Chapter 1 When the war came home Kafir Fata Lund is brightly lit. I go in briefly, even though bullets could strike at any moment, the Viennese orchestra is playing. Hi Garf Kessler The first few days The Vaima Republic begins with a paradox. No sooner was the war over than it reached Germany. From November 1918, one step at a time, it came home. For the four years of the World War, the German army had managed to keep the conflict outside the door. While large stretches of France and Belgium had been laid waste in ways never seen before, in Germany, not a single roof tile had been destroyed. Though Germany was physically unscathed, the monarchy was done for, and the people were done with war.
Before the armistice to end all hostilities had even been signed, strikes paralyzed production and citizens committees, called workers and soldiers councils, assumed power in the towns and cities. Revolution seemed to be winning as soon as it began, with an admirable lack of bloodshed. Soldiers ran away from their offices. There was a mutiny among the sailors of Kia, who refused orders to launch a last-ditch naval attack on the British, and the regime already bled dry by the war was afflicted by collective revolts. First, the monarchy fell in the kingdom of Bavaria, with the deposition of King Ludwig III followed two days later on 9 November 1918 by the abdication of Kaiser Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany and King of Prussia.
The government under Max von Baden, who had only been in office for a month, at the head of the first cabinet in German history to include members of the centre-left reformist social democrat party, Zütseir Demokarteshepatei Deutschland's SPD, had announced his excellencies abdication even though Kaiser Wilhelm II had not declared himself ready to go. A deep fenestration of the first order, the following day the Kaiser would quietly flee to Holland. Now a massive crowd assembled in Berlin between the Kaiser Wilhelm Palace and the Reichstag building, the home of government. Nervous, unsettled, enraged, ready for adventure.
There were surprisingly many women among them, mostly in groups of friends or colleagues. Clarks in office suits, workers also affluent citizens in elegant clothes. They were united by the certainty of experiencing something great, something potentially violent. They felt that they were standing on the brink of a new era whose outcome no one could predict. Happiness or just more anxiety? Anarchy, mob rule, fratricidal warfare? A dictatorship of the proletariat, bourgeois order for everyone? Or at least a return again to simple pre-war pleasures? Who would guide them through it? Germany without a Kaiser, for many people, was unimaginable, a frightening idea. Who would grasp the sceptre?
It was taken up by one Philip Scheidmann, who was having his lunch in the Reichstag canteen as the mob congregated. The 53-year-old author and journalist from Cusser, a member of the German Social Democratic Party since 1883, when it was still illegal, appointed himself Secretary of State just five weeks after the fall of the Kaiser. He had been able to do so because the collapsing German Empire needed a Social Democrat as part of its hastily assembled emergency government, although only in the back row. This was to ease the mood among the enraged workers, the opposite happened.
Scheidmann, a famously cheerful soul who regularly wrote satirical articles in Cusser dialect under the pseudonym Hennar Fiffendeker, understood on the 9th of November that the disorder outside the palace was going to become worse and worse. Germany, which had only been without a Kaiser for a few hours, urgently needed a sign of some kind and respectable leader at the top again. Scheidmann saw this leader in the Burleigh Friedrich Ebert, the affable melancholic head of the Social Democrats, a man known for his willingness to compromise. So, between soup and dessert, as he later jokingly said, Scheidmann stepped out onto one of the Reichstag balconies and in his characteristic sing-song voice without having discussed it with anyone proclaimed the Republic.
Scheidmann是个以乐天性格闻名的人,他经常以笔名Hennar Fiffendeker用Cusser方言写讽刺文章。11月9日时,他意识到宫殿外的混乱局面将会愈演愈烈。德国刚刚失去皇帝还不到几个小时,急需某种象征和一位值得尊敬的领袖来引领大家。Scheidmann心目中的这位领袖是Burleigh Friedrich Ebert,他是社民党和蔼且带有忧郁气质的领袖,以乐于妥协著称。于是,正如他事后开玩笑所说,他在吃完汤和甜点之间,走到国会大厦的一个阳台上,用他那特有的唱歌般的声音,未经与任何人商量,就宣布成立共和国。
The German people have been victorious all down the line. The rotten old order has collapsed. Militarism is at an end. The Hornsollars have abdicated, long live the German Republic. The member of Parliament Ebert has been proclaimed Reich Chancellor. Ebert has thus been appointed to assemble a new government. All socialist parties will belong to this government. Our task now is to ensure that this brilliant victory, this complete victory by the German people, is not solid and therefore I ask you to see to it that there be no disturbance to security. We must be able to remain proud of this day for all time to come. Nothing must exist that would later bring reproaches upon us.
Peace, order and security is what we need now. And that, a feeling of peace and security, was exactly what Scheidmann gave the furious crowd. His spontaneous address was a piece of political bravura that ensured that the Social Democrats, who had successfully led the uprising against the monarchy, kept the reins in their hands, and that they would not immediately be taken away from them again by the left. How easily the mood could have escalated in that heated situation, and the balance have shifted from the Social Democrats, who held sway in the workers and soldiers councils, to the more radical communists who were trying with blazing speeches to transform the still bourgeois revolution into a communist one on the Russian model.
Karl Liebknecht, future founder of the German Communist Party, communist Dřrpartai Dajlans KPD, took action two hours later and proclaimed the Republic for a second time from another balcony of the city palace. This was not as ridiculous as it might have seemed. While the Social Democrats Scheidmann had invented some facts and depicted the revolution as successfully completed when it had only just begun, so successfully that he insisted on the immediate importance of establishing peace and stability, Liebknecht informed his listeners that they were standing at the beginning of a long battle. It would be a tough fight. First, the state order of the proletariat had to be established, then the global revolution completed. Hail freedom and happiness and peace. This was a slogan that anyone could subscribe to, as well as an excellent battle cry.
So far, the fall of the German Empire had cost 60 human lives, eight of them in the capital. That wasn't many given the strength of the establishment, and the many armed clashes that it took before the military representatives of the old regimes stepped aside. To that extent, it was a peaceful revolution, and the 9th of November seemed like a good day both to the media and to the public, who lined the street heads bowed a day that might eventually go down in German history as a real jewel. On the 10th of November, the liberal editor-in-chief of the Berliner Tagerblatt hailed the victorious revolution on the front page in almost hymnic terms.
Teodovov praised Ebert's desire to re-establish peace and order, to secure the food supply, and to offer the old civil service a role in the new state, difficult as it might be the devotees of the new and the representatives of the old now had to work together, out of love of the people. Völf presented the desired new order as a community based on communication and compromise. He said, no one who lays claims to free thought will be allowed to get too close to and wound those whose hearts allow them to a different divine cult. It is not always the worst who are unable to learn new things each time the wind turns and new powers arise, a people that has achieved independence honors itself by also honoring a sincere attitude even in those whose rights it has advanced beyond.
Völf must have written his exhortation to mutual respect in great haste on the very evening of the day of revolution and he took a great step back and included the whole people in his wide embrace. We can imagine him writing taking hasty drugs on a cigarette, marching agitatedly around the desk after each line, an editor in an emergency. Every word was so important to him that the text clumsily continued for a further two lines on the next page. There he ended with the appeal to disarm anyone who wished to disavow this happy achievement by violence. The war was lost, now it was time to bring it to an end.
Two days after the proclamation of the Republic the representatives of the new provisional government signed the armistice in the forest of Compienn and thus created the precondition for what most Germans dreamed of, even if they had only very recently begun to do so, the establishment of a democracy based on peace and freedom in which everyone could live on the fruits of their labour and pursue their private happiness untroubled by war and brutal violence. That was the plan, the opportunity that lay within people's reach, but not everyone yearned for freedom and democracy. Even among the ordinary citizens there were many who couldn't imagine anything other than the Empire.
Without the magic triangle of their identity, God, honour, fatherland, they felt homeless. For that reason, the war that had been so furiously fought for Empire and Kaiser could not be stopped so simply with a line from a pen. It came home with the demobilized troops and turned itself against the very people who had brought it to an end. Rather than being fought out in blood drenched battlefields in France and Belgium, it continued in German streets and railway stations. It was discharged in isolated flashpoints. Soldiers were alert to what they perceived as betrayal and every now and again they took revenge entirely at random.
At Vanna Station near Boorham on the 30th of November, a guard battalion returning home frustrated from the war on a stopover on the platform ran into a unit of a workers and soldiers council. After violently insulting the mob without a fatherland, the former frontline soldiers still loyal to the Kaiser knocked down a station guard. This escalated into a shootout with both sides using machine guns. Four soldiers were seriously injured, their comrades then roamed through the city and stormed an official building. A nine-year-old boy was killed and another railway guard injured. Once their rage had subsided, the gang of soldiers continued on their journey by train.
So commonplace were such occurrences that this one merited a mere five lines in the issue of the Berliner Tagablat for the 1st of December 1918. There were countless such incidents in which soldiers of the returning army took revenge for the armistice. They felt deprived of an honorable end to the war, which would have made the sacrifices of the previous years of battle worthwhile. Whenever the opportunity arose, they picked fights with the centuries of the new government. Small groups of soldiers hunted down individual passers-by whom they suspected of being revolutionary workers and intellectuals, draft dodges and traitors.
At the request of the Provisional Reich government, the army high command in Berlin issued a proclamation headed, an end to senseless shooting, which hinted at who was broadly responsible for these outrages, namely the army itself. Fellow citizens, in scattered parts of the city, bodies of the present Reich directorate and citizens in civilian clothes and uniform jackets are still being fired upon. The rumor is circulating that this gunfire is coming from individuals who believe they must defend the old regiment. In this context, it should be noted that the order is given to support the present Reich directorate by all available means.
