ALTERNATE HISTORY – ALTERNATE MEMORY: COUNTERFACTUAL LITERATURE IN THE CONTEXT OF GERMAN NORMALIZATION by GUIDO SCHENKEL M.A., Freie Universität Berlin, 2006 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (German Studies) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) April 2012 © Guido Schenkel, 2012 ABSTRACT This dissertation examines a variety of Alternate Histories of the Third Reich from the perspective of memory theory. The term ‘Alternate History’ describes a genre of literature that presents fictional accounts of historical developments which deviate from the known course of history. These allohistorical narratives are inherently presentist, meaning that their central question of “What If?” can harness the repertoire of collective memory in order to act as both a reflection of and a commentary on contemporary social and political conditions. Moreover, Alternate Histories can act as a form of counter-memory insofar as the counterfactual mode can be used to highlight marginalized historical events. This study investigates a specific manifestation of this process. Contrasted with American and British examples, the primary focus is the analysis of the discursive functions of German-language counterfactual literature in the context of German normalization. The category of normalization connects a variety of commemorative trends in postwar Germany aimed at overcoming the legacy of National Socialism and re-formulating a positive German national identity. The central hypothesis is that Alternate Histories can perform a unique task in this particular discursive setting. In the context of German normalization, counterfactual stories of the history of the Third Reich are capable of functioning as alternate memories, meaning that they effectively replace the memory of real events with fantasies that are better suited to serve as exculpatory narratives for the German collective. To develop the theoretical framework for this new category, the dissertation delineates and contrasts pertinent theories of both collective memory and counter-memory and harnesses the scholarly findings of these fields to expand existing critical understandings of the genre of Alternate History. The combination of this sociological approach with the methodology of literary studies is applied in a close reading to an exemplary selection of Alternate Histories, grouped into three themes which correspond closely to prominent narratives of German collective memory: The universalization of National Socialism, the motif of the ‘good German,’ and the myth of German victimization. This approach demonstrates in detail the narrative strategies that constitute alternate memory in the context of German normalization. ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ...................................................................................................................................... ii Table of Contents ...................................................................................................................... iii Acknowledgements ................................................................................................................... iv Dedication .................................................................................................................................. v 1. Introduction ............................................................................................................................ 1 2. Alternate Histories: Memory, Counter-Memory, Alternate Memory ....................................... 8 2.1 Alternative Historiographies .......................................................................................... 9 2.2 Counterfactual Nazis .................................................................................................. 19 2.3 Collective Memory and National Identity .................................................................... 28 2.4 From Counter-Memory to Alternate Memory .............................................................. 37 2.5 Alternate Memory and German Normalization ............................................................ 46 3. It Could Happen … Anyway: Universalizing Nazism ........................................................... 57 3.1 The Man in the High Castle ......................................................................................... 58 3.2 Samuel Hitler............................................................................................................... 64 3.3 Making History ............................................................................................................ 81 3.4 Ausflug ........................................................................................................................ 88 3.5 Requiem für einen Stümper .......................................................................................... 96 4. Counterfactual Heroes: The ‘Good German’ ....................................................................... 106 4.1 Fatherland ................................................................................................................. 108 4.2 Alles bleibt anders .................................................................................................... 113 4.3 Der 21. Juli ............................................................................................................... 124 5. Alternate Holocausts: Victimizing the Perpetrators ............................................................. 137 5.1 Die Stimmen der Nacht .............................................................................................. 144 5.2 Morbus Kitahara ....................................................................................................... 159 5.3 Im Jahre Ragnarök .................................................................................................... 174 6. Conclusions ........................................................................................................................ 182 Works Cited ........................................................................................................................... 185 iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS My sincere thanks go first and foremost to the members of my supervisory committee. My supervisor, Dr. Geoffrey Winthrop-Young, has been a major inspiration for this project from the very beginning, through both his own insightful work on the subject of Alternate History and his supportive advice throughout the preparation of my thesis. Dr. Ilinca Iurascu has motivated me to look beyond the immediate scope of my topic and improved my understanding of the issues surrounding it. And, last but certainly not least, Prof. Dr. Sabine Schülting, as an expert in the fields of English Literature and Cultural Studies, has provided me with an invaluable interdisciplinary perspective. All of them have tirelessly supplied me with helpful feedback and have patiently guided me through moments of crisis. This dissertation would not exist without their support. I would further like to thank the Department of Central, Eastern and Northern European Studies at the University of British Columbia (Vancouver) for facilitating my research both academically and financially, and my countless friends and colleagues across the globe, whose manifold contributions to the successful completion of my dissertation have ranged from moral support to ad hoc international library runs. Finally, I am grateful to the good people at the Letter Shop and especially my wife Henriette (in addition to a million other things) for the printing of the finished product. iv for h. bis zum mond und wieder zurück v 1. INTRODUCTION A war or revolution may create a great chasm between two generations, as if an intermediate generation had just disappeared. In such a case, who can be sure that, on the day after, the youth of society will not be primarily concerned, as the old will be, with erasing any traces of that rupture, reconciling separated generations and maintaining, in spite of everything, continuity of social evolution? 1 Wenn etwas vorbei ist, ist man nicht mehr der, dem es passierte. 2 In light of the development of German memory discourses over the past seventy years and the ways in which they engage the legacy of the Third Reich, the Second World War, and the Holocaust, the above quote from Maurice Halbwachs’ seminal study The Collective Memory appears virtually prophetic. Erasing the traces of the rupture that these events represent in the context of (German) history has been an ongoing process ever since the earliest days of the postwar period. This has been referred to, by proponents and critics alike, as the process of German normalization. As a victim of the very regime whose crimes have inscribed themselves so deeply into the collective memory of Germans and the whole world, the inherent optimism expressed by Halbwachs in these lines – which were, of course, actually concerned with the disruption of social continuity caused by World War I – also acquires a tragic quality. In direct contrast, the second quote becomes almost cynical. It is taken from Martin Walser’s novel Ein springender Brunnen, a prominent literary example of a highly selective interaction with the past, represented by the author’s attempt to reflect on his childhood under, but utterly untouched by, National Socialism. While Walser has generally become one of the most well-known and vocal proponents of the normalization of German collective memory through several public speeches over the past fifteen years, the integration of this sentiment into his writing is of particular significance, as it contradicts a widespread misconception about the relationship between literature and memory. Geoffrey Hartman argues that art in general “provides a counterforce to manufactured and monolithic memory.” 3 Similarly, for Régine Robin-Maire, monolithic and mythic memory is 1 Maurice Halbwachs, The Collective Memory (New York: Harper & Row, 1980), 82. 2 Martin Walser, Ein springender Brunnen (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1998), 8. 3 Geoffrey H. Hartman, The Longest Shadow: In the Aftermath of the Holocaust (Bloomington: Indiana University 1 produced primarily by official historians (including revisionist trends), while art is the place where ‘true’ memory is produced. 4 Both of these assessments highlight the relativizing power of official history, and justifiably so. The role of historiography in the formation of what both Hartman and Robin-Maire call “monolithic memory” can hardly be overstated. Monolithic memory, here, denotes a commemorative culture of virtually unassailable tenets that selectively exclude (and include) elements of historical knowledge in the interest of creating and maintaining viable collective identity. However, this view not only neglects but directly denies the capacity of other narrative forms to fulfil the same function. Helmut Schmitz posits that “any German engagement with the legacy of National Socialism implicitly poses the question of identity, both personal and national,” and that literary narratives that do so can be considered “political projects pursued by the writers.” 5 Of course, to some extent this contention could easily be extended to all fictional representations of history, not merely those dealing with Nationalism Socialism and/or written by German authors. This reasoning does also not immediately contradict that of Robin-Maire and Hartman, who do not categorically dispute the political potential of memory literature. However, Schmitz’ study as a whole provides a variety of examples of relatively recent German fiction which indeed refute the notion of literature as a necessarily progressive medium. Rather, in the same way as Walser’s novel, many fictional engagements with the German past do not only not counteract forms of monolithic or mythic memory, they in fact contribute to them. Many critical investigations into this function exist, but they commonly focus exclusively on what, in the context of German literary studies, is still widely considered ‘serious literature’ by a majority of scholars. Accordingly, most of these critical inquiries concern themselves with the works of such established German authors as Grass, Sebald, and Walser. What is still widely referred to as ‘trivial literature,’ on the other hand, is rarely the object of study in this context. As Malcolm Humble suggests, this represents an oversight because “‘Trivialliteratur’ appears less trivial if it is interpreted not in terms of literary merit,” but as a “barometer of widely held views on the forces governing political change [...].”6 Press, 1996), 104. 4 Régine Robin-Maire, “The Bifurcations of Memory,” in Politics of Collective Memory: Cultural Patterns of Commemorative Practices in Post-War Europe, ed. Sophie Wahnich, Barbara Lášticová and Andrej Findor (Berlin: LIT, 2008), 40-42. 5 Helmut Schmitz, On their Own Terms: The Legacy of National Socialism in Post-1990 German Fiction (Birmingham: University of Birmingham Press, 2004), 15. My emphasis. 6 Malcolm Humble, "How Trivial is 'Trivialliteratur'?: The Exploitation of the Nazi Past in the British and American 2 By examining Alternate Histories, this dissertation heeds this advice and investigates a genre of fiction that is not only widely considered to fall summarily into the category of ‘trivial’ or popular literature, but which represents a unique mode of accessing historical themes and produces narratives that can be read as both representations of and interventions into discourses of collective memory. The term Alternate History denotes a genre of speculative fiction that “concerns itself with history's turning out differently than what we know to be true.”7 The majority of contributions to the relatively scarce body of scholarship on this type of literature have noted that such allohistorical narratives are inherently presentist, meaning that their central question of “What If?” can harness the repertoire of collective memory in order to act as both a reflection of and a commentary on contemporary social and political conditions. Moreover, Alternate Histories can act as a form of counter-memory insofar as the counterfactual mode can be used to highlight marginalized historical events. A popular example of this in the context of British literature are Alternate Histories that can be read as commentaries on the narrative of the war against Nazi Germany as Britain’s ‘Finest Hour.’ This is realized, for instance, by stories that envision an alternative course of history in which the Allies lost the war and the Nazis reign victorious. In an extensive comparative study of Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, Gavriel Rosenfeld has shown that this particular premise can function in (at least) two ways. 8 It can either re-affirm the actual course of history and the established narrative of the moral superiority of the British people by depicting the fictional present in dystopian terms as a result of the historical alterations and portraying valiant efforts of British resistance. Or it can question these very same tenets by either imagining the changed world in relatively benevolent terms or depicting the defeated Britons as willing collaborators. There are, of course, many variations of these themes. However, it is significant to note that Alternate Histories belonging to the second category generally can be said to adopt the role of counter-memories by actively subverting established commemorative traditions and thereby contesting their importance in contemporary discourses of national identity. This study investigates a specific manifestation of this process. In the following, I will discuss a selection of texts that present counterfactual scenarios of the genre’s most popular theme: the history of National Socialism. I will show how these Bestseller since 1945," in Anglistentag 1984: Vorträge, ed. Manfred Pfister (Gießen: Hoffmann, 1984), 216. 7 Karen Hellekson, The Alternate History: Refiguring Historical Time. (Kent: Kent State UP, 2001), 1. 8 See Gavriel Rosenfeld, The World Hitler Never Made: Alternate History and the Memory of Nazism (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005). 3 alternative accounts can be read as counter-memories in the sense that their specific narrative structure, as in the example above, serves to popularize versions of remembering the past that deviate from established commemorative axioms. This will illustrate how Alternate Histories can, in fact, be considered an ideal medium for ‘counteracting’ monolithic memory, in the terms of Hartman and Robin-Maire. It will also become clear that this process is not necessarily subversive, but can just as well be used to pursue a reactionary agenda. While this distinction applies to all national contexts, it is especially relevant with regard to German-language allohistorical fiction because, like many German postwar writers, authors of Alternate History “have continually experimented with different narrative perspectives and structures to reinterpret and recreate their history.” 9 Even in non-allohistorical narratives, German reinterpretations of the memory of the Third Reich are not categorically progressive or even neutral, but in many cases constitute what Eric Santner calls instances of “narrative fetishism,” namely “the construction or deployment of a narrative consciously or unconsciously designed to expunge the traces of the trauma or loss that called the narrative into being in the first place.” 10 In Santner’s view, such engagements with a traumatic past represent the opposite of acts of mourning, in contrast to which narrative fetishism does not entail “the willingness or capacity to include the traumatic event in one’s efforts to reformulate and reconstitute identity.” 11 In the context of postwar German memory debates, this distinction corresponds directly to the prominent dichotomy between Vergangenheitsbewältigung (overcoming the past) and Aufarbeitung der Vergangenheit (working through the past). This also provides a fundamental argument for accessing these texts from a nationally specific perspective, because Alternate Histories of the Third Reich generally “tell us less about the Nazi past than about the shifting concerns within the nations that have produced them.” 12 And while it is unquestionably true that “there is still a sense in which British and American speculative fiction are divided with their commonality, using the same vocabulary of ideas but speaking with distinctive accents,” the approaches of both these national variants of counterfactual literature to the subject of National Socialism differ much more radically from 9 Reiko Tachibana, Narrative as Counter-Memory: A Half-Century of Postwar Writing in Germany and Japan (New York: State University of New York Press, 1998), 25. 10 Eric L. Santner, “History Beyond the Pleasure Principle: Some Thoughts in the Representation of Trauma,” in Probing the Limits of Representation: Nazism and the ‘Final Solution’,” ed. Saul Friedländer (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), 144. 11 Ibid., 152. 12 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 383. 4 their German counterparts.13 In contrast to the winning nations of the Second World War, Germans did not have access to positive memory narratives. German accounts have mirrored those in Britain and the United States [but] have differed from British and American narratives in their function. If early accounts mostly aimed to affirm West Germany’s postwar rehabilitation by showing how much worse history would have been had the Nazis won the war, they also enabled Germans to express regret for the disastrous course of their recent history. This self-critical function has disappeared, however, from the alternate histories that have appeared in Germany since the country’s reunification in 1990. In contrast to British and American narratives, which normalized the premise of a Nazi military triumph for the purpose of self-critique, recent German tales have done so for the triumphalistic purpose of re-establishing a normal sense of national identity. 14 While this chronological outline adequately assesses the different status of Alternate History fictions in postwar Germany, it neglects the existence of earlier examples of the latter type. In the following chapters, I will discuss several examples that pre-date the reunification of Germany but which can nonetheless be read as representations of a specifically German trend of normalization. Nonetheless, overall the historical evolution of this theme in the German context is an important aspect. Despite not being confined to this era exclusively, German-language Alternate Histories that display a tendency to normalize the memory of the National Socialist past have indeed not only increased in number but also adopted distinctly different narrative strategies over the past two decades. While the genre never produced many examples which could be considered contributions to a working-through of the past, as it were, the absolute majority of recent German Alternate Histories can be read as representations of counter-memory narratives aimed at overcoming it. This shift directly correlates not only with the re-formulations of German identity in the wake of reunification, but also with a paradigmatic turn in the discourse of German collective memory that accompanied the generational and ideological changes in the German political landscape at the end of the 20th centur y. These developments have given risen rise to a new type of exculpatory countermemories. In the context of official commemorative culture and non-allohistorical literature, these can be understood as a form of anti-memory: that is, a process in which the overcoming of 13 Brian Stableford, “The British and American Traditions of Speculative Fiction,” in Contours of the Fantastic: Selected Essays from the Eighth International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts, ed. Michele K. Langford (New York: Greenwood, 1990), 47. 14 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 162. 5 the past is no longer characterized by repression, but by practices of demonstrative commemoration that at the same time serve to replace the memory of the legacy of National Socialism with a narrative of successful atonement and redemption. 15 In German allohistorical literature, the same strategy can be observed. In contrast to other forms of memory, however, which are necessarily bound to reconcile their attempts at the restoration of German national identity with real history, Alternate Histories – due their inherently counterfactual nature – have the capacity to effectively replace the memory of real events with fantasies that are better suited to serve as exculpatory narratives for the German collective. I will therefore call this particular phenomenon, which is unique to both the genre of Alternate History and the German (and Austrian) national context, alternate memory. To develop the theoretical framework for this new category, I will delineate and contrast pertinent theories of both collective memory and counter-memory and harness the scholarly findings of these fields to expand existing critical understandings of the genre of Alternate History. The combination of this sociological approach with the methodology of literary studies is then applied in close readings to an exemplary selection of allohistorical narratives. The first chapter establishes the theoretical foundations. Here, the categories of Alternate History, collective memory, counter-memory, German normalization and alternate memory are developed and situated within the context of extant scholarship. The following three chapters analyze representative examples that serve to illustrate the discursive strategies of alternate memory. These are grouped into three themes which correspond closely to prominent narratives of German normalization: The universalization of National Socialism, the motif of the ‘good German,’ and the myth of German victimization. In this context, the specificity of Germanlanguage Alternate History will become clear through the direct contrast with British and American examples which incorporate similar allohistorical themes, but perform distinctly different functions in the context of their respective national, cultural, and commemorative settings. It should be noted, however, that this study does neither suggest that reactionary Alternate Histories are limited to a German-language context nor that, within that context, no other forms of allohistorical fiction exist. The texts discussed in the following chapters were explicitly selected to illustrate the potential of counterfactual literature to function as alternate memories. There are certainly a number German and Austrian Alternate Histories that do not 15 See Geoffrey H. Hartman, The Longest Shadow: In the Aftermath of the Holocaust (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 10. 6 conform to this model and some are mentioned in the first chapter. This study does not claim to be an exhaustive review of German-language allohistorical writing. Rather, it constitutes an exemplary examination of a prolific narrative phenomenon that has not been discussed in any previous explorations of the genre and that, especially in the past two decades and in light of the paradigmatic shifts in German memory culture, represents a unique manifestation of the interactive relationship between literature and memory. 7 2. ALTERNATE HISTORIES: MEMORY, COUNTER-MEMORY, ALTERNATE MEMORY As a genre, Alternate History is intimately linked to the category of memory. Rosenfeld has argued that allohistorical fictions “lend themselves very well to being studied as documents of memory for the same reason historians have dismissed them as useless for the study of history – namely, their fundamental subjectivity.” 16 In other words, Alternate History is as much an expression of memory as it is its product. In this sense, fictional speculations about altered paths of history must not merely be read as narrative representations of non-literary memory discourses, but, at the same time, as contributions to and interventions into them. In addition, Alternate Histories lend themselves exceptionally well to such a line of enquiry due to their inherent presentism. As a large number of scholars of the genre have posited, despite the apparent narrative focus on the past, Alternate History’s primary concern is for the present. 17 The general argument is that fictional visions of altered pasts and the consequences they bear for the future are not an end in itself, but must be read as either affirmative or critical comments on the contemporary status quo. Here, the link between Alternate History and memory is especially evident, for, as Siobhan Kattago points out, “[m]emories of the past perhaps tell us more about the present society than about the past. Because memory is a dynamic, fluid activity framed by social groups and located in symbolic places, the activity of remembering is guided by the needs of the present.” 18 The first chapter will discuss this connection between Alternate History and memory and outline in detail how allohistorical fictions can not only be read as artefacts of and contributions to collective discourses of remembering and forgetting, but also illustrate how narratives of alternate pasts represent a form of counter-memory in their own right. At the same time, the concept of counter-memory and its overwhelmingly positive connotations in contemporary (academic) discourse will itself be subjected to in-depth scrutiny, and a new category, alternate memory, will be developed and suggested as a basis on which to analyze pertinent works of fiction in this context. In conclusion, it will be shown how alternate memory serves different 16 Gavriel Rosenfeld, “‘Why Do We Ask ‘What If?’: Reflections on the Function of Alternate History,” History and Theory 41, no. 4 (2002): 93. 17 See Helbig, Korthals, Rosenfeld, Wesseling, et al. 18 Siobhan Kattago, Ambiguous Memory: The Nazi Past and German National Identity (Westport: Praeger, 2001), 171. 8 functions in different national contexts, and, in contrast to the commonly progressive connotations attached to counter-memory, it will be argued that, in the context of postwar German memory discourses, its principal function must be considered anything but. Rather, within the context of what has been called the normalization of memory in contemporary Germany, what I will call alternate memory is really a means for the relativization of history. 2.1 ALTERNATE HISTORIOGRAPHIES In order to establish this theoretical framework, however, the first question must be: What is Alternate History? In a simple yet concise definition, it is the fictional account of “history that never happened.” 19 Or, as Gordon Chamberlain puts it, it is a genre which “deals with the known past as it might have been – not as it may have happened behind the scenes, or to unknown individuals, but as we here and now are sure that it did not.”20 While Alternate History stories may include the element of partially recounting actual historical events, their defining characteristic is the production of narrative scenarios of how history might have turned out if any one of these events had played out differently. If, for instance, Roosevelt (as in Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle) had been assassinated prior to World War II, if Hitler had never been born (as in Stephen Fry’s Making History) or had merely never ascended to political power (as in Sabine Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s “Requiem für einen Stümper”), how would our world have been different? It is this kind of speculative departure from factual history that is at the heart of Alternate History. Speaking in broad aesthetic terms, allohistorical fictions can generally be defined as a literature of estrangement or, rather, as a kind of writing which relies on the interplay of the counterfactual and the real. 21 Booth, Rowlinson, Clark, Delahaye, and Procter recognize this in their definition of what they call “modal narratives” by saying that in order “to be cognizable, [counterfactuals] must first be estranged, yet estrangement requires cognition to enable any sense 19 See Alexander Demandt, History that Never Happened: A Treatise on the Question, What Would Have Happened If...? (Jefferson: McFarland, 1993). 20 Gordon B. Chamberlain, “Afterword: Allohistory in Science Fiction,” in Alternative Histories: Eleven Stories of the World As It Might Have Been, eds. Charles Waugh and Martin H. Greenberg (New York: Garland, 1986), 283. 21 See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 5. Edgar McKnight also fundamentally conceptualizes Alternate History as literature of estrangement in his unpublished dissertation, Alternative History: The Development of a Literary Genre. 9 to be made of the novum.” 22 And both Wilhelm Füger and Jörg Helbig, the latter explicitly discussing “parahistorical” novels on the basis of the former’s more general definition, include speculative fictions in the category of “allotopia.” Füger’s definition of this term includes an element very similar to Booth et al.: “Einerseits müssen Normal- und Gegenwelt irgendwie aufeinander bezogen oder zumindest beziehbar sein, andererseits dürfen sie nicht völlig kommensurabel werden, da Alternativität sonst in Alterität umschlüge.” 23 Generating this specific dialectic of estrangement and familiarity implies a relatively high relevance of intentional ‘constructedness’ in Alternate History fictions because it suggests that, as Hermann Ritter puts it very bluntly, the author must construct a counterfactual story intentionally. 24 This is not only interesting when taking into account the otherwise heavily postmodernist direction of the genre, as manifested in its central play with historical contingencies, as well as the majority of the scholarship it has generated, but especially when attempting to read Alternate Histories in the context of non-literary discourses of memory. I will return to this point later. The question of when Alternate History began is strongly contested. In a considerable number of texts, Charles Renouvier’s Uchronie (l’utopie dans l’histoire) from 1876 is named as the first actual Alternate History, in the sense of serving as a founding text for a new literary tradition. 25 However, this may be explained primarily by the fact that it was Renouvier who coined the term “Uchronie” or Uchronia (as a chronological pendant to Thomas More’s geographical Utopia), which is still widely used synonymously with Alternate History today, while other terms have generally not garnered the same widespread acceptance. 26 Some critics 22 Charles Booth et al., “Scenarios and Counterfactuals as Modal Narratives,” Futures 41, no. 2 (2009): 93. 23 Wilhelm Füger, “Streifzüge durch Allotopia,” Anglia 102 (1984): 256. 24 See Hermann Ritter, “Kontrafaktische Geschichte: Unterhaltung versus Erkenntnis,” in Was wäre wenn: Alternativ- und Parallelgeschichte: Brücken Zwischen Phantasie und Wirklichkeit, ed. Michael Salewski (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1999), 16. 25 See Hellekson, Rosenfeld, Steinmüller et al. 26 Uchronia is today not only the title of the largest genre bibliography (see http://www.uchronia.net), but also the only term which is still, by some, actively contested. Christoph Rodiek, for example, differentiates between Alternate Histories and Uchronias in terms of literary value, with the former being relegated to the realm of pulp fiction, whereas the latter constitutes ‘worthwhile’ literature. And Amy Ransom understands Uchronia, in contrast to Alternate History, as including “any other chronologies other than that of the empirical world, past, present or future”. See Amy Ransom, “Alternate History and Uchronia: Some Questions of Terminology and Genre,” Foundations: The International Review of Science Fiction 32, no. 87 (2003): 65. The most prominent other labels include Alternative History (Suvin), Allohistory (Chamberlain), Allotopia (Füger), Counterfactuals (mainly used outside of literary studies), and Parahistory (Helbig). I will be using a variety of these terms synonymously throughout this paper. 10 suggest that early examples can even be traced back to ancient Greece, 27 while others argue that Alternate History is a distinctly modern phenomenon. Most convincingly, Geoffrey WinthropYoung has labeled attempts to find ever older cases of Alternate History writing an “anticipatory fallacy that presents evidence of a tradition which in fact did not exist, [intimating] connections where there were only isolated incidents”. 28 He argues that, despite possible earlier examples, the “genre’s first, formative period [occurred] from the early 1930s to the early 1940s,” 29 because “the sensitivity to the mutability of time hardly existed in literature prior to the 1930s.” 30 And Elmar Schenkel contends that “alternatives Geschichtsdenken” does not actually develop its full potential until after the end of the Second World War. 31 While I agree with both the WinthropYoung’s and Schenkel’s assessments that Alternate History is intimately tied to the twentieth century – perhaps even the second half of the twentieth century – and while it is crucial to be aware that the overall questions at stake in the genre of Alternate History are historically specific and the narrative means of addressing them change as the genre itself evolves, this particular question is secondary for the investigation at hand. The Alternate History narratives in question here all deal immediately with altered outcomes of the Second World War and therefore are necessarily restricted one and all to the second half of the twentieth century. In large parts of the early scholarship investigating the genre, Alternate History was – and, by some, is to this day – widely held to be a sub-genre of Science Fiction, and this classification certainly applies to a considerable number of texts. The link between Science Fiction and Alternate History has been discussed by many critics; 32 most prominently, albeit again with a focus on slightly too early examples, by Darko Suvin in his article on Victorian Science Fiction: 27 See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 5. 28 Geoffrey Winthrop-Young, “Fallacies and Thresholds: Notes on the Early Evolution of Alternate History,” Historical Social Research 34, no. 2 (2009): 103. 29 Ibid., 102. 30 Ibid., 108. 31 Elmar Schenkel, “Die Macht des Ungeschehenen: Phantastische Geschichtsschreibung in alternative histories,” in Fantasy in Film und Literatur, ed. Dieter Petzold (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1996), 130. 32 Most authors who assume this connection take it for granted; the only actual case made explicitly for an inclusion of Alternate History into the Science Fiction genre can be found in: Jürgen Thomann, “Leben im Konditional: Alternative Welten und ihre Relevanz. Einführung in das Genre der Alternate History,” Kopfgeburten 7 (1996): 5-20. 11 Alternative History can be identified as that form of SF in which an alternative locus (in space, time, etc.) that shares the material and causal verisimilitude of the writer’s world is used to articulate different possible solutions of societal problems, those problems being of sufficient importance to require an alteration in the overall history of the narrated world. 33 Other critics, such as Karen Hellekson and Winthrop-Young, provide more differentiation, pointing out that contemporary Alternate Histories no longer need to display any immediate genre characteristics of Science Fiction. Hellekson creates an entire taxonomy to account for this fact, but remains somewhat ahistorical in the process; 34 Winthrop-Youn g, on the other hand, shows a developmental progression within the genre from early versions, which still rely heavily on Science Fiction elements like time travel, to newer stories, which have increasingly shed these narrative crutches and are continuously evolving into an autonomous genre. 35 The much more important aspect in Suvin’s definition, however, is the mentioning of a necessary verisimilitude and the commenting, even interventionist character it assigns to Alternate History – I will return to the latter aspect. In the meantime, the aspect of verisimilitude is indeed an indispensible prerequisite in order for Alternate Histories to function. In Suvin’s account, this term can be read as synonymous with intelligibility rather than with the much more restrictive concept of plausibility which, for instance, Christoph Rodiek considers an integral factor of a functioning Uchronia. 36 An allohistorical narrative does not need to be plausible in order to work, but it does need to retain sufficient similarities with reality (verisimilitude) to be recognizable as an alternative account. And it is not least this factor which makes Alternate History, on many levels, inseparable from the realm of history and historiography. As Paul Alkon points out, Alternate History requires “knowledge of real history on the part of the reader.” 37 33 Darko Suvin, “Victorian Science Fiction, 1871-85: The Rise of the Alternate History Subgenre,” Science Fiction Studies 10 (1983): 149. 34 See Karen Hellekson, The Alternate History. It should also be noted here that Hellekson’s model is explicitly based on an earlier taxonomy taken from Joseph William Collins’ unpublished dissertation “Paths Not Taken: The Development, Structure, and Aesthetics of Alternative History.” 35 See Winthrop-Young, “Fallacies and Thresholds.” For an immediate critique of Hellekson’s taxonomy see especially p. 115. 36 See Christoph Rodiek, Erfundene Vergangenheit: Kontrafaktische Geschichtsdarstellung (Uchronie) in der Literatur (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, 1997). Like Christoph Rodiek, Norbert Schaffeld generally differentiates between “trivial” and “serious” counterfactual literature, with the only difference being that Schaffeld does not make this a necessary genre criterion as Rodiek does. See Norbert Schaffeld, Die Darstellung des nationalsozialistischen Deutschland im englischen Roman. (Frankfurt a.M.: Lang, 1987). 37 Paul Alkon, “Alternate History and Postmodern Temporality,” in Time, Literature and the Arts: Essays in Honor 12 Without at least a general awareness of what went on in the world between 1933 and 1945, Alternate Histories of the Third Reich would not work. The same is true, of course, for any historical scenario. Without the knowledge that the Union won the American Civil War – a similarly popular period for Alternate History writers –, a story like Ward Moore’s acclaimed Bring the Jubilee (1953), featuring a time-travelling historian from an America in which the Confederacy was victorious, who inadvertently ‘corrects’ history, would not make much sense. This very simple fact highlights the necessary relationship between Alternate History and historiography. But what is the exact nature of this relationship? Within the discipline of historiography, many historians in the second half of the 20th century have advocated – albeit not without a considerable amount of opposition – methods of counterfactual extrapolation for the study of history, arguing that an examination of its potential outcomes could greatly benefit the understanding of its actual developments at specific junctures. Niall Ferguson, for instance, even goes so far as to suggest that the counterfactual is generally a factor in historiography, saying that in the “absence of the scientific procedure of verification by repetition, the historian [can only] speculate as to what would have happened had the initial conditions or some event in the sequence been different.” 38 In the same vein, Alexander Demandt posits that “[h]istorical scholarship must speculate if it is concerned with achieving understanding; it does so whenever it makes a judgement; it can do so whenever it finds reasons; and it is permitted to do so because every fact has implications beyond itself.” 39 Michael Salewski metaphorically calls the time machine “Wunschtraum und Paradies für den Historiker” 40 and, as already mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, Rosenfeld endorses counterfactuals – both literary and otherwise – as relevant documents of memory, representing a collective subjectivity in a specific historical context. Other, more radically postmodernist approaches by historians such as Hayden White, who stresses the narrative character of all historiography, can be said to at least implicitly promote the counterfactual mode, when taking into account the fact that both directly reinforce the idea of the contingency of historical of Samuel L. Macey, ed. Thomas R. Cleary (Victoria: University of Victoria Press, 1994), 69. 38 Niall Ferguson, Virtual History: Alternatives and Counterfactuals (London: Papermac, 1998), 76. 39 Demandt, History, 8. 40 Michael Salewski, Zeitgeist Und Zeitmaschine: Science Fiction und Geschichte (Munich: dtv, 1986), 227. 13 processes in their own way. 41 Susana Onega also links historiography and literature by stating that, generally, the “contemporary creative writer becomes a historian in an attempt to fill the gaps left by traditional totalitarian history while at the same time the philosophers of history try to achieve the same aim through the exploration of the narrative mechanisms of historywriting.” 42 Hellekson, author of the only general English-language book-length study on the Alternate History genre to date, bases her entire analysis of allohistorical texts explicitly on four models of history – the eschatological, the genetic, the entropic, and the teleological model –, concluding that, overall, Alternate Histories follow the genetic model, because “the alternate history relies on cause and effect. It assumes that an event in the past caused our present.”43 Finally, Rosenfeld even argues that in “insisting that everything in the past could have been different, in stressing the role of contingency in history, and in emphasizing the open-endedness of historical change, alternate history is inherently anti-deterministic.” 44 On the other hand, Rodiek asserts: “Da die konjekturalhistorische Adaption (Uchronie) eine klar umrissene Bezugsgröße (realhistorische Vorlage) voraussetzt, beharrt die historische Gegendarstellung noch im Realitätsdementi auf der objektiven Erkennbarkeit der Geschichte.” 45 And, indeed, despite the fact that most Alternate Histories emphasize the importance of coincidence and small-scale individual agency in the alteration of large-scale historical developments, the very concept of an alternate history also necessitates, as Karlheinz Steinmüller argues, a concept of an actual history. 46 Or, as Elmar Schenkel puts it: “Geschehene Geschichte kann ungeschehene ignorieren – das Umgekehrte gilt jedoch nicht.” 47 In other words, it seems clear that neither counterfactual narratives themselves nor their critical interpretation can easily be subsumed under any one approach. 41 See Hayden V. White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1973). 42 Susana Onega, “‘A Knack for Yarns’: The Narrativization of History and the End of History,” in Telling Histories: Narrativizing History, Historicizing Literature, ed. Susana Onega (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995), 16. 43 Hellekson, Alternate History, 2. 44 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 6. 45 Rodiek, Vergangenheit, 27. 46 See Karlheinz Steinmüller, “Zukünfte, die nie Geschichte wurden: Zum Gedankenexperiment in Zukunftsforschung und Geschichtswissenschaft,” in Was wäre wenn, 43-53. 47 Schenkel, Phantastische Geschichtsschreibung, 133. 