. The culture he created demonstrated its superiority over all other cultures, or was far ahead of them.”115 The central ingredient of this postwar discourse on Europe was the trope of “the Christian Occident” (Abendland). Historians whose questions were inspired

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by a Christian-Catholic worldview embraced the expectation of an “Occidental” Renaissance. This was frequently combined with the demand for a Christian historiography as propagated by the Study Group of Christian Historians. In his foreword to the Historia mundi, Fritz Kern of the University of Bonn, one of the founders of the Institute for European History in Mainz, wrote hopefully of a “religious interpretation of history” that “even in our times has not died out entirely.” World historians were obliged to recognize “Christianity as the most important substance of human history.”116 But this rhetoric of the Christian Occident was not restricted to a narrow circle of Catholic intellectuals. Among historians the normative reference to the Occident became common among scholars of varying, including non-Catholic, ideological orientation. An element of political rhetoric, the term “Occident” was appropriated for various strategies of political argumentation. After all, reference to the transcendent cultural sphere of the Occident allowed intellectuals to incorporate Germany into a larger entity while retaining antisocialist dogmas in politics and culture. Even the Russian campaign of the 1940s, and certainly Germany’s membership in NATO, seemed to be endowed with historical meaning in this way. It was in this spirit that the Fulda Bishop Conference of 1954 proclaimed: “The rearmament of the German homeland is an essential demand on each Christian, for the Christian Occident must be defended against the threat of Bolshevism, against that diabolical ideology that seeks to eradicate Christianity and the Church.”117 The scholarly debate followed much the same lines, though clothed in more moderate rhetoric. In a lecture series titled “The German East and the Occident,” Hans Rothfels, a man who made no secret of his Protestant convictions, likewise recalled the “borderland tradition of Christian Europe in the Northeast and Southeast, the defensive struggle against the marauding Asian hordes.”118 “The Occident”—a vague term encompassing both Christianity and classical antiquity—made it possible to define Europe through the dichotomy of East and West, which became an omnipresent element of political discourse during the Cold War. In this context, the term “East” was frequently associated directly with communism, which many historians viewed as the incarnation of the Antichrist. This meant that Europe ’s identification with the Occident automatically excluded Russia or, more precisely, the Soviet Union, from this definition of Europe: “Thus . . . the eastern frontier of the Occident as a political community of beliefs and sometimes action has been thrown back to where it once stood under Charlemagne.”119 While the concept of Europe reached westward across the Atlantic in the 1950s, the westward shift of the “old frontier of the Occidental community to the East” also ensured the congruence of Europe ’s borders with the reach of the Western defense

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community.120 In this way, the conflicts of the Cold War informed appropriations of history and thus not only structured the understanding of the present but also influenced the reading of the past. One typical component of this history of the Christian Occident was the strategy of shifting the current binary opposition into the far distant past. This move promised to bestow historical significance on diverse events of the past by relating them to the allegedly transhistorical conflict between East and West. The historian Franz Borkenau, writing in his essay “Luther: East or West?” formulated the thesis that the “conflict between East and West [was] originally a Mediterranean affair . . . Rome vs. Constantinople, the Papacy vs. the Greek Patriarchs [that] was then transplanted to the North.”121 During the 1930s Borkenau, who earlier had displayed a certain affinity with socialism, evolved into a sharp critic of Soviet communism. After the war, which he experienced in exile, he assumed a position in 1946 as an adjunct professor for medieval and modern history at the University of Marburg. There he propagated the integration of German history within a European context. For him, this question was “not simply a German problem . . . but rather an important component in the great problem of the conflict between East and West, which has held mankind in suspense for centuries.”122 Many West German history texts after 1945 reflected the attempt to rehabilitate the German past within the context of a shared European history. In this way, the events of national history were invested with a historical significance that at the same time corresponded with present-day experience. A German identity whose foundation had become questionable after the country’s post-1945 territorial fragmentation now seemed to recover within the framework of Europe ’s politicaleconomic unification. Within this process, the texts of many historians projected European commonalities onto the past and presented Germany as a natural component, if not the leading representative, of Western Europe.

japan as part of the west Whereas in the Federal Republic “the West” was primarily associated with a larger geographical unit within which German history was subsumed after 1945, in Japan it served as a model, the future toward which Japanese society appeared to be heading. In scholarly practice, historians had treated Japan’s relationship to the West primarily as a matter of temporal distance. With the end of the occupation (1952) and the peace treaty with the United States (1955), however, and particularly in the wake of the economic upswing that began in the mid-1950s, this distance appeared to decrease and even to vanish in the eyes of many Japanese. Consequently, a

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number of historians in the late 1950s began to rethink some of the hitherto unchallenged assumptions of world history. As an example of this tendency, we examine a seminal essay by the cultural anthropologist Umesao Tadao that appeared in the journal Chuµoµ koµron in February 1957 and was widely discussed among both historians and the general public. One decisive impulse for Umesao was Arnold Toynbee ’s visit to Japan in 1956; his essay can be understood partly as a reaction to Toynbee ’s theses. In his search for Japan’s “exact coordinates” in the world, he resisted the widespread notion that Japan was part of the Orient. While he admitted seeing in Japan distinctly “Eastern traits,” Umesao argued that the origin of the cultural inheritance was not as important as its societal function. And in this regard he noted a profound similarity between Japanese and Western European society, both of which he described as “highly civilized.” In order to explain these parallels, he looked for patterns of development that could be summed up in a law of world history. In this endeavor he was inspired by the ecological theory of the succession of life forms: “Just as the thesis of the succession of life forms makes it possible to conceive of the history of the natural communities of the animal and plant world in a systematic fashion, perhaps we can also understand the history of the human community . . . to some extent in its systematic progression.”123 Umesao’s phenomenology of the world’s life forms culminated in the division of the world into an old and a new one. The old world consisted of Europe, North Africa, and Asia. Within these regions, Umesao held, only a few countries could claim that their social development was a success story—specifically, those nations that lay on the periphery of the Eurasian continent. “Some regions have reached this state to a certain measure, but on a national scale it is only Japan and, on the rim of the opposite side [of the continent], the Western European countries that have created highly civilized states. They still retain a vast difference from countries like China, Southeast Asia, India, Russia, the Islamic countries, and Eastern Europe.” From this perspective, which made economic growth and national independence the yardsticks of modernization, the peripheral regions of Eurasia— Western Europe and Japan—appeared as almost a coherent and integrated cultural sphere. It is important to note that Umesao did not, as one might expect, view this commonality as the result of extensive importations from Europe beginning in 1868. Instead, he attributed the similarity in development to universal historical laws. “The development of Japanese civilization since the Meiji era was a necessary process guided by the laws of world history and had . . . nothing to do with a cultural conversion or Europeanization.”124

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In explaining these commonalities, Umesao in particular referred to the feudal experience that both Western Europe and Japan had shared. Only the social formation of feudalism, according to Umesao, made a bourgeois revolution possible. This revolution, in turn, had been the precondition for the emergence of capitalist society. Thus the “highly civilized” countries of the periphery owed their success to feudalism—a precondition that the other countries lacked as they had either been ruled autocratically or had been colonies. In this view, interestingly, the term “feudalism” experienced a fundamental transformation. While koµzaha Marxist discourse had generally viewed feudalism as an attribute of social backwardness, Umesao emphasized the value of this societal stage as the essential precondition of modernization. From his world-historical perspective, this interpretation allowed him to treat Japan and Western Europe as parts of a larger unit. Within the framework of his development model, both regions lay on the periphery of the “old world” and had created the preconditions for a capitalist, “highly civilized” society on the basis of the common experience of feudalism. In this account, Europe no longer functioned as a norm or model but instead assumed an equal position on the same level of world-historical development. For Umesao, Japan—like Western Europe—was an integral component of the West.125 As this example further illustrates, the role of “the West” in Japanese historiography was by no means fixed, and its transformations corresponded to changes in the international situation— even if for most historians Europe remained a norm that Japan should emulate.126 By 1960, perceptions had changed once more. In that year, Japan found itself in the throes of severe domestic unrest aimed at the renewal of the security treaty with the United States. At about this time, independence movements in the Third World, such as the revolution in Cuba, reached a high point and suggested the possibility of development detached from the West. In this politically charged atmosphere, the concepts of “the West as model” and “Japan as part of the West” were complemented by revisionist approaches that saw the West as the main obstacle on the path to an independent Japanese development. As the most conspicuous example of this tendency, in the early 1960s the author Hayashi Fusao burst on the scene with his thesis of the “Hundred Years War.” Hayashi depicted the whole of modern Japanese history from the arrival of the U.S. fleet in 1853 to the surrender in 1945 as one great military conflict between Japan and “the West.” According to Hayashi, in this period Japan had assumed the task of freeing Asia from Western influence. “The Great Asian War . . . was the fate that had been placed on Japan’s shoulders over these hundred years.”127 Hayashi’s book, with the revealing title The Affirmation of the Greater Asian War, signaled the rebirth of a pan-Asian/nationalistic view of

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history. Hayashi’s thesis was widely received, even though it attracted little attention in academic circles.128 Interestingly enough, however, the notion of the West as adversary did not remain confined to the nationalist fringe but also gained a foothold among the koµzaha Marxists. At the annual conference of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai in 1961, for example, Shibahara Takuji, at this time still a young doctoral student at the University of Kyoto, interpreted the Meiji Restoration as a defensive struggle of the nation against the Western capitalist threat. While the term “the West” (seiyoµ) was usually thought of as a synonym for civilization, Shibahara instead employed the term “the great powers” (rekkyoµ), which the Japanese people ( jinmin) was rising up against. This energy of the Japanese people to him appeared responsible for the continued independence of Japan—in contrast to India and China.129

THE EAST japan’s orient Shibahara’s argument was merely another example of how discussions of the West always entailed a positioning of Japan vis-à-vis other Asian countries, particularly China. But while “Europe” usually evoked notions of progress and seemed to show Japanese society an image of its own future, “Asia” was typically associated with the premodern, if not with the origins of history itself. Among historians, the idealization of Europe frequently corresponded to a distancing from Asia.130 Strikingly, considerable effort was paid to locating the points of divergence between Japan and China/Korea far back in the distant past, while the history of the recent Japanese Empire in East Asia was virtually effaced. The History of the Orient (Tomyomshi) “Asia” as a trope of backwardness was a characteristic trait of Japanese modernity that gained special momentum through the shock of confrontation with the West. Europe ’s obvious superiority in technical, scientific, and military matters moved many Japanese intellectuals of the late nineteenth century to liberate themselves from their previous model, China, and to adopt the achievements of European civilization as quickly as possible. The philosopher and historian Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1905) gave the most eloquent expression to this logic with his call to “leave” Asia (datsua ron).131 In the early Meiji Era (the 1870s and 1880s), many contemporaries believed that only the wholesale adoption of Western technology, institutions, and culture would guarantee Japan’s modernization. The establishment of the academic discipline of history was part of this formation of the modern nation-state and the rapid importation of Western

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ingredients of modernity. This context of Westernization was not without significance for the position of Asia in the emerging Japanese discipline of history. When a history department was established at the University of Tokyo in 1887, the study of history at first was, as we have seen, exclusively dedicated to the European past. A department of Japanese history was established in 1889; by contrast, the study of Chinese history did not develop into an academic discipline at the Imperial University of Tokyo until 1902.132 Studies of Chinese history had a long tradition in Japan, cultivated within the framework of “China studies” (kangaku). However, the institutionalization of history as a modern discipline at first marginalized both the Japanese and Chinese past while privileging the history of Europe. The close association of Europeanstyle historical studies with the nineteenth-century notion of progress had largely discredited the pasts of non-European societies. Following Hegel’s world history, progress seemed to occur only in Europe and only Europe possessed a history. The initial limitation of Japanese historical studies to Europe thus reflected not merely the logic of the cultural import but also the fundamental historical philosophy of historism. The department of the history of the Orient (toµyoµshi),133 founded in 1902, did not continue the kangaku project directly. Instead, it developed by taking a detour through European history: Shiratori Kurakichi (1865–1942), one of the founding fathers of the new subject of Oriental history, had previously studied European history with Ludwig Riess. Institutionally speaking, the history of the Orient grew out of the department of the history of the West (seiyoµshi) and thus translated the image of Asia prevailing there into the study of Chinese and Korean history. While traditional kangaku historiography was still characterized by the idealization of China, the construction of toµyoµshi corresponded to Japan’s need to create an equivalent of “the Orient” that would represent Japan’s backward Other. The newly founded nation-state apparently required not only a model of future development but also an ideology distancing Japan from Chinese stagnation. As Stefan Tanaka has convincingly shown in his study of “Japan’s Orient,” the term toµyoµ (literally “Eastern seas,” even though the area referred to lay west of Japan geographically) suggested a region of stagnation occupied by a prehistoric China still untouched by progress and civilization. To some extent, toµyoµ stood for the past, while seiyoµ (the West) represented the future. Furthermore, the discipline ’s institutionalization occurred in the period following the Chinese War of 1895, in which Japan emancipated itself from China politically and militarily. The degradation of Chinese history to “prehistory” thus corresponded both to the epistemological

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genesis of the discipline of toµyoµshi and the nation’s demand for a “Japanese Orient,” and to the transformed geopolitical situation.134 Toµyoµshi remained a field in which institutional and political power relationships crisscrossed historical analysis. Political developments in the age of imperialism had important consequences for interpretations of the past. Historical writings about Korea are a case in point. The Imperial University in Seoul (Keijom daigaku), founded in 1924, emerged as the most important center of Japanese research on Korean history, culminating in the thirty-seven-volume History of Korea. However, within this project Korean history came to an end in the nineteenth century; in 1910 Korea was annexed by Japan and was reduced to a province of the Japanese state. From the perspective of that imperial state, Korea no longer had any history. Overall, there was a widespread tendency among prewar historians to deprive the Korean people of their status as a subject of historical development. After 1945, when the Japanese presence on the Korean peninsula ended, the intensity of research on Korea declined noticeably—but a notion of Korean backwardness remained a characteristic of Korea historiography even after 1945.135 The Thesis of Asian Stagnation Even more important than the study of Korea within the field of toµyoµshi was the examination of Chinese history. For centuries, China had been the political and cultural inspiration for Japanese society, and the formation of a Japanese identity always maintained a special relationship to developments in China.136 This relationship continued into the twentieth century, even if its asymmetry was now reversed. After the military victory over China in 1895, Japan itself became the model for Chinese development. Even after 1945, Japanese historiography of China was informed by the axiom of China’s need to catch up, thus implicitly making Japan a progressive country. This dichotomy rested on the notion of an inherent Chinese stagnation: China’s past was treated as a realm of synchrony in which historical change had no place. On a theoretical level, the stagnation thesis applied equally to China and Japan. The trope of societal stagnation had long been a fundamental component of European descriptions of the Orient. Notions of a despotic Oriental society that had played a prominent role in the writings of John Stuart Mill, Karl Marx, and Max Weber began to enter Japanese discussions at the end of the nineteenth century. Beginning in the 1920s, in the wake of the Marx reception, the thesis of the Asiatic mode of production helped explain Japanese and Chinese backwardness. According to this view, Asian societies did not pass through the classic stages of development but rather formed an Asiatic mode of production characterized by societal

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stagnation and a lack of class antagonisms. Even if the theoretical status of this category remained unclear—was it a transient “intermediary level” attained only by Asian countries, or a genuinely Asian form of social order distinct from the universal stages of development?—the concept was widely accepted among historians as an explanation for the social shortcomings in East Asia.137 This form of analysis gained renewed urgency in the immediate postwar period. Now that Japan was experiencing the first military occupation in its history, the end of the war in 1945 also appeared as proof of a fundamental Western superiority over the East. The cultural philosopher Watsuji Tetsurom (1889–1960) published an essay in early 1946 in which he attempted to establish a direct link between Japan’s defeat and the world-historical backwardness of the Orient. The war, he was convinced, had lastingly demonstrated the West’s superiority. Watsuji blamed this imbalance on a specifically Asian passivity that he also saw manifested in Japan. Marxist historians were skeptical toward this ahistorical analysis, which in their opinion ignored the dynamics of class struggle. In their critiques, however, they, too, tended to reproduce the parameters of the East-West dichotomy. Thus Hani Gomro replaced Watsuji’s anthropology of culture and geography with the Marxist theory of stages of development. But, in his philosophy of history, Hani also adopted the trope of stagnation as a specifically Asian trait. While he did not fall back on the notion of a constant national character, his historical-materialist development model confined the stage of stagnation to Asian societies, including Japan.138 From its institutionalization, toµyoµshi was dedicated to liberating Japan from this “stigmatization” of all of Asia. In many texts one can sense the effort to emancipate Japan from the Orient without abandoning the concept of the Orient as such. As Partha Chatterjee has argued within the context of Indian nationalism, this amounted to the political instrumentalization of a Western discourse without questioning it on an ontological level. After all, the depiction of China as despotic and stagnant reproduced the binary oppositions upon which the European image of the Orient was founded.139 While identifying “Oriental” traits in Chinese history, historiography by the same gesture created an image of Japan characterized by relative progressiveness. Down to the mid-twentieth century, this continued to be a standard strategy of historical argument. The idea of Japanese modernity was inextricably linked to an image of China as a backward nation.140 This theoretical context may be observed, for example, in the comparative reflections that Tomyama Shigeki employed in his book on the Meiji Restoration, published in 1951. Tomyama began by describing the similarities of the Chinese and Japanese reactions to the threat from the West in the middle of the nineteenth

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century. Both countries grudgingly yielded to pressure to open their ports and developed strategies to delay this opening. In both China and Japan, popular movements emerged aimed at external threats and the so-called unequal treaties with the Western great powers. But in view of these similarities, the differences in the two nations’ destinies demanded an explanation. For “regardless of these superficial parallels, enormous differences developed between China and Japan in regard to national unity and the speed of modernization (capitalization). . . . This difference was most clearly demonstrated by the fact that China gradually became a semicolony of the American and European great powers, not only in economic but also political terms, while on the other hand Japan was able to maintain its political independence.”141 These differences, Tomyama wrote, had important sources in the foreign policies of both countries. For one thing, British policy toward Japan was much more flexible than the draconian measures with which the Crown had previously reacted to local conflicts in Qing China. At the same time, recent uprisings in China (1851–61) and above all in India (1857) had forced Britain to adopt a more cautious East Asia policy, from which Japan profited at the end of the 1860s. However, for Tomyama these external conditions were essentially accidental. He attributed the varying success of efforts toward national independence mainly to factors of internal social development. “While in China . . . antiforeign movements arose, the peasant uprisings of the [Japanese] Bakumatsu period [after the mid-nineteenth century] not only were a movement aimed directly against the outside but primarily focused on the struggle against feudalism.” Tomyama thus reduced the Chinese resistance to mere xenophobia, while in Japan he saw a social revolution at work. And it was in this social consciousness that Tomyama recognized the historical superiority of the Japanese nation: “Stated briefly, the modernizing strength of the Japanese people was superior to that of the Chinese people.”142 The methodological primacy of domestic policy allowed Tomyama to characterize China by ascribing “Oriental” essences to it. While he granted Japanese nationalism progressive traits, Chinese nationalism remained on the level of intuitive xenophobia. It was “distorted” and represented a barrier to revolutionary development. Tomyama ultimately blamed an “Eastern despotism” for the way “the anticolonial movement of the Chinese people increasingly [degenerated] to reactionary xenophobia.”143 This Orientalist trope of Asiatic despotism formed a close symbiosis with the diagnosis of a temporal difference—a Chinese need to catch up in the development of class antagonisms.144

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China and the “Childhood of History” Such an articulation of nineteenthcentury Orientalist theorems with interpretations of Japanese history was by no means exceptional. Paradigmatically, this strategy can be observed in the studies of the intellectual history of premodern Japan by the political scientist Maruyama Masao. His conception of Japan developed mainly through a critical comparison of what Maruyama saw as a semifeudal Japanese society with modern Europe. He viewed the West as the primary yardstick of sociopolitical orientation. In his search for the indigenous potential for a Japanese modernization, however, the comparison with China was of particular significance, too. Even if Japan still needed to catch up with the West, the momentum of Japanese development could be contrasted with the stagnation of Chinese history. In his intellectual history of the Tokugawa period, therefore, Maruyama looked for modernizing tendencies in the feudal and isolated Japan of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries: “My aim is to uncover a consistent growth of modern consciousness in the systematic framework of Japanese thought.”145 As part of this larger interpretative scheme, Maruyama painted a contrasting picture of a static China that seemed to stand outside of history. For this purpose, Maruyama wholeheartedly adopted Hegel’s view of the Orient. In Studies in the Intellectual History of Tokugawa Japan, he quoted Hegel: Thus, what exists first of all is the state in which the Subject has not yet attained its rights, but in which an immediate lawless ethic [Sittlichkeit] prevails: the childhood of history. . . . At the same time, it is an empire of duration; it cannot change from within. This is the form of the Far East, essentially that of the Chinese Empire. In the other aspect, the Form of Time stands in contrast to this spatial duration. States do not change in themselves or in their principles, but are constantly changing their positions towards each other. They are in an endless conflict which prepares the ground for their rapid decline. . . . This decline is thus not a true decline because no progress results from all these restless changes. The new which replaces the fallen also sinks into decline. No progress takes place. This agitation is an unhistorical history.146

Maruyama commented: “Although there may be differences in degree, the characteristics Hegel ascribed to the Chinese, or Oriental, stage can also be discerned at some point in the historical development of practically any nation. But what is significant is the fact that in China these characteristics did not constitute only one phase; they are constantly reproduced. This is what is called the static nature of Chinese history.” By adopting Hegelian categories, Maruyama rejected the notion

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that China had any history whatever: “With characteristic acumen, Hegel’s interpretation strikes to the root of the matter: Chinese history remained ‘unhistorical’ despite frequent dynastic changes, not because of internal dissension but precisely because it lacked such dissension.”147 Adopting such canonical notions of East Asia’s historical stagnation, however, should not be dismissed as a blind copy of European discourse. The binary structures characterizing the Orientalist discourse in the West were not reproduced without characteristic displacements. Thus one can argue that Maruyama’s borrowing from Hegel can be read as a subtle strategy of appropriation. Confucianism, which Hegel blamed for China’s social stagnation, was also an influential factor in Japanese intellectual history. But in China, Maruyama argued, Confucianism never lost its hegemony: “As a result, a system of thought capable of competing successfully with Confucianism failed to develop until the Ch’ing period.” In Japan, by contrast, an oppositional ideology developed in the form of the school of Ogyum Sorai (1666–1728) as early as the beginning of the eighteenth century, in which Maruyama saw a manifestation of the principles of modern thought. Thus already in the premodern era, Japan had developed a modernizing dynamic and had begun to surpass its Chinese neighbor. While this realization did not relativize Japan’s backwardness vis-à-vis Europe, it demonstrated Japan’s capacity for development (“the evolutionary character of Japanese thought”) and reduced the cultural catchup program to a mere question of time.148 Maruyama’s essay can thus be seen as an example of the strategies with which European theories were reproduced in non-European settings.149 Maruyama adopted the binary opposition—progressive West versus stagnating East—as the structuring poles of his world-historical interpretation. By reworking this contrast, which epistemologically grounded East Asia’s structural inferiority, from the point of view of a Japan that Maruyama posited as an autonomous historical subject, he changed the connotations of this dichotomy accordingly. In this way Japanese history gained a progressive, “Western” trait ex negativo. It is thus possible to speak of an appropriation of Hegelian thought that transcended literal adoption. But at the same time, the limits of this form of theoretical appropriation also became clear. After all, the attempt to reinterpret the binary oppositions of European historical thought from a Japanese perspective may have helped resituate Japan, but it could not reach behind the underlying philosophy of history. The notion of a linear history, in which progress and backwardness were clearly distributed and in which nations, as the subjects of this history, could be analyzed as on a spreadsheet, was a legacy of nineteenth-century historiography.

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It is worthwhile to consider a related implication of such an appropriation of a European discourse. In keeping with Said, scholars have repeatedly pointed out that the specific stereotypes informing Europe ’s scientific and intellectual interaction with the Orient reflected the geopolitical relationship between Europe and Asia in the nineteenth century. “This epistemology,” Arif Dirlik has emphasized, “is bound up with questions of Euro-American power over the Orient. . . . Orientalism, as part of this epistemological reordering of the world, is not a mere intellectual instrument of imperialism, it is ‘intellectual imperialism.’ ”150 In this view, the stereotyping of the Orient as despotic, anti-individualistic, and socially stagnant was inextricably interwoven with discourses of imperialism. Adopting the logic of this Orientalist argumentation ran the risk of unconsciously adopting its unintended imperialist connotations. In other words, an appropriation of these founding oppositions could also imply an incorporation of its expansive political implications. This is not to suggest that Maruyama Masao’s work had close connections to an imperialist ideology. On the contrary, Maruyama was an exponent of the critical, antimilitarist opposition and represented the Japanese left’s postwar desire for peace and pacifism. His works can in fact be read as taking a firm position against imperialist aberrations.151 But beyond the question of Maruyama’s intentions, it seems crucial to acknowledge the theoretical implications of this specific discourse, which could function both as the foundation of a politics of emancipation and as the precondition for an imperialist incorporation. The strategy of temporalizing space, which we encounter once more in Maruyama’s text, linked an Orientalist understanding of the Other with a linear notion of history. The Other was endowed with immutable cultural characteristics; the Chinese nation, for example, was reified as an ahistorical essence. At the same time, nineteenth-century historical philosophy provided a linear yardstick with which national developments could be compared. The strategy of thus locating cultures in very different historical periods, through notions of advance or backwardness, could serve as a theoretical prop for the practice of imperialism. As Johannes Fabian has written, “Geopolitics has its ideological foundations in chronopolitics.”152 Gayatri Spivak has underlined this complicity of knowledge and power in her theoretical comments on the mode of representation. Referring to Marx’s Eighteenth Brumaire, she has pointed out that representation (repraesentatio) does not merely imply the presentation (Darstellung) but often the standing in for (Vertretung) the Other. “Two senses of representation are being run together: representation as ‘speaking for,’ as in politics, and representation as ‘re-presentation,’ as in art or philosophy.” Thus every description of the Other is ultimately inseparable from

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strategic moves, which in turn are deeply embedded in the geopolitical structures of power.153 The Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company The Japanese discourse on China in the 1930s and 1940s can be understood as an example of representation according to Spivak’s definition. During the war, virtually all Japanese research on Asia was conducted with the support and under the control of the military. Large centers of research on China and Korea had been established by the Foreign Ministry and were implicated in contradictory ways in its policies.154 Asian research and military expansion formed not only a discursive but also an institutional framework. The toµyoµshi historian Hatada Takashi has characterized this mutual penetration of scholarship and expansion as the fundamental condition structuring every statement on Asia (including his own) from the 1930s on. Every scholarly argument was permeated with imperialist politics. Individual researchers could not free themselves from this reality. “An autonomous ‘self,’ defined only as a researcher, did not exist.”155 The clearest manifestation of this entanglement of scholarship and politicalmilitary power was the Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company (Mantetsu chomsabu). The company had been founded in 1906, immediately following the Russo-Japanese War, to administer the railway lines in southern Manchuria, which had been conceded by the defeated Russians. Just one year later, at the prompting of the influential colonial politician Gotom Shimpei, a research institute was established to place the administration of the colonies on a rational basis. The research—carried out under the slogan “military readiness in civil garb” (bunsoµ bubi)—was limited at first to the region of Manchuria. However, beginning in the 1920s, it was extended to Russia and China. Following the military invasion of Manchuria, the Research Department was subordinated to the Japanese Kwantung Army. By the end of the 1930s it employed more than two thousand staff members.156 It was hard to ignore the fact that the academic research performed in the Research Department could always be used to support Japan’s imperialist efforts on the Chinese mainland. This institutional background notwithstanding, the department was known for its liberal, antimilitarist atmosphere. Untouched by the propagandistic demands of the home front, the Research Department was regarded as a scholarly niche. This intellectual free space even persuaded great numbers of Marxist scholars to seek employment there. Many of them chose this path to escape intellectual repression in Japan, which had grown more intense since the mid-1930s. Thus a large Marxist faction established itself at the department.157

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It was not until 1943 that, in two raids, the secret police ended the Marxists’ dominance there. In the eyes of these Marxist scholars, working for an institution subordinated to the army was diametrically opposed to their anti-imperialist politics. Their political agenda called for the liberation of China from the imperial yoke and not for new submission to Japanese hegemony. They sought to restrict their research to objective, scholarly investigations, thus avoiding their instrumentalization by the expansionist Kwantung Army. After all, researching social and economic conditions in rural areas, which represented one of the Research Department’s main concerns, could also help the social revolutionary cause in China. Regardless of these attempts to separate scholarship and militaristic policies, and despite their attempts to distance themselves from the strategies of the Kwantung Army, these scholars’ activities for the South Manchurian Railway stood in the context of Japanese imperialism. For example, it required considerable rhetorical gymnastics to dissociate the project on “research into the resistance capabilities of the Chinese,” in which members of the Japanese Communist Party played a leading role, from the military leadership’s tactical goals. However, it would be shortsighted to characterize the relationship between Marxist scholars and imperialist policies only as institutional instrumentalization. After all, the principle of objectivity guiding Marxist research and the alleged rationality of the colonial administration shared a series of epistemological assumptions. As Stefan Tanaka has shown, both sides treated China as a passive object of political action and theoretical reflection. These parallels are exemplified by the China historiography of Hirano Yoshitarom (1897–1980), who had joined forces with the koµzaha in the 1930s and participated in the “controversy over Japanese capitalism.” He had been arrested briefly for his political convictions in 1936 before joining the South Manchurian Research Department. He explicitly contrasted his academic study of Chinese society with the approach that he observed among some of his non-Marxist colleagues and that he characterized as imperialist. Nevertheless, both approaches produced similar results. Hirano founded his objective and scientific claims on the notion of the Asiatic mode of production, which played a large role in the debates of the 1930s. “The fundamental task of today’s academic research on China consists of the analysis of Oriental peculiarities—the unique centralized and bureaucratic feudal system—in China’s feudal development.” According to this view, China was stigmatized as an incarnation of the Orient, characterized by stagnation and despotic rule. “We should . . . deepen and critically extend research dealing with the material and social foundations of the despotism linked with Asian

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peculiarities.”158 Even if Japan did not necessarily represent part of the worldhistorical avant-garde, it nevertheless stood well ahead of China, and even Hirano believed that the Chinese could only benefit from their modernization by Japan (and its historians). Hirano envisaged an East Asian community in which Japan would show China the way to overcoming feudalism. In a book on pan-Asian ideology appearing in 1945, he postulated the liberation of Asia by and for Asians.159 This rhetoric of benevolent liberation was scarcely distinguishable from the propaganda of the Great Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere—the ideological foundation of Japanese imperialism.160 The Return of the Experts After 1945, the majority of scholars who had worked at the Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company or at the various colonial universities returned to Japan. The colonial experience, which played scarcely any role as an object of academic debate in the first postwar years, entered the history departments of the 1950s as a biographical factor. For many China experts, such as Niida Noboru, Amano Motonosuke, and Hatada Takashi, the projects they conducted under the protection of the Japanese military represented the only opportunity for extended research in China. This experience now served as the material basis of and intellectual foundation for their lifelong preoccupation with the Middle Kingdom. The knowledge they had gathered under colonial conditions frequently remained the foundation of their interpretation of Chinese history.161 We can observe this mechanism at work in the founding of the Institute for Social Science (Shakai kagaku kenkyumjo) at the University of Tokyo. Following defeat, a series of institutes (particularly in the natural sciences) whose activity had been directly related to the war effort were dissolved. In their stead, an institute was created at the University of Tokyo dedicated to the (previously taboo) scientific analysis of society. This meant the filling of an institutional gap that, in the eyes of the occupiers, had in itself contributed to the development of authoritarian Japanese militarism. The founding of the institute thus was directly connected with the overarching project of the democratization of scholarship and society.162 In this context it was telling that five of the new scholars had previously worked at the imperial universities in Taipei and Seoul, which means that they had been involved in the very colonial undertaking the newly founded institute was intended to overcome. These included the Marxist historian of France Takahashi Komhachirom, who joined OMtsuka Hisao as one of the leading figures of the social history of Europe after 1945. Since 1941 Takahashi had worked at the Japanese university in Seoul.

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There, he gained an impression of the historical backwardness of Korean society. “What particularly stood out to me in my observations was the enormously feudalistic character of the Korean villages.” In view of this analysis, Takahashi believed the Japanese colonial administration had done wonders in helping Korean modernization to its feet and “creating the material foundations for the establishment of a future independent Korea.”163 This evaluation was in no way exceptional among the critical scholars of the Social Science Institute. Some of them had been driven from their professorial chairs as Marxists during the war and now returned to the universities with the conviction that history had proven the accuracy of their analysis. A self-critical questioning of the potential imperialist implications of academic activity affiliated with the colonial project was therefore rare. This is also obvious in the case of the economist Yanaihara Tadao, who was named director of the newly founded institute in 1947. Yanaihara had been driven from the University of Tokyo as a Christian pacifist in December 1937. In 1945 he interpreted the defeat not only as a personal success but also as the triumph of Christianity: “The truth always wins!”164 As an opponent of militarism, he also showed great skepticism toward Japan’s colonial past. But until his dismissal, Yanaihara had been responsible for the course on colonial policy (shokumin seisaku ron) in the economics department and was himself a part of the same administrative apparatus that he now criticized. When he returned to the university after the war and went back to teaching, he redefined his course as a lecture on international economics (kokusai keizai ron). From this perspective, Japanese colonial policy was not without its merits. “I do not believe that the Japanese colonial administration was a complete misfortune,” Yanaihara wrote. “At least as far as economic development and the spread of public school education are concerned, it made a contribution that will be of lasting value for the colonial societies. Under the changed circumstances the former Japanese colonies will again examine and perhaps criticize the advantages and disadvantages of the Japanese administration. It is only in regard to the policy of cultural homogenization that we will probably discover no one in the former colonies who will look back upon it with sympathy.”165 This logic evoked precisely the ideology against which Yanaihara had aimed his dissident writings. Despite all his criticism of the draconian assimilation policies in Korea, a critique for which he was well known, Yanaihara essentially reproduced the topos of a benign administration that had smoothed a socially backward colony’s path toward modernity. The discourse of modernization was articulated with the practice of colonialism in ways that postwar scholars found difficult to transcend.