Appeals were printed and widely distributed for the maintenance of the virtue most favoured by the Germans, and which they now so painfully missed. Discipline. It was the workers and soldiers' councils spontaneously established bodies of a civil society that was yet to be formed, who urgently appealed for peace and order. Workers and soldiers' councils, to present-day ears these sound wildly radical and revolutionary, but in fact that impression is far from the reality.
Most councils consisted of solid citizens, craftsmen and skilled workers, people brave enough to take personal control of things in the chaotic power vacuum, to get things working again in the agitated country as quickly as possible. Almost all of the councils were packed with centre-left social democrats. They wanted democratic rights along orderly lines. Typical of the council's thinking was a proclamation published on 14 November in the North German Butwehr Unsäger under the headline Self-Discipline and Order Are Required.
Only a people capable of maintaining voluntary discipline is mature and capable of self-determination. Are we capable of that? Is our people capable of governing itself? The government believes it is. It is confident that the people are capable of self-discipline. Let us prove that we are worthy of this confidence. Let us prove that we are right for political freedom. Let us prove that we can practice self-discipline. Then order will prevail, and the army and the people need order to achieve peace. Signed, Khan, Fittsner and Reserve Lieutenant Fosse.
It was people such as these who shaped the peaceful face of what came to be known as the November Revolution, but also earned it the contempt expressed in the much quoted judgment attributed to Lenin to the effect that a German Revolution wasn't worthy of the name. Revolution in Germany? It'll never happen. If those Germans wanted to storm a railway station, they'd buy a platform ticket. If only that had proved to be the case.
The proclamation of these three committed citizens gives a sense of the chaos that began to spread in the wake of the successful revolution. Away from the main arenas of the revolution, there was a tangle of minor conflicts in which determined citizens, foremen, sailors, officers and council chairman, but also adventurers and criminals had a say in whether or not blood was to flow. Alongside the many skirmishes between army and people, between moderate and radical socialists, between left and right, white and red, there were the anarchic actions of countless opportunists who cooked their personal little pots of soup on the fires of political disturbances.
On the first day of the revolution, for example, a decommissioned sailor Otto Hasse stole a car and put himself, as the later trial recorded, at the disposal of the new government. Demonstrating the randomness of things, he was given the post of chauffeur by one of the newly appointed people's representatives. He also drove around privately in the car, a wanderer W3, the Berliner Tagablad reported, he also came to Potsdam when a hospital train had just pulled in. He made use of this opportunity, he presented himself as a law enforcement officer and had the leaders of the train, an accountant and a deputy official arrested, confiscated everything that the train contained in the way of food, bacon, ham, sausages, eggs and had it brought to Berlin, where he sold it.
Criminal acts such as this, dressed up as state activity, were frequent events. A pimp presented himself as a representative of the people, grabbed a couple of centuries from the workers and soldiers council who were standing on the nearest street corner and brushly ordered them to execute a wicked traitor. The sentence was obediently carried out on the spot. What the deuter form marksman didn't know was that the victim was not a counter-revolutionary, but a former associate of the criminal who had become too dangerous for him.
In most cases, this kind of official assistance wasn't required because after the end of the war, there was no shortage of weapons. The soldiers who had deserted in their hoards had simply taken their weapons with them, either keeping them or selling them for a pittance over the pub counter. Shady sections of society were armed to their teeth, people masquerading as folks via security officials, plundered passers-by or confiscated supplies from warehouses and shops. In Berlin, Buhrholz, a group presenting themselves as law enforcement officers tied up the mayor and made off with the community cash box, and the violence was always at its worst when the social democrat led government called in the army for help.
Unholy Alliance The morning after the proclamation of the Republic, Friedrich Ibert, who must have had a sleepless night, put a call through to the most powerful man in Germany, Wilhelm Grounner. Via a secret telephone connection, Grounner, head of the German army and based in Spa in Belgium, assured Ibert of the army's loyalty and promised to stand by him in maintaining public order. In return, the general expected the new leaders to ensure the continuing existence of the army and the broad recognition of the old officer corps. The victorious revolutionaries and the generals of the Reich seem to have made peace.
Ibert probably slept better that night. Any kind of upheaval was anathema to the man who had been swept to power and to the cabinet provisionally installed until the planned election. The fact that they owed their fantastic careers to revolution did nothing to reduce their abhorrence of it. Quite the contrary, the very thing that had catapulted them to the top could bring them back down to the bottom just as swiftly. It is hard to overestimate the insecurity of this group, completely unpracticed in politics, which suddenly found itself at the head of the Reich. At the very top was Friedrich Ibert, a former Sadler and landlord who had run the Sogutenheilfer pub in Bremen with his wife Louisa.
Temperamentally, social democrats were still close to the Reich and many of its values, but they were also resolved to squeeze a fair deal of the working class from society. An eight-hour day, the right to strike and the right to assembly, the recognition of trade unions and universal suffrage, including votes for women. Private property remains sacred, and they did not consider the nationalization of the big key industries as an urgent goal. They did, on the other hand, acknowledge the vital importance of swiftly re-establishing internal security, preserving economic life and keeping the civil service in operation.
It was the freedom that the liberal editor of the Berliner Tagerblatt, Teodor Wölf, had so emphatically stood up for. That freedom might easily have been dismissed as a petty bourgeois fetish, but the chaos that swept the country did endanger life and limb. Food supplies were at stake, the social democrats were aware of the fragility of modern infrastructure and wanted to demonstrate to all costs that they were capable of government, not least to the world. They feared that the victorious powers might still invade if the new government proved incapable of supplying peace in the country, and for both Ebert and the victors that meant above all preserving it from the Russian model of communism.
For the communist revolutionaries, it seemed far too early to have internal peace. Hardly a day went by without the leaders of the far-left Spartacus League, Karl Liebknecht and Horzal Augsenberg, demanding that the revolution be taken to its conclusion. With repeated provocations and strong-arm tactics, they tried to goad their supporters into keeping the widespread disturbances going. The intention was to blind people to the fact that the radical left was in a hopeless minority even in the workers and soldiers' councils. Even so, the Spartacists were able to demonstrate intimidating strength.
Combat groups, such as the Red Soldiers League, appeared in the streets heavily armed and rumors whisked constantly around the cities that the Russian Bolsheviks had armed them to the teeth. Many Spartacists were at-heart gentle souls, but behind the typewriter they developed an aggressive radicalism that worried many people, and in their words, the rotten supports of society trembled. Within the small bubble of their like-minded followers, they lost all sense of reality, drunk on the fantasies that his resounding speech was produced in the crammed meeting halls.
Liebknecht demanded that all military weapons be handed over to the proletariat. A ridiculous proposal. Who was going to hand them over? After the weapons had been received, the revolutionary proletariat should not hesitate for a moment before removing bourgeois elements from all of their political and social positions of power, and taking all the power into their own hands. Liebknecht could not have been surprised that even sympathetic bourgeois elements might have been horrified by this prospect. We don't want a lemonade revolution, he cried, meaning that he didn't want anything soft or half-hearted.
We want to raise the iron fist against anyone who stands in our way. The Ibercheidemun government is the deadly enemy of the German proletariat. The deadly enemy took his threats seriously and sought refuge in the protective arms of the military. Admittedly, the provisional government also had its own troops, but they were weak and unreliable, and also in competition with one another. The voluntary auxiliary service of the democratic party, the hastily assembled Republican soldiers defense, and the greater Berlin security troop under police president Emil Eichon, was still overwhelmed by the amount of patrol and guard duty needed to suppress chaos and anarchy in the streets day and night, and to protect the public buildings, government offices, and banks.
Attempts to win additional volunteers for the republic's protection squads failed for the lack of interest. So Ibert and his army and navy minister Gustav Nauska entrusted the delicate first shoots of the republic to a defeated and demoralized army that was itself in the process of disorderly dissolution. Once the message of revolution and armistice had reached them, any soldiers still in their right minds had long since quit the service and made sure that they had made it home under their own steam just in time for Christmas.
There were constant calls in the newspapers to hand over any military munitions, but many deserting soldiers ignored them. A large number of rifles were simply kept and stored under beds and in wardrobes. Most of the remaining soldiers, who were regularly demobilized and returned home in close formation, also longed for nothing more than peace and recuperation. Only a proportion of them was inclined to continue in armed service and push for peace and order within the country. But that proportion was still considerable.
Paradoxically, the voluntary units that were supposed to be ensuring stability in the new republic contained some of the republic's worst enemies. The irregular right wing free corps, free corps volunteer units assembled by individual army officers developed into a collecting point for the former frontline soldiers, whose taste for war had been ended too soon. They felt not so much defeated by the enemy as betrayed by their own homeland. They were also disoriented secondary school pupils who were stupid enough to believe that they'd missed something uplifting when the war came to an end, embittered students who feared that they wouldn't be able to have a career in a workers republic. Then finally there were thugs who liked the idea of being paid for their passion. They formed wild gangs of mercenaries which took their names from their leaders, Marina Brigada Earhart, Frikobs Epp, Frikobs Hakato, Frikobs von Peterstoff, Strom uptailung Rosbach and so on. Overall, they are thought to have been a total of 365 of these right wing volunteer Frikobs units. One for each blood-soaked day of the year.