14 As in historiography, conflicting ideas persist in the sphere of literature, both in fiction itself and within the context of literary scholarship. While critics such as Hellekson maintain that all Alternate History fiction primarily foregrounds the contingency of historical cause and effect, scholars like Alkon differentiate between what he calls the “classical” and the “postmodern” modes of Alternate History, arguing that “it may serve to provide enhanced awareness of what the past was like and of our relationships to it as well as our present historical moment [or it] may serve the more postmodern purpose of blunting awareness of actual historicity and of chronological distinctions.” 48 The first category is represented, for instance, by such diverse texts as Ward Moore’s Bring the Jubilee, Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle (1962) and Robert Harris’ Fatherland (1992). According to Alkon, examples such as these harness the counterfactual mode in order to contribute to a deepened understanding of historical circumstances. 49 The mention of Dick’s novel may appear strange in this context, seeing as it is otherwise rather widely considered to be an archetypical example of the fictional representation of the idea of subjective reality and, with its strongly metafictional style, appears to incorporate central narrative characteristics of postmodern literature. However, Alkon makes a convincing argument for its inclusion in the first category by emphasising the novel’s or, rather, its main narrative level’s plausible delineation of (alternate) historical cause and effect as well as its innate presentism, that is its propensity to be read as a commentary on contemporary American society. 50 In contrast, he criticizes the texts in the “postmodern” category for being precisely that: postmodern. In recourse to Fredric Jameson’s critique of postmodernist engagements with history, he speaks of their “pseudohistorical depth,” which in his view amounts to little else but a devaluation of historical knowledge. 51 Because, as Jameson suggests, in particularly ludic and intentionally unreliable literary or cinematic engagements with the past – and with the memory of the past in particular – “the history of aesthetic styles displaces ‘real’ history.” 52 History, in other words, becomes intertextual, imbued with meaning only through the narrative act. Whichever side of the philosophical argument one chooses to come down on, it seems 48 Alkon, Temporality, 83. 49 Ibid. 50 See ibid., 74. 51 Ibid., 83. 52 Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism, Or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham: Duke UP, 1991), 20. 15 that the dualism suggested by Alkon can be identified for the majority of Alternate History texts, as opposed to the entire genre aligning itself with a postmodernist approach, as others have suggested. While it can hardly be contested that the integral aspect of every Alternate History, the detailed speculations about how things could have turned out differently, inevitable serves to foreground that history is little more than a set of variables and contingencies, it can also be said that investigating the possibility of different outcomes actually highlights why these variables and contingencies combined the way they did in their specific historical moments. As Hermann Ritter puts it: “Durch das Nachdenken über mögliche Wendepunkte ergibt sich automatisch ein Nachdenken über die Faktoren, die Geschichte so und eben nicht anders verlaufen lassen.” 53 From either perspective, it seems undisputed that Alternate Histories always contain at least an implicit statement about the world that goes beyond the immediate historical setting of their own narrative. As mentioned before, for Rosenfeld “[a]lternate history is inherently presentist [because it] explores the past less for its own sake than to utilize it instrumentally to comment upon the state of the contemporary world.” 54 And William Hardesty concurs: [A]n alternate history uses its art – by forcing the reader to seize a non-existent past – to problematize the received truth about the past. To some extent, it calls ‘what happened’ into question, thereby problematizing accepted theories of why it happened in the way it did, how it may have affected the present, and what it may yet do to affect the future.55 This concern with the present brings us back to the commenting function of Alternate History already suggested in Suvin’s definition, because this inherent presentism of allohistorical fictions is not neutral, not an end in itself, but always contains, as Korthals points out, an element of judgment, whether positive or negative. 56 Winthrop-Young criticizes Suvin’s notion for being “prescriptive” and limiting. 57 He is both right and wrong: While it is certainly true that Alternate 53 Ritter, “Kontrafaktische Geschichte,” 31. 54 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 10. 55 William H. Harde sty, “Toward a Theory of Alternate History: Some Versions of Alternate Nazis,” in Classic and Iconoclastic Alternate History Fiction, eds. Edgar L. Chapman and Carl B. Yoke (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2003), 81. 56 See Holger Korthals, “Spekulation Mit Historischem Material: Überlegungen Zur Alternate History.” in Allgemeine Literaturwissenschaft: Grundfragen einer besonderen Disziplin, ed. Rüdiger Zymner (Berlin: Schmidt, 2001) 169. 57 Ibid., 105. 16 Histories cannot universally be said to “articulate different possible solutions of societal problems,” 58 already Kurt Tucholsky recognized that counterfactual speculations about history have the potential to serve as a means of political commentary or criticism. 59 And it makes sense for contemporary Alternate Histories to be read in a political vein, as well. That is not to say that the genre precludes the possibility of mere escapist speculation for the sake of entertainment, but its format, as it has been established thus far, lends itself exceedingly well to act as a literary intervention into political discourses focusing on history and memory. It is possible to interpret allohistorical narratives, which commonly can be broadly classified as either utopian fantasies or dystopian nightmares in their depiction of altered states of the world, in terms of the position they take towards the contemporary status quo of their authors’ reality: Fantasies tend to be liberal, for by imagining a better alternate past, they see the present as wanting and thus implicitly support changing it. Nightmares, by contrast, tend to be conservative, for by portraying the alternate past in negative terms, they ratify the present as the best of all possible worlds and thereby discourage the need for change. 60 Notwithstanding the rather reductive characterization of liberal and conservative, or progressive and reactionary political agendas, taking this assessment as a general guideline for understanding the presentist aspect of the genre is certainly not without merit. For instance, Rosenfeld lists various British Alternate Histories in the early postwar phase in which nightmare scenarios were a popular means of reinforcing the myth of the “Finest Hour” for the purpose of bolstering patriotic identification. 61 In the following, I will discuss a number of German and Austrian texts in which primarily dystopian accounts of historical alterations arguably serve a reactionary agenda, though in a distinctly different context and through different narrative means. And although, not surprisingly, Alternate Histories of National Socialism, specifically, do not comprise many texts which one could classify as truly utopian, in the sense of the fictional 58 Suvin, “Science Fiction,” 149. 59 Tucholsky used the phrase “Was wäre wenn...?” as a heading for several newspaper and magazine columns from 1918 through 1925. Not all of these were allohistorical speculations in the strictest sense. However, one of the most famous is perhaps Tucholsky’s biting speculation about the death of Wilhelm II. and the rise of his son to the throne before the outbreak of World War I in the Berliner Volkszeitung on April 23, 1919, which, despite its brevity, can be classified as an Alternate History. A conveniently searchable collection of these columns can be found at: http://www.textlog.de/tucholsky-essays.html 60 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 11. 61 See ibid., 34-94. 17 creation of a better world, it is generally true that stories which portray less nightmarish scenarios tend to direct more criticism towards the contemporary state of society. At the same time, it is not particularly difficult to find exceptions to these rules. Stephen Fry’s Making History (1996), in which the world without Hitler turns out even worse than it did with him in it, is one example in the next chapter which employs a nightmare scenario to progressive ends. And while, on the other end of the spectrum, it is more difficult to find concrete examples (outside the German context) of stories pursuing a reactionary agenda by showing the alteration of history in a relatively favourable light, the question could be raised whether a favourable depiction of victorious Nazis does not always contain a reactionary element to a certain degree. 62 Manfred Pfister and Monika Lindner have also argued that the counterfactual mode in literature always involves a critical element, regardless of which of these two categories it fits into, writing that “sowohl beim utopischen Idealbild als auch beim anti-utopischen Schreckbild – wird [die Differenz zwischen dem Alternativentwurf und der aktuellen Realität] jedoch kritisch auf die Wirklichkeit zurückfallen.” 63 In any event, there can be little question about the propensity of Alternate Histories to function as commentaries on non-literary discourses of memory. In some cases, this type of commentary can even be seen as a form of active intervention, driven by the authorial motivation of ‘correcting’ history gone wrong, as Edgar L. Chapman points out. 64 In this sense, Alternate Histories can often be read as examples of counter-memory, that is as conscious deviations from accepted versions of history. Like other forms of counter-memory, such narratives intentionally subvert mainstream ways of representing the past in order to gradually affect a shift in the canon of official historical knowledge towards an inclusion of previously excluded aspects or interpretations of historical events. What is interesting in this comparison, however, is that while Alternate History, as will be shown in detail in the following chapters, can work in similar ways, in terms of its narrative and discursive function it differs from other types of counter-memory in that these commonly work through recourse to factual (or, at least, allegedly factual) historical 62 In this universal form, however, there will unfortunately not be room within the limited scope of this investigation to provide an answer to this question. 63 Manfred Pfister and Monika Lindner, “Alternative Welten: Ein typologischer Versuch zur englischen Literatur,” in Alternative Welten, ed. Manfred Pfister (Munich: Fink, 1982), 17. 64 See Edgar L. Chapman, “Introduction: Three Stages of Alternate History Fiction and the ‘Metaphysical If’,” in Chapman and Yoke, Iconoclastic Alternate History, 22. 18 events, which have merely been ignored or misinterpreted by historians thus far; Alternate History fictions, in contrast, are based on events which we know never actually occurred. Nonetheless, the effect of these two categories on public and political discourse can be almost identical. Many scholars have made this link: While Rosenfeld only mentions the term “countermemory” several times in passing with regard to Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, 65 Elisabeth Wesseling all but equates the two, saying that the “ideological principle which informs […] alternate histories is the sympathetic identification with those who have suffered history.” 66 However, no scholarly approach to the genre has so far investigated this connection in detail, with a concrete focus on theories of memory and counter-memory. Therefore, the questions that need to be answered in the following are: by what means and to what end can Alternate Histories affect and effectively subvert previously accepted versions of history and what role does ‘real’ history play when comparing Alternate History with other forms of counter-memory? To facilitate this analysis, however, the area of research should be limited to a specific type of Alternate Histories and, with it, to a specific area of collective memory: stories of alternate outcomes of National Socialism and World War II. Not coincidentally, this complex also represents the most prominent field of activity for allohistorical speculation, so the first question becomes: What is it that makes Nazis so popular for writers and audiences of Alternate History? 2.2 COUNTERFACTUAL NAZIS While relatively young as a genre, there has been a considerable amount of literary and, to a lesser extent, cinematic production of Alternate History narratives over the past 60 years. A veritable myriad of historical turning points or “nexus events” have been taken as cues for counterfactual speculations. 67 While, in some cases, these events seem intentionally trivial and obscure, it is not by accident that the most popular and prolific themes within the Alternate History genre take as their starting points alterations at historical watershed moments. Principal among these are, without question, the Third Reich and the Second World War. Questions as to 65 See, for instance, Rosenfeld, Hitler, 16. 66 Elisabeth Wesseling, Writing History as a Prophet: Postmodernist Innovations of the Historical Novel (Amsterdam: J. Benjamins, 1991), 162. While not without theoretical merit for the study of Alternate History on the whole, Wesseling’s approach is relatively unorthodox in that she exclusively discusses texts which no other critic has (or, most likely, would have) ever labelled as Alternate History (e.g. Günter Grass’ Der Butt). 67 Hellekson, Alternate History, 5. 19 whether and how our contemporary world would be different, had specific events between 1933 and 1945, or more or less directly leading up to this period, occurred differently, provide the foundation of the majority of (Western) Alternate Histories. While the specific shape these speculations take is extremely variegated, Rosenfeld argues that a relatively small number of overarching themes can be identified in the vast majority of these works. 68 These are: “Nazi wartime victory, Hitler’s survival, the world without the Führer, and the Holocaust.” 69 Variations of these themes abound in some of the most prominent works of Alternate History over the past six decades. But what is it that makes this specific topos so extraordinarily attractive to writers of Alternate History fictions? Gregory Benford explains it like this: This intellectual, as opposed to psychosexual, fascination with the subject stems, I believe, from the perception that World War II was the most important nexus thus far in human history, that the Battle of Armageddon has already been fought, in the form of a total war between modern humanistic civilization and the incarnation of the deepest evil within the human spirit ever to have manifested itself on earth. 70 Elmar Schenkel concurs by saying that Alternate Histories in general, which he suggests did not develop their full potential until after World War II, are fundamentally linked to what he calls the “Verarbeitung eines welthistorischen Traumas” and that the pertinent turning points or nexus events overall represent “traumatische Knotenpunkte.”71 Other critics, such as Winthrop-Young and Bernhard Giesen, while acknowledging the impact of the historic political upheavals of this era, are more wary of understanding the ever-growing prominence of the Nazi theme solely in terms of collective trauma or, for that matter, as necessarily indexical for a recourse to the ‘real’ history of National Socialism as such. Giesen, writing not on Alternate History but on the ubiquity of representations of Nazism in postwar discourse in general, contends that “the Holocaust has acquired the position of a free-floating myth or a cultural icon of horror and 68 The text types of counterfactual speculations about the Third Reich range from historical essays to outright tales of Science Fiction. Some interesting hybrid forms have also emerged: Cf. Ralph Giordano, Wenn Hitler den Krieg gewonnen hätte: Die Pläne der Nazis nach dem Endsieg (Hamburg: Rasch & Röhring, 1989). 69 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 13. Rosenfeld’s monograph is not only the only book-length study on this topic to date, it also contains a near exhaustive survey of the current state of the narrative production of the genre across several media, historical periods, and national contexts. 70 Gregory Benford, “Preface: Imagining the Abyss,” in Hitler Victorious: Eleven Stories of the German Victory in Wor ld-War II, eds. Gregory Benford and Martin H. Greenberg (New York: Garland, 1986), 9. 71 Schenkel, Phantastische Geschichtsschreibung, 130. A similar interpretation can be found in Edgar V. McKnight’s dissertation. 20 inhumanity [which] has ascended to the status of an undisputed master narrative.” 72 In other words, the mythologization of the Holocaust or National Socialism overall has, in the Barthesian sense, detached these themes from their original meaning, thus opening them up to being used as flexible templates signifying anything from authoritarian personalities to, as Winthrop-Young paradoxically suggests, a new type of universal deflector or ‘scapegoat’ in the sense of Nazis standing in as “the Lumpenproletariat of contemporary culture because they – and increasingly, they alone – provide a repository of villains that can be vilified and dispensed with without fear of offense.” 73 This view is also generally in line with what Rosenfeld calls the normalization of the Nazi theme, a point that is also central to this investigation and which will be discussed in greater detail later in this chapter. However one may judge the individual factors that have contributed to the rise of the Nazi theme in popular culture in general and in Alternate History in particular, its use is unquestionably closely tied to the memory of National Socialism as a whole. In the light of the majority of scholarship on this topic, which one and all acknowledges this link at least to some degree, Jörg Helbig’s lone assertion must appear strange. He argues that, for authors of Alternate Histories, the Second World War represents no basis for historiographically relevant inquiries, but rather realist variant of absurdist theatre.74 Winthrop-Youn g, for example, suggests that “while alternate history revolves around issues that are of less concern to other genres, they are close to the concerns of historiography. It appears that the evolution of the Third Reich in official history and in alternate history have followed fairly similar paths.” 75 According to his analysis, gradual shifts in the interpretation of National Socialism in the field of historiography can be said to correlate with different, successive phases of representation in Alternate History, starting with the idea of a victorious Nazi society as “decelerated [and] resolutely premodern,” and moving via the image of a “socially regressive dictatorship state that usurps, fosters, and unleashes the powers of up-to-date science by trying to reconcile a premodern blood-and-soil ideology with modern technology” – or what can be called: “reactionary modernism” – ultimately to the conceptualization of “a society that, above and beyond all lip service paid to reactionary ideals, 72 Bernhard Giesen, Triumph and Trauma (Boulder, Colo.: Paradigm Publishers, 2004), 142. 73 Geoffrey Winthrop-Young, “The Third Reich in Alternate History: Aspects of a Genre-Specific Depiction of Nazi Culture,” Journal of Popular Culture 39, no. 5 (10, 2006), 881. 74 Helbig, Der parahistorische Roman, 222. 75 Winthrop-Young, “Third Reich,” 892. 21 has enthroned and fully unleashed the destructive powers of technology.” 76 Rosenfeld identifies a similar set of phases in the development of Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, but links these much more immediately to the category of memory. 77 By analyzing these phases, he suggests that Alternate Histories follow an overall normalizing trend, that is a movement towards a dedemonization of Nazism that corresponds not only with other areas of popular culture but also with concurrent developments within memory discourses. I will revisit the details of what is meant by the term ‘normalization’ in the last part of this chapter. Although this is not explicitly mentioned, Rosenfeld’s phase model can be seen as an elaboration of that developed by Norbert Schaffeld with regard to British novels dealing with the Third Reich overall, who also argues that there is a noticeable historical shift in the way in which Nazism is portrayed in literature in general and Alternate History in particular. 78 However, in the case of Britain, Schaffeld merely sees this development as one from nationalistic cautionary tales to a more self-critical expression of ‘British pessimism.’ Harald Husemann concurs, writing exclusively on British Alternate History narratives, by stating that “the third generation of authors consists of the pseudodocumentarists to whom personal experience and the study of historical records have given a pessimistic view of Britain’s gift for self-regeneration through popular resistance after a German conquest.” 79 In contrast, Rosenfeld’s approach is not only more international and comparative, it is also far more nuanced in identifying a wider, much more differentiated array of different historical phases. It will become clear in the following, however, that such a model is not universally compatible with the commemorative developments in Germany. In any event, the Third Reich constitutes the single most prolific topic for Alternate History fictions in the past 66 years. Rosenfeld’s study alone, published in 2005, discusses a grand total of 116 narratives of alternate versions of the Nazi era across a variety of different media, with the author pointing his readers to Robert Schmunk’s Uchronia: The Alternate History List, 80 the largest annotated genre bibliography to date, in an explicit acknowledgement 76 Ibid., 891. 77 See especially Rosenfeld, Hitler, 22-25. 78 See Schaffeld, Darstellung. 79 Harald Husemann, “When William Came; if Adolf had Come: Speculative Novels on the Military Conquest of Britain by Germany,” in Anglistentag 1984: Vorträge, ed. Manfred Pfister (Gießen: Hoffmann, 1984), 349. 80 http://www.uchronia.net 22 of the fact that even his selection is anything but complete. 81 In the past six years, the production of Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, the Second World War and the Holocaust has continued – a small fraction of the stories that have been published in this time will be discussed in the following chapters of this study. One central innovation of Rosenfeld’s study has been the systematized grouping of the absolute majority of these stories into four overarching themes, namely “1) the Nazis win World War II; 2) Hitler escapes death in 1945 and survives in hiding well into the postwar era; 3) Hitler is removed from the world historical stage either before or some time after becoming the Führer; 4) the Holocaust is completed, avenged, or undone altogether.” 82 These themes can indeed be applied to almost all Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, across national and historical boundaries. Despite being separated by more than a decade as well as the Atlantic Ocean, highly popular texts like Philip K. Dicks The Man in the High Castle (1962), Len Deighton’s SS-GB (1978) and Otto Basil’s Wenn das der Führer wüßte (1966) all investigate the ramifications of a victorious Third Reich (or, in Dick’s case, a victorious Axis) for their respective countries. Tales of Hitler’s survival can be found in as diverse sources as Philippe van Rjndt’s novel The Trial of Adolf Hitler (1978), several Monty Python skits throughout the early 1970s and Armin MuellerStahl’s film Gespräch mit dem Biest (1996). Texts like Hans Pleschinski’s “Ausflug” (1983), Stephen Fry’s Making History (1996) and Wolfgang Brenner’s Führerlos (2006) represent thematically similar speculations about the disappearance of Hitler prior to the Second World War. And, finally, alternate versions or outcomes of the Holocaust feature prominently in texts like Thomas Ziegler’s short story “Eine Kleinigkeit für uns Reinkarnauten” (1990), Martin Amis’ much-discussed novel Time’s Arrow: or The Nature of the Offence (1991) and Daniel Quinn’s After Dachau (2001). However, while these themes are indubitably applicable to a wide variety of texts, their capacity for providing a framework for a more nuanced differentiation between the nationally specific discursive settings in which such narratives were produced and consumed is arguably limited. Without question, speculative accounts about alternate versions of National Socialism, the Second World War and a myriad of issues that are situated in the historical context of this era are of central significance in Britain, the United States and Germany alike. But while Rosenfeld 81 See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 404n52. 82 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 13. 23 certainly makes an effort to illustrate the differences in the function these similar themes fulfil in their respective national contexts and does focus on the radically different perspectives from which they are addressed in the German context specifically, 83 the strict adherence to these four themes serves as a hindrance for an adequate differentiation between the form and function of Alternate Histories of the Third Reich conceived from a winning and a losing perspective. All Alternate Histories that deal with the legacy of National Socialism can be said to directly relate to memory discourses which are external to the realm of literature. In this sense, it needs to be taken into account that the memory of the winning nations involved in the Second World War – in this context most centrally Great Britain and the United States – differs fundamentally from that of the losing ones, that is: Germany. To be sure, Rosenfeld’s approach is anything but oblivious of this fact, but it nonetheless performs a certain amount of levelling by including texts from all three of these nations in the same categories. In contrast, I suggest that the radical differences between the role that the memory of Nazism has played and still plays for Britons and Americans, as both contemporaries and descendants of those who successfully opposed it, and Germans, as those who have borne or inherited the responsibility of the perpetrators, merit to be reflected by an entirely different set of categories. These categories or themes, which provide the structure for the upcoming chapters of this study, are aligned much more immediately with corresponding themes in popular and official memory discourses in postwar Germany and are therefore arguably better suited to highlight the inherent interdependencies between the two. I propose a model of three themes into which especially German Alternate Histories can be sensibly grouped. 84 These are: The universalization of National Socialism, the motif of the ‘Good German’ or counterfactual stories of fundamental German resistance, and narratives of alternate Holocausts. The last category remains quite similar to Rosenfeld’s fourth, under the heading of which he also discusses a number of the same texts; however, it is especially this theme that serves to illustrate national differences. The first category comprises texts which share the unifying characteristic of depicting Nazism as an ahistorical phenomenon: that is, texts in which the concrete historical and socio83 See, for instance, Rosenfeld, Hitler, 31. 84 As I will show in the corresponding chapters, British and American narratives can also be included in this model. However, this will be done mainly in order to highlight the functional differences between the accounts of the winners and the losers of WWII, rather than suggest additional similarities. Also, this only applies to two of the three categories. 24 political foundations of real National Socialism are either generalized, omitted or transposed to another geographical or historical locus. Two examples, which will be discussed in greater detail in the next chapter, are Stephen Fry’s Making History and Dimitris Chorafas’ relatively obscure novel Samuel Hitler (1973), published in German under the pseudonym Sissini. These two texts serve particular well to illustrate the potential of the first new category for the study of Alternate History as documents of memory. In Rosenfeld’s model, both texts would be subsumed under the theme of “alternate Hitlers.” 85 Fry’s novel speculates about a world in which, with the help of a very limited time travel device, Hitler’s existence is erased from history by means of introducing a powerful contraceptive into the water supply of Braunau am Inn, Hitler’s actual birth place. As a direct result, history turns out even worse, with a much more charismatic leader emerging in Hitler’s stead, who leads Germany to considerably greater success. Rosenfeld reads this as apologetic of ‘real’ history in the sense that, for him, imagining a world in which the absence of the historical Führer leads to even more catastrophic results, always contains a validation of the contemporary status quo and the Allied war effort. However, Fry’s story can also be read as being less about Britain than, in fact, about Germany itself and, in such a reading, can serve a distinctly different purpose. By removing Hitler from the equation but showing the rise of National Socialism as not only unaffected but actually accelerated and amplified, Fry’s narrative effectively subverts the resilient myth of Nazism having been thought up and carried out primarily, if not exclusively, by a small number of individual madmen. Instead it highlights the deep-seated socio-political causes of the Nazis’ rise to power and the widespread appeal of their ideology (and practice) for the general population of Germany. In this light, speculations like Fry’s universalize the phenomenon of National Socialism merely on the surface, while actually shifting the focus onto its historical roots. Sissini’s novel, on the other hand, works quite differently. In general, an approach like the one exemplified by Fry is absent from German Alternate History. Wolfgang Brenner’s Führerlos and Dieter Kühn’s collection of short stories Ich war Hitlers Schutzengel (2010), also show the removal of the Führer from history at a relatively early stage as more or less inconsequential, but they do so with a different outcome overall. Sissini’s text, however, is a strange beast indeed but nonetheless serves to highlight the intricacies of the universalizing trend in German commemorative culture. In Samuel Hitler, the Führer is not erased from history in the strictest 85 In fact, Rosenfeld does discuss Fry’s text in some detail from this perspective. Sissini’s novel is not mentioned. 25 sense, but is instead: a Jew. The novel develops an intricate speculation about how the world would have turned out if Hitler had not, in fact, been history’s greatest and most murderous antiSemite, but actually a Jew himself. The story spans from the Führer’s birth far into the reader’s present, in which Hitler lives on in the shape of a Führer machine, a computer programmed with the ideas and ideals of Samuel Hitler himself. The alterations in this fictional world do not only allow Germany to achieve much greater success in the war – Sissini’s central theory is that a philo-Semitic Germany could have retained all the brilliant Jewish minds who, in actuality, defected to the Allied side to save themselves and their people from the Nazis’ homicidal fervor. It also relegates the militant anti-Semitism to Germany’s enemies, who are now effectively waging war against a Jewish state and glosses over the historical roots of the widespread antiJewish sentiments in Germany, as even the suggestion that a Jew could have been elected to the highest German political office in the early 1930s is highly questionable from a historically informed perspective. By these means, the narrative reinforces – in contrast to Fry’s notion, for instance – the idea that all it would have taken to prevent fascism from taking root in Germany would have been the replacement of (the real) Hitler by a different, better leader. This represents a central tenet of a normalizing approach to German memory, which will be examined in greater detail in the last section of this chapter, namely the delegation of responsibility by means of a universalization that implies, in this example, that central aspects of historical National Socialism were not specific to Germany and the particular historical setting in which they occurred. Similar approaches will be examined in the remaining texts in the second chapter. Overall, the four texts analyzed in this first category would fall into three different categories in Rosenfeld’s model. Here, it becomes evident that re-organizing them into themes which correspond more closely to specific axioms of German memory discourses is beneficial for understanding Alternate History and memory as inherently related – not only where the German context is concerned, but also to highlight the contrast between this and other national perspectives. The following chapters are arranged in order of descending compatibility of the suggested categories with non-German texts, but ascending importance for highlighting the link between Alternate History and memory. That is, while the theme of universalization can still be applied, albeit with differing results, to English and American texts as well, already the second theme, the disproportionate emphasis on the ‘Good German,’ focuses more on the differences between German and Anglo-American stories and less on their similarities. For this reason, the third chapter only discusses one non-German example: Robert Harris’ bestselling novel 26 Fatherland (1992). Like the German texts included in the same category, Fatherland presents a German protagonist who risks life and limb to oppose National Socialist rule. Arguably, Harris’ Xavier March represents the most classic incarnation of the ‘Good German’ of all the stories on this list, because he is not only initially a collaborator whose conscience gets the better of him when he learns about the (past) evils of the regime he supported (i.e. the Holocaust), he also metonymically personifies the well-refuted myth that even relatively high-ranking officials, let alone the general populace, actually had any knowledge of the genocidal policies and practices of the Nazi elite. On the surface, the German texts representing this theme take a comparatively subtler approach. However, when analyzing them with a focus on their function within their respective commemorative settings, the differences between British and German narratives shifts considerably. Despite being set exclusively in Germany and featuring a German protagonist, Harris’ novel must always also be read in the context of British memory discourses. This accounts for the devalorization of some of the most central tenets of postwar memory in Britain, namely the myth of the “Finest Hour,” but also, somewhat diametrically opposed, the criticism of Britain’s prewar policy of appeasement. German texts featuring the motif of the ‘good German,’ on the other hand, must instead be read first and foremost as relating to German memory culture, suggesting a very different interpretation of this theme. In the context of German normalization, stories of heroic Germans, resisting or directly subverting the National Socialist regime, fulfil a decidedly different discursive function, namely the replacement of guilt with a disproportionate centrality of conscientious objection. In these texts, alternate Nazi Germany does therefore not represent, as Winthrop-Young suggests for many Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, “a society in which the destructive energy of the system is apparent in the commitment or fanaticism of each and all of its representatives.” 86 From this perspective, both German texts discussed in the third chapter exhibit significant similarities with each other and ultimately differ considerably from non-German examples which follow comparable plot lines. These factors will be highlighted in a close reading of these three exemplary stories. The third category, the theme of German victimization, and the selection of texts used to illustrate it, are particularly effective in highlighting the specificity of German Alternate Histories. Central narrative devices, such as the infamous Morgenthau plan, represent ‘alternate Holocausts’ in which the victim-perpetrator relationship has been reversed to varying degrees. 86 Winthrop-Young, “Third Reich,” 883. 27 Not coincidentally, in Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, this is an exclusively German phenomenon. In all three novels analyzed in the third chapter, Germans have in some way, shape or form become victimized themselves and this aspect represents a prominent and consequential plot device. Whether, as in Christoph Ransmayr’s Morbus Kitahara (1995), the Morgenthau plan is, more or less explicitly, invoked to illustrate the postwar hardships of the German (and Austrian) population; or, as in Thomas Ziegler’s Die Stimmen der Nacht (1983), the devastation of Germany has caused the survivors to flee and rebuild their nation elsewhere; or, finally, as in Oliver Henkel’s Im Jahre Ragnarök (2009), the theme of German suffering functions as a ubiquitous backdrop for a separate main plot: all these narratives can be linked to a third central element of relativist German postwar memory discourses. Stories of German victimization during or after the war emerged almost immediately following the end of the Second World War, but have arguably increased in popularity since reunification and, as will be shown in the last section of this chapter, have also undergone a qualitative change in the context of an even more recent later discursive shifts – I will expand on this point in the following. While this theme is by no means exclusive to Alternate History, the discursive characteristics of the genre lend themselves exceedingly well to promote this narrative. The third and last chapter will discuss this dynamic in detail. 2.3 COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND NATIONAL IDENTITY Centrally implied by the overall prominence and the national and historical specificities of the Nazi theme in Alternate History is the importance of memory and identity or, more pertinently, of collective memory and national identity for the genre as a whole. Jörg Helbig states: “Die Angst um den Verlust der nationalen Identität spricht aus den meisten parahistorischen Romanen.” 87 This assessment indeed holds true for a considerable number of Alternate Histories. However, in the context of American and British allohistorical fictions one can discern a relatively clear line between conservative and progressive narratives in this regard. Only the former are immediately concerned with the maintenance or restitution of a positive, unifying national identity, whereas the latter more often focus directly on questioning categories of national pride and unity. 88 In the context of German postwar Alternate Histories, this line of 87 Helbig, Der parahistorische Roman, 102. 88 Whether or not the means to this end are always necessarily progressive in and of themselves remains debatable 28 demarcation is considerably less rigid or, as will be established in the following, hardly applicable at all. The initial question, however, is how collective memory, national identity and Alternate History are connected. To this end, one first needs to ask: What is collective memory? First coined by Maurice Halbwachs, the category of collective memory, especially as it pertains to the issues at hand, underwent considerable revisions in the subsequent decades, in particular through the work of Jan and Aleida Assmann. 89 In almost all of the different conceptualizations of the category, however, collective memory has been differentiated from individual forms of memory. Jeffrey Olick sums up and critiques Halbwachs’ original distinction, which is still at the heart of most newer models: Collective memory in Halbwachs [...] indicates at least two distinct, and not obviously complementary, sorts of phenomena: socially framed individual memories and collective commemorative representations and mnemonic traces. [...] The problem is that these two sorts of phenomena to which the term collective memory can refer [...] seem to be of radically distinct ontological orders and to require different epistemological and methodological strategies. 90 While Olick may be correct in pointing out that these two different forms of memory originate from “distinct ontological orders,” and that they need not necessarily be complementary in terms of their function within any given set of national memory discourses, the field of literature provides a setting in which their potential interconnectedness is especially apparent. Taking a look at German postwar and post-unification literary production, in which Alternate History certainly does not play the most prominent role, and its relationship with memory, it becomes clear that so-called Väter- and Enkelliteratur has emerged as an important genre since the 1960s. 91 The texts in this genre, while one and all dealing with family histories and thus, on the nonetheless (e.g., effectively relativizing the deeds and policies of the Nazis as a means of criticizing British or American postwar society), as the previous sections have shown. 89 See Halbwachs, Collective Memory and Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1992). See also various references to Aleida Assmann’s contributions throughout this dissertation. 90 Jeffrey K. Olick, The Politics of Regret: On Collective Memory and Historical Responsibility (New York: Routledge, 2007), 20-21. Olick himself suggests the term “social memory” for the latter phenomenon to account for the diversity of factors involved. While this suggestion is certainly not without merit and well worth considering, I will stick with the more widely recognized “collective memory” in the context of this study. 91 For a detailed overview over the development of this genre, see Mathias Brandstädter, Folgeschäden: Kontext, narrative Strukturen und Verlaufsformen der Väterliteratur 1960 bis 2008: Bestimmung eines Genres (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2010). For a more focused discussion of the more recent Enkelliteratur, see Mila Ganeva, “From West-German Väterliteratur to Post-Wall Enkelliteratur: The End of the Generation Conflict in 29 surface, with individual memories, display a particularly close link to the developments of the collective memory culture of Germany in the same timeframe. Starting out as relatively critical assessments of the personal histories of the authors’ fathers and their involvement with National Socialism, eventually a gradual shift can be observed, not exclusively but most distinctively with the move from the first to the second postwar generation, towards a greater understanding of the perpetrators’ actions and a focus on their own trauma rather than on that of their victims. That this shift correlates with the extra-literary developments of memory culture and how seemingly individual engagements with the memory – or, more precisely, the postmemory 92 – of the Third Reich and the Second World War are tied to mnemonic narratives which transcend the individual context, has been shown in great detail in the seminal study Opa war kein Nazi. 93 It gauges the approaches of the generation of the grandchildren of Nazi perpetrators and collaborators to their grandfathers’ past and comes to similar conclusions as large parts of the scholarship on Väterand Enkelliteratur: There appears to be an ongoing shift of the primary interest away from the victims of Nazi Germany and towards the German perpetrators and a corresponding tendency to empathize with the latter instead of the former. This trend constitutes a central aspect of the normalization of collective memory in Germany. In order to properly understand this category, however, the question that first needs to be answered is what is meant by the term “collective,” when one speaks of collective memory. An excellent, workable definition is provided by Jan Assmann in Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Unter einer kollektiven oder Wir-Identität verstehen wir das Bild, das eine Gruppe von sich aufbaut und mit dem sich deren Mitglieder identifizieren. Kollektive Identifikation ist eine Frage der Identifikation seitens der beteiligten Individuen. Es gibt sie nicht ‚an sich’, sondern immer nur in dem Maße, wie sich bestimmte Individuen zu ihr bekennen. Sie ist so stark oder schwach, wie sie im Denken und Handeln der Gruppenmitglieder lebendig ist und deren Denken und Handeln zu motivieren vermag. 94 Marcel Beyer's Spione and Tanja Dückers's Himmelskörper,” Seminar: A Journal of Germanic Studies 43, no. 2 (2007), 149-162. 92 The term “postmemory” was originally coined by Marianne Hirsch in her book Family Frames (1997) and denotes the specificity of memory debates which no longer include the participation of what Hegel calls “original historians,” i.e., those who have witnessed the events in question first-hand. I will elaborate more on this term and its significance for this investigation in the next section of this chapter. 