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germany’s mission in the east While China and Korea represented “the Orient” for Japan and served as a backdrop against which notions of Japan were constituted, one could argue that Eastern Europe assumed the same function for Germany. In the following we examine to what extent German historiography also included Orientalist parameters and to what extent the notion of the East continued to bear traces of Germany’s imperialist past in the region. Scholarship and Politics The German universities in the occupied East had through the 1930s and 1940s been implicated in complex ways in their government’s expansionist policies. In this way they differed little from the Japanese colonial universities in East Asia. Scholars examining these connections since the late 1980s have found that German scholars contributed to the imperialist project in a number of ways. Numerous historians, particularly at the “frontier universities” in Kaliningrad, Riga, Wrocław, Gdanask, Prague, Poznana (after 1941), and the Institute for German Work in the East in Krakow were more or less directly involved in the Nazis’ repressive eastern policy.166 Particularly in so-called eastern studies (Ostforschung), academic interest and the political quest to revise the Versailles Treaty’s territorial provisions were difficult to disentangle. Research on the history and culture of Central and Eastern Europe frequently were directly connected with the territorial demands of an expansionist German policy. One of the central concerns of Ostforschung, as Willi Oberkrome has concluded, lay in “demonstrating German cultural achievements in Eastern Europe that could be used as evidence of the groundlessness of the political and cultural sovereignty claims of the new Eastern European states.”167 The revisionist and frequently anti-Bolshevik thrust of numerous works of Ostforschung derived from the explicit goal of providing academic justification for the German Reich’s territorial grab of the East. In a summary report issued in 1942 by Hermann Aubin, Otto Brunner, and others titled “German Ostforschung: Results and Tasks since the First World War,” the medieval scholar Fritz Rörig (1882–1952), at the University of Berlin, discussed “the great idea that it was the Germans’ calling to be a force of order in Europe that empowers and develops strengths and does not destroy them through self-seeking claims to power.” And Erich Keyser (1893–1968) claimed, in telling terminology, “that the ‘German East’ from the Elbe to the Gulf of Finland and from the Inn to the Black Sea” should be viewed as “a cohesive German ‘living space ’ [Lebensraum].”168 The field of Ostforschung had long since abandoned the pretence of a separation of historical research from National Socialist politics.

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However, historians’ involvement in the imperialistic power politics of Nazism could assume various forms. Studies have recently focused their attention on the individual scholars’ participation in the policy of expansion and extermination. For example, Theodor Schieder, whose influence is still felt today, taught in Wrocław starting in 1940 and then in Cologne after the war and was one of the postwar era’s most renowned historians. In 1939 Schieder drafted the “Memorandum on the East German Reich and ethnic frontier,” intended to support the redrawing of the frontier and the demographic Germanization of Poland. Among other things, Schieder recommended “the removal of the Jewry from the Polish cities” so as to promote “the agricultural intensification that . . . at least reduces agricultural overpopulation.”169 Schieder’s memorandum is only one example of individual historians who joined hands with the Nazi regime, a collaboration the extent of which is still unknown and remains an important field of research into the history of a discipline that has long been hesitant to take a critical look at its own past.170 What I am concerned with here, however, lies beyond direct evidence of individual cooperation. On a deeper level, rather, I shall examine the consequences a specific theory of history can have for political relations. At stake is a form of complicity between scholarship and imperialist expansion that neither excludes nor assumes the historians’ active participation in political events. At issue, therefore, is not mere personal “involvement” but rather the reconstruction of a nexus between certain elements of historiographical discourse and expansionist politics. As in the case of the Marxist historians in the Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company, this was not just a question of the co-optation of “innocent” research by an imperialistic policy. Instead, historical studies and colonial policy were often subtly complicit in a manner that derived from their grounding in a common discursive field. In such cases, the Orientalism of Ostforschung was not merely an instrument of Nazi imperialism but actually an essential component of this policy.171 As we shall see, the political thrust of Ostforschung as well as its historical-philosophical premises did not change fundamentally after the war, but rather were carefully adapted to the changed situation. Eastern Studies (Ostforschung) The field of Ostforschung maintained a high level of staff and institutional continuity well into the Federal Republic.172 Although the loss of the eastern German universities and nonuniversity research institutions had to be compensated for, the majority of historians who had taught at institutions in the regions lost to Germany after 1945 returned to West Germany. In this way, “East German” enclaves developed at individual universities that continued the

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tradition of Ostforschung (as in Regensburg, where a series of former scholars from Prague found new jobs). Particularly Göttingen and Marburg emerged as centers of West German Ostforschung. The Göttingen Study Group, founded in 1946 to draft a memorandum on the significance of East Prussia for the conference of foreign ministers in Moscow in 1947, functioned as the successor of the research traditions of Kaliningrad and Wrocław. The University of Göttingen also developed into a stronghold of research on Eastern Europe thanks to the efforts of historians such as Walther Hubatsch, Reinhard Wittram, Otto-Alexander Webermann, WillErich Peuckert, Werner Markert, Werner Conze, and Karl Brandi.173 In Marburg, Hermann Aubin founded the Johann Gottfried Herder Research Council in 1950, continuing the academic policy of the North and East German Research Community (Nord- und Ostdeutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft, or NOFG, whose board of directors Aubin had joined in 1934). Aubin (1885–1969), a native Sudeten German, taught in Wrocław following his habilitation at Bonn University in 1926 and had been a decisive figure in research on German influences on Eastern Europe.174 The Herder institute, under the direction of Erich Keyser, was primarily staffed with members of the former historical commissions in the eastern German territories. Aubin did not conceal but rather openly celebrated this continuity of staff (and content) in his foreword to the first issue of the Herder institute’s Zeitschrift für Ostforschung, which unmistakably picked up where the NOFG’s journal, Jomsburg, left off: “In this situation, an old circle of friends came together in order to gather its scattered resources and establish new research institutions. Advised by this circle, the editors have assumed the task of using the Zeitschrift für Ostforschung to bring together those scholars who are prepared once more to secure the place to which eastern studies are entitled in the spiritual struggle of our times.”175 Erich Keyser also consciously placed the Herder institute’s work into the context of the Ostforschung tradition, which after 1945 was represented as a decidedly European project: “Particularly we East Germans have not been understood in our being, in our becoming, and in our European achievement.” The institute thus had the responsibility to bring out the European mission of Ostforschung, which “must let itself be carried by the idea of the European community.” Keyser went on to stress the importance of this work, which he saw as the precondition for changing not only the German but also the European map. “Germany does not end at the Elbe or the Oder or at the Vistula; Europe, too, reaches beyond these rivers into the space of the East; the Germans have been the outpost and pioneers of this pan-European movement.”176 Despite the institutional break of 1945, the quickly reestablished scholarly societies and the concentration of historians from the now defunct institutions in

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Eastern Europe at several West German universities permitted a continuation of Ostforschung in the tradition of the 1930s and 1940s. For many of the historians concerned, this meant that they would place their academic activities in the service of a political cause. The historian Percy Ernst Schramm explicitly advocated making political claims as one of historiography’s genuine tasks: it was to prepare answers to questions such as “Where is our historical conscience tainted? On the other hand, where are we unjustly accused? What historical legal titles do we possess for the regions detached from Germany?”177 In the Federal Republic, research into the Eastern European past remained largely linked to irredentist goals. This political aspect of eastern studies was also emphasized in a 1947 circular letter from the Göttingen Study Group, demanding intensive public discussion of “the questions of territorial compensation, of our claim to East Prussia on the basis of the historical facts and Germany’s cultural achievements.”178 These words were strikingly reminiscent of the rhetoric used by representatives of the Interior Ministry and the Ministry for All German Questions (founded in 1949 to deal with relations with the GDR), which explicitly subordinated Ostforschung to the central task of “recovering the German East.”179 After 1945, such academic justifications for territorial claims were increasingly integrated into the discourse on the unity of Europe. The centuries-old colonization of the East was presented as an essentially European (and Christian) mission that historically had been shouldered by Germany. Thus at a conference of the East German Academic Study Group, in which Aubin and Rothfels participated, Günter Knetsch demanded reparations for “the catastrophic amputation of German living space in the East,” compensation necessary “so that Germany can become Germany once more and again take up its historical task within Europe.” And this mission, Knetsch argued, was a European one: “For it is not possible to conceive of Europe without the space between the Elbe, Vistula, and Danube, developed in centuries of cultural work [Kulturarbeit]. Without this space, the Occident will remain an Asian ‘Gibraltar,’ that is, it will become a Eurasian bridgehead to the New World.”180 “A Higher Order” From this perspective, the colonization of the East remained “the greatest and [most] lasting occidental achievement of the German people,” guaranteeing “resistance to the hordes of Asia,” “a living defensive wall for core German and occidental territories,” and a “barricade for the Western countries.”181 “In the East,” Hermann Aubin proclaimed, “Germany bore a great task of great occidental significance, and, after a grave struggle, it actively and successfully fulfilled it.”182 This concept of Germany’s eastern expansion as part of its European

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mission was a central element in postwar historiography and shows up in virtually every one of the numerous texts on Eastern European history. The focus on Germany’s European mission, however, did not represent a drastic break with the past under the pressure of a changed world situation. In the early 1940s, against the backdrop of the Nazi war in Europe, the European mission of German history had already been discussed widely. For example, in 1941 Karl Richard Ganzer, writing about “the Reich as an ordering power” in a publication of the Reich Institute for the History of the New Germany, emphasized the transnational significance of Germany’s eastern expansion. For him, “the charismatic willingness to assume European responsibility . . . was one of the most powerful driving forces, even at the outset of German history.” Ganzer characterized the consequences of this willingness as follows: “Thanks to its greater political potency, the German core as the guiding center organized a group of different spaces that, in racial terms, may exist more or less autonomously, into a political community” whereby “the natural structure of Europe was achieved.”183 This kind of argument was still present in the 1950s. For Hermann Aubin, who promptly took up teaching again in Hamburg in 1946, the exculpation of Germany’s eastern expansion on behalf of the Occident even provided a way to exonerate Nazi policies. “The critical comments one hears must not be seen as a final judgment on the National Socialist episode.” Instead of premature condemnation, one should “raise the question of whether an honest pursuit of the national idea on the part of Germany might not have led to a higher and peaceful order in the near East. That would particularly have contributed to strengthening the common Occidental values on this dangerous front.”184 Consequently, Nazism’s anti-Bolshevik calling, to which Aubin had dedicated his life ’s work, was presented as part of the tradition of Germany’s European mission. “National Socialism . . . acted in accordance with a commitment to its unbridgeable antagonism toward Bolshevism, [a commitment] that managed to unite all Occidental forces, particularly those of the East. Pilsudski recognized the significance that lay in this offer to form an alliance. Otherwise, his contemporaries, in their division into democrats and fascists, abandoned the common Occidental task.”185 The task Aubin believed Germany was compelled to perform in the European interest was meant at the same time to retrospectively justify Nazi policy. The facts that “on our side too . . . there were many exaggerations” and that the German man’s burden was not achieved “without violence against un-Germans” were par for the course.186 For within the framework of this higher goal, Hitler’s campaign against Russia (as the most prominent example) was not a stage of German impe-

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rialism but an act of Occidental self-defense. “There are wars we must recognize as a form of aggressively conducted defense, individual actions in the long chain of the struggle for existence, whether that of a people or a cultural community.”187 Moreover, for Aubin it was simple common sense that the violent pacification of the East not only lay in the interest of the Occident but was also the best thing that ever happened to the Eastern European peoples themselves. Through colonization “the Eastern peoples achieved their link to the Occidental cultural community, the results of which have saturated their entire future existence.”188 For Aubin, this willingness on the part of “the East” to welcome such a cultural (and military) incorporation was a result of the massive cultural gap between Central and Eastern Europe. The restructuring of Europe by Germany had brought forth a “higher order.” After 1945 Aubin saw this higher order threatened by the victory of socialism in Eastern Europe: “Now we have lost everything that the Occidental community gained within a thousand years and joined together by bonds of like-minded cultured behavior.”189 Germans had been active as colonists for an entire millennium, and Aubin referred to this longue durée as the principal argument to justify their legal claims. Time as an Argument This recourse to historical time as an argument can also be observed among other historians dealing with Germany’s policy toward the East. Percy Ernst Schramm, in an article in the journal Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, attempted to legitimize Germany’s claims to the East by referring to its longtime presence in the region. For Schramm, the length of the period during which Germans felt compelled to undertake military intervention in the East guaranteed them a “historical legal title.” Admittedly, the eastern regions may have already been inhabited by “prehistoric Slavs.” But Schramm dismissed this objection as the alleged event simply lay too far in the past: “The thesis can probably be disproved, but we do not even want to discuss it; the order of the year 2000 can in no way be prejudiced by the conditions in the year 2000 before Christ.” One apparently had to look to a later time to find an appropriate starting point for historical legitimacy. “Beginning in the fourth century, Europe was threatened by a danger that can justifiably be compared with a spring tide: from the East, mounted and thus light and rapidly moving steppe peoples came flooding in, who could only partially be resisted.” For its part, this danger legitimized the military invasion and colonization of the East, for which Schramm listed yet another justification: “However, the work of the colonizers would have remained questionable if it had not been for the internal German population surplus, which demanded new dwellings and filled

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the space between the old and new frontiers.” Thus, as late as 1958, Schramm, a military historian who had managed the German High Command’s war journal between 1943 and 1945, justified the transfer from the “old” to the “new frontier” by citing demographic necessity—an argument that was familiar to his readers and that we encounter again in another guise below. “The fact that kingdoms with population surpluses have annexed adjoining spaces through settlement has . . . occurred again and again throughout history.”190 Likewise, in 1956 the Berlin historian Hans Herzfeld—in a state of shock after the Soviet invasion of Hungary—emphasized the time factor in evaluating Eastern European history. For him, Kaliningrad and Silesia were “genuine components of Germany” that must therefore be reincorporated into the German state. For this purpose “recourse to the enduring and true history of this space is necessary in order to overcome history through history.”191 The reference to the longue durée of the past was meant to undermine the legitimacy of the present. Like Percy Ernst Schramm, Herzfeld employed time as a quantitative argument. But there is a shift in Herzfeld’s reasoning that moved him in a fundamentally different direction. The cultural gap that he believed could also justify the German intervention in the East corresponded to the distance between “populations that have undergone a basically equal historical maturation process in a relatively small time interval.” Here the temporal argument assumed a different character: pure duration no longer guaranteed ownership claims. Rather, it was temporal difference within the framework of a shared path of development. In this way, time was more or less freed from the space whose acquisition it was intended to legitimize: not the centuries invested in a place but rather the abstract fact of a head start seemed to justify a historically validated land seizure.192 Such references to temporal difference as a source of political legitimacy and of historical explanation formed a recurrent pattern in postwar Germany. Particularly in the writings of historians such as Hermann Aubin and Werner Conze, which can be included in the general category of folk or structural history, the temporal argument structured the historical presentation. This meant abandoning a perspective that had directed its main attention at unchanging, geographically predetermined differences and had detected timeless contradictions between “East” and “West.” Traces of this perspective still occasionally showed up in Aubin’s texts—for example, when he blamed “a fateful disposition, rooted deep in natural conditions and activated by history,” for the differences separating the Germans from “the Eastern peoples.”193 At the same time, Aubin also identified historical development processes that he believed had manifested themselves at different places in varying

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degrees of intensity. Thus the asymmetry between the East and the West was not a difference of essence but rather a product of history. Germany represented “rapid progress,” while Aubin denied that the “hitherto virtually history-free tribe[s]” in the East possessed the criterion that he took as the precondition for such progress: historical time.194 As a result, Eastern Europe represented “standstill and decline” and did not participate in the “advancement . . . that the civilization of the Occident, . . . despite temporary setbacks, has passed through in a direct line.”195 Rather than falling back on national psychology to explain difference, these historians cautiously attempted to replace natural determinants of historical distinctions with references to history itself. Backwardness was no longer to be explained by geographical factors. In Aubin’s and Conze ’s reasoning, asymmetries were not a result of nature but rather a product of social structures. This was an important shift and not only in the issue that needed explanation. Instead, the notion of historical change itself received a new foundation. After all, this recourse to population structures also entailed the notion of changeability. The demographic distribution between town and countryside and also among the social classes had undergone massive changes since the late eighteenth century. By thus linking academic explanations to an analysis of the population structure, change became an ingredient in every nation’s development. Ahistorical relations in space, as it were, yielded to changeability in time. The Temporalization of Space Whereas Aubin still used both perspectives (nature and structure) in an ambivalent mixture, Werner Conze ’s work reveals a strategy I characterized above as the temporalization of space. This form of argumentation rendered the notion of a metaphysically charged space impossible—a notion that Conze ’s colleague Will-Erich Peuckert, a professor of ethnography and intellectual history at the University of Göttingen, continued to entertain: “Kaliningrad was a German city, and Germanness continued to manifest itself in Grodno; but when I crossed the Vistula in 1915 to enter the trenches at Lida, the torrent revealed to me its nature as an Eastern river: broad, meandering, with low banks and flowing out to a low horizon. A strip as wide as Western Galicia lies along the old German frontier from south to north, and this strip forms the border between Germany and Poland, between the Germanic and the Slavic worlds. Between ‘the West’ and ‘the East.’ ”196 By contrast, Conze placed his historical analyses on the foundation of a universal theory of modernization. Even though his stance toward modernism evolved over the years, his essays on structural history in the 1950s can be read as a continuation

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of his wartime folk history works. In his essay “The Structural Crisis of Eastern Central Europe before and after 1919,” which appeared in the Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte in 1953, and in his brief comments in “Agrarian Society and Industrial Society in East Central Europe,” which appeared in a festschrift for Hermann Aubin in 1955, Conze again explained his interpretation of Eastern European history, which was largely the same version he had touted before 1945. For Conze too, the First World War had seemed to hold out “the possibility of a great confederation under German leadership.” Conze viewed this as “an opportunity equally German and European” and as “a promising possibility for the development of an economic and social political ordering of East Central Europe.”197 In justifying this vision, he based his structural historical analyses on a line of reasoning that defined the gap between Germany and Eastern Europe as a temporal interval. The central question in this quest for pioneers and latecomers was: “To what degree and in what way has East Central Europe been seized by the European world revolution? Was even a trace of industrial society in existence there before 1914?” For Conze the answer could only be negative. “These vast regions remained outside the industrial system until the First World War and remained stuck in agrarian society.” The Eastern European societies were thus characterized by temporal backwardness on the path to modernity, a factor that also hampered their further development. “Under the existing conditions, the conditions necessary for a modernization of agriculture in Eastern and East Central Europe did not exist.”198 And yet Conze ’s view of this modernization process was not entirely positive. On the contrary, his texts are filled with a longing for elements of the old corporative society and profound skepticism about the blessings of modernity.199 In this regard, he clearly differed not only from the social historians of the 1960s but also from contemporary Japanese historians, influenced as they were by Marx and Weber. The faith in progress shared by many koµzaha historians remained foreign to Conze. These differences notwithstanding, Conze likewise viewed societal modernization as an inevitable process that occurred in developmental stages. According to his interpretation, an emancipation of the peasants provided the general conditions for an agrarian revolution whose success was in turn the essential precondition for the Industrial Revolution. He was convinced that modernization would then affect all different areas of society equally and that a national or democratic constitution would then be the logical consequence of a necessary historical development beginning with successful peasant emancipation. But this organic model could be observed only within Western Europe. In Eastern Europe, democracy and the nation-state were not exactly inappropriate but

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simply premature. For Conze, the desire for national autonomy was justified only if “even the most modest social development process prepared the conditions for a national ‘awakening’ out of the peasant topsoil.” In any case, the peoples of Eastern Europe were not yet ripe enough; the social transformation had not progressed sufficiently, as he went on to prove: “The Latvians and Estonians lacked . . . the historical depth. . . . On the other hand, they revealed more elements of a ‘Western’ social structure than elsewhere in East Central Europe. . . . The political basis of the Lithuanians was much more tenuous. . . . These elements were even weaker among the White Ruthenians.” The prospects for creating a democratic national state were even more minimal “for the unhistorical people of the Slovaks,” and in Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania only an “incomplete . . . society” had developed so far.200 The parliamentary systems introduced in many of these states in the 1920s had thus merely been grafted onto a backward social structure. Conze employed the trope of the “synchronicity of the nonsynchronous” to characterize his observation “that in certain countries the great context of the European world revolution [had] developed only in fragments. This was the case in East Central Europe in a particularly dangerous way since only a single, partial transformation occurred without the adaptation of economic, social, and cultural life to this change.”201 The logic of the “synchronicity of the nonsynchronous” implied, as Marx famously phrased it, that the “more developed country . . . [presented] the less developed one with the mirror image of its own future.”202 This temporalization of space implied the possibility of declaring foreign interference and involvement in these societies “not as the ‘imperialist’ suppression of other peoples,” Conze assured his readers, but rather as intervention to assist them in catching up in their modernization.203 To return to our example, in Werner Conze ’s interpretation, Eastern Europe ’s modernization got bogged down after the emancipation of the peasants. In Western Europe, as Conze had emphasized in a lecture at the University of Poznana in 1943, emancipation had been the green light for an agrarian revolution. The peasant emancipation in Western Europe “released pent up energies . . . while in East Central Europe the social pressure did not lead to action but merely vegetated.”204 In other words, “the peasantry . . . remained in a pre-rational, still magical level of consciousness; it continued to live huddled on the ground, in the grip of nature and its spirits.”205 The varying success of the peasants’ emancipation then led to a highly unequal development in the East and the West. For while “the West German, Southeast German, and Bohemian peasant emancipation led . . . to . . . industrialization,” “the East Central European movement largely ended in a still unsolved rural overpopulation.”206 For Conze, this was the root of

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the fundamental social problem blocking the path to further modernization: as a result of the division of the estates, the emancipation of the peasants did not lead to the “drainage” of peasants to the cities but rather to the “fateful path to rural overpopulation.”207 Historical knowledge derived from structural data seemed to allow historians to determine the place where a desired development could be accelerated or unwanted detours could be avoided. As a result of this paradigm of a linear developmental law of history, historians no longer confined themselves to retrospective observation but also made predictions about the future. And just like the many Marxist historians in Japan who had joined the Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway to participate in “benevolent” intervention on behalf of Chinese modernization, Werner Conze also converted his research findings into suggestions for catch-up modernization. In 1940, in an article first written for a sociology congress in Bucharest (canceled after the outbreak of war), Conze presented a diagnosis transforming his sociostructural findings into political recommendations: “The rural overpopulation in many parts of East Central Europe has become one of the gravest social and political issues of the present.” Conze advocated measures that could provide relief “in an extremely effective and palliative manner.” These included “the dejudaization of the cities and market towns to make room for young peasants employed in trade and the craft professions.”208 The developmental logic behind this analysis allows us to reconstruct the continuity in Conze ’s thought. The anti-Semitic dimension of his suggestions may have been due primarily to the hegemonic rhetoric of the time. After 1945, these tropes no longer appear in Conze ’s writing.209 Nevertheless, this specific policy suggestion demonstrates the profoundly ambivalent character of the underlying developmental idea. The general notion of a linear historical development that allows for only temporal differences is the foundation for all varieties of modernization theory. The underlying historical philosophy is not without emancipatory components, since it holds out the achievements of modernity for every country and rejects clichés of an intrinsic, unchanging cultural backwardness. But at the same time, the alleged certainty of future development also appeared to legitimize measures that could be described as benevolent modernization from the outside. Maruyama’s interpretation of Chinese history, the approaches of Marxist scholars in the service of the Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company, and Conze ’s plea for structural demographic interventions are examples of this tendency. In each of these cases, the ambivalent character of development ideas, with their both liberating and totalitarian potential, became clear.

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CONCLUSION This chapter argues that the ways in which scholars have employed forms of Orientalism can be characterized as the temporalization of space. Within this paradigm, differences were not attributed to geographical, mental, or climatic structures, but rather to time. In this way the development of nations was arrayed along the yardstick of linear history. It is important to note that this mode of explanation was much more common in Japan than in early postwar West Germany. This was due to the fact that different versions of modernization theory (including Marxism) emerged as the most powerful interpretive frameworks in Japan after the war, while in West Germany this paradigm shift did not set in until the 1960s. The temporalization-of-space argument, therefore, was employed only rarely by West German historians. Conze was one of the few who based their studies explicitly on a theory of modernity and was an exception in this respect. The argumentative strategy that I have called the temporalization of space represented the observed differences between nations, which in the nineteenth century had been frequently explained in essentialist terms, in the seemingly neutral language of time. Within the paradigm of linear history, historians translated difference into backwardness that could then, according to the situation, be employed to justify different forms of intervention in the name of catch-up modernization. In this way, a terminology of national character and climate gave way to the analysis of population structures, class conflicts, and democratic institutions, which were then judged using the allegedly neutral yardstick of modernization. In the process, a rhetoric of temporality replaced a language that was now increasingly perceived as racist. Instead of “Chinese,” the term now used was “stagnation.” However, the essentialism contained in the older terminology did not vanish entirely but rather left traces in the transformed rhetoric of development. As the above examples suggest, it is therefore necessary to go beyond such questions as personal involvement and the imperialist instrumentalization of scholarship (which assumes a strict separation of knowledge and politics/power) and instead examine the mechanisms that made both a politicization of scholarship and a scientification of politics possible. Scholarship cannot be severed from power relationships, even though the historical accounts I have examined tended to do so. The hegemony of variants of developmental thinking was the result of complex changes within the discipline of history. At the same time, it corresponded to the specific situations in Japan and West Germany, both of which were informed by the American occupation and integration into the Western side of the global Cold

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War schism. In the Federal Republic, positioning between East and West relied on the same rhetoric that structured the political divide along the inner-German frontier. And in Japan, the glorification of the West in the early postwar years reflected the asymmetry between Japan and the modernizing U.S. occupation. In addition, the notion of the temporalization of space made it possible to retrospectively legitimate, at least on a theoretical level, the imperialist interventions of the war years vis-à-vis the former colonies. At the same time, the seemingly neutral language of temporal difference colluded with a widespread amnesia about Germany’s and Japan’s colonialist past. Finally, the reality of an increasingly globalized world order, which now relied on ideological and no longer mere regional boundaries, found its counterpart in the theoretical temporalization of national differences. The United States’ claim to leadership thus no longer appeared to be based merely on military and economic superiority, but was also legitimized by a temporal advantage. Modernization theory functioned as an intellectual Marshall Plan that appeared to give every nation the tools it needed to catch up.

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chapter six

. History and Memory Germany and Japan, 1945–2000

THE QUEST FOR THE LOST NATION Early postwar historiography in West Germany and Japan developed on the premise that a thorough revision of previous historical interpretations was unavoidable. After the caesura of 1945, generally experienced as a catastrophe in both countries, it seemed as if not only the immediate past but also the entire history of the nation would have to be fundamentally reframed. The preceding chapters argue, however, that in both countries the nation remained at the center of historical interpretation. Even though transnational and universalistic approaches emerged at the forefront after 1945, in historians’ practice the paradigm of national history remained firmly in place. In some ways, it was even reinforced in correspondence to the loss of empire and the construction of a postcolonial identity. This was obvious in the Bismarck debate in which—despite the many references to Central Europe and “the West”—“the Germans” continued to be the subject of history. In Japan, the Meiji Restoration was increasingly understood as a reaction to an external threat and thus as a national revolution. Likewise, the epoch of National Socialism and Japanese fascism were viewed largely from a national perspective. In this way, the German and Japanese people could appear as the real victims of dictatorship and war. German contemporary history, which had been institutionally detached from the historical profession in general, and which sought to approach the history of the Third Reich as a special period and used special methods, also contributed to the rehabilitation of the national past.

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Within this context, the quest for the lost nation could be read as a series of attempts to define a national core. One of the strategies for locating this essence was to equate it with a certain historical period. Thus the Weimar Republic and the so-called popular rights movement ( jiyuµ minken undoµ) in 1880s Japan were references through which “Japan” and “Germany” were identified with their democratic traditions. The “core” of the nation could also be represented by the agents of national “progress,” as the debates among Marxists on the subject or agent (shutai) of Japanese modernization have shown. Finally, in the postwar years the nation was reinscribed onto geopolitical space. Contributions to the Bismarck debate, for example, regularly linked the critique of conventional interpretations to the attempt to locate the “real” Germany within a national space (for example in the Catholic south of Germany). But the boundaries of the community in both countries were never clearly fixed and were thus continually renegotiated. In particular, the concepts of the East and the West served as powerful frames of reference within which to situate and spatialize the postwar nation. These attempts to define the cultural, social, and spatial boundaries of the nation revealed how difficult it was to overcome a nation-state perspective. This was even true for approaches that explicitly sought to transcend the national framework. In Germany, discourses of European unity and “the West,” both ubiquitous in the postwar period, are a case in point. This shift toward supranational organizational forms, which most historians had rejected during the interwar years, was now hailed as a move beyond narrow national approaches and as a sign of the spread of cosmopolitan, even democratic attitudes.1 The preceding chapters show, however, that pleas for a European perspective rarely led to an abandonment of national aspirations. Instead, “the West” or “Europe” was typically invoked as a code word for the alleged supranational mission of the German nation. Marxist historians in Japan also called for the rejection of conventional national perspectives. The Japan-centered view of history of wartime was to be replaced by world-historical modes of development and a universalistic methodology oriented on class conflicts. These claims notwithstanding, Marxist interpretations of Japanese history remained linked to an internalistic perspective. The allegedly universal laws of world history were applied to Japan, whose development was then largely explained self-referentially. In this way, Marxist historiography (not unlike modernization theory) also largely remained within the framework of national history, despite its world-historical aspirations. This reliance on the paradigm of the nation-state intensified during the nationalist turn of left-wing historians in the early 1950s, after the Chinese Revolution and the outbreak of the Korean War.

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The term “nation” (minzoku) now moved to the center of debates, and a national perspective gradually began to replace the priority of class relationships. Beyond all political and methodological divides, in other words, competing approaches operated with a set of common assumptions: The nation both remained the privileged subject of history and figured as the legitimate object of historiography. This twofold privileging of the nation is no German or Japanese peculiarity, but characteristic of many forms of history writing; in many ways, this national orientation can be traced all the way back to the discipline ’s beginnings in the nineteenth century.2 It took a specific form in postwar Germany and Japan, framed by internalistic theories of history, under the conditions of foreign occupation and the perceived need for national reassertion after defeat, and finally as a response to the loss of empire, which necessitated a reconfiguration of the nation’s core. The gap between a transnational vision and a stubbornly national historiography was representative of Japan’s and West Germany’s early postwar period, but did not fundamentally change until the 1990s, when transnational approaches increasingly began to challenge the paradigm of national history. Seemingly fulfilling the postnational promises of the early postwar years, however, the current trend corresponds to very different contexts and conditions. In the following section, I briefly sketch the development of historiography between 1960 and the present and the different attempts to supersede a national framework.3 In the Federal Republic, in the wake of the Fischer controversy in the early 1960s, social history gradually displaced the prevailing political and diplomatic history as the dominant mode of historical inquiry. A generational shift among historians contributed as much to this change as the institutional expansion at the beginning of the 1970s, when a range of new universities were founded. Two decades after social history became hegemonic in Japan, it also became the most influential approach in the Federal Republic. Both forms of social history revealed a number of similarities: attention to the economic base of history; interest in social strata and classes; the primacy of domestic policy, which was propagated in the Federal Republic by Hans-Ulrich Wehler’s editions of the writings of Eckhardt Kehr; the great influence of Max Weber; modern (Japanese and German) history interpreted as a world-historical “deviant path” (Sonderweg/tokushuna michi); the rejection of the dogma that “great men” “make” history; and the interest in quantifying methods. But aside from these and many other parallels, there were also significant differences. The most important of these was probably the stance toward Marxism, a central point of orientation for large sections of the Japanese historical profession.