For these unruly groups, love of the Fatherland meant eliminating anyone in the Fatherland who didn't, as they saw it, share their love. Some Frikobs units headed east to continue fighting even though the war had officially come to an end. In Poland, where according to the terms of the Versailles Treaty, plebiscites and negotiations on the future border were imminent, they believed that they had to go on defending the Fatherland. Nationalists on both sides were reluctant to wait for the votes and talks, so for several years the Frikobs fought a bloody fight for the death of the Eastern Marches with ambushes, terrorist attacks and fierce partisan battles. But the main thrust of the Frikobs energy was directed inwards. Just what these troops were capable of became apparent in Berlin on the 6th of December 1918, St Nicholas's day. A day that had already begun in a strangely agitated atmosphere.
Just before 6pm, there was a bloodbath at the busy intersection of Shorsiez Tarsa and in Valedyns Tarsa, not far from the place where the Federal Intelligence Service stands today. A group of soldiers, guard Fusilias in fact, who had only been back from the field and in the city for a day, sprayed the area with bursts of machine gun fire. One account related that a number 32 tram whose driver had driven to the scene unsuspectingly also came under fire. The passengers fought for the doors, shoving each other out of the way. It was said, people ran along the pavement screaming for their lives, knocking each other to the ground. In all of the buildings, the residents had turned out the lights and moved back terrified to the rooms at the rear. When the soldiers had stopped firing for a while there was almost complete silence, then the first people ventured out of the houses and looked at the battlefield. The horror only lasted a few minutes, but 12 people died, the youngest of them who bled to death in the tram, a 16 year old girl. Over 80 people were injured.
It was never explained how shots came to be fired at peaceful passersby in rush-out traffic. On the morning of St. Nicholas's day, some soldiers, led by an officer by the name of Shpiraw, had attempted a kind of coup d'etat in the Reichstag, proclaiming Friedrich Ebert, president of the German Social Republic. But at the same time had called for the arrest of the executive council of the workers and soldiers council, the provisional parliament to which he was subordinate and which was assembled in the Prussian lunchtag. The affair was a complete failure, but may have further intensified the over-strong mood of the day. The following day, Spartacists and Social Democrats blamed one another for the massacre, while the Bourgeois newspapers claimed that the all-too-understandable fear of a communist seizure of power had found expression in a panicky overreaction on the part of the soldiers.
Furthermore, two lines of the demonstrators had approached the intersection from different directions and caused confusion. It is more likely that it was simply the hatred of frustrated frontline soldiers for their supposedly traitorous homeland that was being vented here as it was elsewhere, a hatred that would in future degenerate from manageable minor disturbances into dramatic acts of terrible brutality. The suppression of the Munich Soviet Republic, the Republic declared by the workers and soldiers council in Bavaria, involved extreme excess of free corps violence. Late in April 1919, right-wing Frikobs units and regular government troops besieged the Bavarian capital on the orders of the Berlin government. In fact, its picturesque Republic of Dreamers had been finished for some time. After a failed push, power had been seized by a communist clique that only enjoyed the sympathy of a minority of the population of Munich.
This explains the rather disparaging tone with which the scholar, Viktor Klempera, made fun of the civil war in which the free state of Bavaria imagined itself to be. Klempera, who wrote a collection of gripping diaries around this time, also worked as a correspondent for the newspaper, the Leipzig-Anois de Narhechten. While Franz Maier, a term meaning in every man, is shooting pheasants in the English garden, Hubert Xavier at Phailichplatz believes the whites, the counter-revolutionary forces, are holding a push and shoots as well, and already the century is sounding the alarm of an attack of the nearby savers church, and now the whole area is rattling away. It's very gratifying. But soon even Klempera was less than gratified.
On the 1st of May 1919, the empire's guardians of order stepped in. The Epscher-Ficobs, the Württemberg security troops, and regular Reichsbehr troops from Prussia, the carnival of lunacy as the Social Democratic Minister of Defence, called what was by now a genuinely self-destructive attempt at revolution was to be brought to a swift end. These men, some of them gloriously fitted out in God's core uniforms, were celebrated by most local people in a festive spirit. It all looked like a folkloric procession. But then hatred and vengefulness spilled out in a way that deeply shocked this respectable part of Munich. Rather than peace and order, the Ficobs spread terror on the streets, with the support of members of the petty bourgeoisie who were also eager for a scrap.
They went on in search of hidden subversives in working-class areas of the city, the author Oscar Maria Garth, who had himself been part of the Soviet government until a short time before reported. A terrible spree of denunciation began. Anyone with an enemy could now send them to their death with a few words. Now, all of a sudden, the citizens who had previously been invisible were back, busy running behind the troops, with rifles over their shoulders, and white and blue civil militia arm bands. They looked around eagerly, pointing here and there, running after someone and bawling as they rained blows down upon them, spitting, shoving them crazily and dragging their half-dead victim to the soldiers.
Sometimes it happened faster than that. The unsuspecting person would be standing there frozen, then the mob would charge over and surround him, a shot would ring out and that was it, the people would spread out again, laughing and satisfied. The soldiers sometimes fired on anything that moved. Garth saw an old woman hobbling across the road being caught in the cross-airs and shot to the ground. The same fate awaited a little boy who ran to help the dying woman. The hatred of civilians, women and children included, had a history that dated back several months and originated in Berlin.
For freecobs and Reichsbehr soldiers, the 1918 Christmas holidays held a humiliation that unfortunately taught them a great deal. The task was to drive a group of revolutionary soldiers calling themselves the folks marina de vis-journ, People's Navy Division, out of Berlin Palace. The division was a proud if somewhat rogue element of the revolutionary November days. Just six weeks previously, they had been asked by the Social Democrats to protect important government buildings against looting and were installed in the city palace for this purpose. But when it came to removing them from the building, they were discovered to have been radicalised.
On the 23rd of December, the People's Navy Division had even taken Berlin's city commander Otto Wehl's hostage and engaged in a wild gunfight with an armoured car outside the Berlin Opera, just as audience members were leaving the building in their fur coats. Now they were threatening to arrest the whole government. Ibert himself contacted Army Supreme Command and asked for the sailors to be driven from the palace. The operation was entrusted to one general Arnold Lequix, who had acquired a dubious fame in the brutal genocide of the Herrero people in German Southwest Africa. Lequix formed his troop of guards on the morning of the 24th of December, among the architectural glories of Berlin's museum island. The main entrance to the Horns-Solland Palace came under heavy artillery fire and the balcony from which Kaiser Wilhelm had delivered his famous Brook Frieden speech calling for a truce between political parties during the war in August 1914 was among the parts of the building that were struck.
Machine guns also fired numerous salvos at the palace from the roof of the arsenal. Standing in the immediate vicinity was the city's tall Christmas tree festively decorated for the first peaceful festive season since the war. Then Lequix gave the order to charge but was halted by a barrage of gunfire delivered by the sailors of the People's Navy Division, who had also taken up position with machine guns on the palace roof. Four soldiers were left dead in front of the building and a further ten were seriously injured. Lequix interrupted the charge on the palace and the guard division retreated in humiliation. From a military point of view the skirmish was insignificant, one of countless small battles fought out during those months. But in terms of its symbolic effect on the mood of the soldiers the disaster could not be overestimated.
At the centre of the Prussian monarchy once so glorious the remains of the army, loyally devoted to God and Fatherland, had been forced to retreat by a violent gang of unruly sailors. Weldama Pabst, an officer heavily involved in the right-wing cup-punch attempt to oust the government in the spring of 1920, described the feat as the most shocking moment of their military lives for all members of Prussia's proudest regiment. Undefeated in the field but vanquished by women. On the day of the defeat in front of the palace General Lequix gave an interview to the Fosse-Schutzseitung. Events after all were played out under the very close eye of the press. The photographers had only been a short distance away from where the guns were fired and they waited with their unwieldy tripods for a shot that might suggest a civil war.
The General explained to the Fosse-Schutzseitung how things had gone quite so bad. He came up with an explanation for the defeat that would have serious consequences. A horde of civilians headed by women and children had surrounded his soldiers during a 20-minute ceasefire that had been previously negotiated. My soldiers don't fire on women and children. That was where the mistake was made. A rank of my troops was driven back. They laid down their arms and the rest went back to the university. The message that the campaign to liberate the palace had been derailed by women's resistance spread swiftly around military circles. The refusal to fire on civilians was seen as the cause of this unparalleled disgrace.
From now on there would be no more humanitarian poppycock. In February 1919 troops were instructed to open fire at any encounter with a hostile mob. Whether the story of the women and children who had defeated a division of the guards on Christmas Day is true or was in fact invented by Lequix as an excuse, it certainly led to mind-boggling rage among the humiliated soldiers. The claim that it was women above all who had caused the defeat of the army would be a sore point in the new republic and one that we will come back to, the dramatically changing relationship between the sexes.
In Lequix's version the soldiers became victims of the chivalry that traditionally prevents men from firing on unarmed women. The more reactionary warriors saw such inhibitions as old-fashioned. Women had long ago ceased to be in need of protection and were henceforth to be seen as fierce adversaries. Even the decade before the war had supplied many examples of the demonization of women. Symbolist paintings swarmed with furies, witches and wind brides. The new workplaces in offices, department stores and telephone exchanges granted women more and more autonomy and independence.