93 Harald Welzer, Sabine Moller and Karoline Tschuggnall, Opa war kein Nazi: Nationalsozialismus und Holocaust im Familiengedächtnis (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch, 2002). 94 Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis, 132. 30 Similar to Benedict Anderson’s model of imagined communities, a collective, for Assmann, is thus fundamentally defined through discourse, that is through the voluntary, albeit not necessarily conscious, association of individuals into a larger group in accordance with certain metaphysical denominators (nation, culture, religion, etc.).95 For both Jan and Aleida Assmann, as for Anderson, this formative and sustaining discursive process is centrally influenced by media, thus relating back to the realm of literature, especially where memory can still be considered “communicative” rather than exclusively “cultural.” 96 While in the context of this investigation both categories – “collective” and “memory” – will be used somewhat liberally, the heightened significance of literature for the formation of both is of central importance. Especially with regard to German memory discourses focusing on the Third Reich, which currently still fall in their entirety into the category of communicative memory, I understand the boundaries between individual and collective memory as fluid or, in Olick’s terms, highly complementary. The relationship between literature, in the context of which Alternate History represents a special case, and official memory narratives I understand as a dialectical interaction in which the individual and the collective are inextricably intertwined. This will become clearer in the following sections and chapters. But, in more general terms, what are the functions of collective memory in a national context? Hannes Heer and Ruth Wodak describe it as follows: Ziel von Vergangenheitspolitik wäre demnach die Sinnkonstruktion nationaler Vergangenheit. Ihre Aufgabe ist es, über Brüche der Geschichte hinweg, Kontinuität des kollektiven Selbstbildes, Integration der wichtigsten gesellschaftlichen Gruppen sowie eine an Akzeptanz orientierte Repräsentation nach außen sicherzustellen. Das Ergebnis dieses Akts der Sinnkonstruktion, der nicht einmalig und friedlich, sondern permanent und konfliktgeladen verläuft, der nicht per Anordnung, sondern in einem kommunikativen Prozess erfolgt, wird eine erzählte Geschichte sein, die konsensfähig geworden ist, d.h. als verbindendes nationales Narrativ dienen kann. 97 95 Cf. Benedict R. Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). 96 See Aleida Assmann, Erinnerungsräume: Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1999). Both Assmanns divide collective memory into communicative and cultural memory. The former includes memory debates within roughly the first three generations after the remembered event, while the latter denotes the archeological accessing of collective memories which are further removed from the present. 97 Hannes Heer and Ruth Wodak, “Kollektives Gedächtnis. Vergangenheitspolitik. Nationales Narrativ,” in Wie Geschichte gemacht wird, ed. Hannes Heer (Wien: Czernin, 2003), 19. 31 Notably, Heer and Wodak do not speak explicitly of collective memory in this passage, but of “Vergangenheitspolitik.” They do not, however, use this term to exclusively denote officially sanctioned or mandated engagements with the past but to emphasize the communicative nature of negotiations of memory in the production of national identity. In other words, those collective memories work or, rather, can be harnessed as national narratives which according to Heer and Woda k commonly posses a “glättende and entschärfende Struktur” and are, as such, more geared towards a relativization of contentious aspects of the past rather than a radical working-through of them. 98 This crucial difference is fundamentally reflected in the German debates over Vergangenheitsbewältigung versus Vergangenheitsaufarbeitung, which has been most prominently discussed by Theodor W. Adorno in his seminal essay “Was bedeutet: Aufarbeitung der Vergangenheit,” in which he criticizes the relativizing direction of overcoming the past: “Der Gestus, es solle alles vergessen und vergeben sein, der demjenigen anstünde, dem Unrecht widerfuhr, wird von den Parteigängern derer praktiziert, die es begingen.” 99 Alon Confino writes that the “beauty of memory is that it is imprecise enough to be appropriated by unexpected hands,” which he considers to be a positive aspect of the discursive nature of memory and memory politics. 100 But this categorical optimism becomes somewhat more questionable when taking into account that these “unexpected hands” – essentially already a reference to the category of counter-memory, which I will discuss in greater detail in the following section – may appropriate and (re-)write history in a way which effectively undermines a critical engagement with collective memory in Adorno’s sense. In the German context this is best illustrated by the continually increasing tendency to understand not only the memory of the victims of National Socialism but also that of its participants and their descendents as a trauma narrative. This is the case not only for official commemorative practices (such as the ongoing debate about the Zentrum gegen Vertreibungen, fostering a representation of, among others, the deportation of Jews by the Nazis and the expulsion of Germans from Eastern Europe after the war as commensurable events) or memory literature (from the early 98 Ibid. 99 Theodor W. Adorno, “Was bedeutet: Aufarbeitung der Vergangenheit,” in Gesammelte Schriften, Vol. 10.2 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998), 555. First published in Theodor W. Adorno, Eingriffe: Neun kritische Modelle (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1963). 100 Alon Confino, “Collective Memory and Cultural History: Problems of Method,” American Historical Review 102 (1997), 1403. 32 ‘Zeitzeugenschaft’ of Trümmerliteratur to the contemporary postmemory approaches of Enkelliteratur), but also for prominent scholarly debates. Aleida Assmann, for instance, has posited that the existence of the so-called “Kollektivschuldthese,” according to which the whole of the German collective could be seen as complicit in the crimes of the National Socialist regime, should be understood as a “Trauma, das die Anamnese von Schuld blockiert und damit die deutsche Erinnerungsgeschichte von ihrem Anfang an verformt hat.”101 But while it is certainly true, as Karoline von Oppen writes, that “[r]emembering German suffering [...] did not always coexist easily with remembering Germany’s victims, suggesting that the process of normalization is [...] far from inclusive,” 102 recent years have unarguably seen a greater proliferation of and a greater acceptance for popular narratives of German suffering, presented either alongside or entirely in the absence of a thematization of the suffering caused by Germans. According to Robert Moeller, “this vision of the past [...] transformed Germans into the victims of the Nazis’ war and attributed responsibility for the crimes of National Socialism to a handful of faceless individuals, not a thoroughly fascistic social order.”103 Especially interesting in relation to Alternate History, however, is the fact that central tenets of this presentation of the historical development of collective memory in Germany have been refuted by other historians as pure myth. Norbert Frei, for instance, refers to the “Kollektivschuldthese” as “im wesentlichen eingebildet,” 104 suggesting that is constitutes a category invented within German postwar memory discourse itself in order to facilitate the narrative of a victimization of Germans not only during, but also after the war. Others have cited empirical evidence likewise relegating the idea of a tabooization of German suffering and a widespread silence on this issue in the immediate postwar years to the realm of invention and pointed out that, in fact, the fate of civilian casualties among the German population under the aegis of National Socialism, as well as that of German POWs and expellees following its demise, actually became the subject of public debate and 101 Aleida Assmann and Ute Frevert, Geschichtsvergessenheit - Geschichtsversessenheit: vom Umgang mit deutschen Vergangenheiten nach 1945 (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1999), 117. 102 Karoline von Oppen, “'(Un)Sägliche Vergleiche': What Germans Remembered (and Forgot) in Former Yugoslavia in the 1990s,” in German Culture, Politics, and Literature into the Twenty-First Century: Beyond Normalization, eds. Stuart Taberner and Paul Cooke (Rochester: Camden House, 2006), 178. Emphasis in the original. 103 Robert G. Moeller, War Stories: The Search for a Usable Past in the Federal Republic of Germany (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 49. Emphasis in the original. 104 Norbert Frei, 1945 und wir: Das Dritte Reich im Bewusstsein der Deutschen (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2005), 155. 33 literary production much sooner than the fate of the Nazi’s victims. 105 In this light, Valentina Adami’s suggestion makes sense that “collective memory represents the past in the light of the needs of the present and selects, reconstructs and organizes the events according to the will of some social group – usually the dominant one – endowing them with political meaning.” 106 Helmut Schmitz concurs by saying that the “ubiquity of issues of collective memory and collective identity is thus part of a crisis of the self-assessment of the present in which history increasingly becomes instrumentalised in order to stabilise a group ide ntity.” 107 The centrality of this presentist aspect once more bespeaks the inherent link between collective memory and Alternate History. Like Alternate History, collective memory, in this understanding, engages with historical material not primarily from the vantage point of analyzing the past for its own sake, but rather in order to access it as a workable narrative for present discourse, in accordance with a specific agenda. At the same time, certain central elements of history cannot simply be erased in non-fictional iterations of collective memory. Most importantly for the issue at hand, Stephen Brockmann points out that “Auschwitz continues to be at the core of German national identity, whether individual Germans like it or not.”108 In other words, the challenge for memory narratives aimed at re-establishing a viable form of national identity is not to negate the existence or even the importance of pivotal elements of historical knowledge, but to reframe them in such a way that allows their appropriation for their respective agendas. Outright denial of the Holocaust, for instance, has never been more than a far-right fringe phenomenon, and due to the sheer abundance of empirical evidence and survivors’ accounts that attest to the contrary, even the refusal to acknowledge its significance for contemporary debates about German collective identity has proven untenable. In contrast, the recontextualization of the Holocaust within a narrative of universal commensurability of suffering has been considerably more successful in establishing itself as a general trend within postwar German memory discourse: 105 See Aleida Assmann, Berger, Schmitz, Wittlinger et al. 106 Valentina Adami, Trauma Studies and Literature: Martin Amis's Time's Arrow as Trauma Fiction (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2008), 29. 107 Schmitz, On Their Own Terms, 5. 108 Stephen Brockmann, “'Normalization': Has Helmut Kohl's Vision been Realized?” in German Culture, Politics, and Literature into the Twenty-First Century: Beyond Normalization, eds. Stuart Taberner and Paul Cooke (Rochester: Camden House, 2006), 27. 34 Whereas actively denying the importance of the past for the present policy proved just the opposite (that is, the more one denied the centrality of the past, the clearer it was how central the past was), dutiful performance on segregated occasions and in special places achieved the goal perhaps less dramatically than hoped but, in the end, more effectively. 109 As suggested by Anton Blok, who directly links the creation of a new type of nationalism to the breaking down of “overarching state structures [in Central and Eastern Europe] which have constrained or tried to eradicate those collective memories in the name of ‘history,’” 110 it is by no means exclusively official memory narratives which effect this shift. While it is true, as a number of critics have argued, that official, politically sanctioned commemorative practices and especially dedicated sites of memory have played a central role in advancing an “Entkonkretisierung” of the engagement with the German past, non-official and individual contributions to the changing narrative have, for good reason, always been an integral part of this development. 111 As Olick posits, in “complex society, and in democratic societies at least, the space where such collection [of memory] occurs is the public sphere, where private and official come together in new ways and where contestation is the rule.” 112 However, it must be noted that the fact that collective memory exists in a constant state of contestation or, at least, negotiation, should not be taken to imply that no dominant narratives can form under these circumstances. In fact, the opposite is true for most national memory discourses today. The struggle between rival approaches to engaging with the past is almost always one for “Definitionsmacht” and the dominance of one mnemonic model over another or, for that matter, several other counter-memories can commonly be identified in most cases, at least temporarily. Heidemarie Uhl argues that “the objects of cultural memory first and foremost bespeak social power structures, indicating which groups have succeeded in entrenching their individual 109 Jeffrey K. Olick, “What Does It Mean to Normalize the Past?: Official Memory in German Politics since 1989,” in States of Memory: Continuities, Conflicts, and Transformations in National Retrospection, ed. Jeffrey K. Olick (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 280. 110 Anton Blok, “Reflections on 'Making History',” in Other Histories, ed. Kirsten Hastrup (London; New York: Routledge, 1992), 125. 111 Cf. Sabine Moller, Die Entkonkretisierung der NS-Herrschaft in der Ära Kohl: Die Neue Wache, das Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas, das Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Hannover: Offizin, 1998). 112 Olick, Regret, 188. 35 conception of history as the universally valid and binding memory of a community, a nation.” 113 But while social and, along with it, discursive power is unquestionably a factor in the process of memory formation in general and the establishment of dominance of one memory narrative over any given number of others, this correlation is not as clear-cut as Uhl’s statement suggests. Under certain conditions – and this refers back to Anton Blok’s relatively recent example of the reshaping of nationalism in Central and Eastern European countries after the collapse of the Soviet Union – it can be precisely through the proliferation of a collectivized counter-narrative that social power is achieved in the first place. In the case of postwar Germany and, especially, Germany after reunification, which has provided an additional repertoire of conflicting memory narratives, 114 the continual shift away from a memory culture primarily focused on the guilt of the Germans and towards an emphasis on their suffering both during and after the war, represents a universalizing influence that can also be understood as a counter-memory. However, in this case it is highly debatable whether the social and discursive power that this narrative currently possesses did indeed originate from a previously excluded position or whether it was not, in fact, always an influential undercurrent in postwar Germany. After all, the proliferation of the tabooization myth can arguably be said to generate a misleading image in which, effectively, the whole of the German population features as a marginalized group. Either way, there is a notable distinction between such developments within German collective memory and in the context of British and American discourses, in which positive narratives of these nations’ involvement in World War II have retained their relative dominance and revisionist interventions represent fringe phenomena. In contrast, the re-evaluation of some of the central tenets of German memory discourse has, especially in recent years, begun to gradually replace previously accepted notions about the past – a movement in which individual and official engagements with history are indeed fundamentally complementing each other. At the same time, these revised approaches nonetheless still purport today to be marginalized within German memory discourse as a whole, maintaining their status as contested counter-memories irrespective of their growing influence. Therefore, in order to better understand the function of these narratives, among which Alternate 113 Heidemarie Uhl, “Memory Culture - Politics of History: Some Reflections on Memory and Society,” in Politics of Collective Memory: Cultural Patterns of Commemorative Practices in Post-War Europe, eds. Sophie Wahnich, Barbara Lášticová and Andrej Findor (Wien: LIT, 2008), 63. 114 Cf. Konrad Jarausch, “Normalization or Renationalization?: On Reinterpreting the German Past,” in Rewriting the German Past: History and Identity in the New Germany, eds. Reinhard Alter and Peter Monteath (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press, 1997), 23. 36 Histories of the Third Reich represent a particularly interesting example, the category of countermemory itself needs to be examined further. 2.4 FROM COUNTER-MEMORY TO ALTERNATE MEMORY According to Rosenfeld, “the dialectical relationship between official and counter-memories helps to define the overall character of a society’s historical consciousness.” 115 But what is really meant by the term counter-memories? Within the context of postmodern sensibilities, the term counter-memory commonly bears a predominantly, if not exclusively, positive connotation as a form of critical historical consciousness that serves to effectively and efficiently question any notion of objective historical truth. In “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” Michel Foucault writes of “effective history” (a term used here synonymously with counter-memory): “Effective” history differs from traditional history in being without constants [...] History becomes “effective” to the degree that it introduces discontinuity into our very being – as it divides our emotions, dramatizes our instincts, multiplies our body and sets it against itself. “Effective” history deprives the self of the reassuring stability of life and nature, and it will not permit itself to be transported by a voiceless obstinacy toward a millenial [sic] ending. It will uproot its traditional foundations and relentlessly disrupt its pretended continuity. 116 This dictum has been echoed, with or without explicit reference to the category of countermemory, by a vast array of critics, including Hayden White and Elisabeth Wesseling, and countless authors of postmodern history fiction. However, such all-but-universal condemnations of the idea of historical truth are commonly based on two central misconceptions: they falsely equate objectivity with teleology and, more importantly, they assign an intrinsic, necessarily positive value to anti-canonical approaches to history. For Foucault, the effect of such radical approaches – in the most literal sense of the word (“uproot”) – represents the epitome of critical history, which he explicitly posits as an imperative: “The traditional devices for constructing a comprehensive view of history and for retracing the past as a patient and continuous development must be systematically dismantled.” 117 However, the line between productive, 115 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 17. 116 Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” in Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), 153-154. 117 Ibid, 153. 37 subversive counter-memory and reactionary revisionism is thin. As Natalie Zemon Davis and Randolph Starn point out in their introduction to a special issue of the journal Representations on the topic of Memory and Counter-Memory, “a private fetish or public injunction to forget... are [also] forms of counter-memory.” 118 In this sense, the pivotal questions “by whom, where, in which context, [and] against what” 119 collective memory is constructed can and must not only be applied to official versions of history and memory discourses, but also to discursive interventions that deviate from these mainstream accounts as well. Significantly, Davis and Starn also highlight the distinction between private and public commemoration and argue, as I have done in the previous section, that both types of mnemonic contributions can generally produce similar effects. In fact, the collectivization of individual commemoration is an integral part of the process of replacing one (dominant) memory narrative with another (seemingly marginalized) one. Norbert Frei mentions chancellor Gerhard Schröder’s public invocation of his father, who fell as a soldier of the Wehrmacht in Romania during World War II, as an example of this movement and states that “[w]er als Staatsmann in diesem Modus des Privaten über die Geschichte spricht, [...] der wirkt auch mit an einer Umcodierung der Vergangenheit.” 120 George Lipsitz affirmatively describes this dynamic as follows: Counter-memory is a way of remembering and forgetting that starts with the local, the immediate, and the personal. Unlike historical narratives that begin with the totality of human existence and then locate specific actions and events within that totality, counter-memory starts with the particular and the specific and then builds outward toward a total story. Counter-memory looks to the past for the hidden histories of those excluded from dominant narratives. But unlike mythical narratives that seek to detach events and actions from the fabric of any larger history, counter-memory demands revision of existing histories by supplying new perspectives about the past.121 While Lipsitz’ overall assessment of the mechanics of counter-memory is certainly to the point, the question is whether the described movement of counter-memories from the bottom up, as opposed to the top-down direction of traditional historiography, necessarily precludes a 118 Natalie Zemon Davis and Randolph Starn, “Introduction,” Representations, no. 26, Special Issue: Memory and Counter-Memory (Spring, 1989), 2. 119 Ibid. 120 Frei, 1945 und wir, 17. 121 George Lipsitz, “Myth, History, and Counter-Memory,” in Politics and the Muse: Studies in the Politics of Recent American Literature, ed. Adam J. Sorkin (Bowling Green: Popular, 1989), 162. 38 ‘mythical’ nature, both as a starting point and as an end result. Especially postmemory accounts that function as counter-memories call this position into question. Postmemory, as defined by Marianne Hirsch, signifies “the experience of those who grow up dominated by narratives that preceded their birth, whose own belated stories are evacuated by the stories of the previous generation shaped by traumatic events that can be neither understood nor recreated.”122 However, Anne Fuchs and Mary Cosgrove contend that while postmemory “might provide continuity, tradition, and identity in an otherwise fractured and fragmented [...] history, the fictionalizing perspective of the belated generation often succumbs to the temptations of sentimentalizing narrative and thus revises history from a subjective perspective.” 123 This sentimentalizing element can be identified for a considerable amount of postwar memory narratives. It is crucial to note, however, that its manifestations are diametrically opposed in Anglo-American and German memory discourses. In British and American postwar memory culture accounts which valorize the actions during the war and focus primarily on the sacrifices of their compatriots represent the dominant narratives in the winning nations of World War II. While in the United States the conflict between interventionism and isolationism was fought somewhat more fiercely – with the ultimate discursive victory clearly belonging to the affirmation of the American intervention, nonetheless – the British narrative of the fight against Nazism as the country’s “Finest Hour” has maintained its widely unchallenged status as the dominant interpretation of the British involvement in the war. The German situation, on the other hand, is characterized by the opposite development. Due to the untenability of a positive narrative immediately following the war, arguably effected more by international pressures than a truly widespread acknowledgement of responsibility among the general population, the dominant German memory narrative in the early postwar years was centrally defined more by shame than by pride. Under these circumstances, the discursive contestation of a negative focus – not necessarily by means of a positive alternative but through a gradual movement away from a narrative of guilt and towards one of victimization and powerlessness – manifested itself in a radically subjective sentimentalism, shifting the focus from the historical conditions of Nationalist Socialist rule onto ‘ordinary’ 122 Marianne Hirsch, Family Frames: Photography, Narrative, and Postmemory (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1997), 22. 123 Anne Fuchs and Mary Cosgrove, “Introduction: Germany's Memory Contests and the Management of the Past,” in German Memory Contests: The Quest for Identity in Literature, Film, and Discourse since 1990, eds. Anne Fuchs, Mary Cosgrove and Georg Grote (Rochester: Camden House, 2006), 11. 39 Germans and their individual hardships under the yoke of the authoritarian regime. As Giesen puts it: “Faced with [...] outside observers who could not be co-opted into the coalition of silence, Germans required a new exculpatory narrative. Postwar Germany constructed this narrative by primordializing the opposition between oppressors and the people [...].”124 In the German context, the revisionist intervention into the collective memory discourse represented by these narratives should be understood from an extremely critical perspective, which calls into question the univocally progressive connotations commonly assigned to the category of counter-memory. On the one hand, their effect can be described as a shift from a macro-historical understanding of National Socialism to a micro-historical focus on the everyday lives of Germans under Nazi rule. On this aspect, Dan Diner writes that “by dissolving a process carried out mainly through a division of labor [i.e., the Holocaust] into a series of detailed, individually examined aspects [...], one runs the risk of completely overlooking the defining feature of the regime: industrialized mass murder.” 125 While Diner is referring directly to the socalled Historians’ Dispute (Historikerstreit) of the late 1980s in this passage and thus to what can be considered official contributions to collective memory, there are much more recent incarnations of this phenomenon that represent what Olick calls “socially framed individual memories.” 126 Examples can, again, be found primarily in fictional and non-fictional accounts, both oral and written, of German suffering during the war, surfacing already in the earliest post war years. For instance, the genre of Heimkehrerliteratur – with such prominent titles as Wolfgang Borchert’s drama Draußen vor der Tür (1946/1947), in which, as the label implies, the fate of a returning German prisoner of war provides the central focus of the story – represents an example of literary contributions which emerged almost immediately following the end of war and remain popular and widely read (and taught) to this day. 127 Even more interesting in this 124 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 123. Rosenfeld makes this fundamental difference clear, as well. However, the centrality of these counter-memories for postwar memory culture in Germany and the degree to which they influenced and gradually inscribed themselves as the dominant narrative, in stark contrast to the development in the Allied nations, is not adequately addressed in his account. 125 Dan Diner, “Between Aporia and Apology: On the Limits of Historicising National Socialism,” in Reworking the Past: Hitler, the Holocaust, and the Historians' Debate, ed. Peter Baldwin (Boston: Beacon Press, 1990), 139. 126 Olick, Regret, 20. 127 Cf. Hans-Ulrich Wagner, “'Ein Mann kommt nach Deutschland': Draußen vor der Tür im Kontext der Heimkehrer-Hörspiele der unmittelbaren Nachkriegszeit,” in 'Pack das Leben bei den Haaren': Wolfgang Borchert in neuer Sicht, eds. Gordon Burgess and Hans-Gerhard Winter (Hamburg: Dölling & Galitz, 1996), 37-53. With regard to the nomination of the radio play version of Bochert’s drama for the “Hörspiel” contest of the Berliner Rundfunk in 1946, Wagner explains that out of 1200 contributions, an absolute majority dealt with the plight of 40 context, however, is the fact that the prominence of these narratives is vehemently ignored in later stories in order to lend credibility to the claim of a tabooization of German suffering in this early period. Perhaps the most well-known example of this approach is Günter Grass’ Im Krebsgang (2002). Grass’ novella begins with the suggestion that the central motif of its plot, the sinking of the German refugee ship Wilhelm Gustloff by a Russian submarine in 1945, had been previously omitted from German collective memory, with the very first sentence of the text raising the question: “‘Warum erst jetzt?’.” 128 However, as a number of critics have pointed out, the fate of the vessel and its passengers, in their majority civilians, had actually been prominently featured in several publications before: Leaving aside oral histories, the earliest example dealing with this event was Heinz Schön’s eye-witness account Der Untergang der “Wilhelm Gustloff”: Tatsachenbericht eines Überlebenden (1952), followed by the feature film Nacht fiel über Gotenhafen (1959) and several other fictional and non-fictional mentions in the subsequent years. And only two years before the publication of Grass’ book, a film documentary, produced by Heinz Schön and Karl Höffkes, once again drew detailed attention to the story. 129 To be sure, Grass’ narrator makes explicit mention of several of these earlier publications – Heinz Schön even features as a recurring minor character in the story – but nonetheless maintains that the incident of the sinking of the Gustloff could not be talked about, which is counterfactual in its own right. This significant disconnect provides an insight especially into the form and function of later counter-memory interventions, in which the predication that they are, in essence, presenting secret histories, which had been ignored or even deliberately muted in earlier decades, constitutes a central axiom. For Peter Fritzsche, such approaches betray an “anguished concern with the fate of German history after the catastrophe of the Second World War [...] and the more popular and self-serving suspicion that the world would never forgive the German people for the crimes committed by the Nazis, [which] reveal a striking self-absorption with one’s own problems at the expense of the victims.” 130 These victims are suspiciously absent from a considerable number of contemporary works in this category. returning prisoners of war to Germany. 128 Günter Grass, Im Krebsgang: Eine Novelle, 4th revised ed. (Munich: dtv, 2004), 7. 129 Triumph und Tragödie der Wilhelm Gustloff: Die größte Schiffskatastrophe aller Zeiten, eds. Heinz Schön and Karl Höffkes (Gescher: Polar Film + Medien GmbH, 2000). 130 Peter Fritzsche, “What Exactly is 'Vergangenheitsbewältigung'?: Narrative and its Insufficiency in Postwar Germany,” in German Memory Contests: The Quest for Identity in Literature, Film, and Discourse since 1990, eds. Anne Fuchs, Mary Cosgrove and Georg Grote (Rochester: Camden House, 2006), 37. 41 While approaches such as these are still common and also provide prominent themes for many of the Alternate Histories discussed in the following chapters, in its most recent incarnations, following German unification, German counter-memories have also realized their relativizing potential in a different way. Michael Geyer and Miriam Hansen posit that even those who want to forget “no longer ‘repress’ the past [and that] just about everyone documents/ historicizes/remembers/recollects/commemorates/memorializes. The critical commentary on ‘working-through’ the German past has become one of a general ‘working-over’ that past [...]. They remember in order to forget.” 131 They are referring here to the Bitburg controversy, which is also a key aspect of the gradual “Entkonkretisierung” identified in Sabine Moller’s investigation of the treatment of Nazi past under the aegis of German chancellor Helmut Kohl. 132 In 1985, Kohl and American president Ronald Reagan successively visited both the former concentration camp Bergen-Belsen and the cemetery for fallen German soldiers – which also included members of the SS – in the town of Bitburg, thus asserting, as many contemporary critics decried, an overall commensurability of the victims of National Socialism and the perpetrators. As specific as this event may be, the overall dynamic of this mnemonic shift – along with the importance of commemorative sites in particular – can not only be considered a significant caesura in which an (alleged) counter-memory asserted its “Definitionsmacht” over the previously established dominant narrative, it also constitutes the archetype for all subsequent reformulations of the German memory discourse. Geoffrey Hartman has called this a process of “anti-memory – something that displays the colors of memory, [...] but drifts toward the closure of forgetful ritualization.” 133 This category of “anti-memory” aptly describes the radical changes in German memory discourse at the end of the twentieth century; changes that coincide – though not coincidentally – with a shift of political power. In 1998, the long reign of the liberal-conservative government under chancellor Helmut Kohl came to an end after 16 years. Kohl’s declared pet project had always been the normalization of the identification of the people with the German nation, which only came to pass now, at the very end of an era that had been shaped by diverse discussions of 131 Michael Geyer and Miriam Hansen, “German-Jewish Memory and National Consciousness,” in Holocaust Remembrance: The Shapes of Memory, ed. Geoffrey H. Hartman (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 176. Emphasis in the original. 132 Cf. Moller, Entkonkretisierung. 133 Hartman, The Longest Shadow, 10. Emphasis in the original. 42 remembrance versus forgetfulness and the only mildly successful “Schlussstrich” debate. When the Red-Green government, sometimes referred to both as the “New Left” and the “New Centre,” came into power on October 26, 1998, it brought with it in its highest ranks a number of political acteurs that had been part of the radical student movements of the 1960s and 1970s. They had aggressively and publicly criticized the old order not only for the constant attempts to smooth over the memory of the National Socialist past, but also, more directly, for being the direct successor of that very regime. Only half a year after later, on March 24, 1999, Germany, along with several other members of NATO, went to war against Serbia. This was the first military endeavour involving an active participation of German troops since 1945. When asked to justify this considerable caesura in German postwar foreign policy, Joschka Fischer, former student and peace activist and newly assigned foreign minister of the “New Left” government, explained after the fact: “Ich habe nicht nur gelernt: Nie wieder Krieg! Ich habe auch gelernt: Nie wieder Auschwitz!” 134 The very possibility for this position to be viable within the context of German memory debates relied on the specific moral and discursive authority of the former critics of the old order. As Bill Niven states: Precisely because Red-Green coalition members appeared to have such moral authority in matters of coming to terms with Nazism, their declaration of Germany’s achievement of ‘normality’ was arguably interpreted by many as implying that there was no longer any need to focus largely on German perpetration when remembering the Third Reich and its aftermath. 135 In discursive terms, by acknowledging the responsibility dictated by the memory of the atrocities committed by Germans during National Socialism but, in the same motion, re-signifying this responsibility as not only a legitimization but an obligation to reclaim the role of a ‘global player’ on the international political stage, the door had been opened for Germans to new ways of relating to both their nation’s past and present. ‘Nie wieder Auschwitz’ therefore can be seen here as the metonymic representation of a narrative double-bind and a new form of “antimemory,” as this paradigmatic shift marked, at the same time, a new focus on the German past and an opportunity to overcome its previous constraints in an act of exculpatory redemption. Norbert Frei calls this development an “Umcodierung im historischen Lernprogramm der 134 Quoted in Nico Fried, “Fischer: ‘Ich habe gelernt: Nie wieder Auschwitz’,” Süddeutsche Zeitung, January 24, 2005. 135 Bill Niven, “Introduction: German Victimhood at the Turn of the Millenium,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, ed. Bill Niven (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 9. 43 Deutschen” and posits that Joschka Fischer completed “damit auf der Ebene der praktischen Politik jenen Wechsel [...], der sich in der bundesrepublikanischen Gesellschaft seit längerem vorbereitet hatte – und zwar sowohl generationell als auch kulturell.” 136 Gerd Wiegel generally concurs by stating: Die Erinnerung an den Faschismus wurde von der rot-grünen Regierung zur Legitimierung eines Krieges mißbraucht [und nur] die Berufung auf die Vergangenheit, verbunden mit dem Appell an antifaschistische Reflexe, konnte die breite Zustimmung der Basis von SPD und vor allem Grünen garantieren. 137 However, in contrast to Wiegel’s interpretation Frei acknowledges that this shift, which is not altogether dissimilar to the creation of a new type of nationalism Anton Blok has identified in reference to Eastern European countries, was not exclusively an official intervention into and revision of central aspects of German memory narratives, but also a reflection of developments which already existed in popular discourse at the time, thus highlighting yet again the complementary relationship between individual and official contributions to collective memory. If, then, counter-memory in this sense cannot universally or automatically be considered a progressive engagement with history, what does this mean for the Alternate Histories discussed in the following? Regardless of her unusual selection of texts and her extremely positive understanding of the category of counter-memory, Elisabeth Wesseling’s assertion that all Alternate Histories are essentially counter-memories in that they bring into question established notions of historical knowledge, raises an important point. 138 Alternate Histories do indeed, as the name implies, present an alternate account of the past which universally serves to highlight both the contingency of historical events and the narrative processes involved in their historiographic tradition. However, despite Wesseling’s evaluation of this mechanism as a means of a more diverse and inclusive form of remembering, this is not necessarily their function. Christoph Rodiek also suggests a fundamental connection between Alternate History and counter-memory by citing Foucault’s disavowal of the idea of historical teleology in favor of an ‘open’ 136 Frei, 1945 und wir, 25. 137 Gerd Wiegel, Die Zukunft der Vergangenheit: Konservativer Geschichtsdiskurs und kulturelle Hegemonie – vom Historikerstreit zur Walser-Bubis-Debatte (Cologne: PapyRossa, 2001), 230. 138 See Wesseling, Writing History, 162ff. 44 understanding of history, as expressed in his concept of “effective history,” and links it directly to the counterfactual mode of allohistorical fiction. 139 Rodiek posits that “[i]ndem der uchronische Entwurf die Mechanismen der sozialen Memoria betont – das kollektive Gedächtnis funktioniert ja nicht zuletzt dank des Vergessens vergangener Möglichkeit –, schärft er den Blick für Prozesse sozialer Kommunikation.” 140 Of special note in this statement is the fact that Rodiek makes explicit mention of the importance of forgetting for the functioning of collective memory, which brings back to mind Davis and Starn’s contention that counter-memories can facilitate the remembering of specific historical circumstances as well as but their forgetting. Alternate Histories, as I will show in detail in the subsequent chapters, can perform the dialectical function of focus-shifting in a way akin to other symbols and artefacts of “anti-memory,” as this category is understood by Geoffrey Hartman; a function, which is directly related to the bi-modal nature of collective memory in general, as suggested by Jan Assmann, namely the capacity of serving at once a biographic and a founding purpose. 141 However, the discursive strategies employed to effect this reorientation bear similarities to those employed in public memorialisation, which is at the heart of Hartman’s argument, and to those of memory literature in general. Alternate Histories, in contrast, realize the diversion of memory not by means of creating substitutes for collective identification – through the re-evaluation of actual historical events –, but rather by providing a truly alternative narrative, which evokes a distinct link to the replaced memories but does so without an actual referent in reality. I therefore propose to call this mode of engaging history: alternate memory. Traditional reactionary counter-memory replaces negative aspects within established memory narratives either with positive reinterpretations of the same events or, as in the case of the exemplary narrative of German victimization, shifts the focus away from a discussion of incriminating occurrences and toward an empathic (re-)identification with the collective. Antimemory, instead of repressing or denying negative historical associations, utilizes them in a revised form for the purposes of unifying a contemporary collective and legitimizing its present and future actions. Alternate memory, now, can perform both these tasks, but the discursive means employed differ from those of the previous two categories in a distinct manner. While 139 See Rodiek, Uchronie, 12-13. 140 Ibid, 14. 141 See Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis, 52. 45 both, traditional forms of counter-memory – largely unsuccessful exceptions such as outright Holocaust denial notwithstanding – and more recent strategies of anti-memory, are bound by the constraints of reconciling their narratives with the recourse to ‘real’ history, alternate memory is not. Here, the utopian mode, namely that in order to process the premise of “that which could have been but never was,” readers first had to explore the idea of “that which is not but could be,” which Winthrop-Young posits as an original prerequisite of Alternate History, can be said to reemerge. 142 While it is true, as Winthrop-Young also suggests, that Alternate History fictions are increasingly reliant on historiography in order to assert their overall credibility, 143 the examples in the following chapters nonetheless feature alternative versions of National Socialism, German resistance or the Holocaust, which represent narratives emphatically removed from the reality of known historical events. It is a historical fact, for instance, that the so-called Morgenthau plan – a reference to a memorandum by United States Secretary of the Treasury Henry Morgenthau Jr. from 1944, according to which the defeated were to be submitted to a process of deindustrialization in order to preclude the potential for future acts of aggression – was never actually implemented. As such, it does not normally provide a viable source for the narrative of German victimization. Yet, allohistorical novels like Christoph Ransmayr’s Morbus Kitahara are nonetheless able to utilize this counterfactual construct to address precisely that notion. This unique quality of, on the one hand, eliciting a connection with familiar historical settings but, on the other, infusing them with counterfactual conditions, creates the potential for Alternate Histories to function as interventions into collective memory discourses unburdened by the necessity of legitimizing their position. In this sense, such alternate memories, in the guise of mere counterfactual speculations, constitute an ideal means of subverting even the most central presuppositions of collective memory. And, arguably, few contexts are better suited to illustrate this process than the case of German normalization. 2.5 ALTERNATE MEMORY AND GERMAN NORMALIZATION Although it is true that the general “concept of ‘normalization’ has frequently been invoked by scholars, but [rarely] systematically defined,” the concrete dynamics that constitute the normalization of German postwar memory have, in fact, been thoroughly discussed by Norbert 142 Winthrop-Young, “Fallacies and Thresholds,” 102. 143 See ibid., 114. 46 Frei and others. 