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In the Federal Republic, by contrast, the rejection of historical materialism was par for the course among leftist historians—not least because of the ideological competition emanating from the GDR.4 While in West Germany, Weber was played off against Marx, Japanese historians sometimes synthesized both approaches into something what could be called Marx Weber. This also implied a differing reception of modernization theory, which Wehler and others viewed as a welcome alternative to Marxism, whereas in Japan it was largely taken over by conservative historians in an explicit rejection of social-historical approaches.5 In the Federal Republic, proponents of social history took the stage not only with methodological innovation but also with the goal of overcoming the latent nationalism of historist historiography. Jürgen Kocka, for example, interpreted the transition from a conservative political history to social history as part of a general paradigm shift from the nation to society.6 The rejection of the nation could be observed on several levels: in methodological terms, it meant setting aside national history to privilege concepts such as class and industrial society; in terms of representation, it stood for the rejection of a nationalistic or patriotic stance in favor of “critical historical studies.” Most important, the antinational stance was an expression of political convictions. For example, most historians supported the Federal Republic’s Ostpolitik in the 1970s. A declaration initiated by Hans Mommsen and signed by 220 colleagues expressly recognized the changed political conditions in Europe. This referred to acceptance not only of the Polish border but also of the GDR as a legitimate German state. Much of German scholarship in the 1960s and 1970s was framed as a departure from the “national fantasies” of the kind still entertained by conservative historians.7 Scholars have stylized the transition to social history in Germany both as a component in the long-term modernization of historiography and as a paradigm shift that can be viewed as the expression of methodological progress.8 To the extent that the concept of a paradigm suggests the replacement of older approaches with new ones, the Kuhnian term is misleading. In fact, after the 1960s—in Germany as in Japan—a methodological pluralism emerged. The dissolution of the category of nation began with its internal social fragmentation by social historians; this trend intensified from the late 1970s with the successive establishment of women’s history, cultural history, and the history of everyday life. This differentiation of historical research was a transnational phenomenon; thus the chronology and general thrust of the methodological and thematic innovations in the Federal Republic and Japan revealed a number of parallels. At the same time, there were significant differences that had to do with the social and cultural context, but also with the

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different historiographical traditions, for example, the dominant role of Marxist historiography in Japan. Women’s history, for one, was clearly a transnational current, as it was strongly influenced by American feminism. One salient trait of early women’s history, as represented by Karin Hausen and Heide Wunder in Germany, was the claim that “general history” was a fraud in that it conceptually excluded half of humankind. The search for lost “heroines” and a preoccupation with forms of female powerlessness and repression were typical of the early years of women’s history, which were dominated by the notion of difference.9 After the late 1980s in Germany, under the influence of the works of Joan Scott and Judith Butler, women’s history was transformed into gender history. It was characterized no longer solely by a concern with the “forgotten half ” of the population, but rather with relations between the sexes and the construction of gender identities. Unlike the earlier women’s history, which was in danger of merely occupying a niche alongside general history, gender history claimed to represent an alternative model of historical explanation.10 In Japan too, the influence of feminist discussions in the United States from the 1970s on contributed to a broad current of women’s history. These imports encountered a flourishing Japanese tradition of women’s history within which we can distinguish two trends. One direction can be traced to the works of Takamure Itsue, who made a name for herself during the war years with important studies leading to her four-volume masterpiece, Women’s History, published in 1954–58. Particularly during the war, Takamure stood for a nationalist form of culturalism, which contributed to the legitimization of a pan-Asian ideology of the state. She used the words “women” and “Japan” as identity-creating metaphors and defined Asian women by their alleged contrast to Western imperialism.11 Inoue Kiyoshi presented a competing approach in his Marxist Women’s History in 1948. This book largely concentrated on the emancipatory women’s movement in Japan.12 These two perspectives also played an important role in Japanese women’s history starting in the 1970s and have continued to lead to discussions on the relationship between “Japanese” approaches and imported (“Western”) theories. After the 1970s, women’s history became an important field of research that also profited institutionally from the development of women’s universities in the 1980s. Gender also began asserting itself in Japan as a category of analysis starting in the 1990s. However, a Marxist-oriented gender history remained influential alongside the approaches influenced by Joan Scott’s post-structuralist studies.13 Alongside gender history, the history of everyday life posed a challenge both to the unity of methodological approaches and to the nation as a privileged category

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of analysis. In Japan, a historiography “from below” emerged as early as 1960. Its proponents struggled for a grassroots perspective within the context of the broad social protests against the extension of the security treaty with the United States. They rejected Marxism and modernization theory and instead sought indigenous historical approaches. Like E. P. Thompson, historians such as Irokawa Daikichi, Kano Masanao, and later, Yasumaru Yoshio were interested in the description of everyday life and the transformation of values in the transition to modernity—in “the people” (minshuµ). Even though the institutional hegemony of koµzaha historiography continued, the Japanese version of history from below became an important and influential current within historical studies. The field of minshuµshi is heterogeneous and cannot be reduced to a single common denominator. However, most of its proponents shared a critical view of modernity and turned to the works of the anthropologist Yanagita Kunio, who in the 1930s argued against equating modernity with the West. They wrote to rehabilitate the individual as an agent of historical change, to make the people into the agent of history. In the process, the people ’s energies were styled as the driving force of modernization. The works of historians of everyday life expressed a deeply rooted dissatisfaction with contemporary society and instead turned to studying the countryside. The Japanese version of subaltern studies was expressly formulated against the modernizing center and thus also contained an antinationalistic component.14 In the Federal Republic as well, German traditions such as historical anthropology played a role in the development of the history of everyday life. But other influences were more important for the widespread effects of history from below, which was institutionalized in the Max Planck Institute for History in Göttingen in the mid-1980s. Alongside E. P. Thompson, the ideas of Anglo-American cultural anthropology strongly influenced Alf Lüdtke, David Sabean, and Hans Medick. Clifford Geertz’s notion of thick description, in particular, became central to the microhistorical approach, which used an ethnological approach to seek “the strange” within one ’s own history. Oral history also played a role in the field of contemporary history. In contrast to Japan, the main emphasis of German research on the history of everyday life was not modernity but the early modern era. Because of its interest in the everyday aspects of social and cultural life, historical anthropology soon entered a fierce conflict with hegemonic social history, which erupted in full force at the 1984 Berlin historians’ convention. The issue at hand was the relationship between structure and agency, the macro versus micro perspective, and the absolute dominance of the great narratives of moderniza-

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tion and of the “great transformation,” against which Medick and others emphasized breaks and discontinuities. They were particularly concerned with small, often hidden events, and also the peculiarities of subjects and the distinctive logic (Eigensinn) of historical actors (Lüdtke). By refusing to privilege the processes of nation-state development, which they imputed to social history, they also distanced themselves from the national-historical narrative.15 Finally, the cultural turn of historical studies after the 1990s further contributed to a pluralization of historical methods. The debate on cultural history was conducted in a parallel manner in Germany and Japan, with quite similar lines of inquiry and conflict. The influences of Foucault, Derrida, Hayden White, and the linguistic turn were palpable in both contexts and led to a critique of the understanding of reality that was shared by social history and the history of everyday life (despite their differences in method and content). The challenge of cultural history was primarily an epistemological critique of the essentialisms of “postwar historiography” (sengo rekishigaku); the previously assumed concepts of nation, class, and subject were now hermeneutically challenged and “deconstructed.” Instead, the emphasis on the contingency of historical phenomena went hand in hand with an interest in strategies of representation. The epistemological challenges led to an understanding of academic historiography as a form of narrative. It implied that not only the object but also the subjects (e.g., the historians) of the narrative came into view. The broad impact of cultural history, however, was due to the thematic innovations it brought to the field. The history of hygiene, sexuality, and the body were among approaches that challenged the conventional understanding of the autonomous subject. “Discourse history,” “postcolonialism,” and “memory” were further keywords of a discussion that proponents of social history at first viewed as a threat to their discipline’s methodological standards but that have long since entered the historical mainstream.16 In both the Federal Republic and Japan, women’s history, the history of everyday life, and cultural history—to name three of the most important currents—considerably expanded the methodological and thematic spectrum of the discipline. They also contributed to the gradual undermining of the nation as the quasi-natural subject of history. This fragmentation of national history was not restricted to Germany and Japan but was in itself a transnational phenomenon. Yet just as the universalistic programs of historians in the years immediately following 1945 did not yet mean that a national perspective had become obsolete, the fragmentation of historical studies starting in the 1960s did not lead to the complete abandonment of the nation as a privileged subject or object.

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The persistence of the national idea can be observed, for example, in the history of everyday life (minshuµshi) in Japan. Although minshuµshi was aimed against koµzaha historians’ preoccupation with the nation-state, in its search for alternatives it was hardly immune from the temptation to cultivate an essentialized notion of the Japanese people. For example, Irokawa Daikichi’s famous workThe Culture of the Meiji Period (1970)—dripping with nostalgia and an obsessive view of Japanese peculiarities—opened with an overview of Japan as “a very strange country,” emphasizing the “fairy-tale aspect of this small island.” Irokawa continued: “Japan seems a country filled with a strange wonder, at once ancient and new. There is not another case like it in the history of the world.” The terms in which this alleged Japanese uniqueness is formulated recall the Japan-centered ideology of the Nihonjinron: “It developed its own distinctive culture, resulting in homogeneous patterns of race, language, religion, food, clothing, and shelter, as well as unique consciousness, attitude toward nature, spirit, and sensibility. We need only compare Japan with India, China, or Southeast Asia to see how singular and homogeneous it is.”17 The Japanese history of everyday life operated with a notion of the nation that, while formulated against the state and an oppressive bureaucracy, nevertheless presumed the state ’s existence.18 However, with German Alltagsgeschichte and other forms of subaltern studies, the Japanese minshuµshi shared the danger of romanticizing “ordinary people” and what these historians perceived as their premodern ways of living.19 A similar problematic can be observed with other approaches as well. The critique of national history in the last instance tended to reproduce its own concept of the nation, even if defined as an alternative to prevailing and statist orthodoxies. This was even true for attempts to arrive at an even more radical deconstruction of the nation. Examples include the influential work by medieval historian Amino Yoshihiko, who stressed the need for an internal differentiation and pluralization of Japan.20 And even the debunking of the myth of Japan as a homogeneous nation, which Oguma Eiji has performed in numerous extensive analyses, to some extent thrives on a fascination with the nation and a preoccupation with border issues.21 In the Federal Republic too, the pluralization of method did not lead to the abdication of the nation and nation-state. Social history, as practiced by Wehler, Kocka, and Heinrich August Winkler, took a political form—more political than its counterparts in France or Great Britain. Even though formulated against the nationalism of an older political history, social history remained preoccupied with the German nation—as the decades-long debate over the deviant-path theory abundantly dem-

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onstrates. The explanation of the abortive development of German history and the debate over the causes of Nazism were the most important problematics for social historians who combined scholarship with a form of national pedagogy. The tendency of some of its best-known proponents to return to the multivolume synopsis of national history at the end of their careers further documents the persistent significance of the nation-state.22 Stefan Berger has accused West German historians of rediscovering nationalism in the wake of German reunification in 1989. Indeed, the Historikerstreit (historians’ dispute) of 1986, according to Berger, must by seen as an attempt to give Germany a new uniform identity. Following the end of the GDR, the demands for identity creation found great resonance among German intellectuals. Not only conservative historians but also proponents of social history turned out to be susceptible to the national ideology. For Berger, the successive abandonment of the deviant-path thesis and gradual withdrawal from concepts of post- or multinationality were clear indications of an imminent national revisionism in Germany.23 What seems more important than the fears of a political about-face (which never materialized), however, was the persistent methodological prestructuring of history as national history. This practice has changed little since the 1990s, even if there are an increasing number of attempts to break out of the paradigm of national history. The boom in historical comparison is part of this phenomenon.24 Since the early 1990s numerous studies have appeared that put German history into comparative perspective. They have tended to modify the assumptions of the deviant-path thesis and relativize the impression of the exceptionality of German history. Since the mid-1990s these comparative studies have tended to take relationships and mutual influences into account. Even when comparison and transfer appeared as antagonists in the theoretical debates, the praxis of the discipline was largely characterized by a synthesis and cross-fertilization.25 These approaches have clearly contributed to the “internationalization” of German history. At the same time, they have remained within the nation-state framework—as the point of departure for historical contacts and comparative analyses. Only in recent years have historians begun to discuss transnational approaches that promise to break out of the conceptual iron cage of the nation-state. “Transnationality,” “entangled histories,” “histoire croisée,” and “global history” have become influential catchwords in a heated programmatic debate. While the density of programmatic interventions is remarkable when compared to those in many other countries, concrete research into issues of transnationality is still very much a future project.26

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In Japan too, historians began pleading for the abandonment of nation-state approaches in the mid-1990s. Calls for the “deconstruction of nationality,” under the strong influence of cultural studies and first formulated in an influential essay collection in the mid-1990s, were merely the starting point for an intensive reflection on how “national history could be overcome.”27 This trend included postcolonial studies, which in Japan, too, inspired a transnational perspective on the country’s history by focusing on colonial entanglements.28 These discussions were part of a general expansion of historiography in the age of globalization. As such, they were not restricted to Japan. But they had a specifically Japanese background, for in political terms they were aimed against the revisionist efforts of the proponents of a “liberalistic conception of history” ( jiyuµshugiteki rekishikan), the term with which Fujioka Nobukatsu and Nishio Kanji tried to make a nationalist view of the Japanese past palatable.29

ENTANGLED MEMORIES IN GERMANY AND JAPAN This book pursues a dual strategy. On the one hand, it compares West German and Japanese historiography within a transnational context. On the other, it examines academic historiography as a component in a broader history of the politics of memory. To reunite these two perspectives here at the end, I now sketch a transnational perspective of the history of memory in Germany and Japan that reaches into the present. To begin with, it is worth recalling that in the history of memory the national paradigm continues to reign supreme. This may come as a surprise at a time when the historical profession has begun to discard the category of the nation in favor of transnational work. Studies of memory, however, continue to cling to the nation with a peculiar stubbornness. Remembering and forgetting are viewed as the means through which nations confront their respective pasts. At the same time, nations appear as the products of memory—forged into imagined communities through a series of memorial days, public speeches, and visits to memorial sites. Within this scheme, an idealized or traumatic moment is remembered internally in metaphors of a “past that does not go away.” From this perspective, memory seems the almost direct expression of a national mentality, indicative of a nation’s ability to mourn, to learn, and to mature (by overcoming narrow nationalist perspectives).30 According to this perspective, the interpretation of the past was, in the last instance, a matter of national culture. The conventional picture of Japan as a

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nation inherently unable to deal critically with its aggressive and expansionist history falls into this category. This supposed inability and deficiency are frequently couched in cultural terms and explained as the product of national character.31 The German preoccupation with the Nazi past, on the other hand, is typically attributed to a process of collective learning. Daniel Goldhagen’s thesis that innate German anti-Semitism was successfully overcome only after 1945 is only the latest version of this culturalist paradigm.32 Apart from the unifying tendencies of such accounts—which homogenize the nation synchronically as memory-community, and diachronically across generations—this perspective conveys an almost xenophobic negligence of factors associated with what lies beyond the national territory. The history of memory is portrayed through a tunnel vision of the past that marginalizes influence from and entanglements with other national memories. Memory is thus depicted as the last realm of national autonomy. But interpretations of the past do not originate and develop within one country, but rather must also be understood as the product of the connection and exchange between different discourses and practices. “Mastering the past” (Vergangenheitsbewältigung) was by no means only a German affair, nor was “war responsibility” (sensoµ sekinin) ever exclusively a Japanese concern. The seemingly national discourse on what were considered problematic legacies of war and violence was always inscribed onto larger transnational contexts. While it goes against the grain of much recent debate that treats memory as the last vestige of a national “culture,”33 it seems promising to wrest the complex processes of remembering and forgetting from the mirage of autonomy and to read them as entangled memories. The term “entangled memories” does not so much refer to the fact that the past that is remembered—the object of memory—must itself be placed in a transnational context and be seen as a product of processes of exchange and influence. Instead, it focuses on the moment of memory production, seen not only as an attempt to connect to the individual or collective past but just as much as the effect of a multitude of complex impulses in the present. The history of memory production, moreover, is a process of entanglement rather than a shared history suggesting the hope for consensual interpretations of the past. There have been endeavors, to be sure, to arrive at an uncontested and shared version of the past, most notably in the German-Polish (and more recently, Japanese-Korean) project of writing a common history textbook.34 Against this nostalgia for a “pure” and “objective” (and therefore eventually uncontroversial) account of past reality, the term “entanglement” stresses the asymmetrical relations and interactions that produce different, often intensely conflicting accounts of the past.

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A focus on the entangled histories of memory in West Germany and Japan can help to contextualize and situate the postwar experience in both countries and thus to render more complex a story frequently caught in the stereotypes of divergent national characteristics. A comparative perspective that reads the history of memory in both countries as entangled memories may help to avoid the forms of cultural essentialization so frequently employed and instead to situate the dynamics of memory in a larger context. A history of the politics of memory in Japan would have to distinguish at least three phases. The immediate postwar years were characterized by the first steps toward a critical examination of the national past; they were intensified by the politics of memory introduced by U.S. occupying forces, but at the same time they had their limits. The long postwar period after the mid-1950s can be described as a time when official debates were framed within a rhetoric of sacrifice and victimization. Since the 1990s, as debates over the politics of memory have intensified, the question of Japanese guilt and responsibility—in a new form and discussed with great controversy—has once again become a central issue. With minor modifications, the history of memory politics could be divided into the same three periods in the Federal Republic, even if many of the dynamics were reversed, rather than analogous. On the whole, the discussion of Nazism—following a “certain silence” (Hermann Lübbe) in the 1950s—had a much greater presence in the public sphere in Germany than in Japan before 1989.

early postwar years In the early years after 1945, memories of the war in both Germany and Japan were already situated in a context that transcended the nation-state. The primary, albeit not sole, point of reference in both countries was the United States, not least because the remembering happened in the context of the U.S. occupation.35 As has become clear in the preceding chapters, neither Japanese debates on the “dark valley” (kurai tanima) of fascism neither the attempts to come to terms with the “evil past” of the Third Reich in Germany can be understood without taking U.S. interventions into account. In view of these numerous interventions, critics in Japan have spoken of a “closed discursive space” whose enforced boundaries were no less repressive than the nationalist censorship of the war years.36 This may be a somewhat exaggerated formulation, but it contains a kernel of truth. Democratic freedom of expression was a rare commodity in the early postwar period, and arguments running counter to American views faced serious structural difficulties.37 To be sure, the new inter-

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pretation of the recent past was by no means a U.S. imposition alone, but instead reflected the historical understanding of many Japanese intellectuals. Critical voices dominated, and the epoch of fascism and defeat was generally viewed as an expression of the fundamental structural flaws of the social and political order, which could be traced back into the nation’s past. Writers, cultural critics, and wide circles of intellectuals tended to believe that militarism had driven the country to war and that the U.S. occupation represented the liberation of the Japanese people.38 Contrary to the usual assumptions, in the first years following the war the debate over the recent past in Japan was conducted in a much more critical way than in the Federal Republic. This was particularly true of history. In contrast to the Federal Republic, after 1945 most Japanese historians saw not only the recent past but their country’s entire modern history as discredited. This view was partially influenced by the rapid spread of Marxist historiography. The so-called modernists (kindai shugisha) surrounding OMtsuka Hisao and Maruyama Masao also held great reservations about Japanese society and its cultural traditions. They viewed the epoch of fascism and defeat as the expression of fundamental structural flaws in the political, social, and psychological order that they saw as reaching into the distant past. Alongside the modernist and Marxist camps, a broad group of liberal and conservative historians continued to hold fast to a historist political history that viewed the epoch of fascism as an exception to Japanese national traditions, as a historical aberration. However, conservative historians and their interpretations remained in the background during the 1950s. The great controversies were shaped and dominated by critical views of the country’s past. In contrast, West German historians after the war remained largely focused on distancing themselves from the Nazi era. Rejection of Nazi ideology was widespread, and revisionist apologias were not to be found in scholarly historiography. However, the condemnatory and critical perspective under which the Hitler era was studied did not extend in equal measure to the history of the period before 1933. In the view of the conservative majority of historians, even the “catastrophe” could not put a dent in German traditions. They viewed the Third Reich as an exceptional period that thus could not discredit the history preceding it. Germany, most historians of the time concurred, had simply tripped up—and merely had to regain its balance after 1945 in order to continue its previous path.39 In West Germany the notion of structural deficits that made fascism seem a logical result rather than a temporary aberration was thus received far less favorably among historians. The negligible role that early variations of the Sonderweg thesis played in West Germany—which in its Japanese version was common currency in

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the early postwar decades—had much to do with the fact that the historical profession scarcely changed its personnel. In addition, however, the aversion to interpretations of historical continuity must be situated within the context of what can provisionally be described as a division of labor between East and West German historians. To the degree that the interpretation of the “German catastrophe” as a necessary outcome of German history gained hegemonic status in East Germany, it lost credibility among West German historians.40 West German historiography cannot be understood outside of this transnational context, significantly shaped by the United States and East Germany.

the cold war decades While in West Germany interpretations of the recent past were frequently indexed with this double reference, in Japan the principal orientation remained toward the United States. The voice of the Asian neighbor countries hardly contributed to the views taken of the wartime past. To some extent, these two aspects were interrelated. The hegemonic role of the United States, undiminished after the end of the occupation as a result of the Cold War, also reinforced an ignorance of Chinese or Korean perspectives. In the 1960s and 1970s, this was not an exceptional phenomenon but rather part of a general pattern. It illustrates what Karatani Komjin has called the “de-Asianization” of Japanese postwar discourse.41 In a sense, this can be interpreted as a continuation of earlier attempts to “escape from Asia” (datsu-a) and write Japan into the history of the modern West. In the field of memory, this led to a partial amnesia about Japan’s expansionist past. Japanese victimization of other Asian nations and the history of Japanese violence on the Asian mainland remained largely undiscussed, just as the empire was effectively erased from public memory. The war appeared, in the first place, as a conflict between Japan and the United States. The atrocities committed on the Asian mainland—the Nanjing massacre, the biochemical experiments of Unit 731, the forced prostitution throughout Asia—were largely marginalized in public debate. In Japanese discourse, “Asia” virtually disappeared.42 This is not to say that other Asian nations made no attempts to intervene in Japanese memory politics. Examples include the extended negotiations between Japan and South Korea between 1951 and 1965, leading to a treaty of reparation and compensation. In the process of the negotiations, however, Korea had to give up the idea of an official apology on the part of the Japanese government. Demands for material compensation and for payment of wages for conscript labor during the war met with stubborn resistance by the Japanese delegation. Reparations were ultimately

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paid not to make up for colonial oppression but rather, as the official rhetoric went, as part of “economic assistance.” In the context of asymmetrical power relations and the dichotomous logic of Cold War thinking, the South Korean perspective on the common past had virtually no repercussions in Japanese debates.43 While Japan remained “de-Asianized,” in West Germany the 1960s through the 1980s can be characterized by what historian Heinrich August Winkler has called Germany’s “long road west.”44 In historiographical terms this implied the dominance of the Sonderweg interpretation of modern German history, which must be understood as an attempt to write Germany into the history of Europe. This is not to say that U.S. influence entirely disappeared; particularly through the appropriation of the work of Max Weber by Parsonian systems theory and its subsequent re-importation into Germany, American approaches remained an important factor. At the same time, “Europe” emerged as a complementary point of reference and, in its particular and mostly metaphorical incarnation, as a Weberian ideal type. The alleged Sonderweg was pitted against a supposed Northwest European normality, and modern German history was interpreted by measuring distance, difference, and deviance. Not only in terms of historical trajectory but also in theoretical and methodological perspective, the ascendancy of social history (Sozialgeschichte) was part of an attempt to integrate German historiography into the larger European landscape.45 The Sonderweg emerged as the new metahistory of the German past, not unlike its Japanese equivalent in the immediate postwar decades. In both countries, this interpretation long remained the most influential metanarrative.46 The main difference was that it allowed West Germany to become European, while Japan hardly perceived of itself as Asian. In the German case this development was spawned by the political process of European unification, and also by various treaties of compensation that redressed German atrocities during the war.47 The dynamics of this larger political situation had repercussions in the interpretations of history that needed to take into account their potential European receptions. In Japan, on the other hand, in the absence of a movement toward political allegiance, Asia largely remained in the background. The marginalization of Asia in postwar Japanese memory was thus not so much the product of conscious decisions as itself the effect of the larger international context. The silencing of Asia corresponded to the great divide of the Cold War and the incorporation of Japan into a Westerncapitalist world order dominated by the United States. Under the umbrella of the security treaty with the United States, there was not much space in Japanese discourse for the concerns of other Asian nations.

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With the peace treaty of San Francisco in 1951 and the end of the occupation in the following year, the (explicit) regulations and restrictions on the treatment of the “dark valley” (kurai tanima) of recent history also fell away. And yet, one central trope of the early postwar years, namely, the dichotomy between the military leadership and the repressed population, continued beyond the dividing line of 1952. In any case, reference to the interpretive interventions of the occupation period did not end with the withdrawal of U.S. troops. Revisionist critics such as Fujioka Nobukatsu still speak today of the lasting power of the historical conception that was allegedly forced upon the Japanese through the Tokyo trial (the socalled Tokyo saiban rekishikan).48 In general, the phase beginning in the 1950s can be described as a gradual displacement from public discussion of the critical perspective of the left. This is obvious in the widely publicized debates over the licensing of school history textbooks. Here, critical intellectuals who styled themselves as progressive were pitted against conservative bureaucrats in the Education Ministry. Other forums of conflict include the reintroduction in 1967 of the mythical anniversary of the empire ’s founding (kigensetsu) and the sporadic attempts of nationalist authors to declare the Japanese war a colonial war of liberation in the interest of Asia—or even a hundred years’ war against U.S. oppression. Even though this aggressive nationalism that reappeared following the withdrawal of U.S. troops remained the opinion of a minority, the following decades were characterized by the rise of revisionist tendencies. After the end of the occupation, and particularly after the mid-1950s, the conservative interpretation of history was once again firmly installed, as reflected in both the government’s official statements and public opinion. In this context, the rehabilitation of the period before 1945 was even extended to persons who had been regarded as compromised by their wartime activities. Thus, for example, Kishi Nobusuke, who had been deputy director of the Armaments Ministry and had been imprisoned for three years in Tokyo as a war criminal, managed to become prime minister in 1957. By contrast, even in the conservative 1950s, it would have been hard to imagine Albert Speer, in some ways Kishi’s counterpart in Germany, becoming the chancellor of the Federal Republic. This demonstrates the different dynamics of postwar memory at work in the two countries. Admittedly, many denazified persons were reintegrated in West Germany during the 1950s, and in the wake of the reintegration of the so-called 131er, those who had lost their positions in the course of the political purges regained their rights as civil servants. Norbert Frei has characterized this conservative “coming to terms with the coming to terms”—that is, the

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revisionist withdrawal from an early critical mastering—as Vergangenheitspolitik (the politics of the past).49 But already in the 1960s, in the wake of the Auschwitz trial, a critical debate reemerged, before the distancing from Nazism in the 1968 movement became the common sense of the 1970s. However, this rejection frequently remained abstract and was more the province of fascism theories than empirical research. When the miniseries Holocaust was broadcast on television in 1979—yet another transnational factor in the German history of memory—its revelations came as a shock to Germans, no matter how much “coming to terms with the past” had preceded it. While West German memory debates thus grew increasingly self-critical, one characteristic aspect of broad swaths of the Japanese public during this period was the perception of their own nation as the real victim of World War II. This victim mentality was reinforced in 1954 during the so-called Lucky Dragon Incident, when a Japanese fishing boat was irradiated by an American atomic bomb test, reviving memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This victim mentality can be interpreted as the expression of a specific form of nationalism.50 In this context, the existence of a unified Japanese nation was rarely questioned. At the same time, certain groups, such as Koreans residing in Japan—who had been Japanese citizens until 1945 and who had also suffered from the war and the atomic bombs—were excluded from the collective community. This selective definition of the persons who could be regarded as victims also extended to questions of medical care, legal status, and damage claims.51 The climax in this revisionist turn away from the critical perspective of the early postwar years occurred during the administration of Prime Minister Nakasone Yasuhiro, who on the occasion of his inauguration in November 1982 demanded the overcoming of the “historical conception of the Tokyo trial” (Toµkyoµ saiban shikan). Particularly his official visits to the Yasukuni shrine, which honors all Japanese war dead, provoked criticism from the political opposition and the rest of Asia.52 In a way, then, the boom of this conservative politics of memory provoked and went hand in hand with the reemergence of critical voices.53 To be sure, these critical voices had never been silent. In particular, popular cultures of memory could not be entirely controlled and channeled, despite the demands and warnings of politicians and intellectuals. One example of the multilayered nature of Japanese memory discourses was the so-called Wadatsumikai, which was devoted to the memory of young student war victims and which stood for pacifistic treatment of the wartime legacy. The critical examination of the Nanjing Massacre by the journalist Honda Katsuichi starting in the 1970s and 1980s is another example of the simultaneity of nationalist apologias and critical investigative reappraisal.54

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On the whole, however, and abstracting from much of the internal complexity of debate in both countries, the differences were striking. While in Japanese public memory, most attention was paid to narratives of national victimhood, in West Germany, the privileged rhetoric was one of self-critique and apology—thus reversing the earlier trends of the immediate postwar years. Indeed, the contrasts were so apparent that starting in the 1980s, the German example was used by opposition groups in Japan to press for a more critical perspective on the nation’s wartime history. Japan, they held, had not sufficiently “mastered the past” and should look to West Germany for a model. The famous 1985 speech by German president Richard von Weizsäcker forty years after the end of the war, for example, was translated into Japanese and went into twenty-nine editions within a dozen years. Even the term for mastering the past (kako no kokufuku) was coined in 1992 to translate the German Vergangenheitsbewältigung. The frequent comparisons with West Germany were embedded in the political conflicts of the time. The German experience served oppositional interest groups as a model while being available for instrumentalization by their political opponents.55 These divergent trajectories were the result of a complex set of factors, and most commentators have been concerned primarily with relating them to the different internal histories of the two countries. The postwar reassertion of the Japanese bureaucracy and political establishment, for example, has been pitted against the measures of social reform in 1960s West Germany, including the expansion of the education sector. Another difference is the deep gap between public memory as entertained by the conservative and nationalist political establishment in Japan, and the critical views of the national past held by academics and schoolteachers—a difference that was much less visible in West Germany. As a result, the impact of those active in grassroots movements and memory lobbying has been highly asymmetrical. The different development of memory debates has been tied, in other words, to a variety of social and political conflicts in the two countries.56 But it cannot be overstated that these different dynamics also responded to, and colluded with, larger geopolitical contexts. On the one hand, the global memory culture that emerged in the 1970s has concentrated, not least symbolically, on Auschwitz and Hiroshima and has tended to privilege these events over other forms of wartime suffering. Even Israel’s foreign minister Simon Peres in 1994 employed the rhetoric of the “two holocausts: the Jewish holocaust and the Japanese holocaust. Because nuclear bombs are like flying holocausts.”57 Against this background, it is not surprising that the widespread victim consciousness in

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Japan—as the only country ever afflicted with atomic bombing—was able to marginalize memories of atrocities and crimes. On the other hand, and more importantly, the to some extent contrasting effects of the Cold War need to be understood as crucial factors shaping public memory. The Federal Republic pursued a politics of European integration that also implied a revision of the country’s memory culture. The famous confession of guilt of the Protestant Church in Stuttgart in October 1945, to give but one example, would have been inconceivable without the tacit pressure of international expectations. The transnational context was never uniform: West European integration played a role, as did challenges by East Germany, the influence of former émigrés, the Jewish Claims Conference, and the towering presence of the United States as guarantors of the Cold War status quo. By contrast, in Japan, the voices of neighbor countries were largely muted due to an almost exclusive focus, politically and culturally, on the United States.

memory in a global age Beginning in the 1980s, but particularly during the 1990s, the landscape of memory changed dramatically. This is particularly obvious in the Japanese case, where the shift can be described as a combination of two phenomena: a massive intensification of discussions about the wartime past and the emergence of new actors in these debates. Most important, social actors in other Asian nations made themselves heard in the heated discussions about Japan’s wartime legacy. Their interventions were no longer marginalized but met with an often critical, at times sympathetic, response. Not unlike many other countries, Japan in the 1990s witnessed an intensified debate over issues of memory and remembrance. The reasons for this notable increase in public interest and awareness were manifold. Some of them were international in character and contributed to a global vogue of memory debates, while others were more specific to the Japanese archipelago. To begin with, the current omnipresence of discussions about the past clearly had a generational dimension. The number of those who had experienced the war themselves and could still remember it had begun to dwindle. This biological factor contributed to the vehemence of some conflicts over issues such as compensation for forced labor and the so-called comfort women in the service of the Japanese military. In addition, documentation and testimony of personal experience developed into an urgent need at a time when few eyewitnesses remained. The extraordinary boom in personal histories (jibunshi), composed by innumerable “ordinary Japanese,” has to be placed in this context as well.58

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Most significant, the end of the Cold War helped to open a new space for debate and dissenting voices. The fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union not only affected the adjacent countries themselves but were also indicative of the end of the postwar world order in a broader sense. With the disappearance of the East-West dichotomy, the clear-cut framework within which all events had been endowed with political meaning also disappeared. In many respects, the symbolic conflicts over the meaning of the past moved into that framework’s place and substituted for the former ideological antagonisms.59 As a result, we can speak of a virtual explosion of memory in Japan in the 1990s. After the “end of history” (at least the end of a history dominated by universalist projects), the permanent discourse on the past corresponded with a post-ideological economy of signs.60 The end of the primacy of the U.S.-Soviet antagonism altered the political landscape in Japan considerably. One of the consequences was the end in 1993 of the political monopoly of the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP). The dissolution of the “1955 system,” based on the dominance of the conservative LDP and a foreign and security politics exclusively oriented toward the United States, corresponded with a renewed and contested debate about the national past that had been muted in the decades before. The end of the LDP’s power monopoly coincided with the crash of the “bubble” economy in the early 1990s, and the ensuing economic recession also motivated scholars to look inward and to subject Japan’s history to critical scrutiny. One last factor must not be overlooked: the death of Emperor Hirohito, head of state since 1926, who through his sheer presence had made open discussion about war responsibility (sensoµ sekinin) and the failures of coming to terms with this past after 1945 (sengo sekinin) virtually impossible.61 In the Federal Republic, too, the landscape of memory began to change after 1989. Alongside general factors (the passing of generations, the end of the Cold War), the process of reunification (this, too, a transnational event), in particular, transformed perspectives on the Nazi past. The end of Germany’s status as a dual state relativized the significance of one result of the war, namely, the territorial limitations of the nation-state. Since then, the focus of the debate over the past has concentrated even more on the Holocaust, increasingly viewed as the “core” of Nazism. Historical research has also zoomed in on the Holocaust since the 1990s. In previous decades, the debate was largely limited to public distancing in very general terms, which rendered victims and perpetrators alike anonymous and granted concrete events little attention. As late as 1992, Ulrich Herbert felt compelled to admit that “the West German contribution to empirical research on the persecution and extermination of the Jews in Europe [was], as on the whole, small.”62 This now