And the fact that they had successfully assumed traditionally male occupations during the war had strengthened their self-confidence which had turned into open militancy. Many working-class women had taken part in demonstrations in the cities against the wartime shortage economy. During the days of the revolution and the strikes that followed they often bravely confronted martial military squads, a challenge that mutated in the minds of many soldiers into delusional phobias.
In his groundbreaking study, male fantasies, the cultural scholar Klaus Tevelite investigated the literature written during the Vaima Republic by and about free-corp soldiers. He found a misogyny that was so insanely unbridled and so obviously paranoid that it takes the breath away. The books are filled with unhibited, flint and viber, rifle women, who want to devour, emasculate and kill courageous soldiers. Woe to the man who falls into the filthy claws of the scandalous women of Humbuan. There will be literally nothing left of him.
The writer Tudor Vela warns in his novel Peter Munkaman, Phycops Kemfándeirur, Peter Munkaman, Phycops soldier on the roar. One of his Phycops colleagues, the author rights, was repelled and scratched to bits by working-class women with their bare hands. The author Ernst von Zalomon, member of the Phycops Macke and Berthold, the right-wing terrorist consul organization and the Earhart Brigade that took part in the 1920 cup-punch describes an anti-militarist demonstration against his uniformed gangs of thugs as an apocalyptic encounter with brides of Satan.
He said, Shaking their fists, the women shriek at us. Stones, pots, fragments begin to fly. They hammer into us. Hefty women dressed in blue, their apron soaked and skirts muddied, red and wrinkled faces, hissing beneath wind-wipped hair, with sticks and stones, pipes and dishes. They spit, swear, shriek, women are the worst. Men fight with fists, but women also spit and swear. You can't just plant your fist into their ugly pusses.
In Roer und Artnung, Romain üstem Liebendenazunagazen Yudint, peace and order, novel from the life of the nationally-minded youth, Ernst Otvald relates how General Merkel instructed his free-cob soldiers and short-term volunteers in their treatment of women loyal to the government during the cup-punch. It's a well-known fact that women are always at the head of these kinds of riots. And if one of our leaders gives the order to shoot and a few old girls get blown up, the whole world starts screaming about bloodthirsty soldiers shooting down innocent women and children.
在《Roer und Artnung》这本书中,Ernst Otvald 描述了在一次类似政变的行动中,Merkel 将军如何指导他的自由舰士兵和短期志愿者对待那些忠于政府的女性。众所周知,在这种动乱中,女性总是站在前列。如果我们的领导人下令开枪,而一些老年女性被击中,整个世界都会开始谴责我们是嗜血的士兵,攻击那些无辜的女性和儿童。
As if women were always innocent, we all laugh. Gentlemen, there's only one thing to do in cases like that. Shoot off a few flares under the women's skirts, then watch how they start running. It won't really do much. The magnesium in the flares will singe their calves or behinds, and the blast flame may burn a few of the skirts. It's the most harmless device you can think of. The soldierly chivalry that General Le Quix cited in his interview with the Fosse-Schutz Seitong in order to explain the defeat in front of the Palace of Berlin at Christmas, 1918, had clearly dissolved within two years.
Either that, or it had been an invention from the outset. You can't dance the shame from your body. The woman upon whom this pathological hatred was most concentrated was called Roza, Red Roza. The strikingly small, often elegantly dressed woman might have had a delicate appearance, but she was always determined and energetic, an extremely clever, quick and original debater who persevered with our argument until her adversary retreated into exhausted silence.
Roza Lia Luxembourg had grown up as the child of an affluent Jewish family in Poland, enter the distress of her parents was a convinced socialist even as a school student, a poem by the girl has survived. I demand punishment for those who are sated now, who live in lewdness, who do not know, who do not feel, the torments under which millions earned their bread. Even at the age of six, she worked on a school newspaper and at 16, she was a member of one of the illegal self-education youth circles.
Since the police already had her in their sights, when she was 17, some older colleagues smuggled her over the border from where she reached Zurich. Here, Roza Lia Luxembourg, as she was now known, studied everything from zoology, via law, and administration to philosophy, that her endless thirst for knowledge was able to absorb. In the end, she graduated with a dissertation on the industrial development of Poland, naturally getting top marks.
In Germany, she moved to Berlin in 1898. She quickly became one of the most prominent voices on the left wing of the Social Democrats. She broke with the party at the outbreak of the First World War, when the SPD reached a political truce, Borg Friden, with the Reich government and the Kaiser, and agreed to war credits. She paid for her courageous anti-war position with several prison sentences. From the start of the revolution onwards, she was editor-in-chief of Rortifana, Red Flag, and the face of German communism. It is a face that still enchants people today. Even the serious-minded historian, Ernst Peeper, describes his 2018 Luxembourg biography as the result of a serious liaison. Roza Lia Luxembourg painted, drew, wrote poetry, had wild and passionate love affairs. No one could agitate more vividly, condemn more forcefully, inflame an auditorium with greater Shakespearean eloquence, certainly not standing on the chair that she needed to be seen.
Her verdict that social democracy was only a stinking corpse was unforgettable. But Roza Luxembourg was not unambiguous. She was a Sphinx, a Marxist chameleon that was almost impossible to pin down and pigeonhole. In her nine-volume collected works, you can find evidence for every ideological variant of Marxism. Because of her famous quotation that freedom is always the freedom of those who think differently, posterity wrongly honors her as a representative of radical democratic socialism. Roza Luxembourg was not whatever people think an ardent Democrat who wanted to persuade people rather than fight them. In the weeks of the revolution, there was nothing that she hated more than democracy, supposedly fetishized by the social Democrats. She saw it quite rightly, as the grave of communism.
Over a million SPD members faced a thousand strong Spartacus League. In terms of sympathizers, the figures were quite similar. So in a leading article in the Red Flag, she stubbornly refused to allow the development of the revolution to be voted on by elections or majority decisions at the National Assembly. We will not talk with the guardians of the capitalist cashboxes either at the National Assembly or through the National Assembly. Working until she dropped, sometimes she had to be dragged from her desk and carried home, she recommended that her readers do exactly what she herself had practiced for a long time. Surrounding herself with like-minded people only, she said, it is our duty to break down every bridge with the present government.
Shortly before her death, she thought a dialogue between her peers was appropriate, but otherwise she recommended the deployment of raw force. Socialism doesn't mean sitting down in a parliament and making laws. For us, socialism means overthrowing the ruling classes with all the brutality that the proletariat can muster. That brutality would explode early in 1919. Between the 5th and 12th of January, Berlin held its breath as it watched a new revolt that would soon be given the exaggerated name of the Spartacist uprising. The spark for this was the dismissal of the Berlin Police Chief Emil Eichon, who had always been on the side of the radical left.
In the course of the resulting protests, armed and predominantly communist demonstrators and so-called revolutionary representatives occupied the building where the Social Democrat Daily newspaper Farvez was printed. The offices of the publishing companies Schell, Ulstein and Mosser were also occupied, as well as the Vollifshe Tellegarfenbuhr and the editorial office of the Berliner Tagablat, an attack on the bourgeois press that clearly signaled how the radical left planned to deal with the freedom of opinion they had fought for only two months previously. At first, the occupations were somewhat random, which is why the term Spartacist uprising is misleading. After some delay, Karl Liepknecht and Rosaluxenbuhr put themselves rhetorically at the head of the revolt and tried to make it bring down the Ebert Scheidermunguverment.
The Berlin proletariat now stands and fights for itself, for Germany, for the proletariat of the world. Never was a struggle more beautiful, never won more just, never won of greater value in history, the Rortofarna cheered on the 10th of January. Wild rumors circulated in Berlin once again. A thousand Russian Bolsheviks were about to arrive disguised as German soldiers, to stand by their comrades. The Spartacists already had over 20,000 rifles at their disposal. Much of the press saw Germany sinking into chaos if the Social Democrats failed to deal with the rebels. In fact, neither the volunteer auxiliary service of the Social Democratic Party, nor the Republikancher Schutztrupper, Republican protection troop, also close to the SPD, proved strong enough to clear the occupied buildings.
Once again, Ebert and naval minister Nauske sent in the Frichops via army command, but also the regular Potsdam regiment. Civil war raged for several days in the Berlin newspaper district. They used aeroplanes, flamethrowers, armoured cars, machine guns and hand grenades against revolutionary insurgents, who were generally fewer in number and only in possession of rifles and machine guns. The rebels took up position on the street behind large rolls of paper and bundles of printed newspapers. The free words served as a dense barricade. There were men in smart suits and men in worn-out uniforms, all with rifles at the ready. Past the bales of paper, they peered out from under their hats and steel helmets. The combatants here were not only individual workers and revolutionary soldiers, but perhaps even predominantly, members of the intelligentsia, as they were known in left-wing parlance. The factory workers, on the other hand, were mostly dumbfounded by the spectacle.
They also demonstrated in the Berlin districts of Schbandau, Leitenberg and Vedding, against the bloody fraternal war that was being fought out there between hot-headed radicals and government socialists. In vain, the workforces of various large companies established a fraternization committee consisting of members of the Social Democratic Party, the Independent Social Democratic Party, Wunnappingen Gesotseale Mukarderseppatay Dauchluns, USPD, and the German Communist Party KPD, and issued the slogan, Proletarians United, if not with, then over the heads of your leaders. Each of the attacks during the battles of January led to multiple casualties, including innocent passers-by. Freihite, an organ of the USPD, reported that even near the Reichstag and Untar in Linden, hardly a quarter of an hour passed without a machine gun starting to rattle. A number of people have fallen victim to this mischievous shooting, and many have been wounded. A number, no more precise than that. The reports turned quickly into rumors and vague suppositions. People said to each other in the street that government troops were using dumb-dumb bullets that left terrible injuries.