144 Perhaps the reason why there is little in the way of an overarching definition of normalization on a global scale is due to the fact that collective memory processes are highly specified and, as a result, insights into the narrative strategies that are used to normalize the memory discourse of one national collective are usually difficult, sometimes impossible, to apply to another. However, an attempt at a generic definition can nonetheless be helpful here. According to Rosenfeld, for instance, “[a]t the most basic level, [...] normalization refers to the process by which a particular historical legacy (an era, an event, a figure, or a combination thereof) becomes viewed like any other” and that, “[a]s a concept, normalization implies that a given historical legacy is somehow ‘abnormal’ to begin with. It also presumes an ideal-typical condition of ‘normalcy’ towards which all pasts teleologically proceed in consciousness.” 145 His own study shows the usefulness of this basic definition by successfully applying it to the various effects of Alternate History fictions within the different national memory discourses of Britain, the United States and Germany. 146 But while there is a differentiation between the specificities of the respective normalizing trends within the memory cultures of each of these nations, a detailed delineation of the case of German normalization, in the context of which this phenomenon has arguably had the greatest impact, falls short. In order to better understand the function of alternate memory for the collective memory and the collective identity of postwar Germany, one must therefore seek to understand what constitutes German normalization in particular. In this context, the above notion of teleology as an integral element of normalization is misleading. To be sure, the mythical quality of the concept of ‘normalcy’ is unquestionably a significant aspect, and it is certainly also true that deliberate movements towards a normalization of memory always contain an aspect of striving for a ‘better tomorrow’ for the collective. At the same time, normalization is not or, at least, not immediately, oriented towards the future, but rather represents a nostalgic vision of returning to a less burdened past. This is not to say, of course, that such an idea is any less of an ideological construct. However, one must differentiate between the narrative content and the strategic direction of normalizing trends of memory. In the 144 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 16. 145 Ibid. 146 See ibid., 17, for a breakdown of the different manifestations of normalization Rosenfeld identifies and links in particular to different historical phases of Alternate History. He discusses what he labels organic, universalizing, relativizing, and aestheticizing forms of normalization, respectively, as they pertain to the commemorative effects of allohistorical fictions. 47 case of postwar Germany, the process of normalization, in all of its various stages and discursive manifestations, entails an inevitable recourse to National Socialism. This illustrates the fact that, here, the implication of normalcy points backwards, to a time that precedes the ‘burden’ on the collective conscience represented by the crimes committed during this era. Accordingly, all historical forms of normalizing movements within postwar German memory discourse – from the relativizing traditional counter-memories in the early postwar years to the seemingly inclusive anti-memory developments following reunification – have at their narrative core an element of nostalgia for simpler, more innocent times. As discursive strategies, however, they are, at the same time, directed ahead insofar as they are ultimately aimed at restoring an unfettered national identity. While the regressive narrative content is fundamentally ideological in nature, the progressive discursive strategy is decidedly more pragmatic. Lars Rensmann contends: “Die konkreten machtpolitischen Interessen können so teils korrespondieren mit einem sozialpsychologischen Bedürfnis, das Geschehene ungeschehen zu machen, um der kollektiven Identität willen [...].” 147 It is therefore questionable whether it is adequate or necessary to conceptualize this movement in recourse to the category of ‘teleology,’ which emphasizes the mythical quality of an ideal future state, as opposed to the more practical and immediate enterprise of effecting a (relative) increase in political and economic power. What is of central importance – and this applies to most, if not all, normalizing trends of memory across national boundaries – is that the narrative content undergoes diachronic changes as the national and international discourses, against which these counter-memories are directed, evolve. For the German context these historical changes have already been addressed in the previous section, and older models will be relevant in the analysis of some of the texts in the following chapters whose production and publication fall into earlier periods of postwar German history. However, as I have outlined above, despite the fact that a tendency for overcoming the legacy of National Socialism already surfaced immediately after the end of the war, attesting to the existence of an ongoing project of German normalization, the discursive strategies employed have changed significantly with the reunification of Germany and, again, with the epistemological shift that accompanied the rise of former critics of this very project to political power in 1998. This has paved the way for a new form of positive nationalist identification. Not coincidentally, the term 147 Lars Rensmann, “Politisch-psychologische Nachwirkungen des Nationalsozialismus in der Gegenwart: Zum Verhältnis von neueren Vergangenheitsdiskursen und gesellschaftlichen Einstellungen gegenüber dem Holocaust,” in Die Lebendigkeit der Geschichte: (Dis-)Kontinuitäten in Diskursen über den Nationalsozialismus, eds. Eleonore Lappin and Bernhard Schneider (St. Ingbert: Röhrig, 2001), 365. 48 “German normalization” is most commonly applied to denote these relatively recent developments and, also not by accident, a considerable increase in the production of German Alternate Histories can be identified for this period, as well. Let us therefore take a closer look at the specific conditions of this new era of German normalization and what it means for the development and the function of alternate memory. A crucial event that is frequently cited as a turning point in postwar German memory culture and as a representation of the paradigmatic shift of normalization from being the project of a more overtly conservative clientele to becoming a widely established trend in the center of the political landscape of Germany, is Martin Walser’s acceptance speech for the “Friedenspreis des deutschen Buchhandels” on October 11, 1998. In it, Walser – esteemed as a representative of critical German authorship on the issue of the National Socialist past – infamously referred to the memory of Auschwitz as a “moral cudgel,” by means of which the German people were being continually held back from re-establishing a ‘normal’ sense of national identification and pride in their achievements as a collective. A central quote from Walser’s speech reads as follows: Im Jahr 1977 habe ich [...] eine Rede halten müssen und habe die Gelegenheit damals dazu benutzt, folgendes Geständnis zu machen: “Ich halte es für unerträglich, die deutsche Geschichte – so schlimm sie zuletzt verlief – in einem Katastrophenprodukt enden zu lassen. Und: “Wir dürften, sage ich vor Kühnheit zitternd, die BRD so wenig anerkennen wie die DDR. Wir müssen die Wunde namens Deutschland offenhalten.” Das fällt mir ein, weil ich jetzt wieder vor Kühnheit zittere, wenn ich sage: Auschwitz eignet sich nicht dafür, Drohroutine zu werden, jederzeit einsetzbares Einschüchterungsmittel oder Moralkeule oder auch nur Pflichtübung. Was durch Ritualisierung zustande kommt, ist von der Qualität des Lippengebets. Aber in welchen Verdacht gerät man, wenn man sagt, die Deutschen seien jetzt ein ganz normales Volk, eine ganz gewöhnliche Gesellschaft? 148 In this brief but highly charged passage Walser manages to address a multitude of issues that had been at the heart of the engagement of Germans with the legacy of National Socialism since the earliest days of the postwar era. In an introductory move, he establishes his reputation and authority not only as a critical, but also as a neutral voice in the context of German memory debates. In quoting his own speech from 1977, in which he addressed the separation of Germany 148 Martin Walser, “Erfahrungen beim Verfassen einer Sonntagsrede: Dankesrede von Martin Walser zur Verleihung des Friedenspreises des Deutschen Buchhandels in der Frankfurter Paulskirche am 11.Oktober 1998,” Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, http://www.hdg.de/lemo/html/dokumente/WegeInDieGegenwart_ redeWalserZumFriedenspreis/index.html (accessed 10/25, 2011). 49 following World War II, Walser situates himself in the center of the discussions of reunification, but not in favor of simply reintegrating the GDR into the existing social structure of the Federal Republic, but rather as an impartial critic of both German states and a proponent of an entirely fresh start for the German collective. In the same sentence, he manages to relegate the events which led up to the separation of Germany and its fundamental memory contests in the aftermath to the narrative sidelines, alluding to them only with an amorphous formulation (“so schlimm sie zuletzt verlief”) reduced to a parenthetical insertion. At the same time, this mere allusion serves to effectively negate any continuities between the Nazi state and the Federal Republic, which had been a central focus of the anti-fascist criticism of the 1960s and 1970s, bridging the gap between Germany’s “bad history” and his own present with the term “zuletzt,” thus implying that, as of May 9, 1945, Germany’s sole focus had been the atonement for the crimes of the preceding twelve years or, at least, the pursuit of a “good history.” And while the blunt reference to Auschwitz as a “moral cudgel” is perhaps the most criticized element of Walser’s speech, his general reference to the upholding of the memory of the Holocaust as a “ritualization” is, in fact, much more interesting. This particular phrasing suggests that the longing for normalcy, which Walser directly evokes with his last sentence, represents not an ideological construct in itself, but rather a breaking-up of mythical discursive structures. The reference to the effectively normalized German collective of the present, finally, is once again used to re-introduce the idea of a tabooization: The formulation “In welchen Verdacht gerät man, wenn man sagt...” evokes an unsubstantiated threat that is faced by all who dare to question what Walser previously exposed as an unjust commemorative ritual. At the same time, Walser’s speech can also be interpreted as a symbolic call to arms, since, as Bill Niven points out, by “seeing in present-day references to the holocaust [sic] an unfair moral condemnation of today’s Germans, Walser makes [anyone] who makes such references into targets of legitimate criticism.” 149 In his analysis of Walser’s speech and its effects on German collective memory, Lars Rensmann concludes that “[d]ie unheilvolle Perspektive liegt vorerst nicht im Abbruch des Diskurses, sondern u.a. in seiner verallgemeinerten Überführung in eine Beliebigkeit, bei der der Holocaust zu einem vergleichsweise belanglosen Gegenstand [...] mutiert.”150 This view also 149 William John Niven, Facing the Nazi Past: United Germany and the Legacy of the Third Reich (London: Routledge, 2002), 183. 150 Micha Brumlik, Hajo Funke and Lars Rensmann, Umkämpftes Vergessen: Walser-Debatte, Holocaust-Mahnmal und neuere deutsche Geschichtspolitik (Berlin: Das Arabische Buch, 2000), 165. 50 correlates with Andrei Markovits’ and Simon Reich’s assessment that “[t]hese proliferating reinterpretations of the Nazi past attempt nothing short of committing Auschwitz to the realm of history – thereby relieving, if not exculpating, the Germans’ collective memory from this immense burden.” 151 But the immediate discursive effects of Walser’s stance are not the only issue of note. Particularly significant is also the person of Martin Walser as such or, rather, the moral locus from which his intervention originated. Traditionally, the call for an end of the alleged preoccupation with the legacy of National Socialism was linked to the political right. Scholars like Gerd Wiegel and Roger Woods have aptly described the nature of the attempts of Germany’s New Right to overcome the Nazi past since reunification. 152 Such accounts are meritorious contributions to the analysis of concurrent, more overtly reactionary approaches to overcoming the past, such as the remnants of the repressive “Schlussstrichdebatte,” which frequently entails positive recourses to national pride and the military during National Socialism. At the same time, they have widely proven incapable of adequately accounting for the involvement of protagonists like Walser and the emergence of the considerably more successful new narratives their reformulations represent. Wiegel, for instance, simply ignores the specificity of this paradigmatic shift and subsumes both the newly founded Red-Green government and Martin Walser under the heading “neoconservative,” thus neglecting their previous status as critical and progressive voices of the postwar era. 153 However, the gradual ascension of such voices to the status of the dominant narrative is a central characteristic of the most recent developments in the collective memory discourse of Germany: An increasing number of highly influential, young intellectuals, sporting superb credentials and occupying major positions of cultural and social power, have gradually begun to dismantle the Bundesrepublik’s most solid consensus: that National Socialism, and the Holocaust in particular, were among the most heinous expressions of human evil in history. These are not fringe historians of the radical Right; nor are they neo-Nazis or Holocaust deniers. They are merely revisionists, relativizers, ‘historicists’. 154 151 Andrei S. Markovits and Simon Reich, The German Predicament: Memory and Power in the New Europe (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1997), 205. 152 See Wiegel, Zukunft der Vergangenheit, and Roger Woods, “On Forgetting and Remembering: The New Right since German Unification,” in German Memory Contests: The Quest for Identity in Literature, Film, and Discourse since 1990, eds. Anne Fuchs, Mary Cosgrove and Georg Grote (Rochester: Camden House, 2006), 271-286. 153 See Wiegel, Zukunft der Vergangenheit, 212-244. 154 Markovits/Reich, German Predicament, 205. 51 But this reading is, of course, not uncontested in the context of German memory studies. For instance, Jeffrey Alexander contends that while this new discursive strategy “shifts symbolic significance, and audience attention, from the originating trauma to the traumas that follow in a sequence of analogical associations,” it does not “inevitably erase or invert the meanings associated with the trauma that was first in the associational line.” 155 And while Daniel Becker acknowledges that “[a]s a consequence of the Walser debate and the Kosovo War, the importance of the Holocaust in debates about German identity, or rather, German identities has receded,” he goes on to argue that this trend “does not signify that Germany returns to an unreflected nationalism oblivious of the past. Rather, it reflects the manifold social and cultural changes the country has undergone in the decades since the end of World War II.”156 I would argue, however, that such optimistic interpretations fail to adequately take into account the dialectical structure of these new narratives. In line with Geoffrey Hartman’s concept of anti-memory, Andrei Markovits and Simon Reich argue that those who adhere to these new forms of commemorative exculpation “do not necessarily object to [remembering the victims of National Socialism and the Holocaust]. Indeed they welcome these activities as long as they finally liberate the new Berlin Republic from the burdens that shackled its Bonn predecessor.” 157 Indeed, these developments seem to leave little room for positive interpretation, since their ultimate effect is a less evident, but, at the same time, considerably more efficient version of the phenomenon which Moller already described for the pre-1998 era of normalizing counter-memory: “[Der] verbrecherische Grundcharakter des NS-Regimes verschwimmt hinter einer von Zeit und Konkretem unabhängigen menschlichen Leidensgeschichte.” 158 In other words, the trend of remembering in order to forget facilitates, in its logical conclusion, a decontextualization of National Socialism and the Holocaust which effectively removes both events from their concrete historical, cultural, and political settings and turns them into empty signifiers which can not only be readily committed to realm of history, as Markovits and Reich suggest, but can even be called upon at 155 Jeffrey C. Alexander, “On the Social Construction of Moral Universals: The 'Holocaust' from War Crime to Trauma Drama,” in Cultural Trauma and Collective Identity, ed. Jeffrey C. Alexander (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 254. 156 Daniel Becker, “Coming to Terms with 'Vergangenheitsbewältigung': Walser's Sonntagsrede, the Kosovo War, and the Transformation of German Historical Consciousness,” in Victims and Perpetrators: 1933-1945: (Re)Presenting the Past in Post-Unification German Culture, eds. Laurel Cohen-Pfister and Dagmar WienröderSkinner (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 355. 157 Markovits/Reich, German Predicament, 205. 158 Moller, Entkonkretisierung, 140. 52 will in order to legitimize the status quo of the contemporary German collective, as in the case of the Kosovo war. This reading echoes Adorno’s psychoanalytical classification of “Vergangenheitsbewältigung” in general, namely that the desire of the damaged collective narcissism does not only include the reinterpretation of the past in order to expunge the memory of the original injury, but, ultimately, the reorganization of the present in a way which reverses the injury itself. 159 To my mind, the best contemporary summary of the conditions that define this process is provided by Lars Rensmann, who writes: Die Intensivierung der Vergangenheitsdiskurse führt [...] qualitativ keineswegs notwendig zu mehr Aufklärung und weniger Abwehr sowie einer Abnahme von Vorurteilen, sondern begünstigt auch teils subtile, teils sehr unverhüllte Abwehrformen. [...] Entscheidend für das Verhältnis zur Verarbeitung des kollektiven historischen Horizonts ist [...] nicht dass, sondern was und wie Geschichte zum Gegenstand wird. 160 This crucial distinction between the mere fact that history is made the object of discussion and what this discussion actually entails leads us back to the category of alternate memory. Within the thus established narrative of German normalization, allohistorical fictions represent a special case. While in the development of German Alternate History, “dystopian narratives of the early postwar period had exhibited a self-critical dimension from the very beginning, the normalized accounts of more recent years have expressed a more triumphalistic sensibility, reflecting the new self-confidence produced by reunification.” 161 In this sense, the genre, in terms of its historical evolution, can be considered similar to other manifestations of collective memory in postwar Germany. The beginnings of German-language postwar Alternate Histories are especially interesting in light of what Ceslaw Karolak posits with regard to the development of German Science Fiction, a genre which is commonly held to be the historical point of origin and still a close relative of Alternate History fictions. According to him, the majority of SF publications in Germany in the early postwar years, specifically in the 1950s, displayed a number of distinct continuities with Nazi ideology, liberally proliferating ideas of racism and expansionism in particular. 162 In stark contrast, early Alternate Histories in German are 159 See Adorno, Aufarbeitung, 564. 160 Rensmann, Nationalsozialismus in der Gegenwart, 367-368. 161 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 31. 162 See Ceslaw Karolak, “Unbewältigte Zukunft: Kriegs- und Fortschrittsvisionen in der westdeutschen ScienceFiction-Literatur der 50er Jahre,” in Ideologie und Utopie in der deutschen Literatur der Neuzeit, ed. Bernhard Spies 53 considerably more akin to the British and American paradigms in that the pursuit and realization of such reactionary ideals feature in them solely as pure nightmare scenarios. It must be noted, however, that contrary to their Anglo-American counterparts German-language Alternate Histories did not begin to surface until the mid-1960s, the first example being commonly considered to be Otto Basil’s novel Wenn das der Führer wüßte (1966), 163 which describes a world in which the Nazis have not only won the war, but have, in the fictional present of the novel’s setting, subjugated large parts of the globe, including the Allied nations, with the help of nuclear weapons, practically eradicated the Jews from the face of the earth and confined most other ‘non-Aryan’ races to the yoke of slavery or used them as guinea pigs for genetic experiments. Germany and Austria have become strongholds of grotesque pagan mysticism and, following the death of Adolf Hitler, have descended into a state of perpetual in-fighting between the different factions of the National Socialist movement that is gradually turning into a civil war. In short, Basil’s vision of an alternate outcome of World War II, which Marcel Atze describes as the ‘murdering’ of the myth of a Nazi victory by means of depicting in abhorrent detail the realization of all explicit and implicit aspects of the National Socialist agenda, rivals any non-German speculative account in terms of the degree to which such a scenario is depicted as the worst possible turn history could have taken. 164 It is, however, also the only one of its kind. Not only has there not been a single other German or Austrian example in which a world has been described in even remotely as harsh dystopian terms as in the case of Basil’s novel, but the production of German-language Alternate Histories overall should remain extremely limited, at best, for another three decades. The absolute majority of German and Austrian allohistorical fictions focused on the Third Reich thus far has been produced after the reunification of Germany and, therefore, in the context of the era of the accelerated, reformulated German normalization defined above. This development, I would argue, is no coincidence. Within the new discourse of collective memory in the unified Germany, in the context of which specifically orchestrated commemorative performances serve to facilitate the overcoming of uncomfortable aspects of memory and the subversive strategies of counter-memory are (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 1995), 144-150. 163 See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 162. 164 See Marcel Atze, “Hitler und Holocaust im Konjunktiv: Otto Basils konjekturalhistorischer Roman Wenn das der Führer wüßte,” in Otto Basil und die Literatur um 1945: Tradition, Kontinuität, Neubeginn, eds. Volker Kaukoreit and Wendelin Schmidt-Dengler (Vienna: Zsolnay, 1998), 117-136. 54 employed as a means of establishing new forms of nationalist identification, the counterfactual mode of alternate memory constitutes an almost ideal narrative device. As a matter of fact, its specific aptitude for relativization can already be identified in Alternate Histories preceding this era, as the discussion of some examples in the following chapters will illustrate, but it only reaches its full potential in cohort with corresponding contemporary developments in the collective memory of the reunified Germany. In comparison to official as well as other forms of literary interventions into the discourse of collective memory, allohistorical fictions benefit from their essentially ludic engagement with historical knowledge. Remaining within the sphere of literature, other types of narratives can, at most, attempt to realize their normalizing potential against central tenets of established historical knowledge; Alternate Histories, on the other hand, perform the same task by positing alternate memories in place of real historical events. As Bernhard Giesen contends, representatives “of the old master narrative cannot deny the event that resulted in the trauma of collective identity, but they mostly try to remove it from the core of national identity and to normalize it as a deplorable side effect of historical turmoil.” 165 Alternate memory has the capacity of accomplishing precisely this radical denial that other forms of counter-memory cannot: It can universalize the history of National Socialism and the Holocaust by means of presenting the reader with alternative versions of these events and making them appear just as likely, thus calling into question the concrete conditions that effected them in a specific historical context and a specific national setting. It can present counterfactual tales of German heroism in resistance to the Nazi regime, thus creating the image of a historically disproportionate degree of fundamental opposition against the National Socialist order from within the general population of the Third Reich. Or it can depict the effects of alternate Holocausts perpetrated against the Germans in the aftermath of World War II and the inherent subtle reaffirmation of the narrative of commensurable German victimization. As all of these examples and the close readings in following chapters will illustrate, Alternate Histories are capable to complementing more conventional forms of revisionist counter-memory in unique and uniquely efficient ways. In the conclusion to Rosenfeld’s study, the potential of normalization to divert the attention from real memory represents a worrisome trend only insofar as it diminishes the 165 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 147. 55 public’s historical knowledge on the whole. 166 Even if one were to argue that, to an extent, this is a necessary prerequisite in order for alternate memory to function, this concern would nonetheless fail to address central aspects of German normalization and, arguably, the dynamics of normalizing counter-memories in general. However, it is highly debatable whether this is actually the case. In light of the complementary nature of the different sources of collective memory in the context of German normalization, the success of this trend relies to a considerable extent on a silent accord between the producers of revisionist Alternate Histories and their audience, inclining the latter to accept the implications of the formers’ narratives in lieu of what may well be a perfectly intact knowledge of history. That is to say, a reader of an allohistorical story, omitting the real Holocaust and instead depicting the brutal victimization of the German population, could know full well that the suffering of Germans after the war and the industrialized mass murder of Jewish and other victims preceding it cannot reasonably be considered commensurable occurrences, but still choose, in adherence to the collective counternarrative, to tendentiously prioritize stories of German victimization in their own memory. The Alternate Histories discussed here are prone to serving such a purpose and, as such, they are exemplary representations of the potential of literature for facilitating a process of overcoming history. After all, as Geoffrey Winthrop-Young puts it: “In manchen Fällen ist die Schilderung einer kontrafaktischen Vergangenheit eine in den Konjunktiv [abgeschobene] Schilderung einer potentiellen Zukunft.” 167 The essential function of alternate memory is to contribute to the realization of a new narrative which ensures that this potential future is a prosperous one for the national collective. 166 See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 392. 167 Winthrop-Young, “Am Rand der Uchronie: Oswald Levetts Verirrt in den Zeiten und die Frühphase der alternate history,” Modern Austrian Literature 34, no. 3-4 (2001): 34. 56 3. IT COULD HAPPEN … ANYWAY: UNIVERSALIZING NAZISM While the normalization of the memory of the Third Reich has unquestionably been an ongoing project since the earliest postwar years, the increasing discursive importance of its advancement by means of universalistic comparisons constitutes a relatively recent development. In The World Hitler Never Made, Gavriel Rosenfeld characterizes this phenomenon in the following terms: Individuals and groups in society may seek to normalize the past for a variety of reasons, but they do so usually out of a sense of impatience with its continued abnormality. Advocates of this agenda may use different strategies to neutralize or redirect attention away from the past’s resonant singularity. They may seek to relativize the past by deliberately minimizing its unique dimensions through comparisons with other more or less comparable historical occurrences. They may also attempt to universalize the past by explaining it as less the result of particularistic trends distinct to the era in question than of broader, timeless, social, political, or economic forces that they hope to call attention to […]. These strategies all reflect a desire to make a given historical legacy no different from any other and can thus be seen as part of a larger attempt to reduce its prominence in current consciousness, if not render it forgotten altogether. 168 The effect of such strategies on the collective memory of Germany’s Nazi past differs depending on the national and historical context in which they are produced. In the context of official commemorative discourses, the universalization of the legacy of the National Socialist era as a pervasive occurrence is largely geopolitically and historically restricted. While narratives that generalize the causes and policies of National Socialism do exist outside of German debates, they typically do not represent mainstream positions within the memory debates of other countries. For several decades following the end of World War II, the same situation applied to discussions and representations of collective memory in Germany. More recently, however, the recourse to the Nazi past in comparative and ultimately relativist terms has experienced a considerable rise in German discussions. As outlined in the previous chapter, this development coincides with a series of paradigmatic shifts for which the reunification of Germany can be identified as a starting point, but in the context of which the discursive changes that accompanied the rise to power of former critics of historical revisionism in 1998 has also played a decisive role. Evidence of this trend can be found, for instance, in the debates surrounding the German participation in the war against Serbia and the strategies of legitimization employed in this context. Of this, Karoline von Oppen writes that in the newly established Berlin Republic the 168 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 17-18. Emphases in the original. 57 justification for war “was no longer a question of political responsibility but one of empathy through shared experiences” and that, in fact, “the notion of shared knowledge of suffering was used openly in the 1999 debate on the war against Serbia, in response to the Serbian treatment of Kosovo Albanians.” 169 After long periods of the repression or outright denial of a collective responsibility of Germans for the atrocities of National Socialism, the tendency to acknowledge but, at the same time, universalize it by situating it within an international and trans-historical tradition has since become a staple of the German engagement with the past. In the context of non-literary discourses, this can be considered a representative example of what Hartman has termed anti-memory. An analogous trend that is considerably less exclusive to the German context can be observed much earlier in Alternate Histories of the Third Reich. At the same time, its specific implementation as a narrative strategy – especially in German counterfactual literature – also exhibits distinct differences that constitute a historical progression which can be linked to the turn in non-literary discourses. The following sections of this chapter will discuss a small selection of allohistorical fictions that represent an exemplary variety of manifestations of this universalistic theme in Alternate History, highlight the differences between their specific narrative approaches, both in terms of their national and historical setting, and illustrate the specifically German function of counterfactual universalization in the production of alternate memories. 3.1 THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE Philip K. Dick’s 1962 novel The Man in the High Castle is perhaps the most well-known and most discussed Alternate History to date.170 Dick weaves an intricate tale of an allohistorical present-day America in which the effects of the alternate outcome of the Second World War are acutely apparent. In 1933, the attempt on the life of President Franklin D. Roosevelt – which, in real history, killed Anton Cermak, the mayor of Chicago – is successful and it falls to Vice President John Nance Garner to assume the presidency. As signs arise of impending war in 169 Karoline von Oppen, “‘(Un)Sägliche Vergleiche’: What Germans remembered (and Forgot) in Former Yugoslavia in the 1990s,” in German Culture, Politics, and Literature into the Twenty-First Century: Beyond Normalization, ed. Stuart Taberner and Paul Cooke (Rochester: Camden House, 2006), 177. 170 Philip K. Dick, The Man in the High Castle (New York: Vintage Books,  1992). Hereafter cited as MHC. 58 Europe, Garner leads the country onto a path of non-interventionism, a policy which is then continued by Republican John W. Bricker, his successor, in 1940. Without the entrance of the American forces into the war, Nazi Germany manages to overrun its European enemies and ends the war in Europe by conquering the Soviet Union in 1941. With the United States military wholly unprepared for the fighting reaching American shores, the Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor succeeds in destroying the entire US naval fleet. The virtually defenseless United States are subsequently attacked by both Axis powers on both shores, resulting in the German occupation of the Eastern part of the country and the Japanese seizing the West. The remainder of the completely outmanned and outgunned American armed forces retreats to a small section of the Rocky Mountain States which, by 1948, remains the last enclave in the former United States not occupied by a foreign power. In accordance with what Hellekson calls a true alternate history, the novel’s main narrative begins well after these historical alterations have occurred. 171 The technologically advanced Greater German Reich has conquered large parts of the globe and is even developing plans to colonize Mars. However, the story itself is primarily set in the Pacific States of America (PSA), the Japanese occupied zone, as it unfolds in the 1960s. After more than a decade of occupation, most Americans have adjusted to foreign rule and a new kind of normalcy characterizes life in San Francisco, the novel’s main, but by no means only, locale. While horror stories from the German sector, still referred to as the United States of America, are present as a constant specter, the Japanese, despite having instituted a de facto racial class system, have overall proven to be relatively benevolent occupiers. As Gavriel Rosenfeld states, the complex story of The Man in the High Castle indeed “resists simple summary,” but commonly identified as the central plotline is the story of Japanese diplomat Nobusuke Tagomi as he gradually becomes involved in a German plan for an impending attack of Japan. 172 The main plot, however, is only of secondary interest to this examination. While Dick’s novel has been widely discussed as an archetypical example of Alternate History, containing a diverse array of elements representing integral aspects of the genre, its most significant universalistic aspect is frequently relegated to the sidelines of the debate, although its existence is mentioned in virtually every scholarly analysis. Embedded in the novel’s various allohistorical 171 Hellekson, Alternate History, 5. 172 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 104. 59 story arcs is a second, to a large extent contrary, Alternate History: The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. This book is a metafictional story-within-the-story whose centrality for the narrative is inescapable. Written by recluse author Hawthorne Abendsen – as it turns out, the eponymous man in the High Castle –, Grasshopper represents a parallel allohistorical fiction in which the Germans lose World War II. At the same time, this scenario is not identical with the course of real history, but constructs a third parallel narrative, which concurrently questions both the readers’ reality and that of Dick’s protagonists. Although the radical metafictional character of The Man in the High Castle – which is not exclusively, but most centrally embodied by Grasshopper – has been the focus of a number of critical analyses, the actual plot of Abendsen’s novel, whose key elements are spread throughout the text in form of fragments and paraphrases, has to date never been thoroughly discussed. 173 Despite the existence of an obscure sub-plot which is only briefly hinted at, the overall story of Grasshopper lends itself to a much easier summary or, rather, reconstruction from the various passages read or recounted successively by several characters of The Man in the High Castle. Contrary to the events in the main narrative, in this alternate account of history, Roosevelt is not assassinated but carries out his two-term presidency and prepares the United States for an imminent war against Germany. Different from real history, however, he does not run for a third term, but is instead succeeded by Rexford Tugwell, a member of Roosevelt’s inner circle and a fellow interventionist. In an act of strategic clairvoyance, Tugwell removes the American fleet from Pearl Harbor in due time and thus prevents it from being destroyed. Without the disastrous losses suffered in impending attack, the American Navy is able to muster a stronger opposition to the Japanese forces and consequently prevents Japan’s domination of the Pacific, and their ultimate (allohistorical) victory against the United States, by conventional means. At the same time, a pact is forged between Britain and the Soviet Union resulting in the defeat of the German Wehrmacht on the Eastern front.174 Soon after, Italy betrays the Axis and joins forces with the Allies. Following the surrender of the Japanese, the Americans enter the European theater of war and defeat Germany alongside the British. In the aftermath of the war, 173 For the discussion of the metafictional quality of the novel, see especially Canaan (2002), Hayles (1983), and Rieder (1988). Especially Rieder’s article does focus rather extensively on the function of the Grasshopper within the main narrative, but also does not give much room to its actual plot or its inherent universalism. 174 See MHC, 65-69. 60 large parts of the globe are divided up between Britain and the United States. 175 Hitler is captured before he can commit suicide and is put on trial in Munich, where he is sentenced to death and subsequently executed. 176 Under the postwar presidency of Tugwell, a new New Deal is instituted with a focus on feeding and educating the global population (especially the far reaches of China). In the United States, a booming labor market is created as a result of this program and the Americans begin supplying the entire world with cheap satellite televisions as a means of education. Around 1960, the United States end the occupation of Japan and Chiang Kai-shek becomes the “great democratic President” of China under American administration. 177 As a result of the economic upswing, effected and controlled by the Americans, the China Dollar eventually becomes the new global trade currency. Meanwhile, the British Empire pursues a similar project. But in contrast to their former American allies, Britain relies on forced labor and annexed resources from Germany and the Caucasus in order to supply India, Burma, Africa and the Middle East with food and new technologies. 178 While race discrimination has officially ended in the United States after the end of World War II, Britain gradually begins instituting apartheid systems in the regions under its control, in particular in Singapore. The beginning of the 1960s also marks the beginning of ten years of an uneasy peace between the two remaining superpowers, with the United States controlling China and the entire Pacific, and Britain the Middle East, Africa and parts of continental Asia. As the third, but overall inferior global power, Russia remains divided between the US and Britain and ultimately passive. During this period, Britain begins setting up so-called detention preserves in several South Asian countries for alleged Chinese dissidents, as a response to the overwhelmingly pro-American position adopted by China. Having instated himself as a de facto dictator, Churchill is still in power at this time. While the United States also perform massive acts of economic expansion after winning the war against Japan, they lack the same strong leadership after the end of Tugwell’s second term in office. 179 The ultimate consequence, as Joe puts it in the main narrative, is that “Britain wins ... 175 See MHC, 82-84. 176 See MHC, 126. 177 MHC, 157. 178 See MHC, 157-159. 179 See MHC, 159-163. 61 US dwindles, Britain keeps needling and poking and expanding, keeps the initiative.” 180 The significance of this meta-text for the main narrative of The Man in the High Castle is made clear at the very end of the novel. After the character Juliana becomes obsessed with Abendsen’s novel – and, on the way, manages to kill a covert Nazi assassin sent to the independent Rocky Mountain States to track down and murder the producer of this subversive text –, she decides to confront the author and question him about the origins of his story. In Abendsen’s home – now no longer the High Castle of legend – she ultimately pressures him into admitting that he has, in fact, written the novel with the help if the I Ching, an ancient Chinese divination technique, which, next to the Grasshopper itself, is the second narrative element linking together all of the story’s characters. Already anticipating the answer, Juliana proceeds to ask of the I Ching, also frequently referred to as the Oracle, the reason for inspiring Abendsen to write this particular tale: Juliana said, 'Oracle, why did you write The Grasshopper Lies Heavy? What are we supposed to learn?' [...] 'It's Chung Fu,' Juliana said. 'Inner Truth. I know without using the chart, too. And I know what it means.' Raising his head, Hawthorne scrutinized her. He had now an almost savage expression. 'It means, does it, that my book is true?' 'Yes,' she said. With anger he said, 'Germany and Japan lost the war?' 'Yes.' 181 As Rosenfeld contends, the fact that the Alternate History within the Alternate History is ultimately revealed to be the truth represents “a conclusion typical of Dick’s writing, [in which] fiction is exposed as reality and reality as fiction.” 182 For him this turn of events signals a conclusion “on a pessimistic note by casting doubt upon the likelihood of any escape from political oppression.” 183 Here Rosenfeld refers to what he interprets as the inability of the majority of characters in the main narrative – and, by symbolic extension, the majority of people in general – to recognize the fictitious nature of their world and break through the illusion. This reading would suggest, however, that Abendsen’s alternate reality represents a significant improvement over that envisioned in the remainder of the novel, which is not necessarily the case. In fact, this secondary allohistorical scenario is, in many ways, just as bleak as that of the 180 MHC, 163. 181 MHC, 257. 182 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 107. 183 Ibid., 108. 62 primary narrative of The Man in the High Castle. In Grasshopper, Germany not winning the Second World War does not result in the abolition of totalitarian control or politicized racial discrimination and does not produce a more liberal, progressive society. Instead, elements of German fascism are projected onto Britain after the end of the war, resulting in a global proliferation of racist policies and the subjugation of large parts of the world under imperialist rule. In this sense, when compared to the main plot of Dick’s novel, Abendsen’s Alternate History does not actually function as a redemptive alternative, but rather as a mise-en-abîme inversion of the real world, in which the same problems prevail only in a different constellation. More significant, however, is the relation of this secondary counterfactual story to actual history. Here, the suggestion that the world could have turned out just as badly even if the defeat of Nazi Germany played out more or less as it did, inevitably constitutes a universalizing perspective, an aspect of the novel that, albeit without an explicit acknowledgement of the role of Grasshopper in this regard, has also been noted by Carl Freedman: In a way that strongly resonates with what Horkheimer and Adorno call the dialectic of enlightenment, the novel sees Nazi atrocity as the extreme but perfectly logical extension of something typically and profoundly Western: the valorization of ceaseless activity, of agency, of expansion and acquisition and domination […] Capitalism, after all, is necessarily driven by an expansionist and dominative dynamic, and even in its most liberal versions is inescapably dependent upon violence […]. 