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began to change, and with a new generation of historians and new methodological approaches, the genocide has risen to become the most important object of research into the Nazi era.63 Unlike the Historikerstreit of 1986, when scholars debated the “singularity” of the extermination of the Jews, “Auschwitz” has become less and less an exclusively national place of memory. Instead, the interpretation of the Holocaust as “the breaking of a taboo” suggests an understanding that integrates the genocide into the history of humanity and modernity, leaving behind the absolutist claims of a (negative) German separate path that were frequently formulated during the Historikerstreit.64 This does not mean that the age of great controversies is past; the nation will likely continue to be at the center of the politics of memory. This was particularly evident in the Goldhagen debate in the mid-1990s, and in the controversy over the Wehrmacht Exhibition. The division and clean delineation between perpetrators and victims that the West German culture of memory had gradually set up for itself was now challenged, and the myth of the “clean” Wehrmacht was placed just as much in question as the innocence of the broad mass of “ordinary” Germans. Conversely, the ambivalence and complex entanglements of the categories of perpetrators and victims led to a thorough debate on the legitimacy of German victimhood. In another reversal, then, “victimhood nationalism” begun to emerge in Germany precisely at a moment when it was seriously challenged in Japan. Martin Walser’s Schlussstrich speech belongs in this context, as does the new debate on the Allied bombing campaigns and the discussion about the creation of a “center for expulsions.” The latter example demonstrates that the debates are increasingly being waged within an international context and that, at the same time, the question of the transnational integration of national memory has, since the 1990s, come to represent a central axis of these controversies.65 In Japan too, debates over the past intensified in the 1990s, culminating in the great conflicts over how to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the war—synchronous with the Goldhagen debate in Germany. Viewing these discussions together, one can distinguish three developments that partially represented an intensification of already existing tendencies: the popularization, polarization, and further transnationalization of the Japanese politics of memory since the 1990s. First, the conflicts over the interpretation of the recent past are not only conducted with great vehemence in the press and the public sphere. They also occasionally reach a mass public. For example, works by revisionists such as Fujioka Nobukatsu and Nishio Kanji, which are written intentionally in accessible and popular language, have sold millions of copies.66 The film Pride, in which the role

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of General Tomjom Hideki, who was executed as a war criminal, underwent a favorable reevaluation, attracted a broad public. The search for a contemporary—and often provocative—interpretation of the war era has become a legitimate subject of popular culture, as demonstrated by the commercial success of the comic On the War (Sensoµron) by the popular illustrator Kobayashi Yoshinori.67 The politics of memory, particularly since the 1990s, has by no means been restricted to a political and intellectual elite. The widespread practice of writing “one ’s own history” ( jibunshi) makes it possible to link one ’s own life story to the sphere of collective memory and in this way to adopt this history. A second characteristic of the discussions beginning in the 1990s was the increasing tensions in and resulting polarization of the memory debate. Of course, the debates on the interpretation of the past in preceding decades can scarcely be described as conflict free. Nevertheless, the conflicts of the 1990s attained an intensity that moved Kang Sang-Jung to speak of a “civil war over memory.” This development can easily be followed through the struggle over legitimate interpretations presented in school textbooks. In the first fifty years following the war, the schoolbook controversies were mainly characterized by the conflict between leftist authors and the conservative Education Ministry. In the 1990s, this clearly delimited conflict began to expand. Openly revisionist textbooks aimed at inoculating students with a new pride in the Japanese nation now competed with criticaloppositional texts for ministry approval and use by schools and teachers. Thus some left-wing historians began viewing the Education Ministry (Monbushom)— which they had recently fought as their archenemy and as a bastion of the political establishment—as something akin to an ally in the struggle against neonationalists such as Fujioka Nobukatsu and Nishio Kanji.68 The revisionism of the 1990s was no mere continuation of the nationalist currents of the 1960s and 1970s, but is better described as neonationalism and can be understood only within the context of globalized capitalism at century’s end.69 In the meantime, the position of the left has also shifted so that the controversies of the last decade can now be described as a dual rejection of the historical conception of the postwar years and the “historical conception of the Tokyo trial” (Toµkyoµ saiban shikan). The neonationalists surrounding Fujioka explicitly espoused this slogan and propagated the rejection of a “masochistic” understanding of history forced upon the country by the army of occupation.70 But even among historians who did not describe the national past in terms of uniqueness and pride but with the rhetoric of criticism, more and more people wanted to revise not only the war era itself but also its treatment and appraisal after 1945, starting with the Tokyo war

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crimes trial. The explosiveness of the current discussions can also be explained by the fifty years spent marginalizing such issues as Nanjing, bacteriological warfare (Unit 731), forced prostitution, forced labor, and the Tennom’s responsibility. The Women’s War Crimes Tribunal, which convened in Tokyo in late 2000, can also be viewed as an attempt to overcome the “historical conception of the Tokyo Trial” from the perspective of the (feminist) left.71 Third, the most notable effect of the end of the Cold War was the change it spawned in Japan’s relationship with its Asian neighbors. After a long period of relative ignorance, Japan was again “homing in on Asia.”72 This does not imply that other transnational connections were no longer relevant. On the contrary, as the controversy over the Enola Gay exhibition in Washington, D.C., in 1995 demonstrated, the concern with American interpretations relating to the Japanese past had not diminished.73 But clearly, the most important development in the 1990s was the return of Asia.74 This development had already begun in the 1980s and was influenced in particular by the economic upswing in South Korea. The political and economic contacts as well as the exchange of popular culture have increased since, and in this context the interpretation of the national past has undergone palpable changes as well.75 In particular, the voices of Asian victims of Japan’s wartime expansion were given an importance they had not had in previous decades. These complex and reinforcing shifts have opened up the possibility for new means of contesting the hegemonic versions of national memory. In 1995, on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the war’s end, the demand for an official apology on the part of the Japanese government was expressed by many Asian governments and civil society groups. The debates in Japan cannot be understood outside of this broader context.76 The representation of the war in school textbooks has also remained contested terrain, as the Chinese protests against admission of a revisionist textbook in the spring of 2001, and again in 2005, amply demonstrate. The conflicting interpretations of the Nanjing Massacre represent another subject of public concern and academic dialogue. In the course of scholarly exchange, “Chinese” and “Japanese” positions are negotiated but at the same time hint at the possibility of transcending nationality as a crucial factor affecting the interpretation of the past.77 Finally, the most prominent arena in which the Asian dimension of Japanese memory is played out is the issue of compensation for the former “comfort women” ( juµgun ianfu).78 What is striking in all of these debates is not only the extent to which formerly marginalized voices have made themselves heard and turned a Japanese preoccupation with the national past into a transnational endeavor but also how these

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voices have diversified. In the early postwar decades, state governments spoke on behalf of the professed interests of their nations; they intervened to protest in schoolbook matters or to correct what they perceived as faulty interpretations of Japan’s role on the continent in the 1930s and 1940s. Moreover, issues of reparations and compensation were negotiated exclusively between governments, while individual claims were not admitted. This form of representation in some cases led to surprising coalitions, as the example of forced prostitution demonstrates, where Japanese and Korean governments colluded in muting the claims of former “comfort women.” In the 1990s, however, the participants in public debates multiplied and undermined the governmental monopoly on national memory. Individuals and civil society groups from other Asian nations began to play a leading role in a shifted terrain of Japanese memory production. Through these various and discordant interventions, they contributed to the emergence of what Lisa Yoneyama has called “postnationalist public spheres in the production of historical knowledge.”79 The multiplication of actors and the discursive coalitions across national boundaries attest both to the centrality of memory politics in contemporary Japan, and to the crucial role of Asia in the context of contemporary Japanese debate.80 Historians have been active agents in the production of public memory. Indeed, in many cases they have represented themselves as central figures on the memory stage. In this respect, professional self-images have changed little from the early postwar years, when historians invariably described themselves as the teachers, or doctors, of the nation. At the same time, most historians have been careful to defend a structural opposition between academic historiography on the one hand and memory debates on the other. Typically, disinterested scholarship with objectivist claims is set against the instrumentalization of the past for political purposes.81 The argument in this book is based on neither of these two claims. The preceding chapters acknowledge that the border between history and memory is less well defined than the self-understanding of the discipline would suggest. In many ways, the differences are in genre rather than in kind. Moreover, historians only rarely have been able to shape, let alone dominate, memory discourse. Their particular truth claims have given their interpretations a particular quality, but on the whole, the impact of academic historiography on public discussions has been rather limited. It is more instructive, therefore, to read historiography as one particular example within the larger field of memory, albeit with its own rules, patterns, and dynamics. Historical interpretations were not generated outside and independent of social and cultural trends.

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The “return of Asia” to contemporary Japan is a case in point. In fact, “Asia” not only has emerged as a privileged frame of reference in debates about the memory of the wartime years but has begun to infiltrate the interpretations of other periods of Japanese history as well. Historians, in other words, have not been left unaffected by the larger debates of public memory—and these debates, in turn, have been closely related to political, economic, and cultural integration of East Asia.82 This allows us to link the debate on memory with the concerns of the previous section of this chapter. Historians, too, have since the mid-1990s begun to reevaluate the nation’s past within the framework of a history of Asia. To be sure, national history continues to be the central concern in most university departments, and various forms of modified modernization narratives, along Weberian or Marxist lines, still constitute influential conceptions of the Japanese past. But the emergence of approaches in cultural history has facilitated the quest to challenge the nation-state paradigm and to go beyond internalist interpretations of history. In this context, the Asian context has played an increasingly important role as a framework within which to situate Japanese modernity.83 Three fields of inquiry have been particularly affected by this trend. First, historians of the Tokugawa period (1600–1868) have in the past two decades begun to rewrite the history of what has conventionally been known as the era of seclusion (sakoku). Whereas earlier research stressed the isolated nature of the country and the limited contact with the West, recent scholarship has begun to paint a more complex picture. Instead of interpreting the regulations of cross-border intercourse as a reaction to the influx of Christianity and the threat of European colonialism, historians such as Arano Yasunori have placed the “system of maritime prohibitions” (kaikin) within the context of East Asia, where limitations on foreign trade and intercourse were typical. Moreover, they have argued that the shogunal control of tributes and trade needs to be understood as part of a Japanese attempt to construct its own sphere of influence, independent of China (not least as a reaction to the Ming dynasty’s loss of power in 1644 and the ascent of the “barbarous” Qing regime). From this perspective, the limited trade with the Dutch in Nagasaki does not appear as the last vestige of relations with Europe, but rather as one part of a larger scheme to entertain tributary relationships in the region—not only with Holland but also with the Ryumkyum islands and Korea.84 Second, colonial history has emerged as an important area in which to rewrite Japanese history in Asia. For a long time, the colonies were treated as an appendix in narratives that focused on the internal dynamics of Japanese modernization. To the extent that it was mentioned, moreover, Japanese colonialism was interpreted

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as but an extension and replication of prior developments in the metropole. Under the influence of postcolonial studies, this has changed markedly, and recent scholarship has explored the extent to which the social transformations of modern Japan were situated within a broader, colonial setting. This shift includes, for example, Kang Sang-Jung’s notion of the Orientalizing gaze as precondition for Japanese modernity, Komagome Takeshi’s work on the role of the colonial Other in constructing Japanese cultural identity, and research into the standardization of the Japanese language (kokugo) under conditions of coloniality.85 More recently, scholars have moved beyond the realms of discourse and representation and have looked at the ways in which the colonies were treated by bureaucrats, the military, and reformist intellectuals as privileged sites where social interventions could be tested. Manchuria thus appeared as a veritable laboratory for projects of urban planning, hygienic modernization, and new forms of agricultural production and community. In these studies, the formation of modernity in Japan and its colonies is increasingly analyzed within a shared analytical field.86 Finally, the history of the expansionist years of 1931 to 1945 is currently being revisited and recontextualized. Here the connections with debates about memory of the war are most apparent. On the one hand, a spate of work has been produced that reconstructs the ideological background that underwrote Japan’s imperialist drive in Asia.87 The concept of Pan-Asianism, with all its variations and ramifications, has been one of the foci of this research.88 On the other hand, interpretations of the war have recently shifted the focus to its Asian dimension, thus reversing the canonical view of the long postwar decades. A recent eight-volume compilation has now proposed to use the term “Asian-Pacific War” as an analytical tool to situate the war in its multiple contexts. In particular, the new perspectives restitute the framework of empire in order to understand Japan’s modern history. The volumes’ broad-ranging essays explore the political and economic history of the war, social transformations and cultural representations, power and resistance, and the dynamics of postwar memory. Taken together, they offer new perspectives in an attempt to place the Japanese wartime past squarely within the Asian context in which it unfolded.89 The history of memory—and the history of historiography—is part of an entangled and transnational history. Debates about the past bear the traces of a globalizing world that are deeply engraved in what is often still perceived as the realm of the uniquely national, of a peculiar mentality and mindset. The various exchanges and interventions across national boundaries introduce multiple temporalities into an arena where these conflicting narratives of the past are negotiated. At times,

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interventions from without have delimited the discursive space within which the past could be remembered (e.g., the U.S. occupation); in many instances, however, they have helped to de-center dominant narratives of a nationalized history and have thus contributed to a pluralization of the past. The complex dialectic of remembering and forgetting—like history itself—is not confined to the territory of a nation-state. A perspective that foregrounds the transnational embeddedness of memory production may contribute to a more complex interpretation of the different trajectories of West German and Japanese interpretations of their “evil” pasts, historical arcs that have frequently been clouded in the myth of national character. This perspective suggests that an allegedly more self-critical way of coping with the West German wartime experience has to be situated within a process of European integration and multiple forms of discursive exchange. At the same time, such a perspective helps explain the explosion of Japanese debates about the war in the 1990s as more than a convenient narrative of repression, amnesia, and eventually, critical mastery. A transnational perspective, moreover, suggests that the shifted terrain of Japanese memory production may be associated with what I have called the “return of Asia” into Japanese discourse. This is not to deny the importance of internal conflicts and heterogeneity within a given society—which, in turn, can themselves always be contextualized within a larger transnational arena. But as long as Ruth Benedict’s dichotomy of “cultures of guilt” and “cultures of shame” continues to serve as a shorthand explanation for an alleged German learning process in contrast to Japanese denial, the focus on “entangled memories” may serve as a necessary complement. Given the central role of memory in definitions of a national Self in the early years of the twentyfirst century, this perspective suggests that national identity itself is the product— and not the precondition—of processes of transnational interaction, exchange, and entanglement.

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NOTES

INTRODUCTION 1. Heimpel, Über Geschichte und Geschichtswissenschaft, 22. 2. Conze, Die deutsche Nation, 156. 3. Maruyama Masao, Nashonarizumu, 59. 4. In keeping with Japanese conventions, all Japanese names are shown with the family name in first place. The transposition of names and terms from the Japanese follows the Hepburn System. 5. Takeuchi, “Kindaishugi,” 261–63 6. Ibid., 265. 7. On Germany’s continental empire, see Arendt, Origins. See also Lower, Nazi Empire-Building. On the implications of the loss of empire for the concept of the Japanese nation, see Oguma, Tan’itsu minzoku. 8. Cf. Brochhagen, Vergangenheitsbewältigung; Frei, Vergangenheitspolitik; Hoffmann, Stunden Null?; Steinbach, Gewaltverbrechen; Streim, “Juristische Aufarbeitung”; Pritchard, “Overview”; Awaya, “Shadows”; Awaya, Toµkyoµ saibanron. 9. Cf. Benz, “Umgang”; Danyel, “Geteilte Vergangenheit”; Frei, “NS-Vergangenheit”; Goschler, Wiedergutmachung; Herz, Dictatorship; Awaya, Sensoµ sekinin; Park, “Japanese Reparations Policies.” 10. Cf. Bergmann et al., Schwieriges Erbe; Eberan, Luther?; Moeller, War Stories; and for Japan, Chimoto, Tennoµsei; Fujiwara and Arai, Gendaishi; Gluck, “Ende”; Gluck, “The ‘Long Postwar’ ”; Gluck, “Idea of Shomwa”; Hicks, War Memories; Ienaga,

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Sensoµ sekinin; Inoue Kiyoshi, Tennoµ; OMnuma Yasuaki, Toµkyoµ saiban; Seraphim, War Memory; Yoshida Yutaka, Nihonjin. 11. Cf. Fuhrt, “Altes Mißtrauen.” 12. Seraphim, War Memory, 261–86. 13. Buruma, Wages of Guilt; see also Hicks, War Memories. For comparative approaches, see Awaya, Sensoµ sekinin; Fujisawa, Doitsujin no rekishi ishiki; Satom Takeo, “Doitsu no sengo hoshom.” For an argument against the German model, see Nishio Kanji, Kotonaru higeki. 14. Bosworth, Explaining Auschwitz, 177, 186. 15. Cf. Hosaka, Haisen; OMnuma, Toµkyoµ saiban; Seraphim, “Debate.” 16. Cf. the comparative considerations in Schlant and Rimer, Legacies. 17. Lübbe, Nationalsozialismus, 334. 18. Giordano, Die zweite Schuld. 19. The leading critics of this prevailing opinion are Kittel, Legende; Graml, “Auseinandersetzung”; Steinbach, Gewaltverbrechen. 20. For Japan, the only study is Gayle, Marxist History, which focuses narrowly on one strand of Marxist historians during the occupation years. For Germany, some insights may be gleaned from Lehmann and Melton, Paths of Continuity. 21. Cf. Rüsen, “Some Theoretical Approaches.” 22. Cf. Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte; Günther Schäfer, Modernisierung; Schleier, “Epochen”; Wehler, “Lage”; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu; Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku. 23. Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 80. 24. The most important contributions include Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte; Faulenbach, “Historistische Tradition”; Iggers, Geschichtswissenschaft im 20. Jahrhundert; H. Mommsen, “Haupttendenzen”; H. Mommsen, “Betrachtungen”; Lehmann and Melton, Paths of Continuity; Schulin, Geschichtswissenschaft; Duchhardt and May, Geschichtswissenschaft. 25. For this debate, see Schulze and Oexle, Deutsche Historiker. 26. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku. 27. Cf. Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon”; Kan Takayuki, Sengo seishin; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu; Naruse Osamu, Sekaishi no ishiki to riron; Nishikawa, “Rekishigaku to ‘kindai’ ”; Amino, Rekishi. 28. See Kano Masanao, “Torishima,” which steps back from chronology and moves various themes into the center (e.g., the notion of “postwar period” [sengo ishiki] or “culture”). See also Faulenbach, who has examined the “deviant path” ideology in German historiography during the Weimar Republic (Faulenbach, Ideologie). 29. Maier, “Comment,” 394.

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30. Typical of this point of view is Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, esp. 77–80. See also Iggers, Geschichtswissenschaft im 20. Jahrhundert; H. Mommsen, Betrachtungen; Faulenbach, “Historistische Tradition”; Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte. 31. This voluminous literature includes Carrard, Poetics; Megill, “Recounting”; Rancière, Names; White, Content of the Form. 32. Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 51–52; Berger, Search. 33. On comparative history, see Haupt and Kocka, Geschichte und Vergleich; Kocka, “Comparative Historical Research.” 34. On the American occupation, see the early comparative study by Montgomery, Forced to Be Free; Wolfe, Americans; and the comparative observations in Tsuchimochi, Education Reform. 35. Cf. Bender, Rethinking American History; idem, A Nation among Nations; Budde et al., Transnationale Geschichte; Conrad, Globalisierung und Nation; Sakai et al., Nashonariti no datsukoµchiku; Komori and Takahashi, Nashonaru hisutorî o koete. 36. Cf. Howland, Translating. 37. Cf. Dale, Myth; Mouer and Sugimoto, Images; Yoshino, Cultural Nationalism. 1. MAPPING POSTWAR HISTORIOGRAPHY IN GERMANY AND JAPAN 1. Wehler, “Lage,” 23. 2. Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945. The historiography of the 1950s has also been treated in greater detail in Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte; Faulenbach, “Historistische Tradition”; Iggers, Geschichtswissenschaft im 20. Jahrhundert; H. Mommsen, “Haupttendenzen”; H. Mommsen, “Betrachtungen”; Lehmann and Melton, Paths of Continuity; Schulin, Geschichtswissenschaft. Regarding recent literature, cf. Cornelißen, Gerhard Ritter; Etzemüller, Sozialgeschichte; Chun, Bild der Moderne; Berg, Holocaust. 3. Cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku; Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon”; Kan Takayuki, Sengo seishin; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu; Naruse Osamu, Sekaishi no ishiki to riron; Nishikawa, “Rekishigaku to ‘kindai’ ”; Kano, “Torishima.” 4. Cf. Iggers, Geschichtswissenschaft im 20. Jahrhundert; Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus; Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte. 5. Cf. Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte, 668. 6. Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 41–52. On the term “disciplinary matrix,” see Rüsen, Historische Vernunft. 7. However, the dichotomy of Enlightenment history and historism is not absolute. Cf. Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 20. 8. Cf. Haas, Kulturforschung; Chickering, Lamprecht; Schorn-Schütte, “Lamprecht.”

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9. Cf. the chapter “Die Aussenseiter des Historismus” in Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 113–40. The nine-volume series on German historians edited by Hans-Ulrich Wehler is also dedicated to this historical conception. 10. G. Ritter, “Geschichtswissenschaft,” 133. Cf. also Rothfels, “Geschichtswissenschaft.” 11. Cf. Schönwälder, Historiker und Politik, 75ff. 12. Cf. Heiber, Walter Frank. 13. Cf. Franz, “Geschichtsbild,” 107: “Historical studies have scarcely been influenced by National Socialism and its historical conception”; Breisach, Historiography, 382; Ericksen, “Kontinuitäten,” 222; Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft, 37–38. 14. H. Wolf, Deutsch-jüdische Emigrationshistoriker. 15. Cf. Iggers, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft: Eine Kritik, 13–18. Cf. also Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 95–112. 16. Cf. Schönwälder, Historiker und Politik; Volkmann, “Deutsche Historiker”; Werner, Das NS-Geschichtsbild; Faulenbach, “Die ‘nationale Revolution’ ”; U. Wolf, Litteris et Patrieae. 17. Cf. Aly and Heim, Vordenker; Oberkrome, Volksgeschichte; Burleigh, Germany; Roth, “Heydrichs Professor”; Schöttler, “ ‘Westforschung’ ”; Haar, Historiker im Nationalsozialismus. 18. Schöttler, “ ‘Westforschung,’ ” 229, 231. Cf. also Fahlbusch, Wissenschaft; Haar, Historiker im Nationalsozialismus; Piskorski, Ostforschung; Derks, Deutsche Westforschung; Dietz, Griff nach dem Westen. 19. Cf. Berghahn, “ ‘Fischer-Kontroverse’ ”; Geiss, “Fischer-Kontroverse”; Iggers, New Directions; Jäger, Historische Forschung; Moses, Politics; G. A. Ritter, “Sozialgeschichte”; Schäfer, Modernisierung; Wehler, “Lage”; Große Kracht, Zunft, 47–68. 20. Wehler, “Lage,” 13. 21. Oberkrome, “Geschichte, Volk und Theorie,” 111. 22. Cf. Oberkrome, Volksgeschichte; Oberkrome, “Reformansätze”; Kocka, “Werner Conze”; Kocka, “Ideologische Regression”; Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 281–301. 23. Cf. Schulze and Oexle, Deutsche Historiker; Welskopp, “Grenzüberschreitungen”; Hohls and Jarausch, Versäumte Fragen. 24. On East German historiography, see A. Fischer, “Weg”; A. Fischer, “Neubeginn”; A. Fischer and Heydemann, Geschichtswissenschaft; Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft, 183–200; Dorpalen, German History; Jarausch and Middell, Erdbeben; Sabrow and Walther, Forschung; Sabrow, Diktat. 25. On premodern Japanese historiography, see Beasley and Pulleyblank, Historians; J. S. Brownlee, “Traditions”; Goch, “Entstehung”; Noguchi, Edo no rekishika; Matsumoto Yoshio, Nihon shigakushi; OMkubo, Nihon kindai shigaku, 1–61; Sakamoto, Nihon no shuµshi.

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· notes to pages 17–21

26. On the meaning of the contrast between kan and min, see Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, 60–66. 27. On the turbulent development of this institution, see Mehl, Vergangenheit. 28. Cf. Iwai, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 64–65; OMkubo, Nihon kindai shigaku; Koschmann, Mito Ideology; Nakai, “Tokugawa Confucian Historiography.” 29. The best-known exponent of the national school (kokugaku) was Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801). Among the leading historians of the early Meiji period who stood in the tradition of this school were Hanawa Tadatsugu, Konakamura Kiyonori, Naitom Chisom, and Mikami Sanji. 30. The historians Shigeno Yasutsugu, Kume Kunitake, and Hoshino Hisashi were representative of the koµshoµgaku tradition; cf. Numata, “Shigeno Yasutsugu”; Iwai, “Shigeno Yasutsugu”; Iwai, “Kume Kunitake”; Ozawa Eiichi, Kindai Nihon shigakushi. 31. See Iwai, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 64. 32. On enlightenment history, cf. Ienaga, Nihon no kindai shigaku; Ienaga, “Keimom shigaku”; Tsukatani, “Taguchi Ukichi”; Iwai, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 65–74; Izu, Nihon shigakushi, 55–92; Blacker, Japanese Enlightenment. 33. Scholars still distinguish between the “civilization historiography” (bunmeishi) of the 1870s (Fukuzawa, Taguchi) and the critical perspective of the historians’ own society maintained by the so-called Min’yumsha historians (such as Tokutomi, Takegoshi, and Yamaji Aizan), who are assembled here in the category of Enlightenment historiography. Cf. Iwai, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 65–80. On Min’yumsha historiography, cf. Kano, “Tokutomi Sohom”; Shinkawa, “Takegoshi Sansa”; Matsushima Eiichi, “Yamaji Aizan”; Satom Yoshimaru, “Miyake Setsurei”; Duus, “Whig History, Japanese Style.” 34. On Riess, cf. B. Martin, “Geschichtswissenschaft”; Hayashi Kentarom, “Ludwig Riess.” 35. Cf. Westney, Imitation. 36. Cf. Iwai, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 81–92; Kadowaki, “Kangaku akademizumu”; Tomkyom daigaku hyakunenshi henshumiinkai, Toµkyoµ daigaku hyakunenshi, 607–8 (hereafter cited as Toµkyoµ daigaku hyakunenshi); OMkubo, Nihon kindai shigaku; Mehl, Vergangenheit, 158–79; Schwentker, “Weltaneignung,” 344–45. 37. Representative exponents included Hagino Yoshiyuki, Mikami Sanji, Kuroita Katsumi, Tsuji Zennosuke, and Sakamoto Tarom. 38. The most striking case of such a political intervention was the so-called school textbook controversy in 1911, which concerned the legitimacy of a lateral branch of the imperial family in the twelfth century (nanbokuchoµ seijun ron), as a result of which several historians at the Imperial University of Tokyo were forced to give up their professorial chairs. Cf. OMkubo, Nihon kindai shigaku, 153–66; Murata Masashi, Zokuzoku nanbokuchoµ shiron; Mehl, Vergangenheit, 235–51; Uyenaka, “Textbook Controversy”; J. Brownlee, Japanese Historians, 118–30. Cf. the general question of university autonomy in Marshall, Academic Freedom.

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39. On the influence of this tradition, see Aoki Michio, “Honjom Eijirom”; cf. also Kitayama, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 115–18; Borton, “Modern Japanese Economic Historians.” 40. Cf. Ienaga, Tsuda Soµkichi; Ueda, Hito to shisoµ; Masabuchi, “Nihon no kindai shigakushi”; Kadowaki, “Tsuda Somkichi.” 41. Cf. Kano, “Yanagita Kunio”; Wakamori, Yanagita Kunio; Kamishima, Yanagita Kunio kenkyuµ; Morse, Yanagita Kunio; Murai, Nantoµ ideorogı µ no hassei; Iwamoto, Yanagita Kunio o yominaosu; Amino et al., Rekishigaku to minzokugaku. 42. For example, see the cultural history of the so-called Kyoto School (Kyomto gakuha). On this scholarly current, cf. Kitayama, “Nihon kindai shigaku,” 113–15; Fujitani Toshio, “Nishida Naojirom”; Naramoto, “Bunka shigaku.” 43. Cf. Bitom, “Komkoku shikan”; Nagahara, Koµkoku shikan. 44. To date, there is no thorough and reliable study on wartime historiography, or on koµkuku shikan in particular. Cf. Saitom, Shoµwa shigakushi noµto, 87–110; Abe, Taiheiyoµ sensoµ. 45. On the history of the Communist Party, see Beckmann and Okubo, Japanese Communist Party; Scalapino, Democracy. 46. Nihon shihonshugi hattatsu shi koµza (Symposium on the History of the Development of Japanese Capitalism), Tomkyom, 1932–33. The originally censored text was first published in full in 1982. The symposium’s title gave the koµzaha its name. Cf. also Kojima Hinehisa, Nihon shihon shugi; Koyama, Nihon shihon shugi. 47. The representative koµzaha works of the 1930s debate include the Nihon shihonshugi hattatsu shi koµza (see above), along with Yamada Moritarom, Nihon shihon shugi bunseki; Hirano, Nihon shihon shugi shakai; the roµnoµha works include Tsuchiya, Nihon shihon shugishi ronshuµ. 48. Both the 1927 and the 1932 thesis were the work of the Soviet-dominated Comintern. The koµzaha interpretation corresponded to the 1932 thesis. Thus the koµzaha’s opponents denounced it as a Soviet puppet. Cf. the evaluation in Hoston, Marxism, 40–42. Distelrath, in Produktionsweise, emphasizes the Soviet Union’s influence much more blatantly and speaks of a “Comintern dictate.” 49. Cf. Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation. 2. THE ORIGIN OF THE NATION 1. Schulin, “Restauration,” 139. 2. For an overview, see volume 9 of the handbook of Japanese history Koµza Nihonshi, published by the Marxist historians’ associations Rekishigaku kenkyumkai and Nihonshi kenkyumkai in 1971, which was entirely dedicated to controversies in Japanese historiography (Nihon shigaku ronsoµ). 3. Cf. Fehrenbach, “Reichsgründung”; Faulenbach, Ideologie, 35–87; Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Meiji Ishinshi; Tanaka Akira, Meiji Ishinkan.

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4. H. Mommsen, “Betrachtungen,” 128; Gall, “Einleitung.” 5. H. Mommsen, “Haupttendenzen,” 114. 6. Noack, “Das Werk Friedrichs,” 60. 7. See Solchany, Comprendre, 5–24. 8. Taylor quoted in Melton, “Introduction,” 12. 9. Cf. Eberan, Luther?; Brelie-Lewien and Laurien, “Kultur”; Solchany, Comprendre; an interesting contemporary polemic is Schrenck-Notzing, Charakterwäsche. 10. A. Martin, “Bismarck,” 158. 11. Friedrich Meinecke, quoted in Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 50. 12. Kaehler, Vorurteile und Tatsachen, 7. 13. G. Ritter, “Bismarckproblem,” 119. 14. Dr. Aengeneyndt of Klett Publishers, which published a school textbook edited by Ritter, in “Pour le roi de Prusse,” appendix to Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Untericht (GWU), vol. 4, no. 11 (1953). 15. For Ritter’s biography, see Schumann, “Gerhard Ritter”; Zmarzlik, “Lebendige Vergangenheit”; Schwabe, “Der Weg in die Opposition”; Schwabe, “Zur Einführung: Gerhard Ritter”; Schwabe, “Change and Continuity”; Cornelißen, Gerhard Ritter. 16. G. Ritter, Europa, 110, 84; idem, “Bismarckproblem,” 136. 17. G. Ritter, “Grossdeutsch und Kleindeutsch,” 112. 18. G. Ritter, Europa, 89. 19. Ibid., 109. 20. Ibid., 114, 86. 21. G. Ritter, Ein politischer Historiker, 512. 22. W. Mommsen, “Kampf um das Bismarckbild”; Schüssler, “Standort.” 23. Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 224. 24. Eyck, Bismarck. 25. Saitschick, Bismarck und das Schicksal des deutschen Volkes. 26. Schnabel taught at the Technical University in Karlsruhe and was driven from his position there in 1936. For biographical accounts, see Gall, “Franz Schnabel”; Schubert, “Franz Schnabel”; Lönne, “Franz Schnabel”; Lönne, “Heinrich Lutz und Franz Schnabel”; Hertfelder, Franz Schnabel. 27. Schnabel, “Das Problem Bismarck,” 115. 28. Cf. Schnabel, “Bismarck und die Nationen,” 93. 29. Schnabel, “Das Problem Bismarck,” 115. 30. Smolka, “Revolution,” 412, 413, 402. 31. K. Buchheim, “Macht,” 479. 32. Cf. Solchany, Comprendre, 115–34; Schulin, “Universalgeschichte und abendländische Entwürfe.” 33. Pribilla, Deutschland, 76, 78.