At dawn, on the 11th of January, government shock troops advanced on the Far Verde's building. Under heavy shell fire, the central facade of the editorial building collapsed, burying part of the rebel machine gun positions. But one machine gun, not far from the corner of the building, caused the soldiers severe problems. It took them 45 minutes to take the position, which they were convinced was held by the shotgun woman, Rosar Luxembourg. Many of the rebels underwent physical abuse, as they were taken to the Dragoon barracks in Kjojzburg. Once there, they were subjected to appalling torture before being shot. The 20 or so women among the 250 arrested occupiers were treated just as badly as the hateful fantasies from the Frickobs novels would lead us to imagine. Rosar Luxembourg and Karl Liepknecht were arrested four days later on the 15th of January. But rather than take them to jail, the 38-year-old Captain Wealderma Pabst, leader of the Frickobs troop undertaking the arrest, decided to kill the pair.
Rosar Luxembourg was beaten unconscious with a rifle butt, before being thrown into the Landwehr Canal. Pabst served up a story to the press that Liepknecht had been shot while trying to escape, and Luxembourg had been lynched by a furious mob. The claim still encountered today that the murder of the two Spartacist leaders had been ordered by the Social Democrat Gustafnoska has been thoroughly debunked. It seems quite likely that it was tacitly believed and tolerated by the public at large. The events of the January uprising, which strongly resembled those of a civil war, were fought out amidst ordinary people. Normal everyday life was relatively unaffected by the fact that there were occasional skirmishes in the streets. Friedrich Schiller's play The Robbers was performed in the Schauspielhaus on the 11th of January, the bloody finale of the Spartacist uprising. Stars that Shine again was playing at the Berlina Teata, and in the Teata Amnondorf Platz, the imaginary Baron.
At the Urania Scientific Society, a large audience heard a lecture on the beauty of the German landscape, and in the side room an introduction to the world of the planets. Within a few days postcards were printed of the half ruined building of the Farvez office for Berliners to send to their relatives in the provinces. There were also souvenir postcards of the fighting on the barricades. One of these, for example, showed a committed bourgeois behind the barricade in collar and tie, rifle at the ready, an impressive picture to display on a kitchen shelf. The cameras were always there to capture images for those who were unable to witness the exciting events themselves. Passes by stood shaking their heads, worrying that the French would soon invade if this chaos didn't stop. First they bring the bones safely home, then they beat each other to death.
Even the elegant endlessly curious collector of art and experiences, Harry Graf Kessler, didn't stay at home in his drawing room while all this was going on. During the Spartacist uprising he struggled about central Berlin day after day. Neuier Wilhelm Strasse, Friedrich Strasse, Leipzig-Aplatz, Potsdam-Aplatz. Everywhere he went he heard individual rifle shots and the rattle of machine guns while city life continued just more agitatedly than usual. The street traders with cigarettes, malt bonbons and soap still selling their wares in the street, Kafir Fartaland is brightly lit. I go inside briefly, even though bullets could strike at any moment the Vina Capella is playing. The tables are quite full and the lady in the cigarette kiosk smiles at her customers as if deeply at peace. In the cabarets and on the dance floors people were partying wildly as never before.
The dance halls that were closed during the war had only opened again a week before on Neuier's Eve 1918. With the relaxation of the ban on dancing, the people fell on the pleasure so long denied them like a pack of hungry wolves and nothing could constrict them of their desire to party, the Berliner Tagablat reported after a foray through the Neuier's Eve festivities. It continued, and what is the Berliner celebrating? He's celebrating the second that has given him today what it may not be able to grant him tomorrow, the unboundedness of the world, the drinking before the drowning. Never before has Berlin danced so much and so furiously. On the advertising pillars there were posters showing a skeleton and a girl dancing, pause Berlin, reflect, your dance partner is death, was the caption.
It was supposed to have been printed by the government whoever that was these days. There was so much while dancing that it even became too much for some showbiz stars. In 1920 the review composer Friedrich Hollander took the poster as inspiration for a song that his wife, Blandina Ebinger, the tubercular Madonna, Erich Kessner sang at the cabaret Shal und Roch, an establishment that the couple had founded along with Kotturalski, Klabund, nommedoplume of Alfred Henschke, Joachim Ringenenatz, Walter Mirring, and Miesach Bolianki. Berliners, your dance partner is death. Berlin, pause, you are in trouble.
From strike to strike, from swindle to swindle, whether dancing nude or tap dancing, you need to enjoy yourself tirelessly. Berlin, your dance partner is death. Berlin, you are rolling in the mud with pleasure. Take a pause, leave it, and think a little. You can't dance the shame from your body because you are boxing and jazz dancing and fox-stroting on a powder barrel. The Shonsoin ends with the line, under the earth, that's where the fuse glows. Take care, in the middle of your fox-strot, there'll be a bang, and then it's night. And with that, they made the sound that would go on to characterize the whole of the Weimar Republic. But for now, there was no bang. Instead, there was an election.
A week after the end of the Spartacist uprising on the 19th of January 1919, a Sunday, Germany held its first fully democratic election, with no restrictions of sex and class. 83% of those eligible to vote did so, an astonishing turnout by today's standards. The SPD was the strongest party by some way, with 37.9% of votes. The left-wing breakaway party, USPD, received 7.6%. The Communists didn't even take part because the result would have been too pitiful. The Conservative German National People's Party, Deutsche Natsunala Foksk partai, DNVP, received 10.3%. The Liberal Party's 22.9%, the Catholic Centre Party, 19.7%.
The Ibert Scheidermann government that had been brought to power by revolution had now been democratically legitimated. In spite of the frightening chaos in the country, it seemed to be inhabited by a majority of order-loving, sensible, balanced, progressively-minded people. Things could only go upwards. The 423 elected parliamentarians, including 37 women for the first time, came together on the 6th of February 1919, not in the Reichstag in Berlin, but in the National Theatre in the city of Weimar, some 300km southwest of Berlin, which had been specially hired for the purpose. Given the continuing disorder, the Reich capital Berlin did not seem safe enough. In the months that followed, they agreed on Germany's first democratic constitution. Because of the location of its first parliamentary sessions, the new state was called the Weimar Republic. Freidr Ebert, now the Reich's president, signed the constitution in line with his undramatic style at the breakfast table in his holiday resort of Schwadzburg in the central state of Thuringia. Article I announced, political authority emanates from the people. That was true in law, but shockingly, not always true in reality.
Day labourers of death A month after the assembly in Weimar that determined the constitution, the situation in Berlin escalated again, this time more brutally than ever before. After insurgent workers had occupied a police station and the post office in the district of Lechtenberg, and there had been many instances of looting and rioting, Gustav Nauschke, now responsible for internal security as Reich defence minister in the social democrat government, had the district violently cleared. According to official figures, 1200 people died, but the number was probably greater than that. Most of them were executed on the spot by Freicob soldiers, deployed for the purpose. Their legal basis was Nauschke's order to shoot anyone who was caught fighting with a gun in their hand. The self-appointed bloodhound of the SPD had issued this order after the rumours circulated that the rioters had murdered 50 policemen in the occupied station. The Freicob soldiers had extended the order to mean killing anyone who even owned a gun.
They combed the buildings of Lechtenberg for rifles and pistols, and shot anyone with a gun found in their apartment. They even shot members of the revolutionary people's navy division, who were standing peacefully in line by a military depot to hand over their weapons and collect their demob checks. The people of Berlin were strangely casual, almost unmoved in their response to the massacre in the east of their city. The doctor and author Alfred Dublin, who lived in Lechtenberg and whose sister Mita was killed by shrapnel during the fighting when she went to fetch milk for her children, reported on the events in a pointedly hard-nosed style. But he did at least report on them in the Neuil Ronschau, under the pseudonym Linka Port, while many of his colleagues registered the horror in silence.
He wrote, And when I turn around, the tree-sized patrol leader is climbing the steps to the cemetery, and they're all whispering. Then someone else gets shot. And in the blink of an eye a salva rings out. I see, I see, that was once, and now what there once was is lying out stretched in a black coat. That was once a human being and is now an object. The idea is a hard one to deal with. One is undeniably horrified. One has seen a lot of people die, but this is something special. It's the extent of the planning. The idea would make your head spin. I'm not bothered by one or two deaths. It comes to us all. But this nonsense is unbearable, boundlessly repellent. Once again it was the ficops who had perpetrated these shocking massacres, and calls to dissolve these uniformed mobs proliferated.
The few dedicated Republicans in the ranks of the executive, such as the former officer and now police major Haman Schutzinger, demanded a republicanisation of the police and the army. Police tasks, such as the suppression of unrest, could no longer be placed in the hands of a military apparatus that was a law unto itself. Instead, it was argued they required more barracks-based police training in de-escalation strategies, capable of adapting to the various stages of mass agitation. They were no longer allowed to act according to the military principle that the adversary was to be destroyed at all costs, but had to force the insurgent compatriots under the law with a minimum of casualties. Only a year after the massacres in the Easter Berlin in March 1920, Nauschert tried to dissolve several ficops brigades, including the notorious Ehrhard brigade. He didn't decide to take the step out of some inner conviction, but because the Versailles Treaty required a reduction of the army to 100,000 men.