184 As far as it applies only to the imperialist expansionism arguably inherent in the capitalist mode of production, this generalization could still be considered valid. But the universalist dimension of the narrative exceeds this singular comparison by also projecting elements of National Socialist ideology on the postwar British regime: not coincidentally, when Joe, himself a Nazi agent, tells Juliana about the British detention centers for the Chinese, he refers to them as “concentration camps.” 185 This type of projection clearly goes beyond a mere critique of the ubiquity and innate cruelty of Capitalism, but effectively suspends the historical specificity of the political developments in Germany that ultimately led to the singular event of the Holocaust. At the same time, this perspective must be interpreted in the context of American memory discourses at the time of the novel’s production. 184 Carl Freedman, Critical Theory and Science Fiction (Hanover, NH: Wesleyan UP, 2000), 171-172. 185 MHC, 160. 63 Dick himself has expressed his motivation behind writing The Man in the High Castle as being a decidedly antifascist enterprise, saying of fascism that “[w]herever it appears … it is the enemy.” 186 In this context, it seems as though his contemporary understanding of ‘wherever it appears’ happens to also potentially include the United States, of whose increasing militarism Dick was extremely critical. 187 From this perspective, both allohistorical tales can be read as a warning in which Germany and Britain, respectively, function as pessimistic dystopian mirror images of what the United States could become. In this sense, The Man in the High Castle does not necessarily, or at least not exclusively, perform “the didactic function of preserving the Germans’ crimes in memory and of vindicating America’s historic decision to intervene in World War II against them,” as Gabriel Rosenfeld suggests. 188 This view is particularly brought into question when considering the nearly equally as bleak present in the Abendsen’s Grasshopper, even after a successful American intervention. Freedman’s assessment thus seems to offer a more appropriate interpretation with the assertion that “in popular ideology, the ultimate moral sanction of the American-dominated postwar order always lay […] in the totally successful and ethically unambiguous crusade against the Axis” and that, rather than reaffirming this belief, “The Man in the High Castle deeply subverts America’s moral credentials for world leadership by locating Nazi evil within the larger Western phenomenon of the dominative will.” 189 Accordingly, despite its universalizing strategy Dick’s novel cannot be considered an alternate memory as defined in the previous chapter because the relativization of National Socialism is here not an end in itself, but rather employed to serve as a cautionary tale. This difference becomes more apparent as we turn to the first example of German Alternate Histories. 3.2 SAMUEL HITLER One of the earliest German Alternate Histories to follow Otto Basil’s dystopian nightmare, Sissini’s novel Samuel Hitler, in general terms also a Alternate History of a victorious Germany, represents a unique and unusual phenomenon within the context of allohistorical reimaginings of 186 Quoted in Rosendeld, Hitler, 108. 187 See Freedman, Critical Theory, 173. 188 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 100. 189 Freedman, Critical Theory, 175. 64 the Third Reich in more ways than one. 190 The first question is whether or not this text can even be counted as a ‘German’ contribution to the genre. It is revealed in the only published review of the novel that Sissini is, in fact, the pen name of Greek economist Dimitris N. Chorafas, who has made a name for himself not as an author of fiction but as an economics professor and financial advisor, mainly in the United States and Canada since the 1960s. 191 A bibliographic search reveals a considerable number of non-fiction publications on a variety of topics – largely focused on global finance and computer science and exclusively in English –, but no other belleslettres publications appear to exist. In Samuel Hitler, Chorafas’ real name appears as co-editor and as author of the foreword, praising his own text, with seeming objectivity, as a ‘provoking instrument’ for the critical analysis of history by means of a counterfactual reimagining. 192 Despite the fact that the book credits two translators and that Robert Neumann’s aforementioned review suggests that his correspondence with Chorafas took place in English, the German text, as published in 1973 by Melzer, remains the only existing version of the novel. It is therefore safe to assume, regardless of the author’s actual nationality and the (unascertainable) language of the original manuscript, that Samuel Hitler was primarily directed at a German readership and, as such, qualifies to be read in the context of postwar German collective memory. The second issue of note is the novel’s publisher. While the majority of other texts discussed here align themselves with the previously established contemporary specificities of German alternate memory, in the sense that they can all be said to serve a deflective purpose in the context of German memory debates without being immediately situated in a particularly reactionary or right-of-centre discourse, the fact that Chorafas’ novel was published by Melzer assigns a special quality to this relationship. Founded in 1958, the Melzer Verlag (originally Cologne, now Darmstadt) first made a name for itself by publishing predominantly progressive titles, such as the first West German printing of Victor Klemperer’s famous Lingua Tertii Imperii 190 Sissini, Samuel Hitler (Darmstadt: Melzer, 1973). Hereafter cited as SH. 191 See Robert Neumann, "Wenn Hitler Jude gewesen wäre: Die Vorgeschichte eines bizarren Buches: Samuel Hitler," Die Zeit, November 23, 1973. It is interesting to note in this context that the use of pseudonyms, attributing (especially right-wing) German Alternate Histories to obscure American authors with fictional biographies, is not unheard of. See especially the so-called Stahlfront series and its aptly named author Torn Chaines. Cf. Emanuell Möbius, "Nazi-Science-Fiction: Wacker an die ‘Stahlfront’," Spiegel Online, June 12, 2009, accessed November 19, 2011, http://www.spiegel.de/kultur/literatur/0,1518,628488,00.html. 192 SH XVI. Neumann mentions that the advance manuscript still listed Chorafas as the author, indicating that the decision to use a pseudonym was made last minute in the publication process. Nonetheless, the fact that readers of the published book did generally not have access to this information suggests that the paratextual usage of the real author’s name was not intended here as a metafictional element. 65 in 1966. At the same time, however, the publishing house has also been known to not only publish highly controversial titles like the German edition of British-Candadian philosopher Ted Honderich’s book After the Terror (Nach dem Terror), but also publisher Abraham Melzer’s own periodical (Der Semit), which – much like Honderich’s treatise – routinely adopts a heightened focus on the Palestinian-Israeli conflict with a near categorical condemnation of Israeli policies and an emphatically apologetic representation of Palestinian acts of terrorism. Another Melzer publication, Auschwitz-survivor Hajo Meyer’s Das Ende des Judentums (2005), in which the author identifies Jewish culture itself as the original cause of anti-Semitism and repeatedly compares Israeli policies to those of the Nazis, was labeled anti-Semitic by Jewish-German writer Henryk M. Broder and has become exemplary evidence of the existence of Jewish antiSemitism. 193 While positions such as this are not necessarily linked to or an expression of German normalization, their popularity – especially in the context of liberal anti-memory, where Jewish critics of Israel are frequently invoked as a legitimization for non-Jewish criticism – certainly is. Notably, all of the mentioned publications are commonly considered to be located firmly within a leftist tradition of socio-political critique and many contributors to Melzer’s journal are representatives of this tradition. 194 In this sense, the publisher of Chorafas’ novel can itself be considered a manifestation of the paradigmatic turn of German normalization in which relativist interventions into the discourse of collective memory are no longer restricted to explicitly conservative agents, but in the context of which seemingly progressive voices – even Holocaust survivors – have taken on the task of revising history. This is particularly relevant when considering the third and most central unique feature of Chorofas’ novel: the alteration itself. At first glance, Samuel Hitler’s identification of a historical nexus event is not at all uncommon. A definitive reminder of Alternate History’s SF roots, many allohistorical fictions – including three of the five texts discussed in this chapter – have to some extent imagined Nazi Germany’s victory in the Second World War as the result of a greater success in the race for advanced technology in general and nuclear weapons in particular. This ultimately also 193 Cf. Alex Feuerherdt, “Henryk M. Broder: ‘Den Adolf gemacht’,” Der Tagesspiegel, November 9, 2007, accessed November 19, 2011, http://www.tagesspiegel.de/medien/den-adolf-gemacht/1090752.html. Meyer and Melzer, both Jews themselves, filed a lawsuit against Broder to withdraw his classification of Meyer’s book but ultimately lost in court. 194 See, for instance, the interview with Franco-German politician Daniel Cohn-Bendit and the article by Die Linke MP Norman Paech in the current issue: Der Semit 3, no. 5 (2011). 66 constitutes the most significant turning point in Chorafas’ novel. What makes his rendition of this theme unusual, however, and, in fact, the only one of its kind, is the cause which effects this greater success. While the overall historical alterations in Samuel Hitler are (not unintentionally) subtle for the largest part of the novel, the most fundamental change is already represented by the highly suggestive, borderline stereotypical name that is its title: In the novel’s alternate reality, Hitler is a Jew. At the heart of the novel’s assessment of historical cause and effect – and Chorafas explicates this in the foreword – is the theory that Germany’s defeat in the war ultimately came down to the Nazis’ anti-Semitism. However, this is not portrayed as a moral critique but rather a strategic one. Considering the real historical exodus of Jewish scientists and intellectuals from Europe to the United States in the 1930s and 1940s, as a result of the antiSemitic policies of the Third Reich, and the ultimate victory of the Americans in the (nuclear) arms race, the novel operates on the assumption that the tables would have been crucially turned if Germany had only found a way to avoid this ‘brain drain.’ 195 And, evidently, the only solution conceivable to Chorafas for averting the institutionalization of anti-Jewish resentment and the resulting mass emigration of Europe’s Jewish intelligentsia (their mass murder is, incidentally, not an issue the novel raises) was to make the Führer himself Jewish. While, from a primarily prescriptive perspective, this choice of alteration would first and foremost make Samuel Hitler highly problematic with regard to its historical plausibility, it also makes it an early, prototypical example of the narrative strategies that constitute alternate memory. Strictly speaking, Chorafas’ novel must be categorized as an “alternate world” story, itself a sub-category of the Alternate History genre. 196 While the historical setting is very familiar, place and character names have been altered, effectively alienating the narrative from real history. In Samuel Hitler, Germany is Altland, Britain Mercia, the United States are Neuland, and so on. The names of the known historical protagonists have been changed ever so slightly, while still maintaining their recognizability. Here, however, this does not merely serve to remove them from our reality, but assumedly also to demonstratively ridicule their real historical counterparts: Göring becomes Höring, Goebbels Poebbels, and Churchill Furchill. Hitler is one of the few prominent characters who retains his last name, but for him, the changes are, of course, much more radical. 195 In fact, the retention and harnessing of “brain power” (in the English phrasing) is a frequently recurring motif in the text. 196 Cf. Hellekson, Alternate History, 8. 67 Written for the largest part like an (alternate) biography, the novel takes the reader through various stages of the alternate Hitler’s life, which are linked to four distinct incarnations of the Führer: Hitler I through Hitler IV. 197 Like the real Hitler, his Jewish doppelganger (Hitler I) is born in Braunau am Inn – to where the alternate Hitler family has emigrated from Prague for ‘unknown reasons’ in 1856 – towards the end of the 19th century, though a definitive birth date is not given. 198 While no mention is made of Samuel Hitler’s mother, except that she died at an early age, the character of his father is of central importance. In stark contrast to Hitler’s real father, Alois Hitler, Samuel’s father Lazarus is a mild-mannered intellectual whose foremost function it is to instill his son with a sense of Jewish identity. An avid admirer of the political thought of Benjamin Disraeli and the political resolve of the first emperor of China, Lazarus Hitler’s teachings lay the foundations for both his son’s patriotic identification as a German Jew and his early aspirations of becoming a ‘unifying’ conqueror. 199 From a very young age, Samuel, who never takes up the real Hitler’s first vocation of becoming a “Kunstmaler” because he is deemed too intelligent to waste his gifts on such an unproductive enterprise, is encouraged by his father to become a politician and quickly develops into a staunch ‘rational’ nationalist with a quasi-religious faith in the power of the German nation. 200 This trend continues throughout this first section of the book, with minor alterations to Hitler’s personal biography, but hardly any real historical changes overall. 201 Far more interesting than any major historical alterations, however, are the more or less subtle acts of revisionism that are linked to the Judaism of the alternate Führer-to-be. A key aspect of the novel is the utilization of its eponymous protagonist’s Jewish perspective for the purpose of relativizing the role of anti-Semitism in Germany. While anti197 In actuality, the story begins with the end, with Hitler IV and the bombing of Neuland. However, unlike other novels (especially Stephen Fry’s Making History, which will be discussed in the next section of this chapter), overall the narrative does not follow an achronological or cyclical path. 198 SH 20. The family’s ‘unknown reasons’ for leaving Prague are most likely an allusion to the budding conflict between Czech nationalists and the city’s increasingly German-identified Jewish community in the mid-19th century. 199 In the text, the Chinese emperor in question is referred to as “Chine” and no explicit dates are assigned to his rule. From the context, however, this is most likely a reference to Qin Shi Huang (259 BC – 210 BC), the first emperor of unified China. Both Lazarus and Samuel acknowledge the brutality with which the process of Chinese unification was achieved, but relegate it to the status of a necessary evil in the process of building a great nation (SH 26-27). 200 SH 30-31. 201 For instance, after the end of World War I, Hitler attends university in Munich (although the text does not go so far as to grant him an actual degree), further emphasizing his rational, intellectual character. 68 Jewish resentment is not altogether eradicated in Germany and Austria, overall it does not feature as a real obstacle for an Austrian Jew of Czech origin to eventually rise to become the Führer of the Greater German Reich. In the early chapters of the book, anti-Semitism directed at the Jewish Hitler by his immediate peers only surfaces in one short paragraph, which describes the young Samuel as an outsider in school as a result of his heritage. 202 While this status remains, for all intents and purposes, without actual consequences, it nonetheless serves as a starting point for the alternate Hitler’s future philosophy: “Die Bezwingung einer feindseligen Welt wurde zum Leitmotiv seines Lebens.” 203 However, as already the early chapters show, in the novel’s alternate reality, this ‘hostile world’ is generally located beyond Germany’s borders. In contrast to the very brief reference to anti-Jewish hostilities immediately surrounding the protagonist, the anti-Semitism of other nations is strongly emphasized: In der Schule hatte er natürlich von Mercia und Neuland gehört. Behandelten diese Länder ihre Juden gerecht? Er erinnerte sich daran, daß sein Lehrer so viele häßliche Dinge über sie erzählt hatte. Da Christen und Juden gemeinsam zum Aufstieg Altlands in der Wehrmacht beigetragen hatten, erwachte in anderen Weltgegenden wieder der traditionelle Judenhaß. […] In manchen Ländern zog die Presse über die sogenannte askenasisch-altländische Allianz her, die angeblich überall auf der Welt Organisationen unterhielt, mit deren Hilfe sie versuchte, Banken, Konzerne, Parteien, Gewerkschaften, die Presse, ja sogar Gerichte und Regierungen unter ihre Kontrolle zu bringen. 204 While the next paragraph also mentions the existence of anti-Semitic organizations in Germany, the establishment of a productive German-Jewish alliance, which also mythically features as a central aspect of the highlighted non-German hatred of Jews, nonetheless fulfills a twofold deflective function here: On the one hand, it features as a positive element of Samuel Hitler’s worldview, suggesting the existence of an overall peaceful and harmonious accord between Jewish and non-Jewish Germans, despite the existence of German anti-Semitic groups, which – as a result of their effective inconsequence in the narrative as a whole – appear relatively marginalized; on the other hand, it not only projects some of the most prominent axioms of the anti-Semitic myth of Jewish world domination exclusively – at least as far as they are explicitly mentioned in the text – onto Germany’s former and future enemies, but it introduces Germany 202 SH 28. 203 Ibid. 204 SH 24. Emphasis in the original. 69 itself as the target of this resentment. The real alteration here is, of course, not the claim that a virulent anti-Semitic ideology also existed (and still exists) in countries like England and the United States, in a more or less identical narrative as in the German anti-Jewish tradition; the central change lies in the suggestion that British and American anti-Semitism was, at the same time, directed at Germany for having forged a historical alliance with the Jews. This depiction sets the scene for the overarching universalizing narrative of the novel: It already makes clear at an early stage that, judging from the globalized hatred of Jews, the Holocaust was basically possible anywhere and, in turn, it implicitly insinuates that the institutionalization of antiSemitism was neither a necessary nor a particularly alluring factor in the context of the rise and the success of National Socialism in Germany. At the same time, this portrayal transcends the realm of mere universalization by not only claiming that ‘it could have happened anywhere,’ but by actually making the Germans themselves victims of anti-Semitic resentment, as a result of their alleged allegiance with the corruptive influence of the Jews – a role traditionally reserved for the United States in real history. Samuel Hitler’s own racist ideology, which seems to represent that of the majority in this alternate Germany – the anti-Semitic fringe groups notwithstanding – eliminates Jewishness as a racial category altogether or, rather, subordinates it to other racial traits. This is most apparent when Samuel contrasts himself with Rosa Luxemburg (one of the few historical characters who keep their real names), whom he understands as a misguided idealist, but whose necessary inability to succeed on the German political stage ultimately comes down to race. However, it is not her Jewish heritage that is the problem here, but her Slavic roots: “Man sah Rosa Luxemburg ihre polskanisch-jüdische Herkunft an, während er schließlich ein altländischer Jude war, Sproß einer Herrenrasse.” 205 It is this kind of specifically revised racism which creates a sense of plausibility for Samuel Hitler's unlikely ascension to power.206 The era of Hitler I is also infused with a wide variety of stereotypes of more a general revisionist hue. And, significantly, the passages in which these occur are the farthest removed from the novel’s counterfactual storyline, both in terms of narrative style and narrative content, 205 SH 37-38. 206 Certain anti-Semitic stereotypes nonetheless remain part of the narrative and, arguably, can be read as betraying the author's own proclivities in this regard. The central-most representation of this is the design of the alternate Nazi flag, which is no longer adorned by a swastika, but instead features Samuel Hitler's initials (SH 47). This symbol is depicted on the cover of the only edition of the novel in such a way that the S is superimposed on the H, creating dollar sign – the traditional link between Judaism and money. 70 and seem much more akin to Chorafas’ foreword, making them appear even more as an implicit authorial commentary on real history, rather than a representation of the protagonist’s alternative perspective. These passages are filled with revisionist staples such as blaming the Treaty of Versailles for laying the foundations for National Socialism (“Der Versailler Vertrag war ein Dokument der Unklugheit, das die Weltgeschichte vergewaltigte und das Gleichgewicht Europas zerstörte”207), the depiction of Western politicians as corrupt and opportunistic (“Der Präsident von Neuland, der damals Wählerstimmen suchte, benutzte den Plan eines selbständigen Polska, um sich die Stimmen der großen polskanischen Wählerschaft in Chicago zu sichern” 208) and the staunch anti-Communist evocation of the threat of Soviet infiltration (“[U]nterstützt mit Propagandamaterial und geschulten Agenten, hofften die Spartakisten auf einen totalen Umsturz” 209). For the whole of the alternate narrative, the last aspect is of heightened importance because, to a considerable extent, the role of the Jews as scapegoats, the necessity of which for the mobilization of the masses Samuel learned from his father, is delegated to Communists.210 While anti-Communist fear mongering was, of course, an integral part of the policies and propaganda of the real Third Reich – and, in fact, was frequently linked to Judaism –, it is significant here that in the novel’s alternate reality it is only the Communists without any reference to Jewish agency, to whom this role is attributed. The remainder of this section of the text is defined mainly by the same developments the educated reader is familiar with from real history: Samuel Hitler succeeds in uniting the disparate factions of Germany’s extreme Right into an increasingly powerful movement and ultimately leads the ‘Kampfbund’ (with the suspicious absence of Ludendorff) in the failed Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. 211 It is the resulting prison sentence that turns Hitler I into Hitler II: Die Monate im Gefängnis hatten Samuel Hitlers Persönlichkeit entscheidend geprägt. Ein anderer Hitler begann sich auf der politischen Bühne zu bewegen. Hitler I kennzeichnete den leidenschaftlichen, leicht erregbaren Mann, der sich für den Putsch entschied, Hitler II nahm die Gestalt des künftigen Kanzlers an. 207 SH 24. See also 34-36. 208 Ibid. 209 SH 35. 210 See SH 46. Oddly, however, the 'Reichstagsbrand' does not occur in the story. 211 It is worth mentioning, however, that this section already introduces the theme of the acceleration of technological progress (e.g., the creation of an “ultramoderne Datenbank”) and its importance for the following alternative development of the Third Reich (see SH 60-61). 71 […] Da ihm öffentliches Auftreten und Demonstrationen untersagt waren, verlegte er sein gesamtes Interesse in den Aufbau eines Propagandaapparates. Er kümmerte sich um alles. Er war der Chef, der Organisator, der Planer; er war der Prophet der Bewegung, aber auch der ausgleichende Vermittler; kurz, er war der Führer. 212 This motif of an evolution of several incarnations of Hitler may here still be read as little more than a biographical quirk; however, over the course of the novel as a whole, it is revealed to be much more programmatic than this. The era of Hitler II constitutes the largest part of the novel and covers Hitler’s rise to power from 1924 until the beginning of World War II. This section is particularly defined by a more pronounced development of the story’s alternate reality and its two foremost themes: the acceleration of technological progress as a result of the retention and inclusion of Jewish intelligence and the relativization of real history by means of the counterfactual narrative mode. Despite marginal anti-Semitic prejudice against the Jewish Führer from within the Nazi Party itself – the opposition and subsequent liquidations of Ernst Röhm (Föhn) and Gregor Strasser (Wasser) are attributed to their inability to accept a Jew as leader of the movement –, Samuel Hitler rises through the ranks of the political landscape of the Weimar Republic in an identical fashion as his non-Jewish counterpart and, like him, becomes chancellor of the Reich on 30 January, 1933. 213 Between this date and the invasion of Poland on 1 September, 1939, national politics in Germany follow the course of real history surprisingly closely. This is, of course, no coincidence, but a programmatic trait. While one obvious focus of Chorafas’ narrative is the illustration of how the institutionalized anti-Semitism of the Nazis hindered scientific progress in Germany and ultimately foreclosed the possibility of winning the war, another is the proliferation of the idea that the same historical anti-Semitism did neither constitute a defining factor of National Socialism as a whole nor a particularly influential ideology among the German majority. Or, in other words: If Hitler had himself been a Jew and had experienced an entirely different upbringing, history would have progressed in an almost identical fashion, but the Holocaust would never have occurred (in Germany). This allohistorical narrative strategy represents a prime example of alternate memory. By 212 SH 68. Emphasis in the original. 213 See SH 70-71, 78, 126-127. Slight alterations: Röhm is not executed but killed by a car bomb, Strasser’s death is not explicitly mentioned, and the SA is not succeeded by the SS, which does not seems to exist in its historical form. 72 replacing the real Hitler with a more rational alternative in this alternate reality but preserving all other historical protagonists as characters – albeit with sillier names, arguably to stress their irrationality even further –, the novel delegates the responsibility for the outbreak of the war to other nations. The text is filled with explicit and implicit allusions to the personal and political failings of Germany’s enemies, which are implemented through various narrative devices. The incrimination of the United States (Neuland) is realized, on the one hand, through misrepresentations of actual historical developments. For instance, Roosevelt’s (Boosevelt) New Deal is described as a reactionary backlash consisting of ruthless social engineering and an allout attack on civil liberties. 214 At the same time, another strategy is employed to the same effect, namely the deliberate dehistoricization of events in American history in order to contrast to them with contemporaneous developments – or, rather, the absence thereof – in the alternate Third Reich. In this context, the text moves the institutionalized displacement and murder of the American Indians forward through time into the middle of the 20th century and, likewise, moves the Watergate (Landgate) scandal back to also coincide with the Nazi regime. 215 The Soviet Union (Rossia) receives a similar treatment through repeated mentions of its alleged mistreatment of intellectuals, who are confined to so-called sanatoriums (“Irrenanstalten”) and subsequently seek refuge in Germany, where they are embraced as part of Hitler’s “Braintrust” policy. 216 This rearrangement of real historical ‘Versatzstücke’ as elements of a fictional present serves as a powerful narrative instrument of projection: While in the alternate reality generated in this way, it serves to vilify Germany’s enemies above and beyond the conduct of the alternate Third Reich itself, the fact these are actual, merely reorganized occurrences also facilitates a reevaluation of real history, condensing all the crimes of these nations into the suggestion that, perhaps, they were ‘not much better’ than Germany. A considerably more radical form of this revisionist tendency, however, can be found in the non-German alternatives for the Holocaust itself. While even the limited number of human rights violations still attributed to Germany are presented in an extremely apologetic fashion, the institutionalization and execution of racial discrimination never actually occurs in the alternate 214 See SH 86-87. 215 See SH 104 and 216. 216 See, for instance, SH 88 and 204. 73 Third Reich. 217 In fact, it is explicitly stated in the text that Samuel Hitler intends to avoid the establishment of organized hatred by all means. 218 Instead, genocidal policies, including in particular the persecution of Jews, are projected onto other countries and, in turn, used as a legitimizing factor for Germany’s actions. Aus der Hochburg des askenasischen Judentums in Chicago traf ein Geheimbericht ein, demzufolge Neuland auf dem Weg zu einem Polizeistaat war. In der Furcht, die innere Sicherheit könnte gefährdet sein, weil die jüdische Bevölkerung natürlicher Weise zu Samuel Hitler neigte, und voll Besorgnis, die verbleibenden Juden zu verlieren, die in der neuländischen Wirtschaft und Wissenschaft eine wichtige Rolle spielten, erließ Washington ein Gesetz zur Einrichtung von Konzentrationslagern. Sie wurden als “Internierungslager” bezeichnet, weil das Wort Konzentrationslager als Symbol des Totalitarismus diskreditiert war.219 Not only does this portrayal represent a projection of anti-Semitic practices onto Germany’s enemies; with the text replacing the real historical treatment of the Japanese community in the United States during the Second World War with the counterfactual treatment of Jews at the hands of the authorities of Neuland, it also once more elicits the memory of actual Allied misconduct during the war and effectively highlights it in the fictional absence of similar crimes committed by the Nazis. At the same time, even in this mode of deflection, this passage manages to reproduce anti-Jewish ideology with the invocation of the influential American ‘East Coast Jewry,’ a veritable classic of traditional as well as contemporary anti-Semitic propaganda. A similar strategy is applied to both Poland and the Soviet Union, only here with the added dimension that the projections are directly invoked to legitimize German acts of war against both nations. Conveniently, as Altland is contemplating an invasion of Polska to further its “Lebensraum” program – now rendered legitimate by the continual influx of Jewish refugees from all over Europe –, reports arrive in Berlin detailing the oppression and persecution of Jews by the Polish authorities. 220 A recreation of the real Holocaust, but without German 217 While Communists, who in several historical scenarios in the text take a role analogous to the Jews in the real Germany, are persecuted and ultimately effectively eradicated (see SH 94, 122) and so-called criminal elements are brutally reined in by a paramilitary police force (see SH 103), all of these actions are legitimized by a thorough vilification of the victims of state-sanctioned violence. 218 SH 90. 219 SH 216. 220 Polska is also pejoratively introduced in this section as the “künstliche Schöpfung des Vertrags von Versailles” (SH 209). 74 ‘participation,’ Polska has allegedly not only set up concentration camps and classified Jews as “Untermenschen,” but is currently in the process of creating “vervollkommnete GenozidMethoden.” 221 And, later in the war, Operation Barbarossa is justified in a similar fashion: Die Lage der Juden in Rossia war eine ernstere Sache. [Die] Situation verschlimmerte sich noch unter Malin [Stalin], der gesellschaftlich wie politisch eine reaktionäre Rückwendung zur Vergangenheit vollzog. Es spricht einiges für die Annahme, daß Hitler den Juden eine neue soziale Struktur bieten wollte, indem er mit den Rechten und Pflichten der neuen Generation begann und die einfacheren Menschen vom Elend jahrhundertelanger Unterdrückung befreien wollte. 222 While the entire text is characterized by a relativist tone, these passages epitomize its overall universalizing strategy. By projecting the real historical anti-Semitism of the Third Reich onto other nations and contrasting it with the fictitious rationality and relative humanity of Altland, the text creates an alternate memory narrative which enables the inclined reader to harness certain aspects of this counterfactual scenario for a revision of the collective memory of National Socialism. The amalgamation of actual historical misdeeds of Germany’s enemies – be it the Jewish-Japanese transposition in the case of the United States or the narrative accentuation of the very real historical anti-Jewish resentment in the Soviet Union – develops a suggestive potential which transcends the boundaries of the alternate reality itself. It propagates nothing less than the necessity of a total re-evaluation of the character and legacy of National Socialism by suggesting that the factual historical developments between the end of the First World War and the beginning of the Second were not primarily contingent on the ideological disposition of a majority of Germans – i.e. the injured narcissism of the national collective in the wake of the defeat in World War I and traditional, widespread anti-Semitism – and its elevation to the status of official policy by the Nazis, but were rather effected much more immediately by the failings of other nations. The theory that, had a Jew become the Führer of the National Socialist movement in the Weimar Republic (in itself a relativization of the pervasiveness of anti-Jewish prejudice in Germany at the time) and abated anti-Semitism instead of fostering it, the Third Reich would have turned out to be comparatively liberal and humane, not only shifts the responsibility for the ultimate outbreak of the Second World War away from the German 221 SH 215-216. In contrast, it is stated at an earlier point that the production of poison gas as a means of warfare – and, presumably, genocide – was “im Widerspruch zu Hitlers humanem Denken” (SH 140). 222 SH 258. 75 conscience, 223 it also dehistoricizes the Holocaust into a universal phenomenon which, had it not happened in Germany, could just as well have occurred anywhere else. This universalizing effect is, however, not only realized by the explicit revisions exemplified above, but also by the aforementioned programmatic, gradual evolution of the novel’s protagonist and the analogous acceleration of technological progress. As a direct result of his own heritage, Samuel Hitler’s philosemitic and philo-scientific policies turn Altland into a haven not only for Europe’s persecuted Jews, but for the world’s. Consequently, the Third Reich is not only able to retain leading scientific minds such as Albert Einstein (Dreistein), but even recruit Jewish scientists from other countries, such as J. Robert Oppenheimer (Penheimer) and Enrico Fermi (Vermi), whose defection from the United States is not explicitly mentioned, but who nonetheless work for Germany’s budding nuclear program. 224 The installation of this “Braintrustpolitik,” which Hitler emphatically includes in the new regime’s Four-Year Plan, subsequently also leads to non-Jewish scientists – whether as refugees from persecution or simply attracted by the cutting edge scientific community being built in Altland – voluntarily immigrating to the Reich and adding to its overall increase in ‘brain power.’ 225 Not only does this development naturally provide Altland with an increasing advantage over its competitors, but the counterfactual cumulation of scientific innovators in one place and the overwhelming support they receive from the Führer, result in an overall accelerated progression of technological development. In part, this development is represented by Altland’s greater success in the international arms race. Different from many Alternate Histories that feature this theme, Chorofas’ novel does not describe this process in outright SF terms. 226 Rather, real technological developments of the era are re-arranged both temporally and nationally. With the most influential scientific minds of the 1930s now concentrated and collaborating in Altland, the most groundbreaking innovations do not only occur there before anywhere else, they also – for a large 223 See SH 218 for another instance of commentary that appears to be stylistically removed from the main narrative: “Schuld daran, daß die Nationen in den Krieg schlitterten, fällt auf den Westen und Mitteleuropa zu gleichen Teilen.” 224 This alteration also extends to other academic fields and includes a number of prominent psychologists and other representatives of the Social Sciences. Perhaps the most poignant – and, from a historical perspective, most grotesque – example is the fact that the entire Frankfurter Schule remains a part of German academia under the alternate National Socialist regime (SH 155). 225 See SH 86 and 96. 226 The only real exception are the initial plans for the organization of a “Raumschiffgesellschaft.” However, this is only briefly alluded to as a futuristic vision and not actually a realized technological advancement (see SH 178). 76 part – occur sooner than they did in real history. For instance, both the aerial warfare development and production facility in Peenemünde and the Mittelwerk GmbH – in this alternate reality, without the benefit of forced labor from concentration camp prisoners – are established years before the war and achieve serial production of new weapons technologies, such as the Aggregat 4 rocket, well ahead of their actual completion. 227 However, the most central and consequential alteration in this context is the development of the atomic bomb. Due the majority of the world’s leading nuclear scientists either remaining in or immigrating to Altland, the Manhattan Project is replaced by the Charlottenburg-Projekt. 228 With Oppenheimer and Fermi as heads of the German nuclear program, its American and British counterparts, the combination of which facilitated major advancements in real history, remain disparate. Meanwhile, the cumulative efforts in Altland speed up the development and manage to successfully test the first atomic bomb on 16 January, 1943. 229 This acceleration enables the Luftwaffe to attack Neuland with nuclear weapons well before the historical end of the Second World War, with the first atomic bomb (Bubi instead of Little Boy) being dropped on Baltimore on 3 April, 1943 – more than two years earlier than the American bombing of Hiroshima. 230 A second nuclear warhead – carried by an A4 rocket fired from a U-boot that had been accordingly outfitted for this purpose in what is called “Operation Silberteller” (an allohistorical play on the Silverplate project that produced the Enola Gay) – is subsequently fired on Norfolk, Virginia, resulting in the unconditional surrender of Neuland. 231 It is significant to note that this final victory of Altland, despite being a major alteration in its own right, does not come without its share of revisionist undertones. This is represented, on the one hand, by the relativist portrayal of the aftermath of the bombing of Norfolk, in which the victims of the attack itself are altogether absent and the narrator exclusively focuses on retaliatory violence perpetrated by Americans against German 227 See SH 143. While there is no definitive date given for the beginning of the serial production of the A4 rocket, the passage in which this is mentioned is located well before the outbreak of the war in the text. In real history, the rocket was not ready for regular use until 1944. 228 See SH 243. 229 See SH 299. In contrast, the first successful test in the context of the Manhattan Project was conducted on 16 July, 1945. 230 SH 308-309. Even selection of Baltimore as a target comes down to Samuel Hitler’s Jewish heritage, as New York is ruled out due to the size of its Jewish population. 231 See SH 312-313. An explicit date for these two events is curiously absent here, but it seems a safe assumption that the progression follows the same timeline as the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the surrender of Japan, putting them within three and nine days of the first bombing, respectively. 77 prisoners of war; 232 on the other, it takes the form of American officials, when accused of war crimes following the defeat, defending their actions by claiming that they were only following orders, thus delivering an allohistorical conclusion for the universalizing role reversal which pervades the entire text. 233 Unlike is commonly the case in Alternate History, the narrative ends shortly after this central-most nexus event and the ramifications of the alteration for the course of history are only hinted at. The short final chapter is entitled “Civitas Solis Zwei” and, in an allusion to Tomasso Campanella’s homonymous utopian dialogue, outlines the aspirations of the victorious Reich to create the perfect, unified world society. The novel ends with a single sentence: “Hitler IV war der neue Gott, und auch Gott war effizienter geworden.” 234 Brief as it may be, this final chapter represents a significant contrast to the previous direction of the narrative. As stated above, the evolution of Hitler in Chorafas’ novel must be read as programmatic and is constructed in analogy to the technological advancements featured in the story. As a matter of fact, Hitler IV is no longer Samuel Hitler at all, but an advanced artificial intelligence programmed with his memories and theories to emulate his consciousness: a Führer-Computer. After Hitler II had turned into Hitler III with the outbreak of the Second World War, he is killed in an allohistorical assassination plot executed by General Lavin on 31 January, 1943. 235 Samuel’s memories, however, had previously been transferred into a highly advanced computer, which had originally been devised to act as an intelligent war machine to coordinate aerial defense systems. 236 For the reader, this SF turn of events does not actually not come as a surprise. Hitler IV is, in fact, the first incarnation we encounter in the text, coordinating the bombing of Baltimore in the proleptical first chapter. More importantly, however, in the narrative as a whole, this is not a sudden, but a gradual development. The only stark contrast between Hitler’s ongoing ‘computerization’ and its ultimate completion in the last chapter lies in its narrative representation. The final chapter displays distinct aspects of antimodern angst, pessimistically foreshadowing a dystopian future in which technology will claim 232 See SH 312. 233 See SH 314. 234 SH 327. 235 Lavin is most likely a cross between Wolfram von Richthofen, whose biography is primarily used in earlier discussions of this character (commanding officer of the Legion Condor during the bombing on Guernica) and Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg, as the central figure of the failed attempt on Adolf Hitler’s life, which, despite the date difference, is clearly reenacted in this passage (Hitler is killed by a briefcase bomb left in a conference room). 236 SH 297. 78 the status of religion and machines will become the new gods. While the fear of such a dehumanized society is represented in a small number of passages in previous parts of the novel, both the acceleration of technological progress in general and Samuel Hitler’s symbolic ‘computerization’ in particular are presented much more positively overall and frequently serve as evidence of a heightened state of rationality, enlightenment even, in the alternate Germany under Jewish rule. The development of advanced computer systems is, without question, the most important technological allohistorical motif and by far the most significant scientific acceleration in the text. As early as the mid-1930s, the Third Reich implements a de facto automatization of the lower ranks of government with a database processing information in ways and dimensions far ahead of its time. 237 By 1934, computers can be employed to predict political decisions; 238 by 1937, they are used to perform complex data analyses and serve as reliable war simulators.239 In what may well be read as a metonymical allusion to the counterfactual character of the narrative itself, simulation, in this context, is described as being based on “Eigenschaftsähnlichkeit, aber nicht Identität.”240 By early 1939, computers have penetrated all levels of Altland’s society, fundamentally influencing and, in part, replacing human decision making processes in economic and military matters.241 This accelerated development ultimately culminates, by 1943, in the development of the advanced artificial intelligence which is not only capable of emulating the mind of the Führer, but which actually becomes the new leader of Altland: “Am 1. Februar 1943, um 7.30 Uhr, wurde Hitler IV, der Supercomputer, zum Herrn über das Schicksal Altlands, Europas und später der Welt gewählt.” 