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34. Cf. Solchany, Comprendre, 123–24; Lönne, “Katholizismus 1945”; Rauscher, Kirche; Lönne, Politischer Katholizismus. 35. K. Buchheim, “Macht,” 483. 36. Cf. Tilmann, “Konkordatsprofessuren”; Weber, Priester, 83–92. 37. Cf. Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 266–80; Lautenschläger, Lortz; Schulze and Defrance, Gründung; Schulin, “Universalgeschichte und abendländische Entwürfe.” 38. Quoted in Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 269. 39. Quoted in Auerbach, “Gründung,” 543. 40. Schüssler, “Standort,” 173. 41. Quoted in Erdmann, “Erinnerungen,” 730. The Protestant historian Erdmann of the University of Kiel in northern Germany shared the editorship with Felix Messerschmid, a Catholic teacher from Calw. 42. Ritter was active in the service of the Protestant Church and published several memoranda on its behalf. Cf. Nowak, “Gerhard Ritter.” 43. Quoted in Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 165. 44. W. Mommsen, “Kampf um das Bismarckbild,” 168. 45. Rothfels, “Probleme einer Bismarck-Biographie,” 81. 46. For Rothfels’s biography, see Eckel, Hans Rothfels; H. Mommsen, “Geschichtsschreibung und Humanität”; H. Mommsen, “Hans Rothfels”; Klemperer, “Hans Rothfels,” in Lehmann and Melton; Neugebauer, “Hans Rothfels’ Weg”; Haar, Historiker im Nationalsozialismus, 70–105. 47. Rothfels, “Bismarck und das 19. Jahrhundert,” 85. 48. Ibid., 85, 87, 86, 89. 49. Ibid., 86. 50. Rothfels, “Grundsätzliches,” 90. 51. Rothfels, “Siebenhundert Jahre,” 19. 52. Rothfels, “Krise,” 142. 53. Rothfels, “Grundsätzliches,” 108. 54. For early examples of Rothfels’s revisionist interpretation of Bismarck, see Rothfels, “Einleitung” (1925), and his lecture at the biannual meeting of the Historians’ Association in 1932 (Rothfels, Bismarck und der Osten). 55. Rothfels, “Krise,” 131. 56. Noack, “Das Werk Friedrichs,” 52. 57. Rothfels, “Bismarck und das 19. Jahrhundert,” 84. 58. See particularly Rothfels, “Stellung Bismarcks,” 214. 59. G. Ritter, Europa, 7. Lord Vansittart had been advisor to the British Foreign Office until 1941 and symbolized for Ritter the tendency to dismiss all of German history in the light of fascism. Cf. Ritter, Ein politischer Historiker, 450. See Radkau,

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“Exil-Ideologie”; Später, Vansittart; for interpretations of German history in the Allied countries, cf. Solchany, Comprendre, 5–24. 60. G. Ritter, “Bismarckproblem,” 130. 61. G. Ritter, “Grossdeutsch und Kleindeutsch,” 121. 62. G. Ritter, “Bismarckproblem,” 124. 63. G. Ritter, “Grossdeutsch und Kleindeutsch,” 124. 64. Schnabel, “Bismarck und die Nationen,” 105. 65. Dehio, Gleichgewicht, 230. Cf. also Rothfels, 1848, 60. 66. Gerhard Ritter, for example, explicitly referred to this context; cf. his “Das politische Problem des Militarismus,” 153, 182. 67. Schüssler, “Standort,” 174. 68. Schnabel, “Bismarck und die Nationen,” 103–4. 69. This was true beyond the narrow confines of Catholic journals, as demonstrated by Hans Schaller’s 1953 dissertation on Paul de Lagardes and Constantin Frantz, under the supervision of Reinhard Wittram in Göttingen. Schaller concluded: “Frantz’s notion of an association of European nations . . . remains a task that present history seems to have set for national movements in all of Europe” (Schaller, “Stellung,” 224). 70. Michaelis, “Königgrätz,” 183–85. 71. Hölzle, “Reichsgründung,” 132. 72. Rothfels, “Krise,” 127. 73. Cf. Heimpel, “Gedanken,” 425. 74. Cf. Lozek and Syrbe, Geschichtsschreibung. 75. Cf. LeRider, Mitteleuropa. 76. Srbik, “Bismarckkontroverse,” 148, 150. 77. Cf. Srbik, Mitteleuropa. 78. Cf. Fehrenbach, “Reichsgründung.” 79. Cf. Näf, “Srbik”; Droz, “Srbik”; Fellner, “Srbik.” 80. Srbik, “Bismarckkontroverse,” 143. 81. G. Ritter, “Bismarckproblem,” 124. 82. Quoted in Schwabe, “Zur Einführung,” 81. These sentences were cut from the 1950 edition. 83. Meinecke in a letter to Kaehler, 26 September 1939, in Meinecke, Briefwechsel, 357. Cf. Volkmann, “Deutsche Historiker,” 867. 84. Dehio, Gleichgewicht, 235. 85. Cf. Koschmann, “Japan Communist Party,” 166. 86. Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 93, remains unconvincing. 87. For a comparison of educational reforms in Germany and Japan, see Rosenzweig, Erziehung; Shibata, Japan and Germany.

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88. For university reforms, cf. Möhwald, Reformen; Nishi Toshio, Unconditional Democracy; Teichler, Geschichte und Struktur, chap. 3; Luhmer, Schule; Takemura, “Role”; Blewett, Higher Education; Monbushom, Gakusei hyakunenshi. 89. Cf. the enthusiasm for prospective democratic, egalitarian forms of writing history as displayed by Hani, “Nihon no gendaishi,” 152. 90. Cf. Nakayama, Teikoku daigaku. Besides Tokyo (founded in 1876) and Kyoto (1897), the imperial universities included Sendai (1907), Fukuoka (1910), Sapporo (1918), OMsaka (1931), and Nagoya (1939), but also the colonial universities in Seoul (Keijom daigaku, 1924) and Taipei (Taihoku daigaku, 1928). 91. Another influential journal was Shirin, published by historians of the University of Kyoto. The influence of the more than four hundred other journals was slight. 92. Cf. Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Rekiken hanseiki no ayumi, 182. 93. The journal Rekishigaku kenkyuµ was influential far beyond the academy. In 1948 it received the Culture Award of the popular daily newspaper Mainichi shinbun. Cf. Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon,” 150. Membership of the conservative Shigakkai, by contrast, sagged after the war from fifteen hundred to a mere four hundred. Cf. Shigakkai, Shigakkai hyakunen koshi, 1889–1989. 94. The geographical dichotomy of Kantom (centered on Tokyo) and the Kansai region (Kyoto-Osaka) thus remained intact; the Nihonshi kenkyumkai was the equivalent of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai in the Kansai region and was dominated in its early years by Naramoto Tatsuya and Hayashiya Tatsusaburom (Ritsumeikan University in Kyoto). The journal Rekishi hyoµron, founded in 1946 (by Hayashi Motoi, Tomma Seita, Ishimoda Shom, and Matsumoto Shinpachirom), was a slightly more popularized journal that aimed at transmitting Marxist scholarship to a broader public. Cf. J. Hall, Japanese History. For the history of the Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, cf. Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon”; Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Rekiken hanseiki no ayumi; Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Sengo no rekiken; Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Sengo rekishigaku to rekiken no ayumi; Gayle, Marxist History. See also the critical account of Hayashi Kentarom, Shoµwashi, 194–95. 95. Cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 118–28. 96. Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon,” 150. 97. These figures refer to historians in the humanities departments (bungakubu) in 1959; cf. Zenkoku daigaku shokuinroku, Shoµwa 34nen. 98. Cf. the list of governmental research grants (kagaku kenkyuµhi) in Shigaku zasshi 61 (November 1952). Out of eighteen projects in the discipline of history that received funding in 1952, no fewer than seventeen had been applied for by historians at state universities, of which twelve taught at former imperial universities (nine of which at the University of Tokyo). 99. Several of the participants in this controversy lost their chairs in the 1930s, including Kawakami Hajime and OMuchi Hyome. Cf. Marshall, Academic Freedom.

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· notes to pages 51–55

100. Cf. Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon,” 108. 101. Comité Japonais des Sciences Historiques, Le Japon, 35. 102. Inumaru, “Sengo Nihon,” 101–5. 103. Cf. OMishi, “Sengo kaikaku.” The most influential contributions to the analysis and theory of Japan’s postwar economic development came from scholars associated with Uno Komzom. See Itoh, Value and Crisis, 38; Albritton, Japanese Reconstruction; Barshay, Social Sciences. 104. Kajinishi et al., Nihon shihon shugi. 105. Ibid., 178, 180. 106. Ibid., 181. 107. Ibid., 244, 247. 108. Cf. Jansen, “Review of Tomyama Shigeki, Meiji Ishin.” 109. Tomyama, Meiji Ishin, 19. 110. Ibid., 336. 111. For the concept of absolutism, Tomyama followed Hattori Shisom, an important koµzaha contributor to the “controversy over Japanese capitalism.” Hattori referred to Marx, Engels, and Kautsky and defined absolutism as a transition period characterized by an equilibrium between a feudal class of landowners and the emerging bourgeoisie; neither class therefore was able to monopolize state power. Cf. Tomyama, Meiji Ishin, 23–24. 112. The name refers to the Tempom era (1830–44), during which the reforms took place. 113. Tomyama, Meiji Ishin, 21. 114. Ibid., 33–39. 115. Ibid., 38–39. 116. Ibid., 81–95, 149. 117. Ibid., 185, 186. 118. Ibid., 229. 119. Ibid., 283. 120. Ibid., 182, 186–87. 121. Maruyama, Senchuµ to sengo no aida, 291. 122. Cf. Hattori Shisom, “Ishinshi homhomjom no shomondai.” See also Hoston, Marxism, 120–24; Yamanouchi, “Japan,” 257–58. A useful overview of the complex debates within the koµzaha and the search for the true revolutionary subject can be found in Iwai, “Meiji Ishin.” 123. Cf. Hani, Nihon jinmin no rekishi. For a biography of Hani, cf. Inumaru, “Hani Gorom.” 124. On the “reverse course,” see Schonberger, Aftermath; for its effects on Marxist debates, cf. Gayle, Marxist History, 62–63.

notes to pages 55–62

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125. Tomyama, Meiji Ishin, 45–63; Tomyama, “Nihon no nashonarizumu,” 105. See also Ugai, “Tomyama Shigekishi.” 126. Inoue, “Meiji Ishin,” 179, 1–7. 127. Ibid., 2–3. 128. Cf. Gayle, Marxist History, 85–123; Amino and Miyata, “Sengo Nihon shigaku”; Amino, Rekishi, 31–32. 129. Cf. Stalin, Marxismus. 130. Cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 102–5. 131. Ishimoda, Rekishi to minzoku no hakken, 16–17. 132. Tomma, Nihon minzoku, 2; cf. Tomma, “Kodai ni okeru minzoku”; Oguma, “Wasurerareta,” 37–38. 133. Cf. G. Ritter, “Das politische Problem des Militarismus,” 153, 180. 134. Inoue, “Meiji Ishin,” 2–3. 135. On the parallels with the program of the Communist Party in 1951, see Itoh, Value and Crisis, 32–33. 136. Cf. Oguma, Tan’itsu minzoku. 137. Inoue, Geschichte Japans, 344. 138. Ishimoda, “Kotoba no mondai,” 309. See also Oguma, “Wasurerareta.” 139. Cf. Edward Said’s analysis of Marx’s interpretation of British imperialism in India, in Said, Orientalism, 153–56. 140. The best-known examples of this traditional interpretation include Ishin shiryom hensan jimukyoku, Gaikan Ishinshi (1940); and Osatake Takeshi, Meiji Ishin (1942– 49). Osatake ’s four-volume work is a rich empirical study that was much appreciated by Marxist historians as well; cf. Tomyama, Meiji Ishin, 345. 141. See, for example, Inobe Shigeo, Ishin zenshi no kenkyuµ. To some degree the works of the Marxist historian Ishii Takashi fall into this category as well, in particular Ishii, Meiji Ishin no kokusaiteki kankyoµ. 142. Oka, “Kindai Nihon seiji no tokuisei,” 6, 7, 11. 143. Shimomura, “Nichiro sensom no seikaku.” 144. Inoue, “Meiji Ishin,” 1. 145. Kuwabara et al., “Zadankai,” 176. A similar argument can be found in Kuwabara, “Meiji no saihyomka.” 146. Kuwabara, “Japan,” 136. 147. Kuwabara, “Tradition versus Modernization,” 39. The article appeared in 1957 as “Dentom to kindaika” in the journal Gendai shisoµ. 148. Ueyama, “Meiji Ishinron no saikentom,” 91. 149. Kuwabara, “Meiji no saihyomka.” 150. Ibid. 151. Apart from Kuwabara Takeo and Ueyama Shumpei, the cultural anthropologist Umesao Tadao (who stressed the progressiveness of Japan’s modernity) and the

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historian Kawano Kenji formed part of this revisionist group at the Jinbun kagaku kenkyumjo of the University of Kyoto. Umesao’s influence extended to the literary critic Katom Shumichi, whose nationalist argument on Japanese backwardness ran along similar lines. Cf. Katom, Zasshu bunka. On this group, cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 243–47; Naruse, Sekaishi no ishiki to riron, 176–204; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu, 74–80. The historians of the koµzaha largely ignored the revisionist challenge (an exception was Hani Gorom, who in 1959 joined Ueyama in a public debate). This began to change in the 1960s after the abortive protests against the Security Treaty. 152. Cf. Coburn, “Asian Scholars”; Harootunian, History’s Disquiet, 25–58. 153. The papers presented at these conferences were subsequently published in six volumes that were to be enormously influential for historians of Japan both in the West and in Japan. Cf. Jansen, Attitudes; Lockwood, State; Dore, Aspects; Ward, Development; Shively, Tradition; Morley, Dilemmas. 154. The Marxist critique of modernization theory is summarized in Kinbara, “Nihon kindaika” ron no rekishizoµ; Wada, “Kindaikaron.” Early adepts of modernization theory included former Marxists Satom Seizaburom, Itom Takashi, and Banno Junji, who had been excluded from the Communist Party between 1955 and 1958. 155. Sakata, “Meiji Ishinshi no mondaiten,” 10, 11, 26. 156. Wehler, Modernisierungstheorie, 51. Cf. Mergel, “Modernisierungstheorie”; Welskopp, “Sozialgeschichte der Väter.” 157. Among the few attempts to break free of this paradigm was the world history of Uehara Senroku, as well as the Marxist version of world history as propagated by Eguchi Bokurom. Cf. Uehara, “Rekishiteki seisatsu no shintaishom”; Uehara, “Sekaishizom.” Cf. Yoshida, “Sekaishi”; Yoshida, “Sekai—Nihon—Chiiki”; Ozawa Hiroaki, “Eguchi shigaku”; Naruse, Sekaishi no ishiki to riron. 158. Oguma, Tan’itsu minzoku. The notion of the homogeneity of the Japanese people has since been a central element in so-called Nihonjinron literature, which postulates the uniqueness of Japanese culture. Cf. Dale, Myth; Mouer and Sugimoto, Images. 159. This new conception of the nation was legally confirmed in 1951. In the Peace Treaty of San Francisco, Japan renounced all territorial claims in Korea, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia. From this time on, the Japanese government treated as foreigners all Koreans and Taiwanese who until then had been Japanese citizens. Cf. Park, “Japanese Reparations Policies,” 129.

3. THE NATION AS VICTIM 1. Cf. Giordano, Die zweite Schuld; Eberan, Luther?; Benz, “Umgang.” 2. Cf. Mishima, “ ‘Vergangenheitsbewältigung.’ ” 3. This is, however, the usual picture described in the literature. Typical cases for this kind of argument are Bosworth, Explaining Auschwitz; Kittel, Legende.

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4. Japanese fascism (or ultranationalism) and National Socialism were different in many respects. The most prominent differences include the absence of a fascist mass movement and of genocidal politics and concentration camps in Japan. This has led historians outside Japan to conclude that the Japanese regime during the war years was not fascist but rather militarist; cf. Duus and Okimoto, “Fascism”; Hayashi Kentarom, “Japan and Germany”; B. Martin, “Three Forms of Fascism”; Mitchell, Thought Control, 189; Tipton, Police State, 13. Opposed to this mainstream opinion, some historians are critical of the term “fascism” when largely defined by recourse to German and Italian history—a terminological genealogy that virtually by necessity renders the Japanese case lacking in some respects. As a matter of fact, they argue, Japan, too, since the late 1930s developed a fascist regime based on mass mobilization and Gleichschaltung (forcible coordination). Cf. Yamaguchi, “Faschismus”; Böttcher, “Faschismus”; Brooker, Faces. For an account of these debates, see Lubasz, Fascism; Kasza, “Fascism from Below?” Among Japanese historians, too, there are conflicting views on the matter. In early postwar scholarship, however, “fascism” (or “Tennom system fascism”) was the accepted term to describe the political system between 1931 and 1945. It was introduced by Marxist historians and is therefore open to the critique that applies to the Marxist notion of fascism in general. These terminological differentiations notwithstanding, for most contemporaries, coming to terms with the recent past in Germany and in Japan posed similar challenges. 5. H. Buchheim, “Die nationalsozialistische Zeit,” 39. 6. Cf. Kojima Noboru, “Contributions.” 7. Pfetsch, “Neugründung,” 367. 8. Cf. Tent, Mission, 57–87; Tent, “Denazification”; Bungenstab, Umerziehung; Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 121–30; for the French zone, see Henke, Politische Säuberung. 9. Cf. Ash, “Geschichtswissenschaft.” For a particularly drastic case, cf. Roth, “Heydrichs Professor.” 10. Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 126–27; Weber, Priester, 429–30. 11. See Frei, Vergangenheitspolitik. 12. On Hiraizumi, cf. Saitom, Shoµwa shigakushi noµto, chap. 4. 13. Cf. Toµkyoµ daigaku hyakunenshi, 1007. 14. Rikkyoµ gakuin 100nenshi, 391–94. 15. On the Kyoto School, cf. Heisig and Maraldo, Rude Awakenings; Ohashi, Philosophie; Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity. 16. Cf. the document “The Purge” with a brief survey of American activities, in General Headquarters, United States Army Forces, Pacific, Historical Articles on the War in the Pacific, GHQ and SCAP Records in the National Diet Library, Tokyo (hereafter GHQ, Historical Articles), box 3633, sheet CIE (A) 03409.

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· notes to pages 79–82

17. Yamamoto, Senryoµka, 155–210, 358. 18. Figures in Rupieper, Wurzeln, 137. 19. Nishi Toshio relates 115,778 cases of voluntary resignation among teachers, as compared to a mere 3,151 forceful resignations. Cf. Nishi Toshio, Unconditional Democracy, 173. 20. Toµkyoµ daigaku hyakunenshi, 1007–9. 21. Cf. Möhwald, Reformen, 26–27; Kobayashi, Society, 60ff. 22. In 1962 the university of the Shintom shrine in Ise, Komgakkan University, which had been closed by occupation authorities in December 1945, reopened. It emerged as a forum for ultranationalist positions, led by Tanaka Suguru. Cf. Hashikawa, “Komgakkan daigaku.” 23. Cf. Weyer, Westdeutsche Soziologie. 24. Erdmann, “Das Dritte Reich,” 405. 25. Cf. Giordano, Die zweite Schuld; Bosworth, Explaining Auschwitz; Kershaw, NS-Staat. 26. Cf. Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 47. 27. The translation, by Yada Toshitaka, was titled The German Tragedy (Doitsu no higeki). 28. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 39. 29. Seraphim, “Debate.” 30. Cf. Gluck, “Idea of Shomwa.” 31. G. Ritter, Europa, 7. 32. Hani, Nihon jinmin no rekishi, 206. 33. See Schonberger, Aftermath; Moore, “Reflections.” 34. Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Taiheiyoµ sensoµ shi, 1:21. 35. Quoted in Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 66. 36. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 151. See also Rothfels, Opposition, 22. 37. Herzfeld, “Deutschland und Europa,” 191. 38. Schieder, “Die geschichtlichen Grundlagen,” 164. 39. Gluck, “Das Ende der ‘Nachkriegszeit.’ ” 40. Hofer, Der Nationalsozialismus, 367. 41. Quoted in Seifert and Schamoni, “Vorwort,” 14. 42. On Maruyama’s biography and works, cf. Kersten, Democracy; Ishida, Nihon no shakai kagaku; Barshay, Social Sciences, 197–239. Cf. also the January 1994 special issue of the journal Gendai Shisoµ; and Kasai, “Maruyama.” 43. Maruyama Masao, “Theory and Psychology,” 1. 44. Ibid. 45. Maruyama Masao, “Ideology and Dynamics,” 82. 46. Ibid., 72, 80. 47. Ibid., 37.

notes to pages 82–90

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48. Ibid., 63. 49. Maruyama Masao, “Thought and Behaviour Patterns,” 93. 50. Maruyama Masao, “Theory and Psychology,” 12. Tsuchiya and Furushima were war criminals of category C, charged with crimes against Allied prisoners of war. 51. Maruyama Masao, “Thought and Behavior Patterns.” 52. Quoted from Seifert and Schamoni, “Vorwort,” 13. 53. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 164, 168. 54. Ibid., 8. Cf. also Meinecke, Goethe und die Geschichte; W. Mommsen, Die politischen Anschauungen Goethes; Tellenbach, Goethes geschichtlicher Sinn. 55. Maruyama Masao, Introduction, xiv, xi, xii. 56. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 176. 57. Erdmann, “Anmerkungen,” 91. 58. G. Ritter, Europa, 51. 59. Ibid., 43. 60. Müller-Armack, Das Jahrhundert ohne Gott. Alfred Müller-Armack (1901–78) taught economics and sociology at the universities in Münster and Cologne. After 1945 he emerged as one of the leading proponents of neoliberalism in Germany. The slogan “social market economy” is attributed to him. 61. Cf. Chun, Bild der Moderne. 62. Solchany, Comprendre, 298ff. 63. G. Ritter, Europa, 115–17. 64. G. Ritter, Carl Goerdeler, 90; G. Ritter, Geschichte als Bildungsmacht, 32. 65. This kind of argument provoked opposition from various camps. During the war, Tsuda’s notion of a peace-loving, racially homogenous Japanese people was interpreted as oppositional and got him sent to prison for a time. After the war his plea to keep the Tennom made him a favorite target of Marxist historians. Cf. Kadowaki, “Tsuda Somkichi.” 66. This shows how much Tsuda’s work owes to the studies on folklore and history of common people by Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962). Cf. Oguma, Tan’itsu minzoku, 271–96. 67. Hani, “Zinmin no ho o muke!” 213. Hani underlined his argument by publishing his polemic in Latin script (romaji). 68. Tomma, Nihon minzoku; idem, “Kodai ni okeru minzoku.” Cf. Oguma, “Wasurerareta”; Gayle, Marxist History, 87–92. 69. G. Ritter, Europa, 7. 70. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 140. See also Hofer, Der Nationalsozialismus, 81. 71. General Headquarters, United States Army Forces, Pacific (hereafter GHQ), Historical Articles, 1, 2. 72. Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Taiheiyoµ sensoµ shi, 1:1. 73. Inoue, “Bomkansha to giseisha,” 897.

278

· notes to pages 90–97

74. Hofer, Der Nationalsozialismus, 44. See also Rothfels, Opposition, 23. 75. Hani, Nihon jinmin no rekishi, 173. 76. Vollmer, Volksopposition, 7. Vollmer’s research had been supported by the Institut für Zeitgeschichte. He argued explicitly against the thesis of a people of Nazis: “I will show that the propaganda fiction of the Nazi party as well as the conviction upheld in foreign countries that the broad masses of the German people were taken in by the doctrines of National Socialism is erroneous” (ibid., 8). 77. Hofer, Der Nationalsozialismus, 10. 78. Schneider, “Ermächtigungsgesetz”; Mau, “Die ‘Zweite Revolution’ ”; Paetel, “Die SS”; H. Buchheim, “Die SS”; H. Buchheim, “Struktur”; Baum, “Die ‘Reichsreform’ ”; Bracher, “Stufen.” 79. For a general overview of the victim discourse in Japan, cf. Orr, Victim as Hero. 80. Cf. the list of graduation theses regularly published in the journal Shigaku zasshi. The careers of modern historians (such as Itom Takashi and Bannom Junji) typically followed a detour—via the newly founded Institute of Social Sciences (Shaken) of the University of Tokyo, which was more open to contemporary themes, or via smaller and less prestigious universities. 81. Cf. OMishi, “Sengo kaikaku”; Hoston, Marxism, 256ff. 82. Hani, Nihon jinmin no rekishi, 175. 83. The numerous cases of “conversion” (tenkoµ) show that the relationship between Marxists and nationalism in the 1930s was much more ambivalent. Cf. Steinhoff, Tenkoµ. 84. Schüssler, Um das Geschichtsbild, 81. 85. For example, see Hassel, Vom anderen Deutschland; Schlabrendorff, Offiziere gegen Hitler. Cf. Steinbach, “Widerstand”; Rothfels, Opposition, 27–28. 86. Ibid., 13. 87. Ibid., 10. 88. Kaehler, “Der 20. Juli 1944,” 436. 89. Mau and Krausnick, Deutsche Geschichte, 174. 90. Hofer, Der Nationalsozialismus, 317. 91. G. Ritter, Carl Goerdeler, 12. 92. Ibid., 101, 103. 93. Typical are the volumes by Europäische Publikation, Vollmacht des Gewissens. Cf. Ueberschär, “Einzeltat”; Steinbach, “Widerstandsforschung”; Müller and Mommsen, “Der deutsche Widerstand”; Toyka-Seid, “Widerstand.” 94. Abendroth, “Problem.” Abendroth, to be sure, cannot be counted among the conservative voices. Quite to the contrary, he was open to a broader and more inclusionary concept of resistance. On the Black Front, see Moreau, “Nationalsozialismus von links.” 95. G. Ritter, Carl Goerdeler, 438.

notes to pages 97–102

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96. Krausnick, “Legenden,” 239. Cf. also H. Buchheim, “Zu Kleists ‘Auch Du warst dabei.’ ” 97. Kaehler, “Geschichtsbild,” 338–39. 98. Cf. G. Ritter, “Die deutschen Soldaten.” 99. Besson, “Zur Geschichte,” 79. 100. Hofer, Entfesselung, 11. 101. On the history department of the University of Göttingen, cf. Obenaus, “Geschichtsstudium.” On Seraphim, see Petersen, Bevölkerungsökonomie. 102. Schramm was both author and editor of the war diary (together with HansAdolf Jacobsen, Walther Hubatsch, and Andreas Hillgruber); cf. P. Schramm, Kriegstagebuch. On Schramm, cf. Grolle, Schramm; Kamp, “Schramm”; Heimpel, “Königtum”; Elze, “Schramm.” 103. On Hubatsch, cf. Salewski and Schröder, “Walther Hubatsch.” 104. Hubatsch, 61. Infanterie-Division, 149. 105. Hubatsch, Deutsche Besetzung, 260. 106. Hubatsch, Kriegswende, 151. 107. Ibid., 155. 108. Cf. also Hans Rothfels and his praise of “the long struggle, full of sacrifices and conducted until the end with a military sense of duty” (Rothfels, “Zehn Jahre,” 72). 109. Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Das Dritte Reich und Europa, 155. 110. Ibid., 115, 120, 118. Cf. Kluke, “Nationalsozialistische Europaideologie,” 253. 111. Cf. Kwiet, “Behandlung”; Kulka, “Geschichtsschreibung”; Herbert, “Holocaust”; Broszat, “ ‘Holocaust.’ ” 112. Cf. Berg, Holocaust, 323–70. 113. “Augenzeugenbericht”; “Denkschrift Himmlers”; Heiber, “Generalplan Ost.” 114. Kogon, SS-Staat. 115. Scheffler, Judenverfolgung; Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Gutachten. 116. Hofer, Der Nationalsozialismus, 276. 117. GHQ, Historical Articles, 3. In the course of the war crimes trials in Tokyo, this periodization was modified. The verdict held that the war between Japan and China lasted from 18 September 1931 to 2 September 1945. Cf. International Military Tribunal for the Far East (hereafter IMTFE), Tokyo Judgment, 195. 118. Quoted in Saitom, “ ‘Daitoma sensom’ to ‘taiheiyom sensom,’ ” 196. 119. Ienaga, Taiheiyoµ sensoµ, 1–5. See the fundamental shift in emphasis in the eightvolume series Iwanami koµza: Ajia-taiheiyoµ sensoµ. 120. Cf. Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Taiheiyoµ sensoµ shi, 4:189. 121. Ibid., 1:1, 2. 122. Ibid., 4:173. 123. Ibid., 4:173–89.

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· notes to pages 103–109

124. Myers, “Post–World War II Japanese Historiography.” 125. Cf. Fogel, Nanjing Massacre; Yang, “Convergence or Divergence?” 126. Cf. Harris, Factories; Yoshimi, Comfort Women; Hayashi Hirofumi, “Japanese Comfort Women.” 127. Cf. Schwentker, “Hiroshima.” 128. Cf. Dower, “The Bombed”; Dower, Embracing Defeat, chap. 14. 129. Quoted in Braw, Atomic Bomb, 27. 130. Cf. Etom, Wasureta koto; Etom, Tozasareta gengo kuµkan; Satom Takumi, “The System of Total War.” 131. Cf. Braw, Atomic Bomb, 103, 94–99; Itom et al., Seit jenem Tag; Treat, Writing. 132. Cf. Awaya, “Tomkyom saiban,” 93–97; Harris, Factories. 133. GHQ, Historical Articles, 68–69. 134. Cf. Orr, Victim as Hero, 36–70. 135. Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Taiheiyoµ sensoµshi, 4:155–59. 136. Tomyama et al., Shoµwashi (1955), 207–8. The account was further shortened in the revised edition of 1959. Cf. Tomyama et al., Shoµwashi shinpan, 238. 137. Hattori Takushirom, Daitoµa sensoµ, 3. On Hattori, see Minear, “Nihon no rekishika.” 138. Takeyama, Shoµwa no seishinshi. Cf. the Marxist critique by Inoue, “Bomkansha to giseisha.” 139. Nihon kokusai seiji gakkai et al., Taiheiyoµ sensoµ e no michi. Cf. Krebs, Tendenzen; B. Martin, “Japan und der Krieg in Ostasien”; Tomyama, “A Task for Historians.” 140. Inumaru, “Teikoku shugiteki rekishikan.” 141. Borton, “Modern Japanese Economic Historians,” 305. 142. Morley, introduction to Fateful Choice. 143. For an extensive analysis of the conflict over German archival materials, see Eckert, Kampf um die Akten. 144. Cf. “Zadankai: Sengo 50nen.”; Niwa, “Kindai shiryomron”; Hayashi Kentarom, “Japanische Quellen.” 145. Tsunoda, “Atogaki.” 146. Ueyama, “Daitoma sensom,” 100, 106, 106. 147. Hayashi Fusao’s “Approving of the Greater East Asian War” (daitoµa sensoµ koµteiron) was published in 1964 and provoked a public stir. Hayashi interpreted all of modern Japanese history since 1853, when American ships landed in the bay of Uraga, as a “Hundred Years War” against the West. From this perspective, the Second World War appeared as a mere episode in this all-encompassing struggle between Asia and the “West.” 148. Tsurumi Shunsuke coined the term “15 years war” (juµgonen sensoµ) in 1956 to describe the period between the conflict in China since 1931 and the attack on Pearl

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Harbor. After initial opposition, this neologism emerged as the standard denomination of the war in Marxist historiography, too. Cf. Tsurumi Shunsuke, “Chishikijin.” 149. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 65–71, 118–28. 150. Shigakkai, Shigaku bunken mokuroku, 7–10; cf. Yamada Mitsuhiro, “Sengo ‘Nihon tsumshi’ bunken mokuroku.” 151. On the foundation of the journal, cf. Erdmann, “Erinnerungen.” 152. See G. Ritter, “Der neue Geschichtsunterricht.” Cf. Mayer, Neue Wege, 390–436. 153. The centralized licensing of school textbooks differed both from the decentralized procedures in the early postwar period and from the federal structure of the West German educational system. Cf. Buruma, Wages of Guilt, 183–201. 154. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 205–16. 155. On Ienaga, see Bellah, “Ienaga Saburom.” See also Ienaga, Japan’s Past. On the textbook trials, cf. Fujisawa, “Nihon no rekishi kyomkasho mondai”; Duke, Teachers; Bosworth, Explaining Auschwitz, 186–90. 156. Cf. Foljanty-Jost, Schulbuchgestaltung; “Homritsu jihom,” Kyoµkasho saiban. 157. Quoted in Ienaga, Taiheiyoµ sensoµ, 8. 158. On the historiography of the Monbushom, cf. Satom Nobuo, Komkoku shikan. 159. Murao Jirom, “Minzoku no seimei,” 1, 3. 160. Ibid., 218, 219. 161. Cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 1–4. 162. Cf. Yamazaki and Ruprecht, Rekishi to aidentitıµ. 163. Quoted in Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 119. 164. Herzfeld, “Internationaler Kongress,” 510. 165. Tomyama, Imai, and Fujiwara, Shoµwashi shinpan, i. 166. Rassow, “Krise,” 7. 167. Valentin, Geschichte der Deutschen, 629, 641, 643–44.

4. THE INVENTION OF CONTEMPORARY HISTORY 1. On the early history of German contemporary history, cf. Geyer, “Im Schatten”; Doering-Manteuffel, “Deutsche Zeitgeschichte”; Hockerts, “Zeitgeschichte”; Möller, “Formung.” 2. Erdmann, “Geschichte,” 1. 3. Cf. Fernis, “Die neueste Zeit,” 596. 4. Wagner, “Geschichte und Zeitgeschichte: Pearl Harbor,” 322. 5. Rothfels, Zeitgeschichte als Aufgabe, 4. 6. Quote from Auerbach, “Gründung,” 530. 7. Broszat, “Aufgaben und Probleme,” 529. 8. Vierhaus, “Rankes Verständnis”; cf. also Schulin, “Zeitgeschichtsschreibung”; Ernst, “Zeitgeschehen.”