But the army was far from keen on the idea of allowing itself and its irregular comrades to be decimated as simply as that, and showed its true face to the ministers that it had been struggling to endure. The highest-ranking Reichs where General Valtafun Lutvitz resisted the order and marched into Berlin with Freikop's Ehrhard, who as always wore swastikas on their helmets. The government district was occupied, and the government fled to Darmstadt and Stuttgart at the last minute. The Reichstag deputy Wofkankup, a dueling scarred grim-face 62-year-old estate owner from Western Prussia, declared the Iber-Schadermann cabinet deposed and appointed himself as the new chancellor. The Reichsvere refused to halt the putchists. The republic seemed to be over after only 17 months.
However, the German people showed Wofkankup that he had barely any followers. The biggest general strike in German history completely paralyzed public life. Nothing worked. No mail was delivered, no trains ran, there was no electricity, the telephone service was on strike, the department stores were closed. After five days, Kup and Lutvitz gave up, like riders of horses that simply lie down in the mud rather than trotting on. The Ehrhard Brigade retreated embittered from Berlin, but not without firing off a few rounds at the curious onlookers by the Brandenburg Gate, who were bidding them farewell with mocking cries. Twelve people died, 30 were injured. The determined resistance to the putchists could be among the happiest and proudest moments in German history had it not been overshadowed a short time later by events in some communist strongholds.
Instead of ending the general strike after the overwhelming victory at the retreat of Kup and Koe, the KPD and other radical left-wing groups saw the overheated atmosphere as a chance to lay their hands on power. They just went on striking. The situation escalated dramatically in the Roer, whose workers had put up the most determined resistance against the putchists and inflicted devastating losses on the Freikorps. The confiscated weapons joined the old holdings of the Civic Guard, and soon the Red Roer army had armed forces numbering around 50,000. The Red Roer army deserves every sympathy for their victorious battles against the putchists, but it too was not a collection of noble humanitarians and freedom fighters. In paragraph three of one of their many service regulations, it states bluntly, cowardice in the face of the enemy is punishable by death.
And the Executive Council of the City of Dusburg, where particularly chaotic conditions prevailed, issued the ruling, anyone loitering behind the front without permission will be shot. That also applies to female persons of dubious character. The Red Roer army occupied town halls and prisons. Requisitioned food from private individuals punished in subordinates as they saw fit and sent armed censors into editorial offices. In Dusburg, power was seized by radical anarcho-syndicalists who tried to push every strike into political violent riots from whose violent rule, even the KPD, distanced itself. In the states of Saxony, Thuringia and Hamburg, the KPD hoped for a revolutionary shower of sparks that would take hold of the whole of Germany and sweep parliamentary politics away.
In view of this prospect, Ibert and Nauschke opted against imposing discipline on the army, which was needed more than ever after the putch. The pattern was always the same, the more furious the radical workers became with the government, the less inclined the government became to weaken the military, and once again the greater the fury of the oppressed. But after the putch, even the bourgeois press called for the eradication of enemies of the republic from the ranks of the army. The left liberal Bellina Fauxsideong even argued for the renunciation of the hundred thousand strong army that the victorious powers still permitted Germany to have, instead strengthening the police. The best thing would be to put the security men into a kind of sporting uniform and in place of the saber give them a rubber truncheon.
Instead, more freecops units moved into the rue, this time with the blessing of the government, to calm the situation that had got out of control there. The inevitable happened; instead of obeying police instructions, the freecops took their revenge for their defeated comrades by holding bloody criminal trials that alienated many workers from the rue from the republic forever. The Orbayiga, first huntsman of Frécops Eph, a student in civilian life, wrote to his dear sister about the killing party. We made our first charge at one o'clock in the morning. There is absolutely no mercy. We shoot even the wounded. The enthusiasm is great, almost incredible. Our battalion had two casualties, the Reds 200 to 300. Everyone that falls into our hands is finished off first with a rifle butt and then with a bullet. Ten Red Cross nurses, each of whom were supposedly carrying a pistol, were shot immediately however much they wept and prayed. His proud conclusion: we were much more humane towards the French in the field.
Frontline experience, domestic misery. Who were these Frécops soldiers? What was the source of the unappeasible hatred with which they converted their law enforcement duties into bloody excesses? The answer to this question leads back into the war that still raged in the heads of these men. If we believed their stab in the back legends, they would happily have gone on fighting for their lives. That's all the more surprising since it would be natural to assume that the often described battles within the war of annihilation would have left them utterly demoralized. Why were many Germans not as weary of fighting at the end of the First World War as they would be after the second? In terms of experiences at the front line, the First World War is in fact considered by many to have been even more terrible than the Second.
The 1914 war, as it was known in Germany, was marked by a horrific escalation of military killing. Tanks, artillery technology, unimaginable quantities of ammunition and finally poison gas turned what was once known as the art of war into a competition of pure military capacity. Fighting was no longer carried out face to face. The enemy was invisible across no man's land, their covered position being held with a hail of shells from a great distance. The two fronts held one another in place, while the troops dug themselves into their trenches and tried to send each other mad with endless drum fire. A shift of the front lines by only a few meters cost countless thousands of human lives, all of them consumed as cannon fodder. Whole divisions were burned to clinker, as war reporters liked to put it. Most front soldiers returned to Germany in a spectral state.
In his 1929 anti-war novel All Quiet on the Western Front, Irechmarier Remach wrote of a lost generation. In the first weeks after publication, the book sold an astonishing 450,000 copies. So many people recognized themselves in the novel that it became one of the most successful German books of all time. The novel, peppered with cruel scenes of battle, follows its 18-year-old protagonist, Paul Boemer, into the war that finally takes his life, on a day that was unusually so quiet and peaceful that the war report could be reduced to the single sentence of the title. But in fact, Paul Boemer died long before. We are dead men with no feelings, he observes, who are able by some trick, some dangerous magic, to keep on running and keep on killing.
Zombie-like, as a result of his countless incommunicable experiences, he is lost to his loved ones. During a brief visit home, he establishes that he has become so alienated from his family and friends that he's glad to be back at the murderous front line. His comrades are the only ones with whom he feels any kind of connection. It's a brotherhood on a large scale, in which the individual no longer has a part to play. They were no longer fit for life in peace. Even if someone were to give us it back, the landscape of our youth, we wouldn't have much idea of how to handle it. Anyone who felt alien and out of place in the Weimar Republic, anyone who couldn't find their feet, in the maelstrom to which the 1920s would lead, could feel that this book at least understood them.
But the overwhelming majority of soldiers in the Republic did feel very much at home, in so far as one can feel at home in such a new construction. After all, they were the ones who had risen up against the old order by disavowing their own officers. They were glad that the war was over, whether it had been a victory or not. It was no coincidence that the biggest veterans association, the Reichs von der Kriegsbechirichten on Kriegstyleimä, Imperial Association of War veterans and War Wounded, which had 820,000 members in 1922, was dominated by social democratic and still felt loyally connected to the new Republic, even when it was driven with crises.
However, these considerable numbers gradually fade from the focus of memory simply because they didn't cause anybody any problems. Unlike the component of their comrades who felt betrayed by the revolution and hated the Republic from the very first day, the right-wing counterpart to remark's bestseller is the book Inchtäagavittan, Åstimtägabur anest Storstropführs, Storm of Steel, by Ernst Jünger, 25 at the time. This work, which remains famous today in spite of contradictory critical responses to it, shows marked similarities with remark's novel. Both stress the fraternal relationship of the front soldiers, the fact of their being lost to bourgeois life, their matter of fact responds to monstrosity.
We don't have any choice but to be pragmatic, so pragmatic in fact that I sometimes shudder, remark writes. The degree of objectivity of a book such as this is the measure of its inner value, says Jünger. Even Jünger sees that the modern battle of attrition no longer really provides a setting for the actions of the war hero of former times. Seldham did the laurel wreath adorn the brow of the worthy winner. And yet this war also had its men and its romanticism, heroes if that word has not become trite. They stood alone in the storm of battle when death, a red rider with flaming hoofs, galloped through swirling mist.
In Jünger's book the assault with which the soldiers holding out in the trenches for weeks tried to break out at last becomes the hour of the birth of an entirely new type of fighter. He wrote, Seldham were they granted the salvation of looking the enemy in the eye after everything terrible had been heaped up to the highest summit, hiding the world from them behind blood red veils. Then they loomed up at a brutal magnitude, agile tigers of the trenches, masters of explosives. The theory that industrialized war with its long distance weapons and trench warfare was unsuited to individual heroism and left behind a uniform army of traumatized men is not entirely applicable in Jünger's book.
He finds literary garlands even for the mass of cannon fodder, the ones who were never going to be seen as stormtrooped tigers of the battlefield. The slow dispiriting decline in the dankness of the muddy trenches is intensified into a kind of hyper-proletarian mass martyrdom. They spent their days in the bowels of the earth, enveloped in mould, tormented by the eternal clockwork of the falling drops. They worked and fought like that, ill-fed and ill-clad, as patient, iron-laden day-labourers of death. In this trench mysticism, the abysmal treatment of frontline soldiers twists itself into a cult of meaningless servitude.
Books such as Storm of Steel did their part in helping the experiences on the battlefields of madness to bring the frontline soldiers together into a cast of initiatives. Even once the war was over, they saw themselves as a grubby elite, however low their status in the eyes of the rest of the world, a fraternity just as destructive as the war that had produced these same confused men. The fact that they were no longer fit for civilian life, that they didn't fit in with the modern world and failed in the face of its demands, did nothing to diminish their arrogance filled as it was with a contempt for life.