242 Geoffrey Winthrop-Young writes that “when dealing with tachychronias [accelerations of history] or bradychronias [decelerations of history], it quickly becomes apparent that not all domains of society have evolved faster or slower. Therefore the question arises: Which sectors of 237 See SH 89. 238 See SH 132. 239 See SH 174-175. Notably, the Third Reich’s computer development is headed by an alternate version of John von Neumann (von Leumann), the actual father of modern computer technology. It is not mentioned whether he is recruited from the United States or never leaves Europe in the first place. 240 SH 175. See Füger’s definition of “Allotopia” and Booth’s characterization of “modal narratives” in Chapter 1. 241 See SH 205-206. 242 SH 298. 79 society are said to be so important that their relative acceleration or deceleration allows for a characterization of the overall rate of social change?” 243 As his argument outlines, traditionally in Alternate History the respective allohistorical developments of society and technology have frequently been diametrically opposed, evolving from decelerated pre-modern dystopias in spite of the existence of modern technology, over what Jeffrey Herf calls “reactionary modernism” – the reconciliation of accelerated technological progress with a deceleration or even regression of social mores – to more recent examples in which “forces of technology rule and the social superstructure is subservient.” 244 To an extent, Chorafas’ novel also features this dualism, when considering the disconnect between the final chapter and the rest of the text. For the largest part of the narrative, however, the acceleration of technology directly facilitates the improvement of society; a generic anomaly that can most likely be explained by the fact that, in contrast to the majority of Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, in Chorafas’ account, a victorious and prosperous Nazi Germany is not necessarily “the worst of all possible worlds.” 245 The foremost representation of this is Samuel Hitler’s biography, which portends the progressive rationalization of society through technology. Already his adolescence is defined by a target-oriented process of rational self-construction: “In seiner Jugend hatte er die Struktur seiner Ziele und Fähigkeiten entworfen, am Anfang seines zwanzigsten Lebensjahres konstruierte er das Gerüst seiner Persönlichkeit, um es allmählich auszufüllen. 246 In the next evolutionary step, the progression from Hitler I to Hitler II is centrally characterized by Samuel’s increased self-rationalization with regard to information processing: Um seine Position an der Spitze der Informationspyramide zu festigen, unterstrich Hitler die Bedeutung der Kommunikation. Da er stets über die Meinung der Menschen informiert war, konnte er geplante Manöver seiner Gegner vereiteln. Seine durch stetiges Training entwickelte Gedächtniskraft ermöglichte es ihm, komplizierte politische Anordnungen, technische Einzelheiten, Gesetzesparagraphen und lange Listen von Namen und Daten stets gegenwärtig zu haben. 247 243 Winthrop-Young, “Third Reich,” 886. 244 Ibid., 890. A pertinent summary of the category of “reactionary modernism” can be found on pp. 888-889. 245 Ibid., 886. 246 SH 92. 247 SH 89. 80 As Altland moves toward war, Hitler is the first to propagate, in a foreshadowing of the imminence of virtual simulations, the importance a rationalistic ‘computer strategy’ in the context of foreign policy and military planning: “Im Krieg und in der Außenpolitik gewinnt man einen Vorteil, wenn man aus vielen Alternativen, ob sie nun attraktiv oder unangenehm sind, die entscheidende wählt, indem man die Daten des gesamtstrategischen Ziels herausdestilliert.”248 In all these evolutionary steps, Samuel Hitler’s ‘computerization’ is predominantly portrayed as both an intellectual and a strategic advantage. His rationality is positively contrasted with the irrational and ideological decisions made by Altland’s enemies abroad and it is not until the final chapter, and the actual advent of a fully digitalized mind, that the process of computers enhancing “die Intelligenz des Menschen zur Vervollkommnung seiner Art” 249 is described exclusively as a process of dehumanization. In this sense, the last chapter of the novel can only be read as a caveat against the dangers of an over-rationalization. In the text as a whole, however, the Führer’s superior rational intellect and its symbolic representation by means of the computer analogy distinctly serve to further the overarching relativist narrative. The pairing of the allohistorical revisions, which portray the real Germany’s enemies as morally inferior to Altland, its alternate counterpart, with the theme of the latter’s heightened state of intellectual progress, effectively reinforces the perpetuated universalistic notion that the development of National Socialism, with all the horrors it entailed, was not a necessary product of the historical specificities of interwar German society. As such, Chorafas’ novel can be considered a prototypical example of alternate memory, constructing a fictional storyline seemingly far removed from reality but, at the same time, using this fictional alternate history to implicitly validate revisionist sentiments. 3.3 MAKING HISTORY British writer Stephen Fry’s novel Making History from 1996 takes a different approach towards the reimagination of the legacy of National Socialism and thus falls into a different category in Rosenfeld’s thematic model. 250 Here, it is not the victory of Nazi Germany that is the center of 248 SH 191. 249 SH 178. 250 Stephen Fry, Making History (London: Hutchinson, 1996). 81 allohistorical attention, but rather the different course history could have taken had Hitler never existed in the first place. In fact, very few Alternate Histories of the Third Reich have taken this premise quite as literally as Fry’s. The story is told on two narrative levels, covering two alternative timelines. The primary narrative centers on two main protagonists: The British history student Michael Young and the German physicist Leo Zuckermann. At the outset of the plot, Michael is in the process of completing his doctoral thesis at Cambridge on the topic of Adolf Hitler’s early years, entitled From Brunau [sic] to Vienna: The Roots of Power. The specific historical knowledge this particular field of research has afforded him is put to advantageous use – after his dissertation is vocally rejected as prosaic tripe by his supervisor – when he accidentally meets Leo Zuckermann, an elderly German physicist and Cambridge fellow. Leo takes great interest in Michael’s topic, which both Michael and the reader initially assume is the result of his Jewish heritage. It is soon revealed, however, that Leo is in fact not a Jew at all, but actually the son of a high-ranking Nazi by the name of Dietrich Josef Bauer – first assistant to the real historical ‘Lagerarzt’ Johann Paul Kremer – who served as a physician in Auschwitz, overseeing exterminations and experimenting on living inmates. As the German defeat became foreseeable, Leo’s father supplies his wife and infant son, whose real name is Axel, with fake identities – stolen from Jewish prisoners, whom he personally sent to the gas chambers – in order to protect them from retaliation. Due to his young age, Leo only learns the truth of his actual heritage and the atrocities committed by his father as an adult, through his mother’s (unrepentant) confession on her death bed. As a result of this realization, he is plagued by such immense guilt that he becomes obsessed with the past and eventually develops a device to see backwards through time – the Temporal Imaging Machine, or TIM. While TIM is no time machine in the strictest sense, Michael and Leo eventually discover that they are able to use the device as a transmitter for very small objects. Due to the fortuitous coincidence that Michael’s chemist ex-girlfriend has recently developed an irreversible male contraceptive and with his specific knowledge of the circumstances of Hitler’s birth, they decide to prevent Adolf Hitler from ever being born. After turning Leo’s Temporal Imaging Machine into a Temporal Interface Machine, they transport the sterilizing pill into a well in Braunau am Inn, from which the Hitler family takes all their water and end the rise of Hitler before it ever begins. The second level of the narrative, which is presented intermittently with Michael and Leo’s story, describes the early life of Hitler himself, beginning with his earliest childhood and skipping gradually ahead to an occurrence in World 82 War I that resulted in the death of the universally-liked officer Rudolf Gloder. As the reader learns later in this timeline, the entire passages about Hitler’s life are actually taken directly from Michael’s doctoral thesis. After the alteration effected by Hitler’s complete removal from history, Michael wakes up in a haze and eventually realizes that he is no longer a student at Cambridge, but at Princeton University in the United States, as everyone around him marvels at his eerily convincing British accent. Despite a general sense of confusion and disorientation, Michael initially feels victorious after realizing that history has changed as a result of his and Leo’s actions. Regardless of his personal situation, the fact that Hitler never lived, he naturally assumes, must mean that the world has been altered for the better. It is only gradually that he realizes his error. Again, the reader is presented with a second narrative, which is now presented from the perspective of Rudolf Gloder. An excessively charming and well-educated man, Gloder, the “physical, spiritual and intellectual embodiment of all […] Aryan ideals,” 251 has risen through the ranks of the German military in no time and, towards the end of the First World War, is in line to be promoted to Hauptmann. Virtually worshipped by his men for his honorable personality and camaraderie that appears to know no rank, in this alternate timeline, Gloder evades death as a result of the risky maneuver Hitler had dared him into in the previous timeline by sending a willing subordinate in his stead. After this event, it is finally revealed that Gloder is merely acting the part of the likeable comrade to foster his own advancement and that he is indeed a cunning careerist who literally leaves dead bodies in his trail on the way to the top. As the story progresses, Gloder follows a similar path as Hitler in real history, only with much greater success at every step, as a result of his particular intellectual and social talents. Meanwhile, in Princeton, Michael quickly learns that the alternate history he created is not actually improved at all. As it turns out, his British parents have fled Europe as a result of the German conquest of the entire European continent and the beginning of the US-German Cold War. Michael soon realizes that history has, in fact, turned out much worse through the removal of Hitler. The NSDAP is still formed under Gloder in 1921, “by the early 1920s [membership] had swelled to a flood,” and by 1925 it has become the third largest political party in Germany. 252 In the following years, Gloder not only manages to achieve a greater degree of unification among the disparate political factions 251 Making History, 246. 252 Making History, 245. 83 of the Weimar Republic, but also he also advances his “belief […] that the good faith of the scientific community is essential for the future of Germany,” resulting in a rapid acceleration of technological development. 253 To this effect, Gloder even “[swallows] his natural anti-Semitism [and goes] out of his way to court the physicists of Göttingen University and other centres of scientific excellence, where developments in atomic and quantum physics were reaching far ahead of any comparable institutions outside Germany.” 254 In 1932, the NSDAP is elected to the Reichstag and Gloder manages to renegotiate the Treaty of Versailles. Internationally, he fosters the image of a cosmopolitan benevolent statesman, resulting in mutual trade agreements with Great Britain, and in 1937 even receives the Nobel Peace Prize. Finally, in 1938, the world realizes that Gloder has harbored a secret agenda all along. Immediately after the announcement that the Göttingen Institute has succeeded in weaponizing nuclear power, and despite the existence of a non-aggression pact with the USSR, the German military detonates atomic bombs in Moscow and Leningrad, eliminating the entire Politburo. In the wake of the attack, the Wehrmacht occupies nearly all of Eastern Europe, as well as Turkey and Greece. A short time later, the Western European nations surrender without a fight and Germany strikes a cooperative agreement with the United States. In 1939, Germany establishes a so-called Jewish Free State in an area between Montenegro and Herzegovina and deports all Jews from the Greater German Reich to this location. In response, the United States sever diplomatic relations and a rebellion breaks out in Britain, which is brutally quashed by German forces. By 1941, the United States have also developed atom bombs, marking the beginning of the Cold War with the New Reich. Rumors emerge from the Jewish Free State about systematic killings of its inhabitants, causing the United States to threaten war on the German Reich, which does not break out, however, due to American fears about the development of superior German weapons systems. Both countries return to a state of Cold War, which is still going on in 1996, the story’s present.255 As a result of this perpetual state of confrontation, the negative effects of this alternate history are not restricted to German-dominated Europe, but have also affected US society, which appears like a grotesque snapshot of America in the 1950s. Homosexuality is still a crime in the 253 Making History, 246. 254 Ibid. 255 A breakdown of all these dates can be found on pp. 243-249 and pp. 260-260 (Fry, Making History). 84 contemporary United States,256 and racial segregation is still the pervasive status quo. 257 The most severe failure of the attempt to improve history, however, is the fate of the Jewish population of Europe. In response to Michael’s question “The Jews, what about them?”, his new best friend (and later lover) Steve answers matter-of-factly: “There aren’t any. Not in Europe.”258 By far the most drastic instance of the motif of history repeating in the generally – down to the narrative structure – circular story is the alternate account of Leo’s father. While initially it appears that, in the second timeline, at least Auschwitz did not exist, the reader later learns that, instead of a concentration camp, the town of Auschwitz was home to a German research facility in which Dietrich Bauer and Johann Kremer conducted experiments on a very special substance. Kremer had previously become aware of a strange case of localized infertility in the late 19th century in the Austrian town of Braunau am Inn. After a period of relentless research, they finally discover that an unknown chemical in the water is the cause for the inability of Braunau’s male population to produce viable sperm. At the Auschwitz facility, it ultimately is Leo’s father who manages to isolate and reverse-engineer the compound for mass production. On the orders of Gloder, the ‘Brunau water’ is then distributed to the inhabitants of the ‘Jewish Free State,’ sterilizing and eventually wiping out the entire Jewish population of Europe. Upon learning that the Holocaust did not only also occur in the alternate timeline, but that it constituted a genocide of an even larger scope than in real history, Michael and Leo decide to reverse history yet again, ironically stating: “Now he and I were preparing to make the world a better place by ensuring that Adolf Hitler lived and prospered.”259 Because they cannot remove the sterilizing pill from the well in Braunau, they instead transport a dead, decomposing rat backwards through time to ensure that none of the residents drink the polluted water. At this point, the circular narrative finally comes full circle, because, as the careful reader remembers, the stench from the decaying rat carcass is the first impression conveyed in the original timeline’s first visit to Hitler’s birthplace. The novel ends with ‘real’ history all but restored – only Michael’s favorite band never existed – and the resigned realization that “History sucks.” 260 256 Making History, 252. 257 Making History, 306-307. 258 Making History, 263. 259 Making History, 371. 260 Making History, 382. 85 Without question, Fry’s alternate version of history – which actually constitutes what Hellekson call an anti-Alternate History, that is “alternate histories that always revert back to reality” 261 – represents a relativist view in the sense that the real Holocaust is ultimately deemed acceptable in light of an even greater atrocity. Rosenfeld comments on Fry’s novel, asserting that “[a]llohistorical narratives that portrayed history as no better in Hitler’s absence by such figures as Stephen Fry [...] reflected the role of contemporary events in diminishing the horror of the Third Reich and universalizing its overall significance.” 262 In contrast, Rosenfeld himself subsequently also states: Alternate histories that have portrayed Hitler’s elimination from history as making it worse can also be seen as providing a useful service. While such tales have clearly de-demonized the dictator, they have prevented us from blaming him alone for the rise of the Third Reich and have reminded us of the German people’s contribution to it. 263 In the concrete case of Making History, however, he acknowledges that this may indeed also have been Fry’s motivation, but refuses to include the text into this category, referring to its “comic tone” and “lighthearted intent” and concluding that his “ultimate decision to restore history to its rightful course […] suggests that the writer was driven by a much more positive assessment of the contemporary world.” 264 Yet, there are integral aspects of Fry’s narrative which merit a re-evaluation of Rosenfeld’s categorical verdict. One of these is the in-depth description of the grueling details of the dehumanizing routine of Auschwitz, culminating in the unsurpassably cynical act with which Leo’s father turns his son into a Jew, tattooing him with the number of an inmate whose march to the gas chamber he himself supervised. 265 Another is the scene at the death bed of Leo’s mother, who speaks one of her last sentences with the collective voice of postwar German apologism: “No one understands now. The Jews were a threat. A real threat. Something had to be done, everyone thought so. Everyone.” 266 These are passages in which Fry’s “lighthearted” tone falters and which are therefore much more prone to being read as 261 Hellekson, Alternate History, 9. 262 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 380. 263 Ibid., 394. 264 Ibid., 303. 265 Making History, 127-134. 266 Making History, 137. Emphasis in the original. 86 an indictment of the German majority, their complicity in the rise of National Socialism and the callousness with which so many participated in its crimes. After all, the one constant in the two timelines is the widespread resentment of the German population, which the text explicitly emphasizes at various occasions. An example is this exchange between two German soldiers in the trenches during World War I after the removal of Hitler from history: ‘It’s talk that is losing us this war.’ ‘For God’s sake, Ernst!’ Hans looked about him nervously. ‘We’re not losing this war. Militarily we are doing well, we have a clear advantage, everyone knows that. It is only on the home front that we are losing. Morale is being fucked by the Bolsheviks, the pacifists and the artist queers. 267 But most of all, there is Michael’s ultimate realization as to why their plan of creating a better version of history by simply removing Hitler had to fail: [I]n my arrogance I thought I’d generated a better one. I thought if Hitler wasn’t born the century would have less to be ashamed of. I suppose I should have known better. The circumstances were still the same in Europe. There was still a vacuum in Germany waiting to be filled. There was still fifty years of antiSemitism and nationalism ready to be exploited. 268 This passage represents quite the opposite of a “philosophy of history [that] de-emphasized free will in favor of something akin to predestination,” as Rosenfeld sums up Fry’s approach. 269 Rather, there are several clear indicators that not only acknowledge, but in fact highlight the responsibility of the German people for the legacy of National Socialism and the Holocaust. In conclusion, the same claim can be made with regard to Fry’s novel that also applied to Dick’s, namely that it is the national context of its production and primary reception which constitutes a significant factor for analysis. Like Dick, Fry does not direct his narrative at a German audience and he does not partake in the popular normalizing trends of postwar Germany. Rather, his narrative is targeting the forgetfulness of his compatriots, of those who would allow revisions of history to go unchallenged. This group is represented in the text itself by the reaction of the two CIA agents interviewing Michael, as representatives of the last remaining opponent of (the alternate) Nazi Germany, when one of them dismisses the previously secret information about 267 Making History, 172. 268 Making History, 258-259. 269 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 303. 87 the elimination of the entire European Jewry with the words: “It’s history. It’s over. What’s done, is done.” 270 3.4 AUSFLUG Like Fry’s novel, Hans Pleschinski‘s short story “Ausflug,” published in 1983 in the literary periodical Der Rabe (1982-2001), centers on the allohistorical question of how history would have turned out, had Adolf Hitler never ascended to power. 271 In direct contrast to the portrayal of the ensuing alterations in Making History, however, Pleschinski’s story purports the idea that the fate of Germany – and, by extension, the world – would have been considerably improved as a result. As the title (“Excursion”) implies, the entire story is a description of a casual journey. Carl, the protagonist, a student of political science at the University of Munich, decides to visit Luise, his cousin, in Dresden. In the earliest passages, the reader learns that Luise, a journalist, is currently working on a series of articles entitled “Hitler an der Macht,” a subject of which she quickly growing tired. 272 Carl boards the train in Munich and sets out on a journey across Germany. Already the spontaneity of his travel plans and the casual agreement between him and Luise must have appeared strange to a contemporary reader, with an increased awareness of the bureaucracy involved in travelling from West to East Germany in 1983. And, indeed, as Carl’s journey progresses, it gradually becomes clear that the Germany he is traversing is a very different place. Throughout the story, Carl continuously reflects on the past and present of this alternate Germany beginning with subtle remarks and passing observations, ultimately building to a radical externalization of aspects of real German history onto other countries. A large part of the historical changes in the text are mentioned in the context of dialogues, whether direct or overheard, with fellow travellers on the train. It is in this fashion that the reader is informed of the narrative’s central alteration: On the way from Munich to Nuremberg, Carl listens in on a conversation between an elderly French couple and a group of teenage Hungarian 270 Making History, 295. 271 Hans Pleschinski, “Ausflug,” Der Rabe: Magazin für jede Art von Literatur, 4 (1983): 24-38. 272 Towards the end of the story, the reader learns that the rise to power of National Socialism in Germany can itself only be imagined in this reality as an unlikely dystopian Alternate History (see “Ausflug,” 36). 88 “Globetrotters.” 273 The French passengers turn out to be Jews en route to an annual antiracist conference in Nuremberg. The woman recounts for the teenagers her memories of being discriminated against as a Jew and attacked in a hotel in Berlin, “damals ein paar Wochen vor dem Verbot der NSDAP.” 274 Since neither the woman’s age nor the date of the incident are explicitly stated, there is still a certain degree of subtlety to this ‘establishing shot,’ which lays the foundations for the entirety of the historical changes to follow: The reader could, of course, at this point still assume that the woman is talking about the temporary ban of the NSDAP in real history, following the Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. This potential for misinterpretation, however, is gradually removed as the story progresses. Another notable change laid out in this passage is the exchange between the French man and the Hungarian teenagers, when they speak about their travels across Europe and state that they are currently also headed for Nuremberg to stay with friends. The altered fate of Nuremberg is already hinted at by the young travellers explaining that their friends live in a four hundred year-old gothic loft “unter der Burg.”275 As most readers would be aware, the Nuremberg Castle, like much of the historic center of the city, was almost completely destroyed in repeated air raids during the Second World War and only partially rebuilt after 1945. The teenagers’ routine invocation of the city’s historic character therefore represents another indirect, but clearly noticeable, allusion to the fact that some aspects of the story do not quite match up with actual historical developments. This impression is immediately furthered by the French man’s reply: “Was Modernes wird man in Nürnberg wohl kaum finden, […] die Leute müssen ja teilweise ihr Wasser noch auf der Straße pumpen.” 276 This statement now clearly establishes that Nuremberg, in 1983, remains not only intact in its original form, but that technological progress and the implementation of modern amenities have been considerably decelerated here, leaving the city virtually suspended in time. The teenagers respond that it was precisely this historic character that attracted them in the first place. After passing Nuremberg, this image is reversed when Carl encounters a drunk Silesian man, who monologizes about his irritation with the modernizing efforts of the local government 273 “Ausflug,” 25. 274 Ibid. 275 Ibid. 276 Ibid. 89 of his home city of Breslau. 277 The realization that the city of Wroclaw was evidently not ceded to Poland in the aftermath of World War II represents a threshold in the narrative: From here on in, there can no longer really be any question about significant changes to history as the reader knows it. At the same time, even more so than historical German cities like Nuremberg escaping destruction, this alteration represents a crucial link between the narrative and central tenets of the collective memory of postwar German ‘trauma.’ As already established in the first chapter, one of the earliest and most influential discourses of German suffering after 1945 centered on the fate of expellees from former German territories that were lost as a result of the defeat. The capital of Lower Silesia and a center of German cultural life in Eastern Europe prior to 1945, Breslau has traditionally been a focal point in the debates about the loss of ‘Heimat’ in the Federal Republic. Consequentially, its casual integration into the story – establishing not merely the fact that the city presently still belongs to Germany, but implying more generally a state of German normalcy – indirectly, but efficiently, addresses this status and thereby caters to a position that is, at best, equally as concerned with the suffering of Germans as a result of the loss of the war as with the suffering of their victims in the twelve years prior. In the following pages, the perspective shifts mainly to Carl’s own memories and observations, which propagate the same impression of a changed German reality as the dialogical passages. While changing trains in Hof, he encounters a large group of students on a school trip waiting on the platform and, subsequently, three buses from which senior travellers emerge in droves. 278 The students speak with a heavy Saxonian accent and the buses, Carl notes, are all from Chemnitz. Aside from the revealing reference to the city that was actually Karl-Marx-Stadt in the GDR, the utter normalcy that is conveyed in the description of this encounter once more constitutes a key aspect of its description. Like the forfeiture of German territories in the previous passage, this episode addresses an essential element of postwar discourses of German loss: the division of Germany. While the existence of two separate German states constituted a general paradigm of the way in which the Second World War negatively affected the German population, the freedom of movement of the citizens of the GDR or, rather, the absence thereof, has always featured as an especially significant tenet – both in pre-1989 West Germany and in post-unification debates – of the integral demonization of East Germany in official and popular 277 See “Ausflug,” 26. 278 See ibid. 90 pleas for German reunification. 279 The portrayal of the presence of East German travellers in West Germany in 1983 as a perfectly ordinary occurrence takes up this commemorative archetype and furthers the supposition that Germany would have been better off in the historical absence of National Socialism. In the same passages, however, Carl’s reflections on the current state of the country once more evoke an overall sense of deceleration, both socially and technologically, as he describes the passing villages of the Thuringian forest as “Nester für den altdeutschen Geist” and characterizes this alternate Germany as fundamentally nonrevolutionary. 280 At the same time, his own critical, sarcastic perspective on these impressions establishes himself as a representative of more a more modern, a more progressive Germany, effectively guarding against potential allegations of over-idealizing German traditions. On the next train, Carl meets another fellow traveller en route to the Leipzig Book Fair. The man introduces himself as a professor of Romance literature from the university of “Bonn, bei Köln,” a brief reference which further sets the allohistorical scene – apparently, in this alternate Germany, which never experienced division, the city of Bonn never achieved any kind of special prominence. 281 The dialogue between these two characters represents the first instance of an externalization of fascist atrocities. Carl and the Professor from Bonn (near Cologne) discuss the history of Spanish literature following the Francoist coup in 1939, during which the German government remained neutral. 282 In response to the fascist takeover, many members of the literary community of Spain fled the country and sought refuge, as it turns out, in the much more liberal Germany. This creative and political liberalism is further substantiated by a concrete discussion of the career of Spanish émigré Fernando Garcia in Berlin during the 1940s. Garcia is clearly an allohistorical representation of Federico García Lorca, whose Marxist allegiances, socio-political criticism and homosexuality resulted in his murder in 1936 in real history. In Pleschinski’s alternate history, his Doppelgänger thrived in 1940s Berlin, where he famously cooperated with Kurt Weill at the Proletarian Theater Wedding, further emphasizing the political 279 In a recent interview, Pleschinski, who actually never lived in East Germany himself, describes life in the GDR – to which he refers, in reference to Ronald Reagan, as “Reich des Bösen” – like this: “Menschen werden im 20. Jahrhundert gegängelt. Sie müssen hinter Stacheldraht leben und sind in einem politischen System gefangen.” See Alexandra Hagen, “‘Man besuchte eine Welt – Wie eine Titanic kurz vor dem Untergang’: Kulturgeschichtliche Reminiszenzen über die deutsch-deutsche Grenze mit dem Schriftsteller Hans Pleschinski,” Focus on German Studies 15 (2008): 199-201. 280 “Ausflug,” 26-27. 281 “Ausflug,” 28. 282 See ibid. 91 openness of German society. 283 The motif of the thriving left-wing intellectual is repeated, this time applied to contemporary Germany, on the next page: Carl reads in the Mitteldeutsche Zeitung that composer Hans-Werner Henze – a gay Marxist who in reality was shunned in postwar Germany and subsequently emigrated to Italy in the 1950s – is appointed artistic director of the world-renowned Thomanerchor boys’ choir in Leipzig. 284 Pleschinski establishes a similar theme here as we have already seen in Sissini’s Samuel Hitler: Not only is Germany without the reign of the (real) Nazis a better place to live for its own intellectuals and thus manages to retain their full creative potential – as exemplified here by the non-emigration of the Communist Jew Weill –, it also becomes a haven for Europe’s progressive refugees, looking to evade persecution in their (unaltered) home countries. The fact that even the Weimar Republic was not free of – sometimes militant – resentment against non-conformists and ‘Others’ in general and that the widespread anti-Semitism fostered by the Nazis had a longstanding tradition in the German population, are effectively erased in this depiction. During their discussion, the train has reached Leipzig, situated in what is indirectly referred to as “Mitteldeutschland.” 285 What remains altogether unmentioned, and is all the more striking in its absence, is a border crossing. In the alternate Germany, the trip from Munich to Leipzig is unhindered by any effects of the real historical division of Germany. In Leipzig, Carl watches as a train en route from Krakow to Ostende pulls into the station and notes that the train cars are adorned by the Polish white eagle, signifying that – while the Soviet regime is still in power in Russia – Communism “has not spread to Eastern Europe.” 286 In fact, the Czech Republic is already a member of the European Community in 1983, ten years ahead of real history, and an active proponent of European neutrality in the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union – a position which is not yet shared by a majority of member states, but for which Carl explicitly expresses his sympathies. 287 As the train moves on, Carl is lost in memories which once more casually redraw the map of Central Europe, with recollections of trips to Königsberg and Karlsbad in the Sudetenland, which has remained a health resort for affluent 283 See ibid. 284 See “Ausflug,” 29. 285 “Ausflug,” 29. 286 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 279. On the same page (see “Ausflug,” 29), Carl reads about current arms talks between the European Community and Soviet Russia. 287 See “Ausflug,” 30. 92 Germans and Czechs alike. 288 It is on this leg of Carl’s allohistorical excursion that the universalistic narrative of the story is developed to its full extent. While seated in the dining car, Carl is joined by a middleaged Italian woman who instantly notices the textbook on fascism in Italy that he is reading. Commenting on the portrait of Benito Mussolini on the front cover, she introduces herself with the exclamation: “Ach, die alte Bestia!” 289 In the ensuing monologue, the unnamed woman recounts an abbreviated history of the Mussolini regime, at once as a subjective memory and in form of quasi-objective generalized statements. While the overall historical development – that is, the time and circumstances of the rise and fall of Italian fascism – remain largely unchanged, some key characteristics are tellingly altered. But most centrally it is the emotional subjectivity of her recollections that drive the narrative. Over the course of several pages, the account of life under and, more importantly, in the aftermath of the fascist regime, is described and a number of essential elements of postwar German ‘trauma’ are projected onto an Italian experience which has been subtly, but significantly altered to fit the part. The women’s earliest memories are of her membership in fascist youth organizations – a membership that was, of course, forced – and their cheering on of the Italian military immediately before the outbreak of the Second ItaloAbyssianian War in 1935. 290 This memory is seamlessly followed by another, this time jumping directly to the public celebrations following Mussolini’s execution in 1945, which she remembers fondly. 291 Over her family history, which she remembers as being defined by living in fear of the authorities, the account goes on to comment on the racist policies of the regime: Wir mußten, stellen Sie sich das einmal vor, im sogenannten Biologieunterricht anhand von Menschenschädeln auswendig lernen, im Chor, was die Merkmale des Untermenschen sind. Sie, wie Sie hier vor mir sitzen, als Deutscher, also als Nördlicher Hordentyp, hätten eher zu den Ratten als zu den Menschen gezählt. Allein römische Abstammung gab das Anrecht, sich wertvoll zu fühlen. Der Rest: biologischer Unrat.292 This passage is at once a crucial historical alteration and an effective means of projection with 288 See ibid. 289 “Ausflug,” 31. 290 See ibid. 291 See “Ausflug,” 32. 292 Ibid. 93 regard to the implementation of racism as a paradigm of European fascism. While the Italian fascist system did include racist and anti-Semitic elements, they did not develop a significant status in the policies and propaganda of the regime until the formation of the Axis in the wake of the German intervention into the war in Abyssinia in support of the Italian forces. It was Hitler’s subsequent political and ideological influence on Mussolini, who had previously been staunchly opposed to this aspect of German National Socialism, which ultimately led to the elevation of racial theories into the canon of the Italian fascist movement and Italy’s cooperation in the persecution of Jews and other racially defined minorities. 293 It is a symptomatic feature of the universalistic narrative of “Ausflug” that, in this alternate reality, the Italian fascists developed this characteristic not only without the influence of their German counterparts, but that the racist discrimination was, in fact, directed at Germans, as well. The reference to Roman descent as the exclusively acceptable racial type in the context of fascist ideology is clearly a projection of the fanatic ‘Aryanism’ of the Nazis onto the Italian regime, which reinforces its allegorical nature. This quality of Italy serving as a stand-in for Germany becomes all the more apparent as the focus shifts from the experiences of the Italian population under fascist rule to its legacy and the “trauma” of the postwar era. 294 Carl’s reaction to the previous details of the woman’s account comes in the form of disbelief and the failure to comprehend: “Daß all die Jahre hindurch 50 Millionen Italiener das hingenommen haben! Man kann es ja wirklich kaum verstehen[.]” 295 The keyword here is, of course, “hingenommen.” The idea that fascism – and, by allohistorical extension, National Socialism – was something that was merely begrudgingly accepted by the general population represents a fundamental axiom of normalizing counter-memory discourses in postwar Germany. Much like the woman’s initial exclamation (“Bestia!”) and its inherent reduction of the responsibility for the atrocities committed in the name of Italian fascism onto the person of Mussolini, the tendency to focus the guilt of National Socialism and the Holocaust on Hitler (and his most immediate circle) and, accordingly, understand German fascism as something that was not carried by, but rather forced on a majority of the German people, is a characteristic feature of narrative strategies aimed at a relativization of the Third Reich. Pleschinski’s story is itself a 293 Cf. Aaron Gillette, Racial Theories in Fascist Italy (New York: Routledge, 2003). 294 “Ausflug,” 32-33. 295 “Ausflug,” 32. 94 representation of this approach, with the arrest of Hitler – who ultimately dies in a mental institution in Buchenwald – 296 and the ban of the NSDAP, still in its infancy in 1923, effecting the seamless development of Germany into a largely progressive, liberal nation. Without the legacy of an essentially extrinsic ideology weighing on their collective conscience, the alternate Germans enjoy freedoms that the Italians are denied, the foremost of which is a positive national ide ntity. 297 This difference is explicitly acknowledged by the Italian woman, who expresses her envy for Carl, as representative of the German people, by marveling: Wie anders, wie unbelastet von solchem Trauma ist es hier [...] Sie haben mehr Glück gehabt als wir […] Sie können in die Welt gehen, können, wenn Sie wollen, ‘Deutschland’ sagen und müssen nicht im selben Moment die Lippen ein wenig zusammenkneifen. Sie können, wenn Ihnen danach ist, in Ihre Geschichte zurückblicken, Ihre Traditionen begutachten und können sich in einem Land beheimatet fühlen, das sich rechtzeitig besonnen hat.298 The relative subtlety of the previous passages is finally abandoned here. In these lines, the projection of German ‘shame’ onto the alternate Italy is inescapable and, at the same time, the motivations behind this narrative strategy are at their most apparent. Much more so than the material loss of ‘Heimat’ – as represented by the earlier invocations of Breslau, Königsberg and Karlsbad – this passage bespeaks the fact that the real suffering of Germans in the postwar era, especially that of the second generation and beyond, is caused by a metaphysical loss of identity. Pleschinski acknowledges this prioritization himself, in an e-mail interview with Gavriel Rosenfeld, by stating that his main impetus behind writing “Ausflug” was the “revulsion against the Nazi contamination (Verdreckung) of [our] national history.” 299 Accordingly, the Italian woman’s lament that she is unable to proudly assert her nationality as a descendant of the fascist regime, is also characteristic for the discourses that constitute German normalization. It exposes this specific kind of ‘trauma’ as utterly narcissistic, insofar as the concrete engagement with historical suffering is no longer concerned with the original victims of the injured collective at all, but focuses exclusively on the negative ramifications for the defeated perpetrators and their descendants. This shift is especially heightened in Pleschinski’s story because, here, the 296 See “Ausflug,” 37. 297 See “Ausflug,” 33. 298 Ibid. 299 Quoted in Rosenfeld, Hitler, 280. Italics in the original. 95 traditional recourse to actual German hardships – such as the fire bombings of German cities and the expulsions from the East that are at the core of most non-allohistorical literature dealing with this topic – has no equivalent in the recollections of the Italian woman, but is exclusively represented as a negative, by the fact that these events did not occur. Consequently, the symbolic suffering caused by the inability to openly relate to one’s nation remains as the only form of victimization and is, at the same time, the ultimate erasure of the memory of the real victims of National Socialism, as a result of the complete dissolution of historical cause and effect. Therefore, the overall generalizing impact of the story’s fundamental suggestion that, on the one hand, the development of National Socialism in Germany was, in essence, a random occurrence which, on the other hand, could just as easily have happened in an identical fashion in another country, transcends the realm of mere universalism. By keeping the memory of German victims intact, by means of an allegorical surrogate, but expunging the Holocaust from the historical record altogether, “Ausflug” does not merely equalize the Germans and their victims, it effectively prioritizes the suffering of the former in the absence of the latter. In this sense, Pleschinski’s story represents a prime example of alternate memory. The counterfactual mode specifically enables this kind of casual, selective historical elision and permits it to function, at the same time, as a source for the formation of new memories that ultimately facilitate an overcoming of the real legacy of the fictionally omitted events. 3.5 REQUIEM FÜR EINEN STÜMPER Published not only after reunification but after the paradigmatic changes outlined in the first chapter, Sabine Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s short story “Requiem für einen Stümper” represents the first example of a new type of German Alternate Histories. 300 Though set in 1975, “Requiem” was written in 1999, at the onset of the newly revised renaissance of German normalization, and the significance of this specific historical location becomes apparent when comparing it to the two previously discussed examples of German alternate memory narratives. On the surface, Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s story takes a similar allohistorical starting point as Pleschinski’s “Ausflug.” At the core of the alternate reality imagined in “Requiem” are the idea that Adolf Hitler never ascended to power and the speculation about the ramifications this 300 Sabine Wedemeyer-Schwiersch, “Requiem für einen Stümper,” in Alexanders langes Leben, Stalins früher Tod und andere abwegige Geschichten, ed. Erik Simon (Heyne: München, 1999), 243-250. 