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· notes to pages 117–126

9. Hashagen, Studium; idem, “Beurteilungsmaßstäbe.” On the history of Zeitgeschichte, see also Koselleck, “Begriffsgeschichtliche Anmerkungen”; Besson, “Zeitgeschichte”; Jäckel, “Begriff ”; Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7430–31. 10. Ernst, “Zeitgeschehen,” is a rare exception. 11. Rothfels, “Zeitgeschichte als Aufgabe,” 6. 12. E.g., Barthel, “Problem”; Kluke, “Aufgaben”; Vogelsang, “Zeitgeschichte”; Broszat, “Aufgaben und Probleme”; cf. Rothfels, “Die Zeit, die dem Historiker zu nahe liegt.” 13. Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7430. 14. H. Buchheim, “Die nationalsozialistische Zeit,” 63. 15. Broszat, “Aufgaben und Probleme,” 529. 16. Institut für Zeitgeschichte, 25 Jahre Institut für Zeitgeschichte. 17. Vogelsang, “Einführung,” 166. 18. Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7432. 19. On the prehistory of the Institut für Zeitgeschichte, see Gimbel, “Origins”; Auerbach, “Gründung”; Schulze, Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 229–41; Höppner, “Institut”; Benz, “Wissenschaft oder Alibi?” 20. On the history of the institute, cf. Möller and Wengst, 50 Jahre; Berg, Holocaust, 270–322. 21. Koehl, “Zeitgeschichte,” 131. 22. Similar comments are to be found in H. Mommsen, “Betrachtungen,” 131. 23. Rothfels, “Zeitgeschichte als Aufgabe,” 4 (emphasis added). 24. Broszat, “Aufgaben und Probleme,” 534. 25. Ibid., 530. 26. On the founding of the FU Berlin, cf. Lönnendonker, Freie Universität; Tent, Freie Universität. 27. Rosenberg’s Berlin period was particularly important for the development of West German structural and social history; his listeners included Gerhard A. Ritter, Karl Dietrich Bracher, Gerhard Schulz, Otto Büsch, and Wolfgang Sauer. See also Wehler, “Lage,” 22; Wehler, “Hans Rosenberg.” 28. Cf. the course catalogues of the Free University of Berlin. 29. Cf. the articles in Deutsch et al., Studie; Wolgast, “Neuzeitliche Geschichte.” 30. On Göttingen, cf. Obenaus, “Geschichtsstudium”; Weisbrod, Akademische Vergangenheitsbewältigung. 31. Cf. Benz, “Wissenschaft oder Alibi?” 16. 32. Herzfeld, “Zwei Werke”; Beyerhaus, “Notwendigkeit”; Rimscha, “Baltikumpolitik.” 33. Cf. Günther Schäfer, Modernisierung, 94ff. 34. H. Buchheim, “Die nationalsozialistische Zeit,” 62. 35. Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7433.

notes to pages 126–133

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36. Besson, “Zur Geschichte,” 76. 37. Gimbel, “Origins,” 721. 38. Cited in Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 240. 39. Cited in Institut für Zeitgeschichte, 25 Jahre Institut für Zeitgeschichte, 27. 40. Ernst, “Blick auf Deutschland,” 193, 211. 41. Rothfels, Opposition, 11. Rothfels, who claimed this right for himself, had been forced to leave Germany in 1935 on account of his Jewish family background. He returned from the United States to the Federal Republic in 1950. 42. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 6–7. 43. Ernst, “Blick auf Deutschland,” 193 (emphasis added). 44. Cited in Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 45. On the notion of “understanding,” see Lorenz, Konstruktion, 90–95; Haussmann, Erklären und Verstehen. 45. Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7432. 46. Barthel, “Problem,” 495–96. 47. Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7434. 48. G. Ritter, “Zur Einführung,” 11. 49. Picker, “Vorwort,” 38. 50. G. Ritter, “Zur Einführung,” 11. This lack of annotation aroused considerable criticism. Cf. Arendt, “Bei Hitler zu Tisch,” 85. 51. Picker, “Vorwort,” 37, 34, 35. 52. G. Ritter, “Zur Einführung,” 28. 53. G. Ritter, “Zur Einrichtung der Ausgabe,” 454. 54. On the perspective of the perpetrators in postwar historiography, see Berg, Holocaust, 568–615, esp. 576. 55. When Hitler’s Table Talk was reissued in 1963, the editors left out Gerhard Ritter’s foreword and added 120 pages of commentary by Percy Ernst Schramm that examined the nature of the material, the topics discussed in them, and the “Hitler problem.” 56. Cf. Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 239–40. 57. Cf. Auerbach, “Gründung,” 553. 58. Cf. Aly, “Rückwärtsgewandte Propheten,” 169–70. 59. On Bergsträsser, cf. Fehrenbach, “Ludwig Bergsträsser”; Bergsträsser, Mein Weg. 60. See also Paulus, “Wissenschaftliche Zeitgeschichte,” 18. 61. Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Das Dritte Reich und Europa, 165. 62. Cf. Paul Kluke’s foreword in ibid., v. 63. Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Das Dritte Reich und Europa, 129, 152, 158. 64. The commander in chief of the German army, Werner von Fritsch (1880– 1939), was removed from office in 1938 on the pretext of made-up charges of homosex-

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· notes to pages 133–139

ual conduct. The Fritsch crisis was part of a reorganization of the army by Hitler and Heinrich Himmler, the aims of which were to weaken the Wehrmacht and its mainly aristocratic leaders and transfer power to Hitler and Himmler’s Waffen-SS. 65. Foertsch, Schuld und Verhängnis, 200. 66. Ibid., 10. See also Höppner, “Institut.” 67. Wagner, “Geschichte und Zeitgeschichte: Pearl Harbor,” 314. 68. Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Selbstverständnis, 4. 69. Wagner, “Geschichte und Zeitgeschichte: Pearl Harbor,” 316. 70. Rothfels, “Zeitgeschichte also Aufgabe,” 7. 71. H. Buchheim, “Die nationalsozialistische Zeit,” 63. 72. Conze, “Ende des Proletariats,” 66. 73. Brecht, “Auflösung,” 291. 74. Conze, “Rezension Bracher” (1957), 379, 382. 75. See also Herzfeld’s sympathetic review, “Württemberg.” 76. Conze, “Rezension Bracher” (1957), 379. 77. There were also considerable substantive differences between Bracher and Conze, particularly in regard to their evaluation of Brüning’s role. 78. Conze, “Rezension Bracher” (1957), 380. 79. Bracher, “Von der Alten Geschichte zur Politikwissenschaft,” 263, 264. 80. Conze, “Rezension Bracher” (1957), 381, 382. On the occasion of the second edition of Bracher’s book, Conze published a second review, once again in the Historische Zeitschrift, in which he partially retracted his criticism. (“Unfortunately, some of the formulations in this review were somewhat overstated.”) However, he did not alter his reservations toward the methodological approach: “And yet, the fundamental methodological misgivings . . . are not affected by such restraints.” Conze, “Rezension Bracher” (1959), 407. 81. Vogelsang, “Machtverfall,” 53. 82. Besson, Württemberg, 259. 83. Ibid., 11. 84. On Besson, cf. H. Mommsen and Jasper, “Engagierte Wissenschaft.” 85. Besson, Württemberg, 372. Cf. also Eschenburg, “Rolle der Persönlichkeit.” 86. Bracher, Auflösung, 618, 619. 87. Ibid., 605. 88. Muth, “Literaturbericht,” 593. 89. Vogelsang, “Machtverfall,” 54. 90. Kluke, “Aufgaben,” 7437–38. 91. Conze, “Stellung der Sozialgeschichte,” 653. 92. Meinecke, Katastrophe, 13. 93. T. Schieder, “Zum gegenwärtigen Verhältnis, 29.

notes to pages 140–148

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94. Broszat, “Aufgaben und Probleme,” 534. 95. See also Oestreich, “Fachhistorie”; Jaeger and Rüsen, Historismus, 113–40; Mooser, “Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte”; G. A. Ritter, “Sozialgeschichte.” 96. Conze, “Stellung der Sozialgeschichte,” 653. 97. Cf. Rüsen, “Kontinuität,” 360. On the continuity discussion, see Welskopp, “Grenzüberschreitungen.” 98. Cf. especially Hettling, Volksgeschichten; Burleigh, Germany; Oberkrome, Volksgeschichte; Schöttler, Geschichtsschreibung; Schulze, “Wandel”; Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 281–301. 99. See also Oexle, “Sozialgeschichte”; Algazi, “Otto Brunner”; Melton, “Folk History.” 100. See also Welskopp, “Westbindung”; Chun, Bild der Moderne. 101. Freyer, “Soziologie und Geschichtswissenschaft,” 17. 102. Landshut, “Die soziologische Geschichtsauffassung,” 23. 103. T. Schieder, “Zum gegenwärtigen Verhältnis,” 31. 104. Cf. Conze, “Rezension Braudel.” 105. Cf. ibid. 106. G. Ritter, “Zur Problematik gegenwärtiger Geschichtsschreibung,” 261, 263. 107. G. Ritter, “Geschichtswissenschaft,” 84. On this issue, cf. Raphael, “Trotzige Ablehnung.” 108. Ritter even attempted to make Theodor Schieder his successor in Freiburg. Cf. Schulze, “Wandel,” 202. 109. Quoted in ibid., 204. 110. Cf. Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 254–65; Conze, “Weg”; Conze, “Gründung”; Irmschler, “Genesis.” 111. Cf. Veit-Brause, “Conze,” 307; Kocka, “Werner Conze,” 595; G. A. Ritter, “Sozialgeschichte.” On Conze, see also Zernack, “Nachwort”; Conze, “Königsberger Jahre”; W. Schieder, “Sozialgeschichte”; Koselleck, “Conze”; Etzemüller, Sozialgeschichte. 112. Conze, Strukturgeschichte, 16–17; cf. Conze, “Rezension Braudel.” Brunner’s evaluation is cited in Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 262. 113. Conze, Strukturgeschichte, 12. 114. Ibid., 17. 115. Cf. Rüsen, “Kontinuität,” 358; Wehler, “Geschichtswissenschaft heute,” 725; Gall, “Theodor Schieder”; Wehler, “Nachruf.” 116. Wehler, “Nachruf, 147. The profiles of the two men were entirely different, however, and apparent similarities should not be allowed to disguise this fact. While Conze decisively promoted research into workers’ history, Schieder’s main field of research remained intellectual and political history. 117. T. Schieder, “Struktur,” 157, 158, 171.

286

· notes to pages 148–153

118. Ibid., 190. 119. See also Welskopp, “Sozialgeschichte der Väter”; Welskopp, “Mensch”; Giddens, Constitution. 120. Cf. Veit-Brause, “Conze,” 328–29. 121. Cf. Welskopp, “Westbindung.” 122. T. Schieder, “Struktur, 189. See also idem, “Typus”; idem, Geschichte. 123. G. Ritter, “Zur Problematik gegenwärtiger Geschichtsschreibung,” 270, 264. 124. Beutin, “Wirtschaftsgeschichte,” 152. 125. Cited in H. Mommsen and Jasper, “Engagierte Wissenschaft,” 19. 126. Cf. Rüsen, Kontinuität, 384–87. 127. Fujiwara Akira, “Gendai,” 268. 128. Comité Japonais, Le Japon, 33. 129. At first the term doµjidaishi (“history of experienced time”) was used, but soon gendaishi (literally “history of the present”) gained prevalence. 130. See also Conrad, “World History.” In Japanese historiography the periodization of the past was traditionally determined by the accession of new emperors. 131. Tomyama et al., Shoµwashi, 3. 132. Ibid., 3–4. 133. Critique in the newspaper Sandeµ mainichi, cited in Tomyama, “Gendaishi kenkyum,” 53. Cf. ibid., 57, for a discussion of the general reservations scholars had regarding contemporary history. 134. On the establishment of the Institute of Social Science, cf. Tomkyom daigaku shakai kagaku kenkyumjo, Shakai kagaku; Tomkyom daigaku hyakunenshi henshumiinkai, Toµkyoµ daigaku hyakunenshi, 4:373–476; Wada, “Sengo Nihon.” 135. Fujiwara Akira (1948) and Inumaru Giichi (1952), later counted among the best-known Marxist contemporary historians, dealt with the history of Japanese fascism in their final papers (sotsugyoµ ronbun, roughly the equivalent of an MA thesis) at the University of Tokyo. 136. Fujiwara, “Gendai,” 269. 137. Tomyama et al., Shoµwashi, i, ii. 138. Kamei, “Gendai rekishika e no gimon,” 59. 139. On Kamei, cf. Matsumoto Tomone, “From Marxism to Japanism”; cf. also Doak, Dreams of Difference, esp. the chapter “The Ethics of Identity.” On the phenomenon of “conversion,” see Steinhoff, Tenkoµ. On the conference “Overcoming Modernity” (kindai no choµkoku), cf. Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity, chap. 2. 140. See also Koschmann, “Intellectuals”; Gluck, “The ‘Long Postwar’ ”; Itoh Makoto, Value and Crisis; Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 217–18. 141. For further critical reviews, cf. Hayashi Kentarom, “Gendai”; Matsuda Michio, “Rekishika”; idem, “Sensom”; Shinohara, “Gendaishi”; Yamamuro, “Seijiteki.” Cf. also Horigome, Rekishi, and the articles in the special issue of Shisoµ, vol. 395 (1957).

notes to pages 154–162

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142. Kamei, “Gendai rekishika e no gimon,” 60. 143. Inoue, “Gendaishi no homhom,” 41. 144. Kamei, “Gendai rekishika e no gimon,” 63. 145. Inoue, “Gendaishi no homhom,” 41. 146. Shinohara, “Gendaishi,” 146. 147. Ibid., 149. 148. Kamei, “Gendai rekishika e no gimon,” 60–61. By way of comparison, the German historical profession reacted to Bracher’s Dissolution with virtually identical formulations. For example, Thilo Vogelsang argued that historiography had to place “the conflict with acting human beings, . . . with human beings in their contradictions,” into the center of their work (Vogelsang, “Machtverfall,” 58). 149. Kamei, “Gendai rekishika e no gimon,” 61. 150. Shinohara, “Gendaishi,” 149. 151. Tomyama, “Gendaishi rekishika e no gimon,” 54. 152. Inoue, “Gendaishi no homhom,” 41. 153. Kamei, “Gendai rekishika e no gimon,” 64. Tanaka Giichi (1927–29), Konoe Fumimaro (1937–39, 1940–41), and Tomjom Hideki (1941–44) were Japanese prime ministers. 154. Cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 232–33, 247–50. 155. Inoue, “Gendaishi kenkyum,” 566. 156. Ibid., 569–71. Inoue’s self-criticism, which appeared one year after the Twentieth Party Congress in Moscow, still bore the traits of a self-abasement in the Stalinist tradition. 157. Cf. Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu, 71. 158. Tomyama et al., Shoµwashi shinpan, ii. 159. Cf. Nagahara, “Rekishi ninshiki/jojutsu.” 160. On the roots of minshuµshi historiography, see Gluck, “People”; Haga, Minshuµshi; Yasumaru, “Hoµhoµ.” 161. Alongside these methodological differences, a vast political gulf opened between Kamei and the authors of Shoµwashi that we cannot ignore here. While the Shoµwashi authors saw the cause of the distorted development in the delay of modernity, Kamei located the roots of this calamity in modernity itself. He particularly saw it as a Western import that had been forced on Japan during the age of imperialism. In order to survive, Japan had no choice but to adapt Western modernity. In this way “Japan chose the fate of committing treason against East Asia.” After all, modernization—which for Kamei meant “Westernization”—implied a turn against Japan’s own Asian roots: “So as not to be colonized, Japan had to take over modern capitalism from Europe and acquire colonies itself. . . . Thus one can say that Japanese modernization inevitably led to the invasion of the Chinese mainland.” Kamei, “Gendaishi,” 107, 106.

288

· notes to pages 162–168

162. The sole offer of a professorial chair in history came from Harvard University in 1966. Cf. Bracher, “Von der Alten Geschichte zur Politikwissenschaft,” 265. 5. THE TEMPORALIZATION OF SPACE 1. Ienaga, Shin Nihonshi, 130. 2. G. Ritter, Europa, 109. 3. Ienaga, Shin Nihonshi, 130. 4. For a theoretical analysis of this mechanism, see Laclau and Mouffe, Hegemony, esp. 127ff. 5. Cf. Said, Orientalism; Said, “Orientalism Reconsidered”; MacKenzie, “ ‘Orientalism’ Debate”; Dirlik, “Chinese History”; R. Young, White Mythologies, 119–40; Carrier, Occidentalism. 6. A notable exception is the chapter “The Desires of Postcolonial Orientalism: Chinese Utopias of Kristeva, Barthes, and Tel quel,” in Lowe, Critical Terrains, 136–89. 7. Irokawa, “Minshumshi e no michi,” 207–8. 8. This structure is typical for many postcolonial societies. Cf. Chakrabarty, “Provincializing Europe”; Conrad, “What Time Is Japan?” 9. Takahashi, Kindai shakai seiritsu shiron, 1, 16, 17. For a similar argument, cf. OMtsuka, “Shogen,” 3–4. 10. Ienaga, “Keimom shigaku”; Duus, “Whig History, Japanese Style”; OMkubo, Nihon kindai shigaku; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu, 4–8. 11. An exception was the University of Commerce in Tokyo (now Hitotsubashi University); cf. Conrad, “World History.” Marxist historians have made several attempts to overcome this tripartition; cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 251. 12. Cf. Tomkyom daigaku hyakunenshi, 643ff; Ienaga, Nihon no kindai shigaku; Hayashi Kentarom, “Ludwig Riess”; S. Tanaka, Japan’s Orient, 40ff; Mehl, Vergangenheit, 148–70. 13. Cf. Saitom, Shoµwa shigakushi noµto, 148–52. 14. Cf. Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 29–35. 15. Ibid., 39ff.; OMta Hidemichi, “OMtsuka Hisao”; Arnold-Kanamori, Menschentyp. Uchimura Kanzom (1861–1930) called for a Christian non-Church movement in Japan (mukyoµkai) and was counted among the most influential intellectuals in the early twentieth century. 16. Cf. Uchida, “OMtsuka shigaku”; Schwentker, Max Weber. 17. Cf., for example, OMtsuka, Spirit. 18. Cf. OMtsuka, Kindai oµshuµ keizaishi josetsu; idem, Kindai shihon shugi no keifu. 19. OMtsuka, “Jiyum to dokuritsu,” 177. 20. Ibid., 184.

notes to pages 168–180

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21. OMtsuka, “Seisanryoku ni okeru tomyom to seiyom,” 248, 255. Cf. also Koschmann, “Kiritsuteki kihan.” 22. For an analysis of this kind of culturalist argument, cf. Wallerstein, “Economic Theories”; Chakrabarty, “Provincializing Europe.” 23. Ochi, Kindai Eikoku. Among the representatives of this group were Tsunoyama Sakae and Kawakita Minoru. Cf. Tsunoyama, Shihon shugi no seiritsu katei; Tsunoyama, Igirisu zettai shugi no koµzoµ. See also Kondo, “Ichinichi mo hayaku.” 24. Representative works of the OMtsuka School include Matsuda Tomoo, Kindai no shiteki koµzoµron; OMno, Doitsu kinyuµ; Takahashi, Kindai shakai seiritsu shiron; Takahashi, Shimin kakumei no koµzoµ; OMtsuka, Kindai shihon shugi no keifu; OMtsuka, Shihon shugi no seiritsu; OMtsuka, Takahashi, and Matsuda, Seiyoµ keizaishi koµza. The historiography of Germany is summarized in Ohno, Japanische Forschungen. For a history of the OMtsuka School, see Matsumoto Akira, “Sengo rekishigaku to ‘OMtsuka shigaku.’ ” 25. Cf. Maruyama Masao, Thought and Behaviour; idem, Denken in Japan; OMtake, Sengo seiji to seijigaku, 17–32; Kersten, Democracy. 26. Maruyama Masao, Senchuµ to sengo no aida, 190. 27. Kawashima Takeyoshi, Die japanische Gesellschaft, 77. Cf. OMtake, Sengo seiji to seijigaku; Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 53–62. 28. OMtsuka, “Honpom ni okeru seiyom shihon shugi,” 294. 29. OMtsuka, “Keizai saikenki,” 321–22. 30. Ibid., 323. 31. Ibid., 326. 32. Cf. Chakrabarty, “Provincializing Europe.” 33. For the American occupation, cf. Dower, Embracing Defeat; Cohen, Remaking Japan; Daniels, “Re-education”; Halliday, “Japan”; Kawai, Interlude; Moore, “Reflections”; Schonberger, Aftermath; Ward, “Reflections.” 34. Cf. Minear, Victors’ Justice, 93–116, on the selection of the accused. 35. Cf. SCAP, Political Reorientation of Japan, 2:429–39. 36. IMTFE, Tokyo Judgment, 53. Cf. also Awaya, “Tomkyom saiban”; Awaya, Toµkyoµ saibanron; Yoshida Yutaka, “Sengo sekinin”; Tomkyom saiban handobukku henshum iiankai, Toµkyoµ saiban handobukku; Pritchard and Zaide, International Military Tribunal. 37. Quoted in Takahashi, “La Place de la Révolution de Meiji,” 270. 38. Ibid., 270. 39. On Norman, see OMtake, Sengo seiji to seijigaku, 3–12; Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 125–37; Dower, “E. H. Norman.” 40. Takahashi, “La Place de la Révolution de Meiji,” 270. 41. Möhwald, Reformen, 20; Nishi, Unconditional Democracy, 176–86. 42. Cf. OMkubo, Nihon kindai shigaku, 147–50. 43. Benedict’s working title was “Japanese Character.” Cf. Zunz, “Modernization”; cf. also Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 54; Aoki Tamotsu, Japandiskurs, 26–40.

290

· notes to pages 180–188

44. Cf. Takeyama Akiko, “Senryomka no homsom.” 45. GHQ, Historical Articles, 1. On U.S. censorship and the attempt to create a “closed discursive space” with rules for legitimate and illegitimate enunciations, see Etom, Tozasareta gengo kuµkan. 46. Ienaga, Taiheyoµ sensoµ, 4. 47. Cf. Yoshida Yutaka, Nihonjin, 167–71. 48. A typical example of this strategy is Robert Bellah’s attempt, in his Tokugawa Religion, to find an equivalent to Weber’s Protestant ethic in feudal Tokugawa Japan. 49. For the protests against the renewal of the security treaty, see Packard, Protest. 50. Quoted in Harootunian, “America’s Japan/Japan’s Japan,” 207. 51. Cf. Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 188ff. Irrespective of the varying political dynamics of the two controversies, it would not be far-fetched to read the critique by David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley of the deviant-path narrative (Sonderweg) in West Germany as parallel with the debates between koµzaha and modernization theory in Japan. Cf. Nishikawa, “Rekishigaku no ‘kindai,’ ” 163. 52. Harootunian, “America’s Japan/Japan’s Japan,” 200, 215. 53. Cf. Distelrath, Produktionsweise. 54. Cf. Inumaru, Rekishi kagaku no kadai; Kan Takayuki, Sengo seishin. 55. See, in particular, Nakano Toshio, OÂtsuka Hisao to Maruyama Masao. See also Kasai Hirotaka, “Maruyama.” 56. For the larger debate on intellectual continuities between wartime and postwar Japan, see Yamanouchi, Koschmann, and Narita, Total War; a quick overview can be found in Takaoka Hiroyuki, “ ‘Jumgonen sensom.’ ” 57. Cf. B. Martin, Japan and Germany. 58. Yanaihara, “A Short History of Modern Japan,” 12. 59. Quoted in Banno, “Shaken Stirred,” 3. On Nanbara, cf. Barshay, State and Intellectual. 60. Cf. W. Becker, “Stationen”; Benz, “Lernziel”; Brandt, “Wiederaufbau”; Bungenstab, Umerziehung; Lawson, “Politik”; U. Schneider, “Reconstruction.” 61. Rupieper, Wurzeln, 137. 62. Cf. Phillips, Universitätsreform; Jürgensen, Kulturpolitik; Pakschies, Umerziehung; Heinemann, “Bildung”; Hüttenberger, “Geschichtsbild”; Tent, Freie Universität. 63. Weyer, Westdeutsche Soziologie, 308–10. 64. Cf. Arndt, Besiegten; Günther, Analyse; idem, “Politikwissenschaft”; Kastendiek, Entwicklung; Mohr, Politikwissenschaft. On the history of sociology, cf. Rehberg, “Soziologie”; Weyer, Westdeutsche Soziologie. 65. Cf. Dorn, “Debatte.” 66. For the following discussion, cf. Rupieper, Wurzeln; Bungenstab, Umerziehung; Lange-Quassowski, “Westintegrationspolitik”; Lange-Quassowski, Neuordnung; Benz, “Lernziel”; Tent, Mission; W. Becker, “Stationen”; Heinemann, “Bildung.”

notes to pages 188–194

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67. Lange-Quassowski, “Umorientierungsbemühungen.” 68. Cf. Dorn, “Debatte.” 69. Neumann, Behemoth; Schorske, “Social and Cultural Aspects.” Neumann and Schorske were members of the German Research Division of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), and they directly participated in postwar planning for Germany. Cf. Rupieper, Wurzeln. On the image of Germany in the works of émigré historians, see H. Wolf, Deutsch-jüdische Emigrationshistoriker; Lehmann and Sheehan, An Interrupted Past. On Sonderweg thinking, see Faulenbach, Ideologie. 70. Cf. H. Wolf, Deutsch-jüdische Emigrationshistoriker, 346. 71. Holborn, “Allied Administration.” 72. Holborn, History of Modern Germany, x. 73. Quoted in Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 136. 74. Cf. De Bary, “ ‘Credo Quia Absurdum’ ”; Mitchell, Thought Control; Tsurumi Kazuko, “Six Types of Change”; Steinhoff, Tenkoµ. 75. Cf. Marshall, Academic Freedom. 76. Holborn, “Der deutsche Idealismus,” 365. On Holborn, cf. the special issue “In Memory of Hajo Holborn” of the journal Central European History. On German historians in the Office of Strategic Services, cf. Katz, “German Historians.” 77. Cf. H. Wolf, Deutsch-jüdische Emigrationshistoriker. 78. Wehler, “Hans Rosenberg,” 267; see also G. A. Ritter, “Sozialgeschichte,” 36–38. For the influence of Rosenberg, cf. Schulze, “Refugee Historians,” 223–24; Iggers, “Deutsche Historiker,” 109. 79. Cf. H. Wolf, Deutsch-jüdische Emigrationshistoriker. A good example is Franz Neumann’s pathbreaking study Behemoth, first published in 1942, which was not translated until 1977. Cf. Gert Schäfer, “Neumanns Behemoth.” 80. Rodnik, Postwar Germans. 81. Quoted in Rupieper, “Wurzeln,” 25. 82. Cf. Enders, Die Bodenreform. 83. On American prejudices in the war against Japan, cf. Dower, War without Mercy. 84. The quote is from a later delegation, the United States Scientific Advisory Group, which visited Japan in August 1947 (in Carol Gluck’s preface to Tsuchimochi, Education Reform, xii). On the debates concerning script reform in Japan, cf. Gottlieb, Kanji Politics; Unger, Literacy and Script Reform. 85. Cf., for example, Lange-Quassowski, “Westintegrationspolitik,” 62–63. 86. Quoted in Nishi Toshio, Unconditional Democracy, 229. Cf. also Tsuchimochi, Senryoµka doitsu no kyoµiku kaikaku. 87. Cf. Nishi Toshio, Unconditional Democracy, 186–208, 229; Kawai Kazuo, Interlude, 183–99; Tsuchimochi, Education Reform, chap. 7. For the history of Japanese universities, cf. Teichler, Geschichte und Struktur.

292

· notes to pages 194–201

88. Meinecke, Briefwechsel, 505. 89. Erdmann, “Der Europaplan Briands,” 31. 90. Faulenbach, Ideologie, 26–31. Cf. also Fisch, “Zivilisation-Kultur”; Pflaum, “Kultur-Zivilisations-Antithese.” The dichotomy between culture and civilization can be found in Japan as well, where “civilization” since the 1920s was used pejoratively and contrasted with the true essence of Japanese “culture.” Cf. Najita and Harootunian, “Japanese Revolt,” esp. 735ff. 91. Herzfeld, “Deutschland und Europa,” 209, 207, 214. 92. Cf., for example, Noack, Gestalt; idem, Nauheimer Protokolle; idem, “Neutralisierung.” Cf. also Dohse, Weg, 41–61. 93. Cf. the yearbook of the Ranke Society in 1954, with the title Is There a German Conception of History? (Frankfurt, 1955). 94. Hubatsch, “Grundzüge der Entwicklung,” 682. 95. Faulenbach, “Historistische Tradition,” 200. Cf. also Loth, Anfänge. 96. Ritterbusch, “Zum Geleit,” xvi. Ritterbusch was professor of law at the Universities of Königsberg and Kiel and, beginning in 1937, was president of the University of Kiel and director of the collective war efforts of the humanities departments (Kriegseinsatz der Geisteswissenschaften). In a similar vein, cf. Rörig, “Kaisertum”; Aubin, Das erste Deutsche Reich. 97. Aubin, “Aufbau,” 480. 98. Cf., for example, Kluke, “Nationalsozialistische Europaideologie.” 99. Cf. Bonnet, “Elemente”; Hübinger, “Elemente”; Erdmann, “Themen der europäischen Geschichte.” Cf. also Gollwitzer, Europabild; Gollwitzer, “Wortgeschichte.” 100. Quoted in Kienast, “Die historischen Forschungsinstitute”; cf. also Gilg, “Institut”; Schulze, Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945, 266–80; Schulze, “Probleme.” 101. Rassow, “Deutschland in Europa,” 50. 102. For example, P. Schramm, “Spanien.” 103. Ewig, “Landschaft und Stamm,” 168. The real political shift of the boundaries of the German state to the west, by contrast, was lamented only as a “deep-reaching amputation”; cf. Erdmann, “Das Dritte Reich,” 406–7. 104. Erdmann, “Themen der europäischen Geschichte,” 7. 105. Göhring, “Einleitung,” xix. 106. Hauser, “Europa—Erbe und Aufgabe,” 371. 107. Cf. Wagner, “Historische Beiträge Amerikas”; Tenbruck, “Geist und Geschichte in Amerika.” For a survey, see the annual bibliography that Bernhard Fabian published in the Jahrbuch für Amerikastudien. 108. OMtsuka, “Keizai saikenki,” 321. 109. The founding of the America Institute in Munich in 1949 owed much to the initiative of the émigré Heinz Peters (Portland), who explicitly linked this project to

notes to pages 201–204

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geopolitical considerations: “The American position on the Continent depends very largely on the picture which is in the minds of Europeans. I am afraid that at present many people in Europe have a badly distorted picture of America.” Quoted in Helbich, “United States History,” 46. 110. There were in total 244 seminars and lectures on U.S. history until 1960, amounting to less than 2 percent of all university courses. Cf. Helbich, “United States History,” 63. A notable exception was the Free University of Berlin, with some 9 percent of its seminars in history dedicated to the history of the United States. 111. Cf. the themes of graduation theses (sotsugyoµ ronbun) in the discipline of Western history (seiyoµshi), listed annually in the journals Shigaku zasshi, Shirin, and Shikan. 112. Ide Yoshimitsu et al., Amerika kenkyuµ, lists more than fourteen hundred books and articles on American history for the period 1945–69. Cf. also Homma, “Teaching”; Oshimo, “Research Trends”; Jansen, “American Studies.” 113. Rassow, “Deutschland in Europa,” 53. 114. For similar views, cf. Hübinger, “Elemente,” 13; Göhring, “Einleitung,” xvi. 115. Göhring, “Einleitung,” xxiii. 116. Kern, “Die Lehren der Kulturgeschichte,” 11, 12. Cf. also the publications of the Mainz Institute for European History; for example, Lortz, Europa und das Christentum. 117. Quoted in Faber, Abendland, 30. 118. Rothfels, “Ostdeutschland,” 204. 119. Aubin, “Abendland, Reich,” 61. 120. Aubin, “Die Deutschen in der Geschichte,” 544. 121. Borkenau, Drei Abhandlungen, 64. Cf. also Fellner, “Nationales und europäisch-atlantisches Geschichtsbild.” 122. Borkenau, Drei Abhandlungen, 75. 123. Umesao, “Bunmei no seitai shikan josetsu,” 34, 35, 43. 124. Ibid., 37, 41. 125. For Marxist reactions to Umesao’s theses, cf. Naruse, Sekaishi no ishiki to riron, 184–93; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu, 75ff. 126. It seems that this mental map of a West that included Japan has by now become common currency in Western social sciences as well. Cf. Raymond Williams, who speaks of “Japan as a Western or Western-type society” (Williams, Keywords, 333), and Noam Chomsky: “Of course Europe now includes Japan, which we may regard as honorary European” (Chomsky, “New World Order,” 13). 127. Hayashi Fusao, Daitoµa sensoµ koµteiron, 140. 128. Cf. Seifert, Nationalismus; Zahl, Wandel. 129. Shibahara, “Ajia shakai.” Cf. Tomyama, Sengo no rekishigaku, 266ff.; Nagahara, Rekishigaku josetsu, 124–27.