For the pacifist-minded remark, their fraternity was cruelly imposed upon them, a shrunken form of being that was all that these spent and burned-out soldiers had at their disposal. To Yungas heroes, on the other hand, it appeared as the supreme fulfilment. They could not summon the courage required to acknowledge and admit their internal wounds. They interpreted the fact that they could only deal with their peers as a sign of their membership of an elite, which was not and could not be understood by those who stood outside it.
Many soldiers did not experience the end of the war as a result of a battle that had been dramatically lost or as an imprisonment. They were spared the idea of having to surrender with arms raised as millions of their marked soldiers were obliged to just thirty years later. Unlike their generals who had a panoptic view of the hopeless situation, the end of the war came as a complete surprise to them. The guns fell silent overnight as if on their own initiative, and the people who had fired them retreated just as devotedly as they had once marched on the enemy. The war was not ended by a dramatic defeat, there was no roar of joy, no incisive scissor, just a listless agony, ended unexpectedly by orders from above.
The stab in the back legend fell on fertile ground where many soldiers were concerned. The historian Gert Kommich, who is engaged intensely with the trauma of war, estimates the number of anti-republic frontline soldiers to be around three percent of participants in the war, or 14,000 in all. In the coming years, however, this sense of betrayal would be crucial because a large proportion of Weimar society had also failed to anticipate the defeat. While many may have also been glad that the Great War was over, the idea that it had actually been lost was not something that they could grasp. Thinking back to 1917, surely they had been so victorious on the Eastern Front that they had been able to impose a negotiated peace on Russia the following spring, one which contained just as many excessive reparation requirements as the late Versailles Treaty.
As we have suggested, for the defeat to be processed, an important ritual was missing, no enemy had invaded, no one had occupied the country. The occupation of territory that usually ends a war was absent, and in contrast with the Second World War, every stone was still standing. Certainly, everyone was drained and wore weary, but wasn't that true of the enemy as well? Unlike in 1945, the defeat remained abstract, and the capitulation a faraway procedure that the German people read about in the newspapers. At first, they were grateful that the war was over, but when they experienced the heavy burdens of the Versailles Treaty, many people felt as if they were suffering as the result of a mere chimera. As though the defeat were only a notional one, a stitch up between the November criminals, as many Germans labelled the government leaders who had signed the armistice, and the hostile powers.
Conspiracy theories did the rounds, such as talk of the elders of Zion, who had got together in a Prague cemetery to plan the fall of the monarchy and the military capitulation to make Germany disappear from the face of the earth once and for all. There was suspicion and ill will towards anyone who thought themselves stateless. That meant anyone with global inclinations, the communists who identified with an international proletariat, or speculators on the global stock market. This toxic conspiratorial delusion would be particularly directed against the Jews, who were accused of using world jury to achieve world domination. Born out of an almost incomprehensible defeat, the Republic remained a chilly homeland associated with shame and betrayal.
The frontline soldiers had been deprived of the joy of returning home victorious. Many, however, still had a need to receive the returning men as proud warriors, and to feel a sense of triumph beyond any sense of shame. But how was that to work? But how was that to work? Homeland dignitaries ground out embarrassed formulaic greetings that were supposed to comfort the defeated men while covering over the truth. When the soldiers passed through the Brandenburg Gate, onlookers sat and watched like crows in the autumnally leafless lint and trees. No enemy has vanquished you, Ebert declared, before immediately continuing. It was only when the enemy's superior power in terms of men and material became increasingly oppressive that we gave up the fight.
In Lutvickshaffen, in the southwest of the country, the mayor managed to shoehorn lies and truth into a single sentence. You were not granted the chance to be victorious. The enemy's superior power in terms of men and material was too great, but you return upright and unbeaten, and the homeland greets you. And on the 19th of November the Frankfort Atseitung tied itself up in knots to come up with the following sentence. We greet you German soldiers. Germany has lost its war, but you have won yours. All of these distractions were pointless. The embittered soldiers spotted them for the hollow nonsense that they were and felt spat upon from head to toe and assailed by falsity and posturing.
They received confirmation of their conviction that they had not been defeated by the enemy, but betrayed by their homeland. With a bitter smile they read the trivial newspaper drivel, the empty words about heroes and heroic death, but they didn't want that gratitude. They wanted understanding in the words of Ernst Jüner. The soldiers were even embittered about the welfare treatment of injured veterans, generous by European standards because they were categorized on the same level as victims of civilian accidents, as if they had been run over by a tram. While in victorious France or Britain the war wounded were seen as heroes and didn't attempt to hide the loss of their limbs, their German counterparts felt despised because of their disabilities and made great efforts to cover them up with prostheses and special clothes. Artists such as George Gross and Otto Dix like to show reactionary conformist types on crutches and with scarred faces in their caricatures.
The fact that a private soldier with a pig's head hung from the ceiling in an art exhibition by the Berlin Dadaists will not have done much to increase the soldier's feeling of being welcomed home with honours. Many frontline fighters didn't return to the bosoms of their families, their businesses, their friends and associates, instead seeking a continuation of their humiliated comradeship in the Ficops brigades. Their hatred was unquenchable. Arnold Bonin, one of the most gifted wordsmiths among the Ficops writers, put it like this. Nothing floated on the surface but the sour lamentable, hand-ringing, terrified, sweating, nauseating atmosphere of the paper republic with appeals to the world's conscious, protestations of rightness, bent backs and exaggerated hand gestures. But vibrating in the depths as if in enormous steam-catalysers was the energy of the nation that had been banished from the surface, waiting for the call of the hidden men who felt the destiny of the Reich within them.
Servants of State in the Cross-Ares A bloody trail of political murders runs through the Weimar Republic, most of them committed by the right. Among the best-known victims was Matthias Autsberger. The former finance minister was murdered by members of the Consul Organization in August 1921, while on holiday in the Black Forest for signing the Compian Armistice that had ended the war. Foreign Minister Valteratnaal hated for his policy of reconciliation with France was murdered in the street in the Berlin District of Gornavald on the 24th of June 1922. That same month, the former Prime Minister Philip Scheiderman, who had resigned from the post in 1919 over the terms of the Versailles Treaty, narrowly survived a cyanide attack. A gust of wind meant that he wasn't hit by the full charge. The well-known journalist Maximilian Hardin was also lucky to survive an attack outside his house in Berlin, Gornavald.
But the perpetrators did achieve their goal. Hardin abandoned his often controversial magazine, Ditzu Kunft, and fled to Switzerland. These attacks, which attracted global attention, form only a tiny proportion of the attempts at intimidation to which the people of the Weimar Republic were exposed. In 1922, the statistician Emil Julius Gumbel investigated all the known political murders that followed the foundation of the Republic. He reached a total of 354 assassinations by far-right extremists. On the other side, there were 22 carried out by members of the Left, but they were the ones who met the full fury of the law, while right-wing murderers were treated with great leniency. On average, left-wing perpetrators were sentenced to 15 years imprisonment, while the right-wingers got away with an average of four months each. The Social Democrat led Justice Ministry confirmed the results of Gumbel's research, but did not consider itself to be in a position to influence the practice of the courts.
The attacks were intended to intimidate local politicians, mayors, and senior officials. County Commissioner, don't worry, it won't be long now, in the words of a song that right-wing activists spread among the farmers of the rural people's movement. Let's take a closer view at one of the murdered men. The aristocratic landowner and former Lieutenant Captain, Hans Pasha. In 1920, candidate for the city council of Deutsch Corner, now in West Poland. It was as good as certain that he was going to win the election, because in matters of land reform, the landowner was on the side of the agricultural workers. The scion of a wealthy and very conservative parental home, he wasn't necessarily what one would associate with a man of his standing. He does, however, give us an idea of the enormous range of lifestyles to be found among the upper class.
Pasha had, under the impression of his four-year period of service in Africa, developed into a romantic friend of the Black continent. He returned to Germany as a passionate critic of Western civilization, campaigned for the protection of the environment, and was active in the Vanderfoger, wandering bird, hiking movement. In many of his writings, he had harsh words about the inhuman leadership of the war and described his learning process in the discussion with the African population. In 1912, he wrote a proclamation that today reads like an early ecological manifesto for the Green Party. While a single gazelle whose hide has value on the global market still lives, or a whale in the Arctic Ocean, or a bird of paradise in the jungle of remote islands, then business activity will not rest, coupled with inhuman thoughtlessness and short-sightedness.
Pasha, one fame with a fictional travel story by an African, from whose perspective the peculiarities of German growth-driven society appear wonderfully abstruse and ludicrous. His book, The Research Trip of the African Lukanga Mukara into the German interior, became a bestseller in 1912, and later inspired the international hit De Papalagi by Ere Schuyeman, first published in 1920. This book sold 1.7 million copies in its German language edition alone, and in 1968 became a cult book of the anti-authoritarian movement. It can hardly be denied that Pasha was extremely influential. His book, A Head-Shaking Critique of the Strange Practices of German Natives from the perspective of an intellectually superior black man, was received as a provocation by the supposedly civilized nation.