96 alteration would have had on the historical development of Germany. In this story, however, this central change is not effected by Hitler’s arrest and the ban of the National Socialist movement before it could acquire sufficient political influence to assert a dominant role. Rather, here Hitler never enters the sphere of politics at all, but instead realizes his adolescent dream of becoming a professional painter. After the real historical two failed attempts, the alternate Hitler decides to apply for admission into the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna for a third time and is finally accepted. 301 He spends four years honing his skills but his works remain obscure, overshadowed by the contemporary aesthetic preeminence of Expressionism. 302 In 1914, Hitler suspends his artistic career to enlist in the German military to fight for the Fatherland in World War I. In counterfactual retrospect, these years of patriotic heroism are described as having a profound influence on the development of his later style. 303 Following the end of the war, Hitler settles in Stuttgart, where he rents a small studio and returns to the task of perfecting his artistic skills. Despite remaining so unsuccessful for over a decade that he is constantly barely able to pay his rent – albeit avoiding the real historical stint in a homeless asylum – he finally, in a turn of counterfactual providence (“Vorsehung”), meets the wealthy, young industrialist Albert Häberle, who is so taken with Hitler’s work that he instantly decides to become his patron. 304 Häberle is the sole heir to the presidency of the gargantuan Häberle-Werke, a multinational (but inherently Germanic) corporation which, by the mid-1930s, not only operates franchises across the globe, including Japan and Stalinist Russia, but which is implicitly credited with single-handedly averting the German economic crisis of the 1920s. 305 Under Häberle’s patronage, Hitler experiences a meteoric rise. As the newly appointed head of the artistic division of the HäberleWerke, Hitler enters what is known in the story’s fictional present as his “brown period,” creating hundreds of vastly successful paintings representing heroic scenes from Germanic mythology as well as depictions of the everyday life of the German worker.306 His work becomes so preeminent that, soon, every German household owns at least one ‘Hitler’ and that the narrator suggests: “In gewisser Weise kann man sagen: Auch wir [i.e. all Germans] sind Werke Adolf 301 See “Requiem,” 244. 302 See ibid. 303 See ibid. 304 “Requiem,” 244-245. 305 See “Requiem,” 245-246. 306 See “Requiem,” 246-247. 97 Hitlers.” 307 Following his overwhelming success as a painter, Häberle assigns Hitler to also collaborate with Albert Speer, the head of the company’s architecture department, in designing a series of grandiose buildings to reflect the size and ever-growing global influence of the Great Häberle-Werke. Speer and Hitler subsequently design the company’s new headquarters in Stuttgart, which elicits vocal admiration even from US president Richard Nixon who, upon seeing it for the first time, exclaims that “America is great, but this building is gorgeous!” 308 Hitler’s artistic genius continues to spread the awareness of German greatness to all parts of the world and, upon his death at 85 in 1974, Häberle commissions the creation of a museum in his honor. 309 The alternate course of history summed up above is relayed to the reader exclusively in form of a speech given at the opening ceremony of the Adolf-Hitler-Museum in 1975 and forms the present of the story. Gavriel Rosenfeld asserts that the “allohistorical significance of Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s short story lies in its contention that German history would have turned out much better had Hitler never gone into politics but rather had become an artist” and explicitly likens it to Pleschinski’s “Ausflug” in this regard. 310 However, there is a considerable problem with this reading. The narrative structure of “Requiem” is organized on two levels, typographically separated in the text. The speech itself is characterized by the unadulterated admiration of Hitler and Häberle that Rosenfeld refers to, unequivocally lauding both men’s accomplishments as great innovators in their respective fields and benefactors of the German people, as outlined above. By itself, this level of the narrative may indeed be taken to imply that German society experienced considerable improvements as a result of the fact that Adolf Hitler never ascended to political power. At the same time, however, this impression is undermined by the narrator’s internal commentary on his own speech, printed in italics in the text. Rosenfeld acknowledges the existence of this critical voice, but not the fundamental impact it has on the speech itself. According to his assessment, the highly sarcastic passages that are continually subverting the main narrative are the result of the author’s specific historical situation, in contrast to writers like Pleschinski, both in a relatively recently reunified Germany and in an increasingly 307 “Requiem,” 247. 308 “Requiem,” 248. 309 See “Requiem,” 249. 310 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 284. 98 globalized word, and should be read as a form of universalism that understands contemporary problems in German society in a larger international scope. 311 While all of these observations are accurate, in sum they nonetheless fail to take into account the full extent of the contrarian effect produced by means of the secondary narration. Indeed, the overall function of the story is universalistic in nature and the specificities of its narrative strategies are unquestionably linked to the discursive changes in the wake of German reunification, but counter to Rosenfeld’s interpretation, this is not the result of an overly positive depiction of the alternate Germany. Only an examination of both layers of the narrative in combination reveals the meticulous generalizations at work in the text and calls into question the seamless comparisons with earlier German Alternate Histories of the Third Reich. When reading the narrator’s auto-commentary, it quickly becomes clear that, despite the exuberant image officially propagated to the fictional audience, the alternate historical development of Germany depicted in the story is, in fact, not so far removed from our reality at all. Already the first of the narrator’s comments implies the existence of totalitarian control, when he questions his role in the celebration of Hitler’s achievements: Wieso habe ich mich bloß dazu breitschlagen lassen, diese verdammte Rede zu halten, noch dazu vor diesem geschmacklos gigantomanischen Kasten! Na ja, was wäre mir anders übriggeblieben? Zurück ans Fließband? Wo ich es endlich zum leitenden Angestellten in der Kulturabteilung gebracht habe? Vielleicht sollte ich auswandern. 312 The narrator outs himself as an opportunistic collaborator, who, despite his obvious distaste for Hitler’s fascist aesthetic, has agreed to give the opening speech in his honor in the sole interest of maintaining his status within the company. The alternatives for this choice, however, are significant here. As this passage suggests, the only other options, other than total acquiescence to the will of the ‘Great Director,’ are either professional and assumedly social demotion or emigration. In the speech, it is established that the Häberle-Werke have long since assumed control of German politics. 313 The commentary, which engenders a sense of ubiquitous social coercion, foreshadows this realization and emphasizes its extent at the same time, suggesting that Häberle’s control not only exceeds the immediate confines of his company, but encompasses the 311 See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 285. 312 “Requiem,” 243. 313 “Requiem,” 246. 99 whole of society. This impression is further reinforced by one of the following italicized passages, which mentions the narrator’s father. In contrast to his conformist son, he is described as a “dissident” whose unspecified disagreement has indeed landed him back at the assembly line of the Häberle-Werke. Being a professional art historian – which, the reader can assume, is also the narrator’s vocation –, it is implied here that this career change was not voluntary and seemingly without alternative. 314 The choice of the term “dissident,” as well as the establishment of the narrator’s previously expressed fear of the ramifications of a refusal to adapt as fact, additionally advance the realization that Alfred Häberle is evidently in a position of near absolute political power and capable of exerting the kind of pervasive control over the lives of citizens commonly associated with totalitarian regimes. The second aspect revealed in the commentary passages is the de facto cultural ‘Gleichschaltung’ of German society. While the speech only indirectly refers to expressionist and post-expressionist art – which, in the story’s present, exists only as “exotische Kuriositäten” 315 – as a hindrance for Hitler’s early success, it is the secondary narrative which explicates the full extent of the homogenization of contemporary German culture: “Eine Schande ist das! Wir sollten uns lieber offen zu Macke bekennen, zu Beckmann, Dix und all den wirklich großen Künstlern. Und was haben wir stattdessen? Hitler, nichts als Hitler!” 316 And, once more, the reflections on the narrator’s non-conformist father add a distinctly political dimension to this portrayal: “Na ja, mal ehrlich: Wenn Vater nicht Dissident gewesen wäre, hätte ich dann jemals etwas anderes als Hitler kennengelernt?” 317 Not only do these two passages bespeak the comprehensive propagation of Hitler’s art in Häberle’s Germany, but they also imply that all other art, especially abstract forms, has been relegated to a status akin to that of ‘entartete Kunst’ in the Third Reich. The fact that the narrator questions whether he would ever have been introduced to the mentioned representatives of German expressionism and Neue Sachlichkeit, had it not been for his dissident and subsequently censured father, suggests that these artists’ works are not merely inaccessible to the general public, but that it evidently constitutes a punishable offense to circumvent this prohibition. This situation alone bears strong resemblances 314 “Requiem,” 247. 315 “Requiem,” 244. 316 Ibid. 317 “Requiem,” 247. 100 to the cultural policies of the Nazis, but at the same time also supports the readers’ growing awareness of Häberle’s political influence, since they must assume that it was his patronage of Hitler that effected this restrictive practice. This socio-political dimension of cultural ‘Gleichschaltung’ is later echoed by another one of the narrator’s comments: “Albert Häberle, Deine Werke sind wir, noch mehr als Hitlers Werke, und das weißt du nur zu gut!” 318 The third and final regard in which the commentary passages are significant is their critical exposition of German expansionism. As mentioned above, already the speech itself refers to the global influence wielded by Häberle. This aspect is revisited in the commentary when the narrator once more wonders why he has not simply left Germany in order to escape the omnipresence of Hitler’s art and what it represents. The answer is this: “Aber wer weiß, vielleicht hat man in London und New York auch nur noch so ein Zeug hängen? Gar nicht so unwahrscheinlich, wo Häberle sogar schon die Aktienmehrheit von Rolls Royce und Chrysler hält!” 319 The concrete reference to Rolls-Royce and Chrysler is, of course, a jab at the real international expansion of such behemoths of the postwar German economy as Volkswagen (which acquired Rolls-Roye Motors in 1998) and Daimler (which until recently held the majority of Chrysler shares). More significant, however, is the link of this contemporary situation with the inherent suggestion of a very real possibility that the economic expansion of Germany also denotes an expansion of Häberle’s political influence over other countries, symbolized by the narrator’s vision of Hitler’s paintings now also dominating the art scenes of London and New York, as they already do in Berlin and the rest of Germany. This idea of endless expansion and prospective global domination again engenders distinct associations with the Third Reich. In parallel with the speech itself, the critical commentary thus serves to accentuate the thinly veiled negative aspects of the alternate Germany within the laudatory whole and echoes the real memory of National Socialism sometimes subtly, sometimes less so. After all, Häberle is at one point comically referred to as “GröDaZ” and the short story’s last line, typographically marked as part of the official speech, reads: “Heil Häberle!” 320 The overall image developed of the alternate Germany in this way is far removed from the 318 “Requiem,” 249. 319 “Requiem,” 247. 320 “Requiem,” 250. The title of “GröDaz” is, of course, a pun on the ironic ‘acronymization’ of Hitler as “GröFaZ” (Größter Feldherr/Führer aller Zeiten), and here accordingly stands for “Größter Direktor aller Zeiten.” 101 positive portrayal Rosenfeld suggests. Even in the absence of the Holocaust, the texts evokes considerable similarities to the society of historical Nazi Germany, which far exceed a critical assessment of the interactions between corporatism and politics in the era of heightened globalization that was reportedly the author’s aim. In an e-mail message to Rosenfeld, Wedemeyer-Schwiersch herself attests to this, explaining that “Germany is hardly the only country dominated by enormous corporations, being in good company with Japan, Great Britain, France, and Switzerland as well.” 321 Considering this intent and the overall narrative strategy of the text, “Requiem” can therefore nonetheless be read as a universalistic parable. The de facto rule of Häberle bears significant resemblances to that of Hitler – evidenced by the effective ‘Gleichschaltung’ of Germany, the seemingly exclusive ubiquity of a fascist aesthetic, the totalitarian control of the population (albeit by different means), and Germany’s relentless expansionism – and is clearly portrayed in a negative light by the narrator. At the same time, this is precisely what enables the narrative to function as an alternate memory. As the discussion of Fry’s Making History has shown, the description of an alternate Germany in which Hitler never rose to power, but which can still – for all intents and purposes – be considered a fascist regime, can serve to foreground the historical complicity of the German people in the rise and sustainment of National Socialism. In constrast, “Requiem” shows that the same counterfactual premise can just as easily be framed in such a way that shifts the focus away from real German history and the specific culpability of Germans both prior to and during the era of the Third Reich. Wedemeyer-Schwiersch creates a quasi-fascist Germany which does not merely resemble the actual Nazi Germany, but which is at the same time recognizably and intentionally linked to the political economy of contemporary globalized Capitalism, in which international corporations wield immense political power. This specific methodology – no longer bound by the discursive crutches of pre-unification universalist counter-memories, but rather capable of utilizing even negative representations of German history for redeeming narratives – characterizes “Requiem” as a new form of alternate memory. Different from the earlier manifestations of the same theme, which largely rely on a prioritization of real historical German suffering and a decidedly positive depiction of an alternate Germany as a means of shifting the mnemonic focus away from the legacy of guilt, Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s narrative avoids this 321 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 285 (quotation paraphrased by Rosenfeld). One can only speculate as to why the United States are absent from this list, seeing as they are commonly the representation of choice in popular criticisms of globalization. However, the fact that Wedemeyer-Schwiersch suggests such a broad selection of analogues only emphasizes the universalistic direction of her allohistorical approach. 102 necessity of having to present Germany without the Führer in a idealized manner. Instead, the revisionist modus operandi of “Requiem” is defined by its equalizing focus on the similarities between the quasi-totalitarian Germany of Alfred Häberle and, at least according to the author, any other contemporary economic superpower. It purports the subtle suggestion that, as bad as real history may have been and as badly as it might still have turned out without Hitler as the Führer, the case of Germany should not be considered a unique historical phenomenon. The exemplary texts in this chapter illustrate in detail the ways in which Alternate Histories can perform the function of universalizing the legacy of National Socialism. The contrast between Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle and Stephen Fry’s Making History and all three German-language stories illustrates the importance of understanding counterfactual literature in a national context. While the two non-German stories approach the premise of a German victory in the Second World War from very different angles, the discursive functions they perform are overall rather similar. Both novels present universalizing narratives: Through the novel-withinthe-novel, fictional author Hawthorne Abendsen’s The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, Dick’s story realizes this effect in a twofold manner. On the one hand, the main narrative presents the reader with the notion that the defeat of the United States would not have necessarily resulted in a dystopian society. By depicting life in the Japanese-occupied Western states as characterized by a relative normalcy, the novel questions the hegemonic American memory narrative of World War II as the fight against an absolute evil. On the other hand, the second alternative course of history portrayed in the fragmentary elements of Grasshopper suggests that a victory over the Nazis need not have necessarily been a preferable outcome. Despite the relatively scarce critical attention this second narrative level has received, this is where Dick’s story develops its full universalistic potential: In exploring the notion that totalitarianism and institutionalized racism could have prospered in the West even after the defeat of Nazi Germany, The Man in the High Castle disassociates characteristics commonly ascribed to National Socialism and projects them onto the allohistorical United States and Britain. However, while this narrative technique unquestionably represents a universalization of elements of German fascism by suggesting that they were not exclusive to the Nazi regime in its specific historical setting, it does not effectively relativize National Socialism itself. Rather, in the context of Dick’s novel, this strategy is predominantly focused on the American context and thus only serves to further the self-critical position of the main narrative. Stephen Fry’s Making History also contains an introspective element in the form of the implicit suggestion that the British majority would likely have turned 103 into collaborators in the event of a Nazi victory. But here the primary focus is not on British but on German society. Fry’s narrative bespeaks the fact that the universalization of National Socialism need not necessarily be a reactionary endeavour. By imagining the removal of Hitler from history as the cause for an even greater success of the Nazi movement, Making History emphasizes the socio-political conditions from which it drew its power. The proliferation of German fascism in the absence of the real historical Führer highlights the complicity of the German people in its rise to power. In this sense, both non-German Alternate Histories in this chapter contain universalizing elements, but do not provide an exculpatory narrative that revises the causes and effects of real historical events. Conversely, this is precisely the function of all three German-language examples in this chapter. Sissini’s Samuel Hitler universalizes and relativizes National Socialism at the same time in its allohistorical envisioning of a world in which Hitler was born a Jew. On the one hand, the suggestion that the Third Reich would have taken a similar shape under the aegis of a Jewish Führer not only erases the central significance of anti-Semitism within the Nazi ideology and its popularity among the German population at that time but also effectively removes its historical specificities by likening it to other totalitarian ideologies. On the other hand, the depiction of Samuel Hitler’s alternate Third Reich as a relatively benevolent regime and the removal of the Holocaust from history obscure the complicity of the German collective in the crimes of the Nazis, suggesting that they would never have occurred without the real Hitler as the leader of the Reich. Finally, the projection of real historical atrocities committed by Germans onto Germany’s enemies creates a counterfactual outlet for German guilt by propagating the idea that the same events could have occurred in much the same way under only slightly altered (global) conditions. Hans Pleschinski’s short story “Ausflug” works in a similar, albeit more subtle way. Here, too, the complicity of the German population in the rise of National Socialism is obscured by suggesting that the arrest of Hitler and a small number of his early collaborators would have resulted in Germany developing unhindered into a tolerant and open society. At the same time, the historical crimes committed in the name of the Third Reich are once more projected onto other nations. The character of the Italian woman functions as a stand-in for the guilty conscience of postwar Germans and the counterfactual exaggeration of the atrocities committed by the Italian fascists conceals the specific historical conditions that produced the Holocaust. Finally, Sabine Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s short story “Requiem für einen Stümper” represents the most subtle approach to this theme and thus illustrates the discursive evolution of alternate 104 memory and its correlation to the paradigmatic shifts in German collective memory overall. This is evident especially in the fact that, like non-literary forms of anti-memory, this narrative no longer relies on a denial of German guilt by externalization, but predominantly on situating it within a relativist framework. Unlike the previous two stories, “Requiem” does not imagine German society as considerably improved without (the real) Hitler as the Führer. Instead, the narrative is aimed primarily at cultivating the notion of a universal commensurability of National Socialist ideology. Here, envisioning Germany under a different leader as more successful but just as authoritarian as the Third Reich does not serve to foreground the socio-political conditions that led to the rise of National Socialism. Rather, it serves as a parable in which the alternate quasi-fascist Germany is no different from any other authoritarian system and in which the specific characteristics of German fascism are dissolved into a reductionist critique of globalized Capitalism. In this sense, the revised narrative strategy of Wedemeyer-Schwiersch’s story ultimately performs the same universalizing function as the previous two examples and is, once again, diametrically opposed to the non-German treatment of the almost identical theme represented by Fry’s novel. 105 4. COUNTERFACTUAL HEROES: THE ‘GOOD GERMAN’ In 1994, in response to the national commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the failed attempt on Adolf Hitler’s life on July 20, 1944, German satirist Wiglaf Droste offered a scathing polemic titled “War Hitler Antifaschist?,” in which he ridiculed what he called the “Erbengemeinschaft Widerstand e.V.”: Ob Militaristen, Sozialisten, Kommunisten, Christen, Seifenkisten: Jede Lobby hat ihre oder wenigstens ihren Toten. Das ist gut fürs Selbstverständnis, fürs Gefühl und fürs Image; wer die Leichen von gestern hätschelt, braucht sich um die von heute nicht zu scheren. Die Deutschen, die ein Drittes Reich ebenso wenig verhindert haben, wie sie das bei einem eventuellen Vierten tun werden, sind durch den postumen Zugriff auf ein paar Handvoll Widerstandskämpfer in den Genuß der Kollektivunschuld gelangt. 322 The celebration of and identification with the militant resistance against Hitler is one of the central components of the narrative device that has become known as the ‘good German.’ Although relatively scarcely represented in scholarship, this motif has a long-standing tradition in the collective memory of the Second World War in general and narratives of German selfexculpation in particular, surfacing not only in the context of official commemorative culture, but also as a popular staple of literature and film since the earliest postwar years. 323 To some degree, even outside of the context of Alternate History the disproportionate significance assigned to any and all manifestations of German dissidence under National Socialism can arguably be said to display a certain counterfactual quality. After all, the resistance movement was not only, as Gordon A. Craig puts it, “long on paper and short on action,” but its size and prevalence in the relation to the German population as a whole generally tends to be substantially exaggerated.324 To a certain extent, the psychology behind the metonymic identification of the vast, compliant majority of Germans with a small number of seemingly valiant heroes is understandable and, for the most part, harmless. However, as Tobias Ebbrecht argues, there is a distinct potential for the notion of the ‘good German’ to be used in a revisionist context: 322 Wiglaf Droste, “War Hitler Antifaschist?,” in Sieger sehen anders aus (Hamburg: Nautilus, 1994), 7. 323 For a brief history of German resistance in the context of literature, cf. Karl Prümm, “‘Die Zukunft ist vergeßlich’: Der antifaschistische Widerstand in der deutschen Literatur nach 1945,” in Gegenwartsliteratur und Drittes Reich, ed. Hans Wagener (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1977), 33-68. For a more recent overview of its cinematic representation, cf. Tobias Ebbrecht, Geschichtsbilder im medialen Gedächtnis: Filmische Narrationen des Holocaust (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2011). 324 Gordon A. Craig, “Good Germans,” The New York Review of Books 39, no. 21 (1992): 44. 106 Dort aber, wo die Figur als Stereotyp verfestigt wird, besteht die Gefahr, dass es zu einer Verschiebung [...] kommt. Der Retter wird dann zu einer kollektiven Identifikations- und damit Erlöserfigur. Als Ersatz für das unterlassene Handeln der Mehrheit kompensiert die Figur damit die mit Zweifeln besetzte Position der Zuschauer und Mitläufer. 325 This development seems to have been further facilitated by a generational shift, that is, the evaluation of the conduct of Germans during the era of the Third Reich strictly from the vantage point of postmemory. Harald Welzer refers to this phenomenon as “cumulative heroization,” which “implies the restoration of the handed-down, widespread belief that Nazis and Germans were two different groups of people and that the Germans were a seduced, misused group, robbed of their youth, and themselves victims of National Socialism.” 326 This process may also explain the increased prominence of the ‘good German’ in more recent Alternate Histories of the Third Reich and can be read in accordance with those shifts in German collective memory, posited by Frei, that have enabled Germans to reformulate the guilt of historical compliance to function as a motivator for contemporary agency. Arguably, already the non-allohistorical replacement performed in this way – what Ebbrecht explicitly refers to as “Ersatz” – could be considered a form of alternate memory. Within the context of Alternate History, however, the capacity of the memory of German resistance to act as an exculpatory narrative is taken a step further with the counterfactual envisioning of successful and consequential acts of opposition against the Nazis. While the motif of the ‘good German’ does not carry the entire narrative in at least two of the following texts, it constitutes a subtle underlying narrative which represents a defining feature that unites the three exemplary stories in this chapter. In each case, the basic premise is the representation of instances of German resistance against the National Socialist regime that did not exist, or did not have the same impact, in real history. In contrast to both other chapters, the concrete individual implementations of this premise are much more varied here, that is, the same motif is incorporated into three very different allohistorical scenarios. At first glance, this may not seem to be the case, as all three texts are ultimately Alternate Histories of a victorious Third Reich, but both the realization of this central alteration and the relation in which the ‘good German’ protagonists stand to this development diverge in some very crucial respects. In Robert Harris’ Fatherland, the German 325 Ebbrecht, Geschichtsbilder, 279. 326 Harald Welzer, “The Collateral Damage of Enlightenment: How Grandchildren Understand the History of National Socialist Crimes and their Grandfathers’ Past,” in Victims and Perpetrators, 291. 107 victory has been won by ordinary means, not effected by an act of German intervention from within, and the main plot centres around the protagonist’s gradual unearthing of the carefully buried secret of the Holocaust. Siegfried Langer’s Alles bleibt anders explores various parallel worlds in which history has taken a different turn, with the protagonists’ ultimate goal of overcoming the effects of a victorious Nazi regime in the present of their own reality. And, finally, in Christian von Ditfurth’s Der 21. Juli, German dissidence is an integral aspect of the original alteration of history, with the story imagining a victorious German Reich after the successful assassination of Adolf Hitler. The concept of German resistance and the importance of ‘good Germans’ play very different roles in all three narratives and, once more, clear distinctions can be made between the British and the German variations of the same theme. 4.1 FATHERLAND Robert Harris’ Fatherland (1992) 327 is the most successful Alternate History of the Third Reich to date.328 Achieving both critical acclaim and commercial success in Britain and the United States and serving as the basis for an equally popular film adaptation in 1994, the novel also generated a considerable amount of international controversy following its publication and remains an object of contention to this day. 329 Set in 1964, Fatherland tells the story of a victorious Third Reich preparing for the festivities of the Führertag, Hitler’s 75 th birthday. Germany has defeated the Soviet Union in 1944 with a successful summer offensive launched against Moscow, reached a peace accord with a pro-German British government in 1944 (after Churchill has been run out of the country and fled to Canada), and has entered into a state of perpetual Cold War with the Americans in 1946, as a result of the establishment of mutually assured nuclear destruction. 330 Although “the brutality of the Forties has given way to a somewhat milder authoritarian regime of the older Hitler,” present-day National Socialism is still crucially defined by authoritarianism and expansionism. 331 Or, as Sara Anelli puts it: “Despite 327 Robert Harris, Fatherland (New York: Random House, 1992). Cited in the following as FL. 328 See Winthrop-Young, “Third Reich,” 884. 329 See Bardo Fassbender, “A Novel, Germany's Past, and the Dilemmas of Civilised Germans,” Contemporary Review 265, no. 1546 (1994): 236. 330 See FL 76. 331 Fassbender, “Dilemmas,” 241. 108 being a continuance of the Reich and showing differences in the distribution of power, Harris’s Europe bears in fact an alarming resemblance to the post-war international landscape.” 332 Over the past two decades, the German Reich – now known as Germania – has thrived and succeeded in shaping Europe into a supranational construct under German rule, nominally a European Community, but factually subservient to Germany. 333 Luxembourg, Austria and most of Eastern Europe have been annexed as parts of the expanding Reich, while most of Western Europe forms a European trading bloc, politically, economically and even culturally dominated by German interests. 334 In a recent development, the United States, represented by pro-German president Joseph Kennedy, have made advances to the German Reich and a treaty of mutual cooperation is expected as the result of Kennedy’s state visit in honour of the Führer’s birthday. Against this counterfactual background, Harris develops a crime thriller of literally historic(al) proportions. What begins with the discovery of an unidentified dead body quickly expands into a story of a widespread conspiracy to cover up the German past. Xavier March, the novel’s protagonist, is a police detective (with the SS-rank of Sturmbannführer) in Berlin. Utterly disillusioned with National Socialism, he is brought in to investigate a drowning death near Schwanenwerder, a residential island for the Nazi elite in the Havel river on the outskirts of Berlin. The initially anonymous body is soon identified as Josef Buhler [sic], a high-ranking Party official. March soon learns that another prominent Nazi, Wilhelm Stuckart, is also dead – allegedly by his own hand but under suspicious conditions. In the course of his investigation, March meets Charlie Maguire, an American reporter who had been secretly in contact with Stuckart, who has promised her the story of a lifetime. Through the involvement of the Gestapo the two discover that there is a third man, Martin Luther, who is connected to the other two but has disappeared. In spite of repeated interference by the Gestapo and a story about the three men being involved in an international art theft ring, which quickly turns out to be a ruse, March and Maguire follow their leads to a bank in Zurich, where they find proof that Luther is still alive. Back in Berlin, Luther contacts Charlie and they agree on a meeting, but Luther is shot by a sniper before he can divulge any information. March manages to track down Luther’s luggage 332 Sara Anelli, “Counterfactual Holocausts: Robert Harris’ Fatherland and Martin Amis’ Time's Arrow,” Textus: English Studies in Italy 20, no. 2 (2007): 417. 333 The renaming of Germany as Germania constitutes one of several slight historical errors on the part of Harris. Hitler’s plan was not to rename the entire Reich, but its capital as Germania. Cf. Henry Picker, Hitlers Tischgespräche im Führerhauptquartier: 1941-1942, ed. Andreas Hillgruber (Munich: dtv, 1968). 334 See FL 175-176. 109 and finds a stack of documents inside. Previously, March had already been able to link the three dead Nazis to a conference held in the Wannsee district of Berlin in 1942, but could find no additional information on that meeting. With Luther’s documents March and Maguire retreat to the abandoned mansion where the conference took place and here learn the whole truth about the planning and the execution of the ‘Final Solution’ in the context of the Wannsee conference. In preparation for the treaty with the Americans, the regime had been trying to finally tie up all loose ends of this secret by eliminating everyone involved, explaining the deaths of Buhler, Stuckart and Luther. March and Maguire decide to smuggle the documents out of the country via the neutral Switzerland in order to disclose the information to the public. Maguire takes on a false identity and leaves for the Swiss border, but March is betrayed by his indoctrinated son and arrested by the Gestapo. He is subsequently freed by a seemingly friendly Gestapo officer and helped by Arthur Nebe, the head of the Kriminalpolizei in Berlin, but quickly realizes that it was only a set-up in order to find Maguire and the documents. He leads his old colleagues eastward, in the wrong direction, not only to give Charlie time to cross the border, but also in search of any material evidence of the Holocaust. The novel ends with March’s discovery of the overgrown ruins of the Auschwitz concentration camp, proving that the documents were real, and the uncertain hope that Charlie will escape Europe and reveal the truth to the world. Despite the fact that, on the surface, Fatherland reproduces the narrative that ‘ordinary’ Germans were not aware of the genocidal practices under National Socialism, Harris’ novel was the cause for much controversy in Germany. Bardo Fassbender mentions that “Twenty-five German publishing houses rejected” the German translation, which was ultimately – and somewhat ironically, given the plot – picked up by the Swiss Haffmans Verlag, and he describes a flurry of scathing reviews in the German feuilletons. 335 The novel’s premise riled liberal and conservative German critics alike: the former for its alleged trivialization of the Holocaust, the latter for its insistence to draw attention to the German past and, especially through its popularity abroad, as an obstacle for German normalization. 336 A common critique was also the allegation that Harris’ plot could be interpreted as an allegorical indictment of the contemporary Federal Republic due to its imagining the success of a victorious Third Reich as bearing unmistakable similarities to Germany’s present-day status within the European Community – a reading that the 335 Fassbender, “Dilemmas,” 236-237. Fassbender also notes that the novel ultimately also became a bestseller in Germany, but that a not insignificant part of that success was due to its popularity with a Neo-Nazi audience. See ibid., 241. 336 See ibid., 238-239. 110 author himself did little to dispel. 337 However, while there can be no question that “fascist Germany may stand in for other Germanys,” it remains surprising to a certain degree that German critics had so relatively little to say about the character of Xavier March in particular. 338 After all, despite his status as a member of the SS, “March is a ‘good German,’ who fought with honour in the War and now averts his eyes from the excesses of the Nazi state, or ignores them as an unpleasant and immutable part of daily routine.” 339 Evidence of March’s cynical detachment from National Socialism is disseminated throughout the novel, but it is highlighted especially with an excerpt from his service file: A glittering career. And then it all starts going wrong. No police promotions for ten years. Divorced, 1957. And then the reports start. Blockwart: persistent refusal to contribute to Winter Relief. Party officials at Werderscher-Markt: persistent refusal to join the NSDAP. Overheard in the canteen making disparaging comments about Himmler. Overheard in bars, overheard in restaurants, overheard in corridors...340 While similar redemptive images of honourable German soldiers, who only cooperated begrudgingly with the Nazis but never truly embraced their cause, are a relatively uncommon motif in the context of British and American Alternate Histories of the Third Reich, they proliferated in German postwar memory discourses. 341 Why, then, did this character go so unappreciated by many German readers? The answer may already lie in the name. Although widely unaddressed in discussions of the novel, the name Xavier March sticks out of the text like the proverbial sore thumb. Whereas all other German characters, many of which represent actual historical personae, are assigned obviously German names, the protagonist remains conspicuously Anglophone. So much so, in 337 In an interview with CNN, Harris said: “[T]here are things that the Germans would have achieved if they'd won in 1945 which have come true in 1992, in particular the economic domination, and so on.” Quoted in Fassbender, “Dilemmas,” 243. In contrast, Gavriel Rosenfeld notes that Harris has also gone on record with more apologetic statements. See Rosenfeld, Hitler, 423n188. 338 Winthrop-Young, “Third Reich,” 884. 339 Hardesty, “Alternate Nazis,” 85. 340 FL 131. 341 Dick’s The Man in the High Castle, for instance, also features a sympathetic Nazi character with the benevolent SD agent Rudolf Wegener, but March represents the only (positive) German main protagonist in a non-German Alternate History of the Third Reich. Nonetheless, Harris’ choice refutes Klaus Geus’ categorical stipulation of a quasi-natural link in the Alternate History genre between the nationality of an author and his chosen topic. See Klaus Geus, “Hitlers Vergeblicher Kampf: Ein Beitrag zum Thema Nationalismus und Science Fiction,” Kopfgeburten 7 (1996): 31. 111 fact, that his name was changed in the subsequent German translation to Xaver März, while all other character names were kept. This may seem like a small detail, but it nonetheless already bespeaks the fact that by positing the existence of a ‘good’ Nazi, Harris “aims by no means at rehabilitating Nazism.” 342 The initial distance generated by the English name is furthered by March’s position within the society of the fictional Germany. He is not only a loner in terms of his personality, but also in a political sense. Although the narrative mentions a growing dissatisfaction among the younger generation with the policies of National Socialism, there is not a single adult German in the novel – with the sole exception of March’s old friend Halder – who shares his inward and, later, outward resistance against the system. 343 On the contrary, the remaining German characters are all either openly devout Nazis or covert conspirators working towards upholding the status quo and maintaining the secrecy of the Final Solution – not because it is, as Anelli suggests, an “unsustainable moral burden,” but because it would endanger the agreement with the Americans and thus the future of the Reich. 344 Even the three dead Party officials who tried to release the incriminating information about the Wannsee Conference do so not out of remorse, but to save themselves from persecution. March may therefore be a ‘good German’ – a motif which, in a different narrative context, could function as an apologetic device – but the uniqueness of his position in this allohistorical German Reich actually serves more to highlight how deeply the National Socialist and overall nationalist ideology is still rooted in the German collective. In accordance with this function, it is ultimately also March who refutes the myth that the Holocaust proceeded entirely unbeknownst to the German public, when even the Gestapo henchman torturing him after his arrest claims that he simply did not know: “Of course you knew! You knew every time someone made a joke about ‘going East,’ every time you heard a mother tell her children to behave or they'd go up the chimney. We knew when we moved into their houses, when we took over their property, their jobs.” 345 Nonetheless, the construction of the Final Solution as a closely guarded secret which, after all, provides the novel with its most fundamental theme, remains problematic. And it is further reinforced by the implicit suggestion that the elimination of a handful of high-ranking co342 Anelli, “Counterfactual Holocausts,” 418. 343 See FL 16. 344 Anelli, “Counterfactual Holocausts,” 419. 345 FL 311. 112 conspirators could have sufficed to prevent the truth from becoming known. At the same time, however, this is mitigated by two central factors. The first is the fact that, in contrast to both German Alternate Histories discussed in this chapter, in which the revelation of the secret genocide holds a potential for liberation, in Fatherland it is clearly marked as a threat. The disclosure of the secret of the Shoah does here not represent the promise of turning the previously oblivious Germans against the Nazis, but rather of turning the world against them. The second factor is that it is ultimately not a German – good or otherwise – who reveals or, at least, has the chance of revealing the damning information to the world. Despite the fact that it is made quite clear that virulent anti-Semitism is not an exclusively German phenomenon – in fact, President Kennedy himself is exposed as an unofficial supporter of the Nazi genocide – the power and the responsibility to tell the truth finally fall to Charlie, the American. 346 The concurrently presented criticism of the conduct of Germany’s enemies during and after the war notwithstanding, what the text reproduces in this counterfactual scenario is the real historical inability or unwillingness of the German people to oppose National Socialism and the continuance of this moral deficit well into the postwar era. The allohistorical conclusion represents a mirror image of the fact that the Nazis were not deposed by an antifascist resistance from within, but by the outside forces of the Allies and the Soviet Union. In this sense, the ultimate question posed by Fatherland is: “If democracy, the rule of law, and tolerance toward those who are different have been brought to the Germans from the outside rather than genuinely grown in Germany itself, how stable are these institutions today [...]?” 347 And, notably, it is this very question and the attempt to use the theme of counterfactual German resistance to make up for this historical lack of emancipation from within that is at the core of the following text. 4.2 ALLES BLEIBT ANDERS Compared to Harris’ novel, in which the counterfactual mode serves as an allegorical indictment of the afterlife of National Socialism in postwar Germany overall, the first German Alternate History centrally employing the motif of the ‘Good German’ presents a very similar allohistorical scenario, but with a diametrically opposed narrative strategy. In Siegfried Langer’s Alles bleibt anders, published in 2008 by Atlantis, the counterfactual world in which the Nazis won the war 346 Charlie first calls Kennedy an anti-Semite in a private conversation with March (FL 105), but his knowledge of and sympathy for the planned Final Solution is later revealed in Luther’s documents (FL 270-271). 