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· notes to pages 205–210

130. Cf. Kang Sang-Jung, Orientarizumu. 131. Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Datsua ron.” Cf. also Duus, “Whig History.” 132. On the institutional development of the faculty of history at the University of Tokyo, cf. Toµkyoµ daigaku hyakunenshi. 133. Toµyoµ was a Chinese term that originally referred to Java and its surroundings. At the end of the nineteenth century, the term was used in Japan as the opposite of seiyoµ (“West”) and thus implied the non-West or the Orient, with all the ideological connotations the term suggested. The early history of toµyoµshi, which dealt exclusively with China and Korea, was thus a history of “the Orient.” In postwar Japan, in particular, the geographical reach of toµyoµshi was gradually expanded to encompass Asia as a whole. Cf. S. Tanaka, Japan’s Orient, 4; Toµkyoµ daigaku Hyakunenshi, 624–25. 134. S. Tanaka, Japan’s Orient, 18. Cf. also Saitom, Shoµwa shigakushi noµto, chap. 6; Hatada, “Nihon ni okeru tomyom shigaku no dentom”; Goi, Kindai Nihon to toµyoµshigaku. 135. Yoon, “Sengo rekishigaku no Ajiakan”; Yoon, “Sengo rekishigaku ni okeru tasha ninshiki”; Comité Japonais, Le Japon, 330–31; Kang Sang-Jung, “Ajiakan no somkoku”; cf. also Satoi Hikohirom, “Shomwashi ronsom.” 136. Cf., for example, Iriye, The Chinese and the Japanese. 137. Cf. Maimann, “ ‘Asiatische Produktionsweise ’ ”; Turner, Marx; Turner, Weber; Rowe, “Approaches”; Shiozawa, Ajiateki seisan yoµshiki ron; Distelrath, Produktionsweise, 93–105. For the prewar debate, cf. Goi, Kindai Nihon, chap. 3; Fogel, “Debates”; Hoston, Marxism, 127–78. 138. Watsuji, “Jinrin no sekaishiteki hansei”; cf. Naruse, Sekaishi no ishiki to riron, 1–3, 42ff. 139. Cf. Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought. 140. Cf. the articles in Ubukata et al., Rekishizoµ saikoµsei no kadai. 141. Tomyama, Meiji Ishin, 49. 142. Ibid., 50. 143. Ibid., 60, 61. 144. Tomyama’s work on the Meiji Ishin appeared in 1951, two years after the victory of the Chinese Communists. The derogatory view of the energies of the Chinese people may come as a surprise, considering the impression that the Chinese revolution had made on Japanese Marxists. Cf. also Goi, Kindai Nihon, 3–9; Masabuchi, “Rekishi ishiki”; Masabuchi, “Nihon no kindai shigakushi.” 145. Maruyama Masao, Nihon seiji shisoµshi kenkyuµ, 184. The article first appeared in 1940 in the journal Kokka gakkai zasshi. Maruyama’s studies on the Tokugawa period were reprinted several times after the war. The English translation is Maruyama Masao, Studies in the Intellectual History of Tokugawa Japan, Princeton/Tokyo 1974, 178. 146. Hegel, Die Vernunft in der Geschichte, 234–35, quoted (in English) in Maruyama Masao, Studies, 4.

notes to pages 210–215

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147. Maruyama Masao, Nihon seiji shisoµshi kenkyuµ, 5. 148. Ibid., 184–85. 149. For this problematic, see Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought; Chatterjee, Nation and Its Fragments. 150. Dirlik, “Chinese History,” 97. Cf. also Said, Orientalism, 204. 151. Even Maruyama’s studies on the Tokugawa period, quoted earlier, can be interpreted as attacks on wartime authoritarian rule. Cf. Seifert and Schamoni, “Vorwort,” 12; Bellah, “Review.” Cf. also Kersten, Democracy, 164–98. 152. J. Fabian, Time and the Other, 143. 153. Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” 275. 154. This was true for the colonial universities in Seoul, Taiwan, and Shanghai, as well as for the centers for research on East Asia at the universities of Tokyo (Tomyom bunka kenkyumjo) and Kyoto (Tomhom bunka gakuin). Cf. Hatada, “Nihon ni okeru tomyom shigaku no dentom.” 155. Ibid., 210. 156. On the Manchurian Railway, cf. Myers, “Japanese Imperialism”; on the research department, cf. Yamada Gomichi, Mantetsu choµsabu; Hara Kakuten, Gendai ajia; J. Young, Research Activity; L. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, esp. chap. 6. 157. Among them were Ogami Suehiro, Ishihama Tomoyuki, Hosokawa Karoku, Itom Ritsu, Gushima Kenzaburom, and Ozaki Hotsumi. 158. Hirano, “Shina kenkyum ni taisuru futatsu no michi,” 14–15, 18. 159. Hirano, Dai ajia shugi. 160. Cf. S. Tanaka, Japan’s Orient, 255–62. The rapprochement between Marxists like Hirano Yoshitarom and nationalistic ideologies of wartime Japan is usually rendered as a form of ideological conversion (tenkoµ). According to this logic, Hirano accepted nationalist thoughts in the 1930s and after the war reconverted to Marxism. Different from such an intentionalist paradigm, my argument focuses on the discursive space that both Marxism and nationalism shared. Thus it becomes clear that both Marxism and nationalism drew on a set of binary oppositions (internal-external, progressivebackward, etc.) and subscribed to a shared metahistory. 161. Hatada, “Nihon ni okeru tomyom shigaku no dentom.” 162. Cf. the analysis in Yanaihara, “A Short History of Modern Japan,” 26; cf. also the special issues of Social Science Japan, no. 9 (1997), and Shakai kagaku kenkyuµ 48, no. 4 (1997); Wada, “Sengo Nihon.” 163. Quoted in Wada, “Sengo Nihon,” 220, 221. 164. Yanaihara, “Watashi,” 61 (“Shinri wa kanarazu katsu”). On Yanaihara, cf. Peattie, “Japanese Attitudes,” esp. 114–18; Townsend, Yanaihara Tadao. 165. Yanaihara, “Kanri ka no Nihon,” 408. 166. Cf. esp. Burleigh, Germany; Aly and Heim, Vordenker; Oberkrome, Volksgeschichte; Oberkrome, “Reformansätze”; Kleßmann, “Osteuropaforschung”; Boock-

296

· notes to pages 216–222

mann, “Geschichtswissenschaft”; Schönwälder, Historiker und Politik; Camphausen, Rußlandforschung; Schöttler, Geschichtsschreibung; Rössler, “Wissenschaft und Lebensraum”; Oberländer, “Historische Osteuropaforschung.” 167. Oberkrome, Volksgeschichte, 226. 168. Rörig, “Wandlungen,” 445; Keyser, “Erforschung,” 92. 169. Quoted in Aly, “Rückwärtsgewandte Propheten,” 180–81. 170. Cf., for example, Schöttler, “ ‘Westforschung.’ ” There are cases in which historians were directly involved in the planning and implementation of extermination. Cf. Roth, “Heydrichs Professor.” In the wake of the meeting of the Historians’ Association in Frankfurt in 1998, a number of publications have appeared. Cf. Schulze, “Vergangenheit”; Haar, Historiker; Fahlbusch, Wissenschaft. 171. Aly and Heim, Vordenker; W. Schneider, “Vernichtungspolitik”; Aly, “Endlösung.” 172. Cf. Goguel, “Ostpolitik und Ostforschung”; Szeczinowski, “Organisation”; Keyser, “Johann Gottfried Herder-Forschungsrat”; Voigt, “Methoden”; Burleigh, Germany, 300–21; Gentzen and Wolfgramm, “Ostforscher.” 173. Cf. Ericksen, “Kontinuitäten”; Hagen, “Göttingen”; Kaegbein and Lenz, Vier Jahrzehnte. 174. On Aubin, cf. Hermann Aubin, 1885–1969; Raeff, “Observations”; Mühle, Für Volk und deutschen Osten. 175. Aubin, “Zum Geleit,” 1. Not until 1995 was the journal renamed Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropa-Forschung. 176. Keyser, “Johann Gottfried Herder-Forschungsrat,” 102. 177. P. Schramm, “Deutschland und der Osten,” 321. 178. Quoted in Hackmann, “ ‘Anfang,’ ” 240. 179. Quoted in ibid., 250. 180. Knetsch, “Entstehung,” 9, 11, 9. Cf. also Weerth, “Plädoyers für Preußen.” 181. Quotations from, in order, Stadtmüller, “Europäische Ostpolitik,” 390; Rothfels, “Ostdeutschland,” 204; Petry, “Gesamtdeutsche Verantwortung,” 717; Aubin, “Die Deutschen in der Geschichte,” 527. 182. Aubin, “Abendland, Reich,” 46. 183. Ganzer, Reich, 106. 184. Aubin, “Abendland, Reich,” 58–59. 185. Aubin, “An einem neuen Anfang,” 10. Cf. also Aubin, “Die Deutschen in der Geschichte,” 543. Jósef Pilsudski (1867–1935) was chief of state of the Republic of Poland from 1918 to 1922. 186. Aubin, “Die Deutschen in der Geschichte,” 516, 544. 187. Ibid., 524. 188. Ibid., 526. 189. Aubin, “Abendland, Reich,” 39, 62.

notes to pages 222–227

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190. P. Schramm, “Deutschland und der Osten,” 322, 321, 322, 326. 191. Herzfeld, “Menschenrecht,” 219, 220. 192. Ibid., 222. 193. Aubin, “Zur Einführung,” 15. 194. Aubin, “Die Deutschen in der Geschichte,” 518, 530, 531. 195. Aubin, “Abendland, Reich,” 32. 196. Peuckert, “Der deutsche Osten,” 23. 197. Conze, “Strukturkrise,” 409. 198. Conze, “Agrargesellschaft,” 87–8. 199. Conze, “Einführung.” Cf. Chun, Bild der Moderne. 200. Conze, “Strukturkrise,” 404, 406–8. 201. Conze, “Agrargesellschaft,” 88. 202. Marx, Das Kapital, 12. 203. Conze, Die deutsche Nation, 102. 204. Conze, “Wirkungen,” 207. He revised the manuscript in 1949 and published it a second time. 205. Conze, “Strukturkrise,” 405. 206. Conze, “Wirkungen,” 218. 207. Conze, “Agrargesellschaft,” 89. 208. Conze, “Überbevölkerung,” 47–48. Cf. also Aly, “Rückwärtsgewandte Propheten,” 161-62. 209. Cf., for example, Reinhart Koselleck’s evaluation of Conze ’s wartime work, in which he finds “hardly an emphatic word on the German nation, no mention of war and victory, and even less mention of race or even Nordic race” (Koselleck, “Conze,” 535). However, there were examples of anti-Semitic undertones in Conze ’s writings before 1945. In 1938, for example, he wrote in “Wilna und der Nordosten Polens”: “Wilna today is a center of the world Jewry. . . . Just about a third of the population is Jewish. And even though the dominant position in trade and crafts has been diminishing, the power of this alien element is still unbearable enough” (657). 6. HISTORY AND MEMORY 1. Cf. Faulenbach, “Historistische Tradition,” 200–201. 2. Cf. Chakrabarty, “Provincializing Europe,” 350; Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation, 3–50; Berger, Donovan, and Passmore, Writing National Histories. 3. For overviews, cf. Iggers, Geschichtswissenschaft im 20. Jahrhundert; Raphael, Geschichtswissenschaft; Amino, Rekishi to shite no sengo shigaku; Kano, “Torishima”; Krämer, Schölz, and Conrad, Geschichtswissenschaft in Japan. 4. Cf. Kocka, “Zur jüngeren marxistischen Sozialgeschichte.”

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· notes to pages 228–238

5. On German social history, cf. Welskopp, “Grenzüberschreitungen”; Welskopp, “Die Sozialgeschichte der Väter”; Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte. On the dynamics of the reception of Weber’s work in Japan, see W. Mommsen and Schwentker, Max Weber. 6. Kocka, Sozialgeschichte, 117–19. 7. Cf. Berger, Search, 69–70. 8. Most emphatically in Blanke, Historiographiegeschichte. 9. Cf. the classic overview of this first phase of women’s history, Frevert, FrauenGeschichte. 10. Cf. Hausen and Wunder, Frauengeschichte. Cf. also Medick and Trepp, Geschlechtergeschichte. 11. Cf. Itsue, Josei no rekishi. Cf. Germer, Historische Frauenforschung. 12. Cf. Inoue, Nihon joseishi. 13. Cf. Hiroko, “Evolution of Japanese Women’s History”; Miho, “Writing Women’s History.” 14. On the Japanese history of everyday life, cf. Gluck, “People”; Haga Noboru, Minshuµshi; Yasumaru, “Hoµhoµ.” 15. On the German history of everyday life, cf. Lüdtke, Alltagsgeschichte; Süssmuth, Historische Anthropologie. 16. Cf. Daniel, Kompendium Kulturgeschichte; Hardtwig and Wehler, Kulturgeschichte Heute; Rekishigaku kenkyumkai, Rekishigaku ni okeru hoµhoµteki tenkai. 17. Irokawa, Culture of the Meiji Period, 3–5. 18. Cf. also Takashi, “Minshuµshi as Critique.” On the conflict between the popular nation and the nation-state, cf. Doak, “What Is a Nation?” 19. Regarding this problem, and using the example of India, cf. Prakash, “Subaltern Studies.” 20. Cf. Amino, Nihonron no shiza; idem, Nihon no rekishi o yominaosu. 21. Cf. Oguma, Tan’itsu minzoku; idem, “Nihonjin” no kyoµkai. 22. Cf. Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte; Winkler, Der lange Weg. Cf. also P. Nolte, “Darstellungsweisen.” 23. Cf. Berger, Search. 24. On this debate, see Haupt and Kocka, Geschichte und Vergleich. 25. On this discussion, see Paulmann, “Internationaler Vergleich”; Middell, “Kulturtransfer”; Ther, “Beyond the Nation.” 26. On “Transnationalität,” see the debate in Geschichte und Gesellschaft (vols. 27–30, 2001–2004), including essays by Jürgen Osterhammel, Albert Wirz, Kiran Klaus Patel, Sebastian Conrad, and Marcel van der Linden; see also Budde, Conrad, and Janz, Transnationale Geschichte. On “entangled histories,” cf. Conrad and Randeria, “Geteilte Geschichten.” On “histoire croisée,” cf. Werner and Zimmermann, “Vergleich, Transfer,

notes to pages 238–243

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Verflechtung”; Werner and Zimmermann, De la Comparaison à l’Histoire Croisée. For “global history,” see Conrad, Eckert, and Freitag, Globalgeschichte. 27. Naoki, de Bary, and Iyotani, Nashonariti no datsukoµchiku; Komori and Takahashi, Nashonaru hisutorıµ o koete; Sakai, Nashonaru historı µ o manabisuteru. 28. Cf. Tomiyama, Kindai Nihon shakai to “Okinawajin”; Kang, Orientarizumu no kanata e; idem, Posuto koroniarizumu; Komagome, Shokuminchi teikoku Nihon no bunka toµgoµ; Komori, Posuto koroniaru. 29. On Japanese revisionism, see Saaler, Politics; “Kyomkasho ni shinjitsu to jiyum o” renrakukai, Tettei hihan. 30. The “ability to mourn,” of course, refers to Mitscherlich and Mitscherlich, Die Unfähigkeit zu trauern. 31. Even Ian Buruma’s masterful Wages of Guilt is not free of such tendencies. 32. Goldhagen, Hitler’s Willing Executioners. 33. Pierre Nora’s project Les Lieux de mémoire comes readily to mind. 34. See Jacobmeyer, Zum pädagogischen Ertrag; Fujisawa Homei, “Nihon no rekishi kyomkasho mondai.” 35. While the occupation of Japan was essentially a U.S. affair, West Germany was occupied by French, English, and U.S. troops. In educational and academic spheres, however, U.S. policies soon emerged as the most important factor. See Weyer, Westdeutsche Soziologie, 308–10. 36. Etom, Tozasareta gengo kuµkan; idem, Wasureta koto. 37. Cf. Mayo, “The War of Words Continues”; Dower, Embracing Defeat, 405–40. 38. Cf. Koschmann, Revolution and Subjectivity; idem, “Intellectuals”; Schlant and Rimer, Legacies; F. Seraphim, “Debate.” 39. This began to change only in the 1960s, when in the Federal Republic, too, a new interpretation of German history as a (negative) “separate path” began to assert itself. 40. For East German historiography, see Sabrow, Diktat. 41. Karatani, “Discursive Space.” The philosopher Takeuchi Yoshimi, in his Kindai no choµkoku, has made a similar point. See also Calichman, Takeuchi Yoshimi. 42. Orr, Victim as Hero. 43. Fuhrt, Erzwungene Reue; F. Seraphim, War Memory, 202–6. 44. Winkler, Der lange Weg (English trans., The Long Road West). 45. Welskopp, “Westbindung.” For a critique, see also Blackbourn and Eley, Peculiarities. 46. In West Germany, this metanarrative became hegemonic to the degree that what was perceived as a Japanese Sonderweg was interpreted as an outright copy of the German model. See B. Martin, “Verhängnisvolle Wahlverwandtschaft.”

300

· notes to pages 244–249

47. The attempt to adapt interpretations of the past to a European context began much earlier. For an illustrative example, see Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Das Dritte Reich und Europa. 48. Cf. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi. 49. See particularly Frei, Vergangenheitspolitik. 50. Cf. Orr, Victim as Hero. 51. Cf. Yoneyama, Hiroshima Traces. 52. Yoshida Yutaka, Nihonjin. 53. Cf. F. Seraphim, War Memory, 226–60; Tanaka Nobumasa, Yasukuni. 54. See the newly translated book by Honda, Nanjing Massacre. Cf. also Fogel, The Nanjing Massacre. 55. See OMishi Kiichirom, “Die Vergangenheit in der Gegenwart,” 50; Fuhrt, “Von der Bundesrepublik lernen?”; Awaya, Sensoµ sekinin; Fujisawa Homei, Doitsujin no rekishi ishiki; Satom Takeo, “Doitsu no sengo hoshom.” Nishio Kanji, in Kotonaru higeki, explicitly warns against viewing Germany as a model. 56. For a systematic assessment of these different factors, see Kittel, Nach Nürnberg und Tokio. 57. Quoted in Minear, “Atomic Holocaust, Nazi Holocaust,” 354. 58. See Buchholz, Schreiben und Erinnern. 59. Gluck, “Ende”; idem, “Past in the Present.” 60. Iida, “Technique of Living.” 61. Buruma, Wages of Guilt, 249–51. 62. Herbert and Groehler, Zweierlei Bewältigung, 80. 63. See the overview in Herbert, Nationalsozialistische Vernichtungspolitik. On the shift of emphasis in research on the Nazi era, see also Berg, Holocaust. 64. Levy and Sznaider, Holocaust and Memory; Novick, Holocaust in American Life. 65. On this controversy, see Sabrow, Jessen, and Kracht, Zeitgeschichte als Streitgeschichte. I borrow the term “victimhood nationalism” from Lim Jie-Hyun. 66. See especially Fujioka, ed., Kyoµkasho ga oshienai rekishi; Nishio Kanji, Kokumin no rekishi. See also the vehement reactions to these approaches in Fujiwara Akira, Kingendaishi no shinjitsu wa nanika; Nara rekishi kenkyumkai, Sengo rekishigaku to “jiyuµ shugi shikan”; Nakamura, Kingendaishi o doµ miru ka; “Kyomkasho ni shinjitsu to jiyum o” renrakukai, Tettei hihan. 67. Kobayashi, Sensoµron. Pop versions of the past are scarcely a new phenomenon. Cf. Igarashi, Bodies of Memory. 68. Cf. McCormack, “Japanese Movement to ‘Correct’ History”; Kersten, “Neonationalism.” 69. Gerow, “Consuming Asia”; Iida, “Technique of Living.”

notes to pages 249–256

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70. Cf. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi. 71. Yayori, “Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal.” 72. L. Hein and Hammond, “Homing in on Asia.” 73. See the articles in positions, vol. 5, no. 3 (1997). 74. To be sure, a concern for things Asian has never been entirely absent from Japanese debates. See, for example, Ubukata, Tomyama, and Tanaka, Rekishizoµ saikoµsei no kadai; see also Seifert, Nationalismus. Before the 1980s, however, these perspectives remained marginal. 75. Gerow, “Consuming Asia.” 76. See F. Seraphim, “Der Zweite Weltkrieg.” 77. See Daqing, “Convergence or Divergence?”; idem, “Contested History.” 78. See the excellent account in Gluck, “Operations of Memory.” 79. Yoneyama, “Transformative Knowledge.” 80. See Field, “War and Apology.” 81. On this problematic, see Assmann, Erinnerungsräume. 82. See Pempel, Remapping East Asia; Katzenstein and Takashi Shiraishi, Beyond Japan. See also Ching, “Globalizing the Regional.” 83. See, for example, Furuya, Kindai Nihon to Ajia ninshiki; Yamamuro Shin’ichi, Shisoµ kadai to shite no Ajia; Yonetani, Ajia/Nihon. 84. Arano, Kinsei Nihon to higashi Ajia; Arano et al., Ajia no naka no Nihonshi. In English, see Acta Asiatica 67 (August 1994), a special issue titled “Foreign Relations of Tokugawa Japan: Sakoku Reconsidered.” 85. Kang, Orientarizumu no kanata e; Komagome, Shokuminchi teikoku Nihon no bunka toµgoµ; I Yonsuke, “Kokugo” to iu shisoµ; Yasuda, Shokuminchi no naka no “kokugogaku.” See also Kang Sang-jung, Posuto koroniarizumu; Motoyama, Posuto koroniarizumu. 86. Koshizawa Akira, Manshuµkoku no shuto keikaku; L. Young, Japan’s Total Empire. See also Takaoka, “ ‘Jumgonen sensom.’ ” 87. Oguma, “Nihonjin” no kyoµkai. 88. Yamamuro Shin’ichi, Shisoµ kadai to shite no Ajia; Eizawa, “Daitoµ-A kyoµeiken” no shisoµ; Saaler and Koschmann, Pan-Asianism. 89. Iwanami Komza, Ajia-taiheiyoµ sensoµ.

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· notes to pages 256–260

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AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S

This is the revised version of a study that was first published in German in 1999. It has benefited greatly from the transnational context in which it was conceived, researched, and written. In Germany, I am particularly grateful to Jürgen Kocka, Irmela Hijiya-Kirschnereit, and Etienne François, who have supported the project for many years. Christoph Conrad, Jörg Döring, Gabriele Lingelbach, Sven Reichardt, Jakob Vogel, and Thomas Welskopp have commented on parts of the manuscript. In the United States, I have received helpful feedback from Michael Geyer, J. Victor Koschmann, Naoki Sakai, and in particular, Christopher L. Hill and Carol Gluck. In Japan, I have profited greatly from Iwasaki Minoru, not least for connecting me to the WINC study group. In addition, discussions with Amino Yoshihiko, Bannom Junji, Hayashima Akira, Kimura Seiji, Okamoto Komichi, Matsumoto Akira, and Yamanouchi Yasushi have been very helpful. But it was particularly Narita Ryumichi who has helped shape, and indeed transform, the trajectories of my argument.

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INDEX

Abendroth, Wolfgang, 102, 279n94 Aengeneyndt, Gerhard, 39, 269n14 Africa, 109, 208 Alltagsgeschichte. See history of everyday life Aly, Götz, 138 Amano Motonosuke, 220 Amino Yoshihiko, 64, 242 Andreas, Willy, 80–81 Annales school, 30, 150–54, 156 anpo. See Japanese-American Security Treaty of 1960 Anschluss, 44, 48 Ansprenger, Fritz, 197 anthropology, 19, 149, 213; cultural, 240; historical, 240 anti-semitism, 94, 232, 245, 298n209. See also Auschwitz; Holocaust Arano Yasunori, 259 Arbeitskreis Christlicher Historiker. See Study Group of Christian Historians Arendt, Hannah, 3 Asia, 4, 63, 69–71, 76, 82, 108–10, 172, 176–77, 206, 208–9, 239, 248, 251,

259–61, 281n147, 288n161, 302n74; backwardness of, 177–78, 210–18; escape from (datsua ron), 177, 210, 248–49; hordes of, 206, 225; Japan as model for, 63, 69, 70, 71, 119, 176–77, 189; return of, 253, 257–59, 261; suppressed nations of, 66, 69, 108, 115, 119. See also East Asia; pan-Asianism; Southeast Asia; toµyoµshi Asiatic despotism, 178, 214, 219 Asiatic mode of production, 212–13, 219 assimilation policy, 67, 221 Aubin, Hermann, 19, 202, 222, 224–30 Auschwitz, 252, 255; trial, 106, 251. See also extermination policy; Holocaust Austria, 36–37, 44, 47, 48 bacteriological warfare, 78, 111, 248, 257 Banno Junji, 275n154, 279n80 Barthel, Konrad, 135–36 Bauer, Bruno, 126 Bellah, Robert, 291n48 Benedict, Ruth, 187–88, 198, 261 Berger, Stefan, 243

379

Bergsträsser, Ludwig, 134, 138 Berlin Academy for Politics (Hochschule für Politik), 131, 143 Berve, Helmut, 81 Besson, Waldemar, 103, 145–46, 156 Beutin, Ludwig, 152 Bismarck, Otto von, 11, 31–47, 61, 75, 88, 91, 105, 128, 132, 235–36 Bismarck controversy/debate, 11, 31–49, 61, 75, 105, 128, 235–36 Blackbourn, David, 291n51 Black Front (Schwarze Front), 102 Blanke, Horst Walter, 16 Blomberg, Werner von, 140 Borkenau, Franz, 207 Boshin sensoµ, 60 Bosworth, Richard, 5, 275n3 Botzenhart, Erich, 81 Bracher, Karl Dietrich, 21, 131, 142–47, 154, 168, 197, 285nn77,80, 288n148 Brandi, Karl, 224 Braubach, Max, 132 Braudel, Fernand, 152 Brecht, Arnold, 143 Brentano, Lujo, 25, 179 Broszat, Martin, 106, 125, 127, 129–30, 148 Brüning, Heinrich, 144–45 Brunner, Otto, 19, 150, 152, 222 Bücher, Karl, 25 Buchheim, Hans, 20, 106, 127, 133, 138, 142 Buchheim, Karl, 20, 37–39, 129, 138 Buckle, Henry Thomas, 23 Buruma, Ian, 5, 300n31 Büsch, Otto, 21, 197, 283n27 Bussmann, Walter, 131 Butler, Judith, 239 Byrnes, James F., 199 Caesar, Julius Gaius, 125 Canada, 186, 204 censorship, 80, 110–11, 118, 184, 187, 200, 291n45

380

· index

Central Europe (Mitteleuropa): and concept of Germany’s Mittellage, 201–2; Germany’s mission in, 40–48, 105, 230–32 China, 22, 25, 63, 94–96, 172, 200, 205, 208, 210, 242, 248; Communist Revolution in, 62, 236, 295n144; as Japan’s Orient, 210–21, 233, 259; Japan’s war against (1895), 69, 211–12; Japan’s war in, 26, 94, 107–10, 113, 115, 163, 280n117, 288n161. See also culture; Manchuria; toµyoµshi Chinese characters (kanji), 95 Chomsky, Noam, 294n126 Christian Democratic Union (CDU), 38 Christian Social Union (CSU), 38, 128 Civil Information and Education (CI&E) Section, 50–51, 107, 188 class, 2, 56–66, 72, 95, 102, 109, 119, 158, 160–63, 198, 213–14, 233, 236–38, 241, 273n11 Clay, Lucius D., 199 Cold War, 2–3, 8–10, 46–48, 65–66, 112, 127, 139, 206–7, 248–49, 253; end of, 254, 257; rhetoric of, 45, 139 collective guilt (Kollektivschuld), 5, 134, 147, 149, 157 colonialism: Japanese, 110, 218–23, 234, 249, 259–60; and modernization, 159–60; threat of Western, 62–64, 87, 116, 189–90, 250, 259 “comfort women” (juµgun ianfu), 253, 257–58. See also forced prostitution communism, 50, 139, 206; struggle against, 28, 47–48, 63, 87, 105, 139, 190, 207 Concordat chairs, 38 Constantinople, 207 contemporary history: in ancient historiography, 125; in England, 125; in France, 125; in Germany (Zeitgeschichte), 3, 11–12, 20, 41, 96, 98, 123–56, 168–70, 235; in Japan (gendai-

shi), 3, 5, 12, 64, 96, 98, 110, 156–70. See also Institute for Contemporary History; structural history controversy over Japanese capitalism (Nihon shihonshugi ronsoµ), 26–28, 54–60, 99, 178, 186, 196, 219, 273n111. See also modernity; modernization “conversion” (tenkoµ), 196, 279n83, 296n160 Conze, Werner, 19, 21, 42, 132, 142–45, 147, 149, 150–54, 164, 168–69, 224, 228–33, 285nn77,80, 286n116, 298n209 cultural history, 17, 25–26, 117, 151, 238, 241, 259, 268n42 culture, 12, 155, 166, 206, 217, 222; adoption of Western, 176, 181, 210; German, 9, 11, 88, 91–94, 96, 122, 144, 199–202, 245; German cultural achievements in Eastern Europe, 222, 225; import of Chinese, 22, 94–96, 205, 212; Japanese, 9, 11, 25–26, 65–66, 70–71, 73, 88, 91–92, 94–96, 164, 179, 182, 187, 200, 205, 242, 244, 245, 264n28, 275n158, 293n90; of memory, 251–53, 255; popular, 65, 94, 251, 256–57 Cunningham, William, 25 daitoµa sensoµ. See Greater East Asian War Dannenbauer, Heinrich, 81 Degkwitz, Rudolf, 37 Dehio, Ludwig, 45–46, 48–49 denazification, 4, 21, 35, 80–83, 134, 150, 152, 193, 250 Derrida, Jacques, 241 deviant path (Sonderweg), 15, 33, 80, 148, 172, 192, 194, 201, 237, 242–43, 247–49, 291n51, 300n46 Dietrich, Richard, 131 Dirlik, Arif, 217 discourse history, 241 Distelrath, Günther, 268n48 Droysen, Johann Gustav, 24, 126, 177

“East,” 3, 12, 42, 45–46, 77, 88, 116, 173– 74, 180, 184, 201–2, 205–7, 210–34, 236. See also Asia; East Asia; Eastern Europe; orientalism; toµyoµshi; “West” East Asia, 4, 66, 75, 189–90, 210, 213–14, 216, 220, 222, 259, 288n161, 296n154. See also Greater East Asian CoProsperity Sphere; Greater East Asian War; Southeast Asia Eastern Europe, 46, 81, 149, 202–4, 208, 222–31. See also Eastern studies Eastern studies (Ostforschung), 21, 149, 222–25 East Germany, 223–25. See also GDR East Prussian Office for Post-War History (Landesstelle Ostpreußen für Nachkriegsgeschichte), 138 Education Mission, 200–1 Eguchi Bokurom, 64, 109, 275n157 Eichmann, Adolf, 106 Elbe, 88, 222, 224–25 Eley, Geoff, 291n51 émigré historians, 18, 41–42, 44, 84, 121, 131, 194–98, 253, 293–94n109 Engels, Friedrich, 126, 273n111 England, 16, 24, 59, 70, 108, 125, 127, 175–77, 179, 180–84, 204–5, 300. See also Great Britain Enlightenment history: in Germany, 16, 29, 265n7; in Japan (keimoµ shigaku), 21, 23–24, 29, 176, 265n7, 267n33 entangled memories, 13, 244–61 Epstein, Fritz, 195 Erdmann, Karl Dietrich, 39, 84, 117, 123–24, 201 Ernst, Fritz, 134–35 Eschenburg, Theodor, 145 Etom Jun, 111 Europa-Archiv, 203 Europe, idea of a unified, 42–45, 48, 75, 77, 105, 202–7, 249, 253, 261. See also Central Europe; Eastern Europe; European history; Western Europe

index

· 381

European history: as paradigm in Germany, 1–2, 75–77, 92–93, 139, 172, 201– 3, 207, 236, 249, 301n47; as study object in Japan, 175–84, 211. See also Institute for European History in Mainz Ewig, Eugen, 204 “expulsion of the Western barbarians” (joµi ron), 59 extermination policy, 18, 85, 106–7, 140, 149, 196, 223, 254–55, 297n170. See also Auschwitz; Holocaust Eyck, Erich, 35 Fabian, Johannes, 217 fascism, 2–5, 9, 11, 28, 32–33, 49, 74, 78–79, 84–99, 120–21, 132–34, 159, 182, 192–93, 196–99, 235, 246–47, 251, 276n4, 287n135. See also National Socialism Ferber, Walter, 37 feudalism, 27, 56, 58–60, 62–63, 68–71, 73, 95, 99, 109, 116, 161, 176, 178–80, 182, 185–86, 189, 199, 209, 214–15, 219–21, 273n111 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 112 Fischer, Fritz, 19. See also Fischer controversy Fischer-Baling, Eugen, 143 Fischer controversy, 9, 15, 18–20, 168, 237 Flechtheim, Ossip, 143 Foertsch, Hermann, 129, 139–40 folk history (Volksgeschichte), 7, 19, 42, 149–50, 152–53, 191, 230. See also social history; structural history forced prostitution, 4, 78, 110, 248. See also “comfort women” Foucault, Michel, 171, 173, 241 foundation day of the empire (kigensetsu), 120, 250 Fraenkel, Karl, 143 France, 16, 24, 28, 50, 106, 125, 176, 183, 220, 242 Frank, Walter, 17, 81, 82, 104