Nothing characterises Pasha better than the gesture that he made during the war to the French forced labourers working on his farm at Valt Frieden on their national day. He hoisted the tricolor right in the middle of the German state of Father Promorania. The last straw for his opponents came in 1918, when Pasha tried to enter politics in Berlin, joined the workers and soldiers Soviet, and energetically demanded that the Iberchheidermann government arrest and punish the supreme army command in vain as we know. Disappointed by the realities of politics, Pasha quickly retreated to Valt Frieden. His wife, Ellen, daughter of a well-to-do banker and niece of the journalist Maximilian Hardin, died of Spanish flu on 8 December 1918, only nine years after their honeymoon, which had taken them across East Africa.
Now the landowner set about bringing up their four children on his own. On an unusually warm day in May 1920, he was swimming with them in a lake when a village policeman ordered him to come home. He followed him wearing only his swimming trunks and dressing gown, but turned around when he caught a glimpse of some of the 60 soldiers who had surrounded the farm. Their hail of rifle fire struck him in the back. When Harigraf Kessler heard of Pasha's murder, he noted in his diary, the safety of political dissidents in present-day Germany is worse than the most notorious South American republics or in the Rome of the Borges.
Hans Pasha and Ernst Junga, the two decommissioned officers and authors, were worlds apart. In between there is room for the most exciting social tableau that Germany has ever seen. Ibert, a man despised. If we were to amalgamate the many different aspects of German society in a single individual, we might end up with Friedrich Ibert, a great pan-Germanist, the ideal composition of a president, in fact. Although by 1924 his image had been delivered many millions of times over on postage stamps, cheap stamps which even decades after his death survive in children's collections, it's fair to say Ibert did not leave a great mark on posterity.
His was a bullish face with a bushy mustache and inexpressive eyes, a face marked by bitterness, vile and an unsatisfied yearning for power. And this was supposed to be the man who rode the tiger, who took the reins of the revolution and in defiance of all resistance transformed Germany into one of the most modern, turbulent and experimental societies on earth? Yes, that was him, the man known as Ibert the traitor. His career was a modern fairy tale. The dream of rising from dishwasher to millionaire is as nothing in comparison. Born in 1871, the son of a Heidelberg tailor, Ibert left education after secondary school, trained as a sadler, was the tenant landlord of a pub in Bremen, an expert in matters of social insurance, and since 1919 suddenly president of the empire.
By his side stood Louisa Ibert, nay rump, former label sticker in a cigar factory. Frida Ibert, a smart young man who could deliver long speeches at public festivals and gatherings in public halls, had married Louisa of humble origins in 1894 when she was four months pregnant. As soon as the child was born, she helped in the inn where they had just become tenants, happy with her relative independence because Ibert himself didn't enjoy serving behind the bar. In her childhood, she said later, she had to endure very, very much that was difficult and gloomy. As First Lady of the Republic, the former label sticker was the successor to the Kaiser and Auguste Victoria. She performed her role to perfection. She hosted receptions in the presidential palace on Vilien Strasse with such natural grace and unforced courtesy that even one Baroness von Reinbaben confessed herself delighted.
Ibert himself also had a talent for hospitality. He had always paid attention to manners, and he always advised the more rough and ready customers in his pub to wear a frock coat at their next visit. He ran his local as a kind of advice center. Ibert, the pub landlord, had excellent knowledge of legal matters and guided his customers through the jungle of the new social laws, an activity that he later used in his professional life as permanently employed workers' secretary in his party's advice office. Ibert was what might be called a right-wing social democrat. Socialism for him meant not so much the nationalisation of key industries and more society aiming for equality, one in which workers could in future aspire to the lifestyle of the middle class. He himself had made the same move after all. He comfortably celebrated the hobbies of high society. He went sailing in a white suit, hunting in a green loading jacket.
But bourgeois, though he might have appeared and however presidential his manner in the end, for the conservative pillars of society, the Parvenu remained beyond the pale. The Ticlichoroncho called him Friedrich the Temporary. The squat short-necked figure, the van Dyke beard, the roll of fat at the back of his neck, even today he emanates the fresh sharp scent of Russian leather which he previously worked. Oh, if only he had stuck to that occupation. He has the horizon of a cheese dome. The diatribes were unrestrained. In August 1919, an image of the president's swimming was even published. He and Gustav Nauschke appeared half-naked on the front page of the Berliner-Elustriertazitong. The head of state and his defence minister stood in the Baltic Sea, grinning for the photographer. Today the picture might be used to demonstrate how close to the people the two men were, but in those days it prompted near-universal horror and revulsion.
To many the half-naked president looked like the symbol of an unarmed fatherland. The photograph might have made Ebert appear human, but most people wondered whether the revolution hadn't led to an entirely unsuitable person becoming head of state. Postcards were printed showing the representative of the new regime looking a bit like a cartoon character in his ill-fitting swimming trunks and next to him by way of comparison the dignified representatives of the old regime, Kaiser Wilhelm and his field marshal Paul von Hindenburg, both in full dress uniform with rows of medals, the caption above the picture, then and now. The undistinguished Ebert had a tough time in the new world of mass media. He exercised his duties without charisma or drama, without wit or humour, opting instead for a cautious tone of balance and moderation.
This was unwelcome in an age accustomed to boldness, with an appetite for excitement and spice. The widespread feeling that something exciting was afoot made Ebert look like a timid slow coach. There was much talk of the new man and a yearning for danger and thrills. Many people cultivated a brash, supercilious style which meant that everything left them unimpressed. At such a time with everyone wanting to reach for the stars, Ebert couldn't have come across as anything but shockingly mediocre. For the writer, Kord Tohulski, he was an average citizen, the worst mixture of unimaginable, personally clean and actually dirty. Left and right came together in the conviction that Ebert was guilty of betrayal.
Some saw him as the traitor to the revolution, others as a traitor to the fatherland and his brave soldiers. Later, the journalist Zibastian Haffner had no qualms about boring the stab in the back legend from the right and reshaping it for the treacherous assassination of the revolution, to which Ebert was guilelessly committed. In 1968, Haffner wrote that the fact that they weren't rogues on the grand scale but respectable citizens doesn't make Ebert and Noske any more likable. The monstrosity of their historic deed isn't reflected in their private character. If we look for their motives, we don't find anything demonic or magnificently satanic, just banalities, a love of order and a petty bourgeois overachievement. Ebert's image really doesn't have much of a chance against the posthumous charisma of Liebknecht in Luxembourg.
Their hideous murders, their status as victims, the humanity they demonstrated in rejecting the First World War, lead posterity to overlook their share of responsibility for the bloody course of the post-revolutionary months. Had they accepted democratic rules rather than constantly threatening to seize power for themselves, it would have been easier to democratize the forces of order and put the Reichswehr on a chain. Today, Ebert has the thankless reputation reserved for those given to moderation and balance, undervalued qualities in the period under discussion. There is a lack of flaws, a lack of catharsis, his biographer, Walter Mulhousen writes. Ebert, in his view, lacks the special aura that so strongly fascinates historians and the interested public about big historical personalities in general. History prefers more gripping protagonists.
At the same time, the mediocrity that Ebert embodies was arguably suited to what was an essentially risky program. In contrast, with the churned up passions of the post-war era, the attempt to reconcile a divided society was on a scale that required a titan, even though titans would have been entirely unsuited to the task of peacemaking. So was the phlegmatic Ebert perhaps the right person after all? He was only granted six years in office. He died of appendicitis on the last day of February 1925, already quite frail. Much of the public felt orphaned when they heard the news of his death. A huge crowd over a million came to watch the funeral procession pass by the Tiagarten Park in Berlin. Although rather muted and quiet, the crowd did 3,800 Reismark worth of damage to monuments and flower beds.
With familiar fury, members of parliament on both the far left and the far right opposed the bill being paid by the taxpayer. For all of its diversity, the intellectual world united in its mockery of the order-loving Ebert during his lifetime. Out of their ranks, it was no less an observer than Thomas Mann, who defended Ebert most stoutly. That's hardly surprising. The poet with the iron trousers, as Alfred Dublin somewhat contemptuously called him, had thought with greater subtlety and ingenuity than anyone else about what was appropriate, about the path between the decorous, the deviant, and the authentic, in aesthetics, the erotic, and politics.
Thomas Mann confessed in 1925 that his sympathy for Ebert was boundless. He saw in him the fate of a man that the age impelled into something initially quite incredible, fantastical, but which was quite unable to twist the personality into eccentricity but a fate that was born and implemented with simple dignity and relaxed reason. Still shaken by the murder of Foreign Minister Valta Ratanau in 1922, Thomas Mann wrote an essay for young academics defending the German Republic. A short time later, he delivered his declaration to predominantly anti-democratic students in Berlin. He tried to persuade them, taking extravagant detours via German romanticism, Friedrich Nietzsche and Walt Whitman, that the new state could also be theirs.
Just as people would later call Angala Merko mutter or even mutty, at first contemptuously, then almost as if in a need for protection, Thomas Mann adopted a familial vision of the President. Father Ebert is known to me, he assured the students, who at first followed the words of the revered Nobel laureate, respectfully. Ebert was a fundamentally pleasant man, modestly dignified, not without cunning, relaxed and humanly solid. I have seen him a few times in his black tie-and-tails, the gifted and incredibly sly child of fortune, a bourgeois among bourgeois, perform his high office calmly and amiably at festivities, and as I was able to observe the late master, the Kaiser, a decorative talent without a doubt, engaged in some dealing or other, I gained the insight which I should like to present to you here.
That democracy can be something more German than an imperial opera-gala. Loud foot-stamping followed in protest, grumbling among the upper-class youth who wanted something grander. Even if it was only not losing their privileges in a workers' republic.