382

· index

Franklin, Benjamin, 179 Frantz, Constantin, 46, 271n69 Franz, Günther, 81 Franzel, Emil, 37 Frederick II (the Great), 33, 35, 128 Frei, Norbert, 250–51 French Revolution, 70, 85, 92, 94, 176, 181–82 Freund, Michael, 125, 138 Freyer, Hans, 150–52 Frick, Wilhelm, 146 Fritsch, Werner von, 139–40, 284–85n64 Fujioka Nobukatsu, 244, 250, 255–56 Fujita Gorom, 62 Fujiwara Akira, 157, 159–60, 167 Fukuda Tokuzom, 25 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 23, 176, 210 Gablentz, Otto Heinrich von der, 143 Galicia, 229 Ganzer, Karl Richard, 226 GDR, 47, 120, 193, 238, 243; historiography, 8, 15, 19–20, 47, 50, 81, 127, 134, 193, 238, 248 Geertz, Clifford, 240 gender history, 239 Gerhard, Dietrich, 204 German Institute for Contemporary History in East Berlin (Deutsches Institut für Zeitgeschichte), 127 Gerstein Report, 106 Gervinus, Georg Gottfried, 126 Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, 39, 117, 133, 201, 227 Giordano, Ralph, 6, 78 Gleichschaltung, 97–98, 276n4 global history, 243 Gobineau, Joseph Arthur Comte de, 94 Goerdeler, Carl, 101 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 91 Göhring, Martin, 204, 205 Goldhagen, Daniel, 245, 255 Goldhagen debate, 245, 255

Goldschmidt, Hermann, 131 Göring, Hermann, 90–91, 146 Gotom Shimpei, 218 Great Britain, 180, 242. See also England Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, 66, 82, 220 Greater East Asian War (daitoµa sensoµ), 82, 108, 112–13, 116, 119, 281n147 Guizot, François, 23 Gushima Kenzaburom, 296n157 Hagemann, Walter, 37 Hagino Yoshiyuki, 267n37 Hakone Conference (1960), 189, 191 Hanawa Tadatsugu, 267n29 Hani Gorom, 62, 86, 95, 97, 186, 191, 196, 213, 272n89, 275n151, 278n67 Harootunian, Harry, 190 Hartung, Fritz, 202 Hashagen, Justus, 126–27 Hatada Takashi, 218, 220 Hattori Shisom, 27, 62, 196, 273n111 Hattori Takushirom, 112–13, 116 Hausen, Karin, 239 Hayashi Fusao, 116–17, 209–10, 281n147 Hayashi Motoi, 272n94 Hayashiya Tatsusaburom, 272n94 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 82, 205, 211, 215–16 Heiber, Helmut, 129 Heimpel, Hermann, 1, 40, 128 Heinemann, Gustav, 128 Herbert, Ulrich, 254 Herodotus, 125 Herre, Franz, 20, 39 Herzfeld, Hans, 20, 87, 120, 131, 144, 201–2, 228 Higashikuni, Prince, 86 Hillgruber, Andreas, 280n102 Himmler, Heinrich, 103, 285n64 Hindenburg, Oskar von, 146 Hindenburg, Paul von, 146 Hintze, Otto, 17

Hiraizumi Kiyoshi, 26, 82–83, 119 Hirano Yoshitarom, 27, 219–20, 296n160 Hiranuma Toshirom, 25 Hirohito (Shomwa Tennom), 113, 254 Hiroshima, 88, 110–12, 251–52 histoire croisée, 243 Historians’ Association in Germany (Historikerverband), 20, 34, 39, 128, 153; meeting 1932 (Göttingen), 40, 270n54; meeting 1949 (Munich), 40–41; meeting 1951 (Marburg), 150–51; meeting 1953 (Bremen), 65; meeting 1984 (Berlin), 240–41 historians’ associations in Japan. See Rekishigaku kenkyumkai; Shigakkai historical anthropology, 240 Historical Commission in Munich (Historische Kommission), 128 “historical conception of the Empire” (koµkoku shikan), 26, 83, 116, 119, 164, 277n22 Historical Reich Commission (Historische Reichskommission), 17 Historikerstreit of 1986, 243, 255 Historiographical Institute at the University of Tokyo (Shiryom hensanjo), 57 Historische Zeitschrift, 17, 24, 52, 81, 133, 143–44, 153, 197, 285n80 historism: in Germany, 12, 14–21, 28–29, 35, 135, 141–42, 145, 148, 150–52, 155, 168–69, 197, 238; in Japan, 14–16, 21, 23–25, 28–30, 57, 67, 165, 168–69, 177, 181, 211, 247 history from below. See history of everyday life history of everyday life: in Germany (Alltagsgeschichte), 238, 240–41; in Japan (minshuµshi), 25–26, 29, 238–40, 242 history of memory, 13, 244–61 Hitler, Adolf, 33–35, 37, 40, 44–45, 48, 89, 91, 93–94, 97, 100–5, 121, 124–25, 134, 136–37, 140, 144, 146, 196, 226, 247, 285n64

index

· 383

Hofer, Walther, 88, 97, 103, 107, 131, 143 Hokkaido, 76 Holborn, Hajo, 195–97 Holland, 259 Holocaust, 102, 106, 251–52, 254–55. See also Auschwitz; extermination policy Hölzle, Erwin, 21, 46, 81, 83 Honda Katsuichi, 251 Honjom Eijirom, 25 Hoshino Hisashi, 267n30 Hosokawa Karoku, 296n157 Hubatsch, Walther, 104–5, 132, 202, 224, 280n102 Hübinger, Paul Egon, 132, 152 Hungary, 228 Ienaga Saburom, 108, 118, 171–72, 188 Iggers, Georg, 16, 18 Imai Seiichi, 159–60, 167 India, 205, 208, 210, 213–14 Industrial Revolution, 85, 93, 116, 150, 152–54, 230 Inoue Kiyoshi, 55, 62–64, 66–67, 69, 97, 109, 157, 162–63, 165–67, 239, 288n156 Institute for Contemporary History in Munich (Institut für Zeitgeschichte), 100, 102, 105–6, 128–34, 137–39, 141, 145, 159, 195, 279n76 Institute for European History in Mainz (Institut für Europäische Geschichte), 38, 83, 193, 203, 205–6 Institute for Human Sciences at the University of Kyoto (Jinbun kagaku kenkyumjo), 70, 116, 274–75n151 Institute for Social Science at the University of Tokyo (Shakai kagaku kenkyumjo), 159, 182, 192, 220–21 International Historians’ Congress: in Paris (1950), 151; in Stockholm (1960), 55, 157 Irokawa Daikichi, 175, 240, 242 Ishida Takeshi, 163 Ishihama Tomoyuki, 296n157

384

· index

Ishii Takashi, 274n141 Ishimoda Shom, 64–65, 67, 191, 272n94 Israel, 4, 252 Italy, 5, 28, 50, 89–90, 109, 276 Itazawa Takeo, 83 Itom Ritsu, 296n157 Itom Takashi, 275n154, 279n80 Jacobsen, Hans-Adolf, 280n102 Jaeger, Friedrich, 16 Jantke, Carl, 152 Japanese-American Security Treaty of 1960 (anpo), 9, 29, 167, 189, 209, 240, 249, 274–75n151 Japanese Communist Party (JCP), 15, 26–29, 55, 62, 66, 99, 158, 161–62, 166, 184, 186, 189, 219, 275n154 Jaspers, Karl, 80 Jewish Claims Conference, 253 jibunshi. See “personal histories” Jinbun kagaku kenkyumjo. See Institute for Human Sciences jiyuµ minken undoµ. See popular rights movement jiyuµshugiteki rekishikan. See “liberalistic conception of history” Johann Gottfried Herder Research Council (Herder-Forschungsrat), 224 joµi ron. See “expulsion of the Western barbarians” Jomsburg, 224 juµgun ianfu. See “comfort women” Just, Leo, 117 Kaehler, Siegfried August, 20, 33, 48, 100, 103–4, 147 Kajinishi Mitsuhaya, 56, 58 kako no kokufuku. See “mastering the past” kakyuµ bushi. See lower warrior aristocracy Kaliningrad, 228–29. See also universities, Königsberg/Kaliningrad

Kamei Katsuichirom, 160–66, 169, 288n161 kangaku. See Sino-Japanese historiography Kang Sang-Jung, 256, 260 kanji. See Chinese characters Kano Masanao, 240, 264n28 Karatani Komjin, 248 Katom Shumichi, 275n151 Katom Toshihiko, 56 Kautsky, Karl, 273n111 Kawakami Hajime, 272n99 Kawakita Minoru, 290n23 Kawano Kenji, 275n151 Kawashima Takeyoshi, 182, 188–89 Kehr, Eckart, 17, 237 Kern, Fritz, 132, 206 Keyser, Erich, 222, 224 kigensetsu. See foundation day of the empire kindai no choµkoku (“overcoming modernity”) conference. See modernity Kishi Nobusuke, 250 Kluke, Paul, 105–6, 127–28, 131, 135–37, 139, 147 Knetsch, Günter, 225 Kobayashi Yoshinori, 256 Kocka, Jürgen, 238, 242 Kogon, Eugen, 37, 106 koµkoku shikan. See “historical conception of the Empire” kokugaku. See national/nativist school kokutai, 49–50 Komagome Takeshi, 260 Konakamura Kiyonori, 267n29 Konoe Fumimaro, 166, 288n153 Korea, 4–5, 66, 76, 94, 210, 212, 218, 221–22, 245, 248–49, 251, 257–59, 275n159, 295n133 Korean War, 28, 62–63, 72, 87, 95, 236 Körner, Paul, 146 Koselleck, Reinhart, 132, 298n209 koµshoµgaku. See textual critique Kotowski, Georg, 131

koµzaha, 27–30, 54–73, 95, 99, 109, 112, 160–69, 178, 182–83, 186–87, 189, 197, 209–10, 219, 230, 240, 242, 268nn46,48, 273n111, 274–75n151, 291n51. See also controversy over Japanese capitalism; Marxist historiography in Japan; Meiji Restoration; roµnoµha Krausnick, Helmut, 100–1, 106–7, 129, 138 Kroll, Gerhard, 128 Kühn, Johannes, 132 Kuhn, Thomas, 49, 238 Kume Kunitake, 267n30 Kuroita Katsumi, 177, 267n37 Kuwabara Takeo, 70–71, 181, 190 Kwantung Army, 218–19 Kyoto School (Kyomto gakuha), 82, 268n42 Lagarde, Paul de, 271n69 Lamprecht, Karl, 17 Landshut, Siegfried, 151 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 56, 99, 166 Leschnitzer, Adolf, 131 Lesser German unification (kleindeutsche Lösung), 32, 36–38, 44–46, 76, 105. See also Bismarck controversy/debate Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), 29, 161, 254 “liberalistic conception of history” (jiyuµshugiteki rekishikan), 244 Lida, 229 linguistic turn, 9, 241 Lortz, Joseph, 38 lower warrior aristocracy (kakyuµ bushi), 56–60, 62 Lübbe, Hermann, 6, 78, 246 Lucky Dragon incident, 111–12, 251 Lüdtke, Alf, 240–41 Luther, Martin, 33, 38 MacArthur, Douglas, 185 Maier, Charles, 7

index

· 385

Manchuria, 76, 107–9, 111, 114, 174, 191, 196, 260. See also Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company Mann, Golo, 195 Mantetsu chomsabu. See Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company Markert, Werner, 224 Marshall Plan, 75 Martin, Alfred von, 20, 33, 37 Maruyama Masao, 1, 52, 61, 88–94, 163, 165, 182, 189, 191, 215–17, 232, 247, 296n151 Marx, Karl, 126, 212, 230, 231, 238, 273n111 Marxist historiography in Japan, 7, 9, 12, 15, 26–30, 49–51, 54–77, 79, 86–87, 95–99, 108–10, 112–15, 117–21, 157– 69, 171–72, 176–78, 184–91, 196–97, 209–10, 213, 218–21, 233, 236–39, 247, 268n48, 272n94, 275nn154,157, 276n4, 278n65, 279n83, 281–82n148, 287n135, 289n11, 295n144, 296n160; emergence of hegemonic, 26, 50–54; end of hegemonic, 7, 9, 12, 113, 115, 161, 167–68; rejection of orthodox, 90, 161–62, 164–67, 178–82, 240. See also koµzaha; OMtsuka School; roµnoµha Marxist historiography in West Germany, rejection of, 50, 150–51, 153, 156 Maschke, Erich, 81, 132 “mastering the past” (Vergangenheitsbewältigung/kako no kokufuku), 245, 252 Matl, Josef, 105, 138–39 Matsuda Tomoo, 182 Matsumoto Shinpachirom, 64, 191, 272n94 Mau, Hermann, 100–1, 128, 134 Max Planck Institute for History in Göttingen, 240 Mayer, Gustav, 17 Mayer, Theodor, 202 Medick, Hans, 240–41

386

· index

Meiji Restoration (Meiji Ishin), interpretations of, 11, 22–23, 27–28, 31–32, 49–77, 99, 116, 119, 176, 181, 186–87, 189, 210, 213–14, 235. See also modernity; modernization Meinecke, Friedrich, 17, 20, 40, 48, 85, 87, 91–92, 96, 124, 131, 133, 135, 148, 195, 201 Meissner, Otto, 146 Messerschmid, Felix, 117, 270n41 Metternich, Klemens Wenzel Prince von, 105 Michaelis, Herbert, 46 Mikami Sanji, 267nn29,37 Mill, John Stuart, 212 Ministry of Education in Japan (Monbushom), 117–20, 250, 256 minshuµshi. See history of everyday life Min’yuµsha historians, 267n33 Mitteleuropa. See Central Europe modernity, 3, 7, 9, 61, 70, 73–74, 91, 150, 164, 182, 191–92, 198, 210–11, 232, 255; and capitalism, 27–28, 99, 178–82; common path to, 171, 174, 184; conference on overcoming (kindai no choµkoku), 82, 161; critiques of, 19, 82, 92–93, 161, 230, 240; dark side of, 156; dichotomy of, 85; of fascism, 90; Japanese, 181, 188, 210, 213, 259–60; Japanese war as consequence of, 115–16; National Socialism as product of, 92–94, 156; nation-state and, 78; origins of, 85, 94; and progressiveness, 174, 274–75n151; theories of, 84, 233; victim of, 3. See also controversy over Japanese capitalism; Meiji Restoration; modernization modernization, 10–12, 26–27, 54–62, 64, 67, 69–75, 99, 178–85, 189–91, 207–10, 212–21, 230–34, 236, 240, 259–60, 288n161; of historiography, 6–7, 10, 16, 29, 238; theory in Germany, 229, 233–34, 238; theory in Japan, 29,

69–75, 84, 189–91, 232–34, 236, 238, 240, 259, 275n154, 291n51. See also controversy over Japanese capitalism; Meiji Restoration; modernity Mommsen, Hans, 32, 238 Mommsen, Wilhelm, 21, 35, 40, 80, 83 Monbushom. See Ministry of Education in Japan Morgenthau, Henry, 194–95 Motoori Norinaga, 267n29 Müller, Hermann, 144 Müller, Karl Alexander von, 17, 81 Müller-Armack, Alfred, 278n60 Murao Jirom, 119 Mussolini, Benito, 105 Nagai Takashi, 111 Nagasaki, 110–12, 251, 259 Naitom Chisom, 267n29 Nakamura Komya, 83 Nakasone, Yasuhiro, 188, 251 Nanbara Shigeru, 192 Nanjing Massacre, 78, 110, 113, 248, 251, 257 Naramoto Tatsuya, 62, 272n94 national/nativist school (kokugaku), 22–23, 25, 267n29 National Socialism, 6, 11–12, 17–18, 32–36, 42, 78–79, 81, 84–94, 96–99, 101–6, 116, 120–21, 124–34, 137–42, 147–48, 156, 194, 199, 202, 222–23, 226, 235, 243, 245–47, 251, 254–55, 276n4, 279n76. See also fascism Nauheim Circle (Nauheimer Kreis), 202 Naumann, Friedrich, 47 Nazism. See National Socialism Neumann, Franz, 131, 194, 292n69 Niebuhr, Barthold Georg, 126 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 94 Nihonjinron, 242, 275n158. See also culture; race Nihon shihonshugi ronsoµ. See controversy over Japanese capitalism

Nihonshi kenkyuµ, 53 Nihonshi kenkyuµkai, 268n2, 272n94 Niida Noboru, 220 Nishida Kitarom, 82 Nishio Kanji, 244, 255–56, 301n55 Noack, Ulrich, 20, 32–33, 37, 43, 202 Norman, E. Herbert, 186–88, 198 Noro Eitarom, 27 North and East German Research Community (Nord- und Ostdeutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft), 224 Nuremberg Trials, 4, 80, 90, 96, 104, 134, 139, 143, 184, 194 Nürnberger, Richard, 104, 132 Occident, Christian (Abendland), 1, 37–39, 43, 45–47, 105, 172, 203, 205–7, 225–27, 229 Occidentalism, 173 Ochi Takeomi, 181 Oder, 224 Office of Strategic Services (OSS), 197, 292n69 Ogami Suehiro, 296n157 Oguma Eiji, 66, 76, 242 Ogyum Sorai, 216 Okano Seigom, 119 Oka Yoshitake, 68–69 Okinawa, 66–67, 76 Oncken, Hermann, 36, 106 OMno Eiji, 182 oral history, 240 orientalism, 12, 173–74, 210–23, 233 Osatake Takeshi, 274n140 Oshima Kiyoshi, 56 Ostforschung. See Eastern studies OMtsuka Hisao, 28, 52, 163, 165, 175–76, 178–83, 188, 191, 204, 220, 247 OMtsuka School, 178–83, 188, 290n24 OMuchi Hyome, 27, 272n99 OMuchi Tsutomu, 56 Ozaki Hotsumi, 296n157

index

· 387

pan-Asianism, 161, 209, 220, 239, 260 Papen, Franz von, 144, 146 Parsons, Talcott, 73, 84, 249 Pearl Harbor, 107, 113 Peasants War (Bauernkrieg), 17 Peres, Simon, 252 “personal histories” (jibunshi), 253, 256 Peters, Heinz, 294n109 Petri, Franz, 83 Peuckert, Will-Erich, 224, 229 Picker, Henry, 137 Pilsudski, Jósef, 226, 297n185 Poland, 47–48, 91, 109, 223, 229 politics of the past (Vergangenheitspolitik), 4–6, 251 Polybius, 125 popular rights movement (jiyuµ minken undoµ), 62, 69, 236 positivism in Japan, 22–25, 30, 67, 113–15; critique of, 15, 24–26, 30, 53, 68, 72, 114, 144 postcolonialism, 241 Potsdam Declaration, 82 Pribilla, Max, 38 “purges” (tsuihoµ), 50, 80, 82–83, 116, 119, 187 race: German ideology of, 106, 149–50, 202, 226, 298n209; idea of Japan’s common, 62–67, 94–95, 242, 275n158, 278n65. See also anti-semitism; assimilation policy; Auschwitz; extermination policy; Holocaust; Nihonjinron Ranke, Leopold von, 21, 23–24, 26, 30, 52, 67, 126, 135, 137, 141, 177 Rape of Nanjing. See Nanjing Massacre Rassow, Peter, 87, 117, 121, 203, 205 Reich Institute for the History of the New Germany (Reichsinstitut für Geschichte des neuen Deutschland), 17, 81, 226 Rein, Gustav Adolf, 21, 81, 202 Rekishigaku kenkyuµ, 53, 163, 166, 272n93

388

· index

Rekishigaku kenkyumkai (Historical Science Society), 53–54, 67, 87, 97, 108–9, 112, 114, 159, 268n2, 272n94; annual meeting 1951, 64–65; annual meeting 1957, 166; annual meeting 1961, 210 Rekishi hyoµron, 272n94 Reischauer, Edwin O., 190–91 “repression” of war guilt (Verdrängung), 78, 85, 133 Research Department of the South Manchurian Railway Company (Mantetsu chomsabu), 218–20, 223, 232 resistance, 3–4, 11; in fascist Japan, 99, 160, 165; in Nazi Germany, 34, 99–102, 106, 131–34, 139, 279n94 Ribbentrop, Joachim von, 146 Riess, Ludwig, 24–25, 52, 177, 192, 211 Ritter, Gerhard, 17–18, 20, 33–36, 38–40, 44–46, 48, 65–66, 86, 92–94, 96, 101–2, 117, 128–29, 133, 136–38, 151–52, 155, 164, 171–72, 270nn42,59, 271n66, 283n27, 284n55, 286n108 Ritter, Gerhard A., 197 Ritterbusch, Paul, 202, 293n96 Rodnik, David, 198 Rome, 49, 125, 207 Rommel, Erwin, 132 roµnoµha, 27–28, 55–58, 60–62, 68, 99, 178, 182–83, 187, 197. See also controversy over Japanese captialism; koµzaha; Marxist historiography in Japan Rörig, Fritz, 202, 222 Rosenberg, Hans, 21, 131, 196, 197, 283n27 Rote Kapelle group, 101 Rothfels, Hans, 40–45, 47, 97, 100, 117, 124, 126–27, 129, 132, 142, 153, 195, 196, 206, 225, 280n108, 284n41 Rüsen, Jörn, 16 Russia, 44–45, 56–57, 69, 184, 206, 208, 218, 226. See also Soviet Union

Russian Revolution, 57, 126, 158, 166 Ryumkyum islands, 66–67, 259 Sabean, David, 240 Saeculum, 203 Said, Edward, 173, 217 Saitschick, Robert, 35 Sakamoto Tarom, 267n37 Sakata Yoshio, 72 Satom Seizaburom, 275n154 Sauer, Wolfgang, 143, 197, 283n27 Schaller, Hans, 271n69 Scheffler, Wolfgang, 106 Schieder, Theodor, 42, 87, 138, 148, 150–55, 168–69, 223, 286nn108,116 Schleicher, Kurt von, 144 Schnabel, Franz, 20, 35–37, 39, 43, 45–46, 117, 128–29, 269n26 Schoeps, Hans Joachim, 195 school textbooks: German, 117, 193; Japanese, 57, 117–19, 162, 250, 256–58, 267n38, 282n153; joint German-Polish and Japanese-Korean, 5, 245 Schorske, Carl, 194, 198, 292n69 Schöttler, Peter, 18 Schramm, Percy Ernst, 81, 104, 225, 227–28, 280n102, 284n55 Schröder, Kurt von, 146 Schulz, Gerhard, 197, 283n27 Schulze, Winfried, 6, 81 Schüssler, Wilhelm, 35, 39, 46, 83 Scott, Joan, 239 Second World War, as topic of historical research, 102–22, 131–33, 188, 202 seiyoµshi (history of the West), 172, 175–84, 191, 205, 211 sensoµ sekinin (war responsibility), 5, 114–15, 118, 185, 245–46, 254 Seraphim, Hans-Günther, 104 Shakai kagaku kenkyumjo. See Institute for Social Science at the University of Tokyo

shakaishi (social history), 9. See also social history Shibahara Takuji, 210 Shigakkai (Historians’ Association), 24, 52, 117, 272n93 Shigaku zasshi, 24, 52–53, 192, 272n98, 279n80, 294n111 Shigeno Yasutsugu, 267n30 Shimomura Fujio, 69 Shinohara Hajime, 163–64 shintoism, 22, 26, 83, 277 Shiratori Kurakichi, 211 Shirin, 272n91, 294n111 Shiryom hensanjo. See Historiographical Institute at the University of Tokyo Shoµwashi controversy, 12, 158–69, 288n161 Silesia, 228 Sino-Japanese historiography (kangaku), 22–23, 211 Skalweit, Stephan, 132 Smolka, Georg, 36–37 social history: in France, 242; in Germany (Sozialgeschichte), 5–7, 9, 12–13, 15, 17, 19–21, 30, 141, 143, 147, 149–54, 168, 196–97, 230, 237–38, 240–43, 249, 283n27; in Japan, 6–7, 9, 13, 15, 21, 28, 30, 58, 73, 118, 160–69, 181, 220, 230, 237–38. See also folk history; koµzaha; OMtsuka School; shakaishi; Shoµwashi controversy; structural history Solchany, Jean, 93 Sonderweg. See deviant path sotsugyoµ ronbun (master’s thesis), 98, 159, 287n135, 294n11 Southeast Asia, 4, 26, 66, 108, 110, 208, 242, 275n159 Soviet Union, 29, 41, 88, 109, 112, 115, 202, 206, 254, 268n48. See also Russia Spain, 203 Speer, Albert, 250 Speidel, Hans, 132 Spivak, Gayatri, 217–18

index

· 389

Srbik, Heinrich von, 21, 47–48, 105 “stabbed in the back” theory (Dolchstoßlegende), 105 Stadelmann, Rudolf, 21, 143 Stalin, Joseph, 29, 48, 65, 93, 162 Stammler, Heinrich, 205 Steinbach, Franz, 132 Stern, Fritz, 131 Stolberg-Wernigerode, Otto Graf zu, 81 Stourzh, Gerald, 205 Strasser, Otto, 102 structural history: in Germany (Strukturgeschichte), 12, 21, 141–56, 168–70, 228–30, 283n27; in Japan, 164–65, 168. See also folk history; social history Strukturgeschichte. See structural history Study Group for Baltic History in Göttingen (Göttinger Arbeitskreis zur baltischen Geschichte), 42, 224–25 Study Group for Modern Social History (Arbeitskreis für moderne Sozialgeschichte), 152 Study Group of Christian Historians (Arbeitskreis Christlicher Historiker), 38–39, 206 Sultan, Herbert, 132 Suzuki Shirom, 64 Switzerland, 35, 42, 100 Sybel, Heinrich von, 126 Tacitus, 125 Taguchi Ukichi, 23, 176, 267n33 Taiwan, 66, 76, 275n159, 296n154. See also universities, Taipei Takagi Yasaka, 205 Takahashi Komhachirom, 176, 182, 186–87, 220–21 Takamure Itsue, 239 Takegoshi Yosaburom, 23, 267n33 Takeuchi Yoshimi, 1, 300n41 Takeyama Michio, 113, 116 Takimoto Seiichi, 25 Tanaka, Stefan, 211, 219

390

· index

Tanaka Giichi, 166, 288n153 Tanaka Suguru, 277n22 Taylor, A. J. P., 33 Tempom reforms, 58–59 tenkoµ. See “conversion” Tennom-centrism, 26, 68, 83 Tennom System Fascism (tennoµsei fashizumu), 98–99, 276n4 textual critique (koµshoµgaku), 22–24, 267n30. See also positivism Thompson, E. P., 240 Thucydides, 125 Tomjom Hideki, 166, 256, 288n153 Tokutomi Sohom, 23, 176, 267n33 Tokyo Trial, 4, 80, 110–11, 115, 156, 184–85, 194; overcoming of historical conception of (Toµkyoµ saiban shikan), 188, 250–51, 256–57 Toµkyoµ saiban shikan. See Tokyo Trial Tomma Seita, 65, 95, 191 totalitarianism theory, 92–93, 102, 148, 156 Tomyama Shigeki, 7, 57–60, 62–64, 69, 72, 112, 121, 159–60, 165, 167, 189, 213–14, 273n111, 295n144 Toynbee, Arnold, 208 toµyoµshi (history of the Orient), 172, 177, 210–21, 218, 295n133 transnational history, 3, 9–10, 13, 30, 75–77, 203, 237–38, 243–44, 260–61, 299n26 Treitschke, Heinrich von, 126 Treue, Wilhelm, 152 Tsuchiya Takao, 25, 27, 90, 278n50 Tsuda Somkichi, 25–26, 94–96, 278nn65–66 tsuihoµ. See “purges” Tsuji Zennosuke, 177, 267n37 Tsunoda Jun, 113–16 Tsunoyama Sakae, 181, 290n23 Tsurumi Shunsuke, 281n148 Tsuru Shigetom, 186 Uchida Ginzom, 25 Uchida Yoshiaki, 369

Uchimura Kanzom, 178, 289n15 Uehara Senroku, 120, 275n157 Ueyama Shumpei, 70–71, 116, 190, 274–75n151 Ukraine, 174 Umesao Tadao, 208–9, 274–75n151 Unit 731. See bacteriological warfare United States, 3, 41, 62, 66, 87, 108–10, 112–13, 116, 126, 162, 191–92, 204, 234, 246, 248, 251, 253–54; émigrés historians in, 41, 84, 131, 143, 194–99, 284n41; history and social sciences in, 24, 71–72, 100, 143, 186–89, 198, 239–40, 249; history of, 183, 204–5, 294n110; and imperialism, 56, 62, 65–66, 87, 161, 209, 250, 281n147; occupation by, 3, 12, 28, 50–51, 55, 62–63, 66, 79–84, 86, 107–8, 110–12, 115–16, 138, 184–201, 233–34, 246–48, 250, 256, 261, 277n22, 291n45, 300n35. See also censorship; Civil Information and Education (CI&E) Section; denazification; Japanese-American Security Treaty of 1960; Lucky Dragon incident; “purges” universal history, 23, 177, 205 universities: Berlin (Free), 106, 130–31, 193, 197, 204–5, 294n110; Berlin (Technical), 193; Bonn, 38, 132, 152, 204, 206, 224; Brown, 41; California at Berkeley, 197; Chicago, 41; Cologne, 117, 153, 197, 204, 278n60; colonial, 50, 220, 272n90, 296n164; Columbia, 131; Darmstadt, 134; Erlangen, 81, 145; Frankfurt, 136, 204–5; Freiburg, 34, 38, 40, 131, 268n108; Gdanask, 222; Göttingen, 21, 33, 40, 42, 81, 100, 104, 132–33, 152, 224–25, 229, 271n69; Graz, 138; Hamburg, 81, 152, 226; Harvard, 190, 289n162; Heidelberg, 21, 62, 80–81, 132, 134, 157; Hitotsubashi, 120, 289n11; Humboldtian, 192, 200; imperial, 24–25, 51–54, 67, 83, 272nn90,98;

Karlsruhe (Technical), 269n26; Keio, 25; Kiel, 270n41, 293n96; Komgakkan, 277n22; Kokugakuin, 83; Kokushikan, 113; Königsberg/Kaliningrad, 40, 42, 152–53, 222, 224, 293n96; Kyoto Imperial, 25, 52, 54, 70–71, 82, 116–17, 181, 205, 210, 272nn90–91, 274–75n51, 296n154; Leipzig, 25; Mainz, 204; Marburg, 21, 45, 48, 80, 124, 197, 207, 224; Michigan, 71; Munich, 25, 35–36, 38, 81, 204–5, 293–94n109; Münster, 38, 152, 278n60; Pedagogical (Tokyo), 171; Posen/Poznana, 152, 221, 231; Prague, 222, 224; Princeton, 198; Regensburg, 224; Riga, 222; Rikkyom, 82; Ritsumeikan, 272n94; Seoul, 50, 212, 220, 272n90, 296n154; Shanghai, 50; Taipei, 50, 220, 272n90, 296n154; Tokyo Imperial, 24–26, 52–54, 57, 69, 82–83, 88, 95, 98, 116, 159, 161, 163, 175, 177–78, 182–83, 192, 205, 211, 220–21, 267n38, 272nn90,98, 279n80, 287n135, 296n154; Tübingen, 21, 38, 41, 43, 81, 131–32, 143; Waseda, 25, 205; Wrocław, 222–24; Würzburg, 32, 38; Yokohama, 159 Uno Komzom, 273n103 Valentin, Veit, 17, 121–22 Valjavec, Fritz, 81, 83 Vergangenheitsbewältigung. See “mastering the past” Vergangenheitspolitik. See politics of the past Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, 39 Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 41, 98, 106, 126, 129, 142, 230 Vierteljahrsschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 133 Vistula, 224–25, 229 Vogelsang, Thilo, 127, 145, 288n148 Volksgeschichte. See folk history Vollmer, Bernhard, 97, 279n76

index

· 391

Wadatsumikai, 251 Wagner, Fritz, 124, 141 Walser, Martin, 255 war crimes trials. See Nuremberg Trials; Tokyo Trial war responsibility. See collective guilt; “repression” of war guilt; sensoµ sekinin Watsuji Tetsurom, 213 Weber, Alfred, 132 Weber, Max, 28, 73, 84, 178–79, 181, 212, 230, 237–38, 249, 259, 291n48 Webermann, Otto-Alexander, 224 Wehler, Hans-Ulrich, 14, 73, 197, 237–38, 242, 266n9 Wehrmacht, 103–5, 138–40, 285; exhibition controversy, 255 Weimar Republic: historiography during, 32, 195, 264n28; interpretation of, 100, 131, 142–45, 168, 199, 236 Weizsäcker, Richard von, 252 Welt als Geschichte, 203 “West,” 3, 7, 12, 29, 39, 45, 49, 68–69, 110, 116, 133–34, 171–94, 201–11, 215–16, 228–29, 231, 234–36, 240, 281n147, 294n126, 295n133. See also “East”; Occident; seiyoµshi; United States; Western Europe Western Europe, 42–43, 172, 230–31; Germany as part of, 2, 37, 201–7, 249; Japan and, 2, 176, 181, 183–84, 207–9 White, Hayden, 241 Williams, Raymond, 294n126 Winkler, Heinrich August, 242, 249

392

· index

Wittram, Reinhard, 42, 224, 271n69 women’s history, 13, 238–39, 241 Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal, 257. See also “comfort women”; forced prostitution world history: caesura of, 126–27, 129, 153; deviance of, 90, 198, 237; Hegel’s, 211; Japan as victim of, 113, 115; of Kyoto School, 82; laws of, 74, 176, 183–84, 186, 207–8, 211, 236; Marxist model of, 67, 167, 236, 275n157; as perspective, 2, 109, 171–72, 209, 216; Ranke ’s, 177; Uehara’s, 275n157 Wunder, Heide, 239 Yada Toshitaka, 277n27 Yamada Moritarom, 27 Yamaji Aizan, 267n33 Yanagita Kunio, 26, 240, 278n66 Yanaihara Tadao, 192, 221 Yasui Kaoru, 112 Yasukuni shrine, 251 Yasumaru Yoshio, 240 Yoneyama, Lisa, 258 Zechlin, Egmont, 81 Zeitgeschichte. See contemporary history Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft, 20 Zeitschrift für Ostforschung, 224. See also Eastern studies Ziebura, Gilbert, 197 Zimmermann, Ludwig, 81 Zunkel, Friedrich, 197

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