347 Fassbender, “Dilemmas,” 243. 113 figures as the polar opposite of our world and our history. 348 In fact, this is quite literally the case, given that Langer’s novel is, for the largest part, a classic example of a parallel worlds story. 349 The narrative comprises four levels: The main world in the (relative) fictional present, two alternate worlds that correlate to the temporal setting of the first, and – in a deviation from the typical parallel worlds model – an earlier version of the main world. The textual structure of the novel correlates directly with this: it is also divided into four distinct sections. The spatial and temporal levels are not, however, arranged in a linear chronological or hierarchical order in these sections. The first part of the story begins in medias res in one of the alternate worlds. Frank Miller, the main protagonist, finds himself standing disoriented in the middle of the tracks of the Görlitzer Bahnhof in Berlin, with anachronistically dressed passengers waiting for their train (as opposed to the U-Bahn) staring at him in disbelief. After escaping this situation, Frank, who has lost his memories (including the knowledge of his own name), makes his way outside to find Berlin in a state that suggests a historical setting around the beginning of the 20th century: Horsedrawn carriages, buses and trams, with fares costing “2 Groschen,” more people in archaic garb, and the streets full of coal merchants and ‘Colonialwarenläden.” 350 This first impression is soon made concrete as Frank receives bank notes issued by the Bank of Prussia. 351 It is further revealed that no one in this world appears to be familiar with the Swastika symbol. 352 All of these indicators initially lead the reader to believe that Frank has traveled backwards through time. However, the year is actually 2008. 353 Frank soon learns that, in this world, he officially died in a train accident, in the very spot he just found himself in, on May 23, 2005. 354 He also discovers that he is wearing a silver pendant, containing the letters ‘SG’ and a single button.355 Through encounters with several other characters, more of his personal history gradually becomes clear: Frank Miller was a student of medicine at the Charité hospital in Berlin and had 348 Siegfried Langer, Alles bleibt anders (Stolberg: Atlantis, 2008). Cited in the following as AbA. 349 Cf. Hellekson, The Alternate History, 47-61. 350 See AbA 15, 21, 22, 50. 351 See AbA 34. 352 See AbA 49. 353 See AbA 20. 354 See AbA 24, 30. 355 See AbA 15. 114 proposed to his girlfriend, Claire, one day before his accident. 356 In an attempt to rekindle his memories, Frank tries to reconnect with Claire, and through her meets Dieter Wiegand, Claire’s husband, a surgeon and, more significantly, a founding member of the just established NSDAP. 357 As Claire gradually warms to Frank, he finds himself watched and pursued by an unknown man. 358 When he suspects Dieter, who has falsely introduced himself to both Claire and Frank’s mother as an old friend, and confronts him, he is attacked by Dieter and his henchman. During the fight, Frank discovers the letter ‘A’ under Dieter’s arm – the customary blood type tattoo of the SS.359 Outnumbered and confused, Frank flees the scene to recover the pendant he previously buried and presses the button. 360 The second section is set four years earlier, in 2004, and in an alternate reality, which represents the novel’s main level. Frank Miller is just arriving at Oxford University, which has been reduced to a British branch of the Reichsuniversität in Germania, the capital of the German Reich, of which England is a part. 361 Over the course of the story, it is revealed that the Allied invasion of Normandy, which occurred a day earlier than in real history (June 5, 1944), failed in this world and that this failure caused the United States to withdraw their troops. 362 As a result, Europe was overrun by Germany. Due to the disintegration of the Western front, the Wehrmacht was able to launch another attack on Stalingrad in 1945 and defeat the Red Army, ultimately forcing the Soviet Union into unconditional surrender and ending what is now known as the German War. 363 Just like large parts of Russia and Northern Africa, the German Reich annexed all of Western Europe, including the successful invasion of Great Britain, ending with the public execution of Winston Churchill in Germania in 1948. In Eastern Europe, Poland has been dissolved and all Poles exterminated. Apart from an ongoing cold war against the now isolationist United States, only the region east of the Urals is still in a state of constant warfare and it is from here that Frank is just returning after three years of mandatory service in the 356 See AbA 39, 42. 357 See AbA 64. 358 See AbA 44-45, 58. 359 See AbA 70. 360 See AbA 71. 361 See AbA 76. 362 See AbA 136-137. 363 See AbA 76-77, 222. 115 Wehrmacht. 364 In the meantime, the development of the German Reich has been greatly accelerated, putting the first man on the moon in 1971 and currently preparing for the first mission to Mars for the following year; ten million people inhabit the capital of Germania. 365 At Oxford, Frank is soon inducted into a clandestine group consisting of the brilliant physics professor Robert Gothaer (or Gothare, prior to the Germanization of British surnames), Frank’s childhood friend Karen, the computer genius Tristan – and Dieter Wiegand. Gothaer has discovered a way to not only detect parallel worlds, but to travel between them. 366 With this technology, the group’s aim is to find a world in which National Socialism does not exist in the present. While the so-called Gothaer corridor is not yet capable of time travel, the ultimate plan is to learn what prevented the dominance of the Nazis in the other world, then travel backwards through their own history and reproduce those conditions. 367 Like Frank, who has witnessed the cruelty of the Nazis first hand at the Eastern front, all of the members of the group have their own personal horror stories of how National Socialism has affected their lives, motivating them to help with Gothaer’s plan. The professor explains that this was one reason for choosing them; the other being the fact that the dimensional travel currently still requires a “Resonanzkörper,” the existence of alter egos in the other world whom the travelers temporarily replace. The fact that all four students are from Germania, the nerve centre of the German Reich, therefore makes them ideal candidates. 368 Secretly racing against the competition of the Nazis, to whom Gothaer was forced to divulge at least the basics of his discovery, by the following year the group finally discovers two different parallel worlds in which the Nazis are not in power in 2005 and all four candidates have alter egos. In one, the divergence from their own history occurred in 1399 (the 1399-level), in the other in 1944 (the 1944-level). 369 Due to the specific date of the divergence in the latter (June 5, 1944), the group instantly realizes that the nexus event must have been the Allied invasion of Normandy, which in their world had been the decisive turning point in the war, and decides to investigate. After shipping the necessary equipment to Germania under the 364 See AbA 77-78, 128-129, 200. 365 See AbA 81, 112, 128-129. 366 See AbA 105, 109. 367 See AbA, 109-110, 122. One interesting detail here in terms of the generic dynamics of Alternate History is the original nexus event specified by Gothaer in his search for alternate realities: The changes he is looking for must have occurred prior to March 14, 1999 – his own discovery of dimensional travel. 368 See AbA 116-118. 369 See AbA 136. 116 guise of attending an academic conference, Frank and Dieter (as there are only two dimensional travel devices) are sent to the parallel world, equipped with “Signalgeber” – the mysterious silver pendant from before – to initiate their return. Frank never arrives, however, because Dieter, who is actually a Nazi infiltrator and has manipulated the device to send them to the 1399-level instead, where he plans to establish National Socialism himself, kills Frank’s alter ego by pushing him in front of a train at Görlitzer Bahnhof immediately after his arrival in the alternate Berlin. 370 Frank is stuck between the worlds and only materializes three years later, in the very spot where his “Resonanzkörper” died. In the third section, he is rescued by Karen, who – together with Gothaer and Tristan – has joined a small resistance group and restarted the project. They eventually discover that the alteration in this world was brought about by the prevention of Johannes Gutenberg’s birth and the delayed invention of the printing press setting history back roughly 100 years. 371 While trying to rescue Frank’s (alternate) fiancé, they are captured by Dieter who wants the ‘Signalgeber’ to return to their world to inform the (unnamed) Führer of his success. After Karen and Dieter shoot each other, Frank and the dying Karen return to the main level, where, after Karen’s death, he and Tristan travel to the 1944-level – our world. Here, they learn that the invasion of Normandy was delayed for one day based solely on the advice of James Stagg, Eisenhower’s chief meteorologist, and was successful as a result of improved weather conditions. 372 Upon their return, Gothaer has finally succeeded in solving the time travel problem, and he and Frank travel back to June 3, 1944 – the brief fourth level of the narrative and the fourth section of the novel. Here, they manage to persuade Stagg to stand up to Eisenhower and get him to delay the invasion by a day. 373 Stagg succeeds, but the plan ultimately fails, as Frank and Gothaer are transported back to their own time and find nothing changed. While, scientifically, their failure is ascribed to too many variables – chaos theory plays a prominent role in the entire story – the moral conclusion is that history can never really be changed, but that changes have to be effected in the present. Consequently, Frank travels back to the 1399-level to fight the budding National Socialism, while the rest of the group vows to bring 370 See AbA 146-147, 164-165, 188. 371 See AbA 169, 193. 372 See AbA 209, 220. 373 See AbA 229, 236. 117 down the Nazi regime in their own world. 374 Despite ending with the call for resistance and the noble, positively altruistic decision of the main protagonist to assume responsibility for the effects his actions have had on a world that is not his own, the novel establishes a concrete frame for this nobility from the outset. It begins with an epigraph, taken from Schiller’s Jungfrau von Orleans: “Was ist unschuldig, heilig, menschlich gut, wenn es der Kampf nicht ist ums Vaterland.” 375 Albeit subtly, this motto reverberates through the entire text, in which resistance is, first and foremost, a calling pursued not only exclusively by Germans, but also, to a considerable extent, for Germans. On the surface, society has returned to a state of relative normalcy in the six decades since the end of the German War. The signs of destruction have disappeared all across the core regions of the Greater German Reich, technology has made significant advancements – which, however, do not overall bear futuristic connotations –, and the people of Central and Western Europe live seemingly ordinary lives, despite pervasive state control. However, the evils of National Socialism still exist, but only in secrecy and, literally, at the margins, and are introduced exclusively by way of the special knowledge of the students in the group. Frank has horror stories to report from the Eastern front, where Slavic partisans are not only slaughtered mercilessly by the thousands, but are exploited as involuntary organ donors by Nazi doctors and subsequently sterilised. 376 Dieter informs the group about horrendous experiments on living patients conducted in the bowels of the Charité, hidden from the eye of the public. 377 The personal story of Tristan, who did not learn to speak until an unusually high age and still stutters, represents the survival of the Nazi’s Aryan ideology. Despite the fact that he physically embodied all the pertinent ideals (blond hair, blue eyes, athletic build), his speech defect caused his devout Nazi parents to ultimately disavow him and commit him to the foster system. 378 Karen’s situation, finally, bespeaks the prevailing reactionary social conditions by highlighting the regressive gender roles in the Reich, where less than 10% of all university students are women, who are still expected by the regime and the public to be mothers and homemakers exclusively. 379 What is immediately striking in this scene is the fact 374 See AbA 239-240. 375 AbA, epigraph (n.p.) 376 See AbA 101-102. 377 See AbA 99. 378 See AbA 95-96. 379 See AbA 82. 118 that the students’ stories create the impression of a quantitative balance between the suffering of others, represented by Frank and Dieter’s accounts, and the suffering of Germans under National Socialist rule, illustrated by Karen and Tristan’s personal hardships. Unlike in the Alternate Histories discussed in the next chapter, however, this portrayal does not culminate in a focus on Germans as victims. Rather, it performs two fundamental functions in the text. The first function is immediately linked to the generic structure of the parallel worlds story, which allows for the essential juxtaposition of a bad Germany and a good Germany. While the 1399-level is depicted as a relatively benevolent, but ultimately irrelevant historical deviation, the main level and the 1944-level function as opposing models. The students’ accounts serve as the primary source of information about the main world, thus setting it up as a dystopian landscape, characterized on the surface by a rigid authoritarianism which radically curtails the freedoms of the citizens of Reich themselves, and the even more atrocious fates of non-Germans that occur in secrecy. 380 In direct contrast, the 1944-level is described in overwhelmingly positive terms. The section of the novel that is defined most prominently by a rekindled resistance against the Nazis is introduced with another telling epigraph, a quote from a Comedian Harmonists song entitled “Ein neuer Frühling wird in die Heimat kommen”: Ein neuer Frühling wird in die Heimat kommen, schöner noch, wie’s einmal war. Ein neuer Frühling wird in die Heimat kommen, alles wird so wunderbar. Und man wird wieder das Lied der Arbeit singen, g’rade so, wie’s einmal war. Es geht im Schritt und Tritt auch das Herz wieder mit und dann fängt ein neuer Frühling an. 381 Not only does this selection, much like the initial quote from Schiller, highlight the fact that the fight against the Nazis is first and foremost a fight for a better Germany, an improved Heimat, it also provides a foreshadowing of what the travellers will find in the second parallel world. Frank and Tristan’s comparatively brief visit to this reality begins once more at Görlitzer Bahnhof, 380 It should be noted here that Langer could evidently not resist linking the authoritarian culture of the allohistorical German Reich to real historical contemporary developments in the United States. At one point in the story, the narrator explains the heightened security measures at the Berlin Airport with the fact that there had been a terrorist attack on the so-called DEST (Deutsche Erd- und Steinwerke) Towers in 2001, a less than subtle invocation of the 9/11 attacks in New York. It is also suggestively alleged that travellers arriving from the East are treated more rigidly than those arriving from the West. See AbA 130. 381 AbA 149. The effect of this quote is, of course, furthered by the history of the Comedian Harmonists, three of whose original members were Jewish and forced to flee Germany a year after the release of this song in 1933. 119 which is defunct in the present of the 1944-level and situated in a sprawling park. The first thing they notice is the chaos and overall disorderly state of the scene they encounter: Für die zwei Männer, die einem System entstammten, zu dessen obersten Prinzipien die Ordnung, die Sauberkeit und die Disziplin gehörten, war der erste Eindruck ein erschreckender. Müll und Abfall waren allgegenwärtig. Trotz der schlechten Lichtverhältnisse war der Unrat nicht zu übersehen. 382 Upon their return to the main level, even this initial culture shock is given a positive connotation as a sign of freedom in the absence of overarching state control. 383 But it is only the first, indirect impression of a better world. The disoriented travellers marvel at the apparent multiculturalism of this alternate Berlin, in which representations of Turkish culture are among the first things they encounter. 384 The entire passage is also set in a pronounced comedic tone, exemplified here already by Frank and Tristan wondering whether the abundance of ‘Turkishness’ in this world may be a result of that fact that Turkey, as in their reality, is also a vassal state of the German Reich in this one. This humorous slant, which demonstratively sets off this section from the predominantly sombre tone that defines the rest of the novel and thereby also distances this world even further from their own, characterizes every single one of their encounters on this level. At the same time, the displays of positivity become almost obtrusive from here on in. Still in the park, the two meet a black boy whom they ask for directions to the nearest library. Not only has neither of them actually ever met a black person before, but they are entirely taken aback when the boy begins to speak in the most stereotypical Berlin dialect, telling them how to get to the “Amerika-Jedenk-Bibliothek.” 385 This they naturally have some trouble finding – comically reproducing verbatim the boy’s pronunciation, which apparently has been eradicated in their world –, but they are helped on their way by a couple of friendly Punks, who even give them money for a subway fare. 386 Upon their arrival at the Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek, Frank and Tristan first marvel at the dedication plaque and the fact that, in this reality, Germany and the United States appear to be allies. Again, with the help of some excessively friendly Berliners, the two eventually find the historical information that they were looking for and return to their world 382 AbA 209. 383 See AbA 224. 384 See AbA 210. 385 See Aba 210-211. 386 See AbA 214. 120 to report. Their findings are resoundingly positive: The chaotic conditions of the alternate Berlin initially shock the others as well, but one of their fellow resistance fighters concludes: “Demokratie ist Chaos [...] Ordnung ist Dikatur.” 387 Accordingly, Frank and Tristan sum up the recent history of the 1944-level. The victorious Americans, they claim, have become friends to the German people and were welcomed by them as liberators from the start. 388 Yet, this is immediately followed by an anti-American notion: Die U.S.A. ist eine Art selbsternannte Weltpolizei geworden, mit allen positiven und negativen Konsequenzen. Personenkult und Patriotismus sind im dortigen Europa so gut wie ausgestorben, auch aufgrund der eigenen Geschichte. In den U.S.A. dagegen erleben sie eine Blütezeit und Kritiker sehen hier sehr wohl eine Wiedergeburt des Nationalismus. 389 Also, in the same passage, it is suggested that, in the aftermath of the war in the parallel reality, the Soviets have proven themselves to be as inhumane as the Nazis, if not more. 390 Although both aspects are ultimately dismissed as secondary (and as an acceptable price to pay for preventing a Nazi victory), this immanent contrast serves as an additional vindication of the parallel Germany. What makes this portrayal significant is the fact that the 1944-level level is unmistakably marked as our world. The excessive use of local colour – from the Hühnerhaus at Görlitzer Park, over the Motz vendor on the subway, to the Jefferson quote on the plaque in the Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek – constitutes an unambiguous identification of this alternate Berlin as the real historical Berlin to a degree which is unusual for Alternate History narratives. While, commonly, the superiority of real history is merely evoked ex negativo, here the readers are confronted with an explicit and unequivocal affirmation of their own world. This concrete reference to reality provides one of two central elements that define Langer’s novel as an alternate memory: Through the revisionist suggestion that the evils of National Socialism have ceased to exist in Germany with the end of World War II and the concurrent externalization of its only remnants to the (historical) Soviet Union and the (contemporary) United States, the text performs a cleansing of German postwar memory. It effectively celebrates the present state of German society while stripping it of all negative features through a de facto denial of the existence of historical continuities. 387 AbA 224. 388 See AbA 223. 389 Ibid. 390 See AbA 222. 121 This effect is complemented by an additional factor, the second function of the students’ role: the motif of the ‘good German.’ This is represented in the text by three narrative elements: The central significance of the “Resonanzkörper,” the repeated invocations of the secrecy of allohistorical Nazi atrocities, and the pervasive importance of Heimat. Implied by the necessity of localized “Resonanzkörper” and the consequent selection of German candidates exclusively is the suggestion that National Socialism can only be averted by Germans. Out of context, this could be read as a subtle indictment of the historic failure of the vast majority of Germans to oppose the Nazis – when, in fact, they actually widely embraced them –, as is the case in Fatherland. In Langer’s novel, however, this narrative device instead counterfactually elevates the significance of widespread German resistance and, in turn, discredits the real historical overthrow of Nazi Germany by the Allies and the Red Army. The latter aspect is unmistakable in this text, as represented by the aforementioned unparalleled criticism of the Americans and the Soviets in the context of the 1944-level; the former is reinforced by the characterizations of the four candidates. Here, it becomes clear that the horror stories experienced and conveyed by the students do not primarily serve to mark them as victims of the Nazis. Rather, they denote them as upstanding Germans on the one hand and provide individual motivations for resistance on the other. This strategy is most apparent in Frank’s biography. His explanation that he never wanted to serve in the Wehrmacht but was forced to enlist due to the corrupt nature of National Socialist regime, in which the only chance for someone without Party contacts to attend university is through military service, functions as a double exculpation: It is at once established that he has no ties to the NSDAP and that it was conditions beyond his control that landed him in the service of the German Reich. 391 And even though he feels responsible for the crimes committed by German soldiers in the East, it is made clear that he did not actually participate in them. 392 Underneath the acknowledgement of the involvement of the Wehrmacht in the execution of the inhumane policies of the Nazis, this reproduces the narrative of a silent majority of honourable German soldiers, caught up in these crimes against their will. The significance of this specific motif in German postwar memory will be discussed in greater detail in the context of Dirtfurth’s novel, in which the resistance of Wehrmacht officers against the Nazis plays a much more central role. Here, it is only subtly alluded to, but 391 See AbA 77, 81. 392 See AbA 124. 122 nonetheless provides the motivation, after the fact, for Frank to oppose the regime. 393 At the same time, it can be seen to also contain the second aspect of the ‘Good German’ theme. The fact that Frank, like all other candidates, has specific knowledge that is not shared by the majority of the German population, promotes the idea that the atrocities of the Nazis remain largely unknown to the public. The embedding of this theme in this concrete narrative context constitutes a distinct contrast to its use in Fatherland. Whereas in Harris’ novel the secret history of the Holocaust figures primarily as a threat to the German people, in Langer’s it holds the promise of liberation. Contained in the fact that the acquisition of a clandestine knowledge of the ongoing atrocities perpetrated in the name of National Socialism has driven all four students to radical opposition – Dieter’s betrayal notwithstanding – is the implication that this opposition would grow, if only more Germans gained the same insights. In this portrayal, therefore, the contemporary, allohistorical Germans function in a twofold manner as allegorical representations of their real historical counterparts: On the one hand, the motif of the failure to mount a widespread and effective resistance from within the German population as the result of widespread oblivion with regard to the crimes of the Nazis represents both one of the earliest and one of the most prominent axioms of the exculpatory narratives of German normalization. On the other hand, the centrality of counterfactual German resistance effectively elevates the status of its limited real historical occurrence in the context of collective memory, adding to its repertoire alternate tales of an unadulterated heroism that never existed in this form. However, it is evident throughout the text that the allohistorical resistance portrayed in Alles bleibt anders is, at the same time, not altogether altruistic. The third aspect of the specific implementation of the ‘good German’ motif is the fact that it entails not merely an increased agency by Germans, but also a distinct focus on the potential improvements for Germans. The theme originally set up by the Schiller quote, and repeated by the Comedian Harmonists’ quote as a lead-in for the second half of the novel, is reproduced on several other occasions. For the most part, this occurs by means of subtle phrasings, such as the purported notion that Germans are “forced” to live under the yoke of National Socialism or the expression of the desire to eliminate it from “our” history. 394 But it is made explicit in the form of Frank’s final, solemn mission statement: 393 See AbA 102. 394 See AbA 102 and 109, respectively. 123 “Wir wollen keine Konzentrationslager im Jahr 2008,” flüsterte Frank, “keine Rasse, die sich zur Herrenrasse über die anderen erhebt. Wir wollen keine Menschenversuche, keine Völkermorde, keine Morde an Menschen, die einer Minderheit angehören. Die Diktatur muss ausgetilgt werden. Unterdrückte Menschen ins ganz Europa assoziieren Not, Elend, Willkür und Tod mit den Deutschen: das muss ein Ende haben. Ein für allemal. Kein Nationalsozialismus auf dem deutschen Boden des Jahres 2008.” 395 As the conclusion in this passage makes unambiguously clear, all the noble ideals and causes preceding it are ultimately directed at the improvement of the image of Germany in Europe and the entire world. In part, the narrative fundamentally aligns itself here with the contemporary anti-memory trend of German normalization outlined in the first chapter. Here, too, the commemoration of guilt is not an end in itself, but rather a means for overcoming it. However, the specific quality of alternate memory takes this motion one step further: Through the combination of the juxtaposition of a (counterfactual) bad Germany with the revised image of a real, good Germany and the allohistorical elevation of German resistance, the inherent vindication of German postwar history effectively relieves contemporary Germans of the responsibilities derived from the legacy of National Socialism. The heroic call to improve the present remains firmly rooted in Alternate History, as there is no need for it in the real world. 4.3 DER 21. JULI A true alternate history, Christian von Ditfurth’s novel Der 21. Juli, published in 2001, abandons the good vs. bad Germany contrast that Langer realized through the concept of multiple realities, but it maintains the central elements of the ‘good German’ motif. 396 As the title suggests, Ditfurth’s story is centrally concerned with the effects of the successful assassination of Adolf Hitler on July 20, 1944. The plot takes place on two separate temporal levels: One leading up to and immediately following Hitler’s death and another, set in 1953, envisioning Germany nearly ten years after the loss of its Führer. At the centre of the plot, on both levels, is Knut Werdin, Sturmbannführer in the SD, the foreign intelligence section of the SS, by day and a spy for the Soviet and, later, the American government by night. The reader first encounters Werdin in 1953, living secluded in the Californian desert under a false name. He is reactivated by the CIA and informed that the German Reich, which over the last decade has been able to establish itself as 395 AbA 224. 396 Christian von Ditfurth, Der 21. Juli (Munich: Knaur, 2001). Cited in the following as DEJ. 124 the world’s third superpower, is on the brink of forming an alliance with the Russians. 397 This the Americans want to prevent at all cost. Consequently, Werdin – motivated to transcend his acquired cynical apathy by the disclosure that his former love Irma is not only alive, but raising his son – is smuggled back into Germany with the objective of killing Heinrich Himmler, whose still powerful SS is secretly pulling the strings of Germany’s officially civilian leadership. 398 The main part of the novel is told in form of an extensive flashback. Knut Werdin works as an SD agent under Walter Schellenberg in Berlin. A disgrace to his antifascist parents, the reader soon learns that Werdin has long been a secret Communist and only enlisted in the SS to infiltrate the National Socialist apparatus and pass along information to the Soviet NKVD (a precursor to the infamous KGB), headed by Lavrentiy Beria. 399 The year is 1944 and history has thus far progressed as expected, with the Red Army approaching from the East and the Allied invasion of Normandy imminent. Werdin has heard rumours about an assassination plot being prepared by high-ranking officers of the Wehrmacht in collusion with civilian representatives, and he recruits the disgruntled veteran Rettheim to infiltrate the conspirators and act as his informant. Rettheim soon reports back about the concrete plans of the group around Stauffenberg to kill Hitler and his inner circle with a bomb. 400 As in real history, the plan accelerates when the successful Allied invasion makes it clear that, under the current conditions, Germany’s defeat has become inevitable. Werdin relays the information of the impending assassination to the Russians, but, out of fear of a German-American “Separatfrieden,” is given the order to ensure that Hitler lives. 401 Disillusioned with the Soviet bureaucracy and afraid of what may happen to Germany if the war continues, he devises a plan of his own to end the war but at the same time prevent an alliance between the Reich and the United States. Through Rettheim’s connections, Werdin sets up a personal meeting with Stauffenberg and convinces him to go ahead with the plan to kill Hitler, but – in direct contrast to the real historical plan – to spare Himmler’s life in the process. 402 This solution, he believes, will enable the Wehrmacht to end the war, but with the SS still intact, the Americans will not agree to cooperate with the Germans in the aftermath, thus 397 See DEJ 44, 44, 67, 79. 398 See DEJ 46, 53. 399 See DEJ 120, 157. 400 See DEJ 122-158. 401 See DEJ 172, 205, 215. 402 See DEJ 228. 125 averting an international military alliance against the Soviet Union. The plan succeeds and Stauffenberg’s bomb kills Hitler on July 20, 1944. 403 The conspirators immediately initiate Valkyrie, arresting high-ranking Nazi officials and assuming leadership of the Reich under Carl Friedrich Goerdeler as chancellor and Göring as a figurehead president. In the ensuing program of national reconciliation (Nationale Versöhnung), the Gestapo is disbanded, with Heinrich Müller defecting to Moscow, Goebbels, Kaltenbrunner and Streicher are arrested, the popular and opportunistic Schellenberg is promoted to head of the RSHA, and the SD and the last remnants of the Gestapo are dissolved into the Abwehr to capitalize on the impeccable reputation of its commander, Admiral Canaris. 404 Despite these successes, however, the war has not ended, but the advance of Germany’s enemies has merely been slowed. On secret orders from Himmler, Schellenberg, who has since found out about Werdin’s betrayal, initializes Unternehmen Götterdämmerung, the accelerated development of nuclear weapons in a secret facility in Southern Germany, and dispatches Werdin as a liaison. 405 The German scientists make giant leaps and, in spring of 1945, Werdin is informed that thirteen atom bombs are ready for deployment. 406 Unaware of the devastating nature of the weapon he is transporting, Helmut von Zacher – elite pilot of the Luftwaffe and also a co-suitor for the affections of Werdin’s girlfriend Irma – is given the mission to drop the first bomb on Russia. The detonation takes place on May 7, 1945, obliterating the city of Minsk and driving both the Soviets and the Allies to accept a truce, in fear of Germany’s remaining nuclear arsenal. 407 Realizing that he has been exposed as a traitor and afraid of punishment from both the Germans and the Russians, Werdin and Irma flee west to seek asylum from the Americans. He succeeds, but Irma is hit by a German bullet while crossing the Rhine and seemingly drowns. 408 Eight years later, the world has changed considerably. Under the civilian leadership of Goerdeler and with the economic genius of Ludwig Erhard, Germany has successfully recovered 403 See DEJ 243. 404 See DEJ 279, 292, 300-301. 405 See DEJ 284, 290, 316, 354. 406 See DEJ 360. 407 See DEJ 375-378. 408 See DEJ 391-396. 126 from the war and has cemented its status in Europe. Joining Austria, Luxembourg and Liechtenstein have voluntarily allowed themselves to be annexed by the German Reich, and France, Belgium and the Netherlands have by 1947 become its sovereign but dedicated allies. 409 With Churchill in exile in Canada, Britain has ceased cooperation with the United States, now under the presidency of Joe McCarthy, and with the ongoing occupation of the Channel islands by the Wehrmacht, another invasion via the Atlantic has been rendered virtually impossible. 410 In the East, Poland has been divided up in accordance with the Hitler-Stalin Pact and remainder of Eastern Europe is being exploited by Germany for its natural resources. 411 In Russia, Beria is competing with Khrushchev for the succession of the recently deceased Stalin and, presumably because of the weakened position of the Soviet Union, the Chinese Revolution has not yet occurred and Mao Zedong is still fighting a guerrilla war against the government of Chiang Kaishek. 412 In the meantime, Germany has advanced its program of national reconciliation and publicly denounced Hitler not only for his bad military judgement, but also for his treatment of the Jews: Eichmann is tried and executed in Berlin and Himmler has reportedly become a recluse on the Wewelsburg, indulging is his private obsession with Germanic mysticism. 413 In this allohistorical present of 1953, Himmler and Beria are preparing to meet in Germany to discuss a bilateral treaty between the Reich and the USSR, with which both are hoping to advance their status in their respective countries. Meanwhile, Werdin has made his way from the Dutch coast to Berlin and has reconnected with Rettheim, who is dissatisfied with the outcome of the coup he helped make possible and thus agrees to once again aid Werdin in the assassination of Himmler. In what qualifies as the story’s ‘big reveal,’ Schellenberg, who has been informed of Werdin’s return to Germany, discloses that he used him as a pawn in 1945, deliberately assigning him to Unternehmen Götterdämmerung to supply him, and by extension the enemies of the Reich, with false information about the size of the German nuclear arsenal. In reality, the scientists at the Haigerloch facility were only able to produce a single working atom bomb by the time the Western front began disintegrating and it was only Werdin’s unwitting misinformation about the existence of a dozen more nuclear weapons which led the Russians and 409 See DEJ 434. 410 See DEJ 44, 86, 415-416. 411 See DEJ 85. 412 See DEJ 426. 413 See DEJ 17, 84. 127 the Allies to agree to a truce and allowed Germany to recoup its strength. 414 As Beria and Himmler meet to sign their mutual agreement on the Wewelsburg, Werdin seeks out his son and Irma, who has since married Zacher, who – as the hero of the Reich – was the only one able to save her from execution after her failed escape. Zacher himself is deeply traumatised as a result of his involuntary mass killing of the population of Minsk and has retired from active service. 415 Unable to shake his SS pursuers, Werdin is captured and detained upon leaving Irma and his son and thus unable to carry out his mission. Instead, Zacher learns of Himmler’s summit and his plans for Unternehmen Thor – the deposition of the traitorous government and ultimate destruction of the enemies of the Reich – and decides to atone for his guilt by bombarding and finally crashing his plane into the Wewelsburg. 416 The attack kills the entire SS leadership, while Beria manages to flee, only to be arrested for high treason upon his arrival in Moscow. Following Himmler’s death, the civilian government finally disbands the Waffen-SS and the SD and turns the remainder of the SS into a private organisation, prohibited from engaging in political activities and bearing arms. 417 As stated in the beginning, Der 21. Juli does not employ the same kind of valorization of the real Germany as is found in Alles bleibt anders. This is not merely a result of the absence of a better parallel version, but rather, more akin to the approach in Fatherland, of the repeated illustration of the participation of the majority of the German population in the crimes of National Socialism, which effectively precludes the possibility of reading the negative portrayal of the alternate course of events as a vindication of real historical developments. The narrative contains manifold references to ‘bad Germans’ and their role in the success of the Third Reich and, implicitly, their importance for the survival of Nazi ideology after the war. The sympathetic character of Rettheim is by far the most vocal and most radical critic of the Germans and, significantly, does not shy away from including himself in that group: “Wir sind die größten Mörder aller Zeiten. Wir ermorden die Juden, die Polen, die Russen, die Zigeuner. Haben Sie schon mal an einer Judenerschießung teilgenommen? [...] Die dürfen ein riesiges Massengrab ausheben, dann wird die erste Reihe an den Rand gestellt, dahinter die Helden der SS, die schießen den Juden ins Genick, dann kommt die nächste Reihe dran und so weiter und so 414 See DEJ 489-490. 415 See DEJ 464. 416 See DEJ 545-546, 553. 417 See DEJ 554-555, 558, 560. 128 weiter. Im Osten hausen wir wie die Hunnen.” 418 Despite this knowledge there is an omnipresent worry that the Wehrmacht, especially the parts of it deployed on the Eastern front, will riot against the new government if Hitler is killed and, even more so, an awareness of the Führer’s standing with ‘ordinary Germans’: Es müsste längst jedem klar geworden sein, dass Hitler nicht die Erlösung brachte, sondern den Untergang. Und doch war der Führer für die meisten immer noch der liebe Gott oder wenigstens sein Vertreter auf Erden. Nach seinem Tod würde er es noch mehr sein als zu Lebzeiten. 419 These last lines are even taken from an internal monologue of a loyal member of the SS, not by one of the conspirators, adding yet another level of meaning, and emphasizing that the survival of Nazi ideology beyond Hitler’s death is here not stated as an opinion, but as an inevitable fact. This position of unconditional faith is personified in one scene by an elderly devout ‘Hitlerian,’ whom Zacher encounters upon his first visit to Irma’s home: “Sagen sie, Herr Hauptmann, Sie müssen es doch wissen, wann kommen unsere Wunderwaffen?” “Bald,” sagte Zacher. [...] Die blassblauen Augen der Frau glänzten. “Wusste ich es doch, unser Führer lässt die Feinde ganz nah kommen, um sie dann auf einen Schlag zu vernichten. Wie sollen wir die Russen schlagen, wenn die sich hinterm Ural verstecken? [...] Dann hat der Doktor Goebbels ja wieder genau den richtigen Ton getroffen. Ja, in der Haut der Amis und der Russen möchte ich jetzt nicht stecken. Sie sind ja selber schuld, hätten sie uns nur das lassen sollen, was uns mit historischem Recht zusteht.”420 Accordingly, the leaders of the coup d’état are still seen as traitors in 1953 by large parts of the German people, while the Himmler and the SS are esteemed as their saviours, who – with the production and timely deployment of the ‘miracle weapon’ – averted the catastrophe towards which Goerdeler and Stauffenberg had steered the Reich. 421 At the same time, the conspirators are also criticized from a different perspective. Although he does not consider Stauffenberg in particular a part of the same nationalist faction as Goerdeler, 422 for Werdin the representatives of the sudden dissidence within the Wehrmacht are, on the whole, “braune Preußen” and chiefly 418 DEJ 141. My emphasis. 419 DEJ 259. 420 DEJ 219. 421 DEJ 48. 422 See DEJ 147. 129 motivated by opportunism. 423 Here especially, the text displays a heightened awareness of critical historical assessments which posit that in “the construction of a substitute resistance, it was widely ignored that many members of the German resistance against Hitler (e.g., Stauffenberg and Moltke) did not have democratic ideas in mind when they planned for the new Germany to come after the successful overthrow of Nazi rule.” 424 Rather, even “the von Stauffenberg bomb plot against Hitler's person in July 1944 was triggered as much by pragmatic concern for the conduct of the war as by morality.” 425 But this critical perspective is limited. Although most characters in the novel are relatively ambivalent and Ditfurth offers biting criticism of the Germans as a whole and individual historical figures like Stauffenberg alike, there still remains the fundamental importance of the ‘good German,’ most prominently represented by the fact that both the original historical alteration and its ultimate correction are effected by a single, upstanding German. But Werdin and Zacher are by no means the only ‘good Germans’ in the story. And it is precisely this abundance of German dissidence and willingness to actively resist that sets Ditfurth’s novel apart from the similar scenario developed by Harris and that denotes it as an alternate memory. While Werdin and his comrade Fritz, a genius radio operator who until the last moment manages to relay messages to the Russians, are the only two characters who are described as always having been in (secret) opposition to the Nazis, several others join their cause over the course of the story. Again, Rettheim is perhaps the most pronounced character in this regard and, notably, it is his prominent metonymic role which also significantly softens the blow of the other passages criticizing the complicity of the Wehrmacht in the crimes of National Socalism. Although originally introduced as a dejected, hopeless drunk, Werdin ultimately comes to hold the invalid veteran in the highest esteem, precisely because of what he represents: Es gab nicht viele, die den Kommissarbefehl verweigerten und Gefangene anständig behandelten. Werdin zweifelte nicht, dass Rettheim ein Offizier von Format war. Rettheim hatte nur in Andeutungen über die Zeit vor seiner Verwundung gesprochen, aber die Andeutungen hatten genügt. Was aber noch wichtiger war, Rettheim hasste den Krieg und die Leute, die ihn angezettelt hatten. Er hasste noch mehr diejenigen, die im Krieg den noch erbarmungsloseren Vernichtungskrieg führten gegen Juden und Slawen, gegen Kommunisten und 423 See DEJ 153. 424 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 119. 425 Hardesty, “Alternate Nazis,” 85. 130 Priester. 426 Despite his undeniable disgust at the atrocities committed in the name of Germany, however, it is also clear where Rettheim’s primary allegiance lies, namely with the Germans themselves. Accordingly, his earlier quote does not end with decrying the murder of Jews, Poles and other victims on the Eastern front, but culminates in this statement: “Hitler ist der Mörder seiner Soldaten. Jeder, der fällt, fällt umsonst oder nur dafür, dass der Irre ein bisschen länger lebt.”427 And Werdin, in the same conversation, goes one step further to convince Rettheim that it is not only Wehrmacht soldiers who favour a quick end to the war: “In der SS gibt es nicht nur Massenmörder. Viele Kameraden im SD wollen so schnell Schluss machen wie möglich. [...] Es gibt nur einen, der diesen Krieg bis zur Selbstvernichtung Deutschlands führen will, und das ist Hitler.” 428 Even the SS investigator Reitberg, when questioned about Werdin’s service record, suggests that disagreement with the Nazi ideology was a common occurrence within the SS: “Der Mann hat exzellente Dienstbeurteilungen, nur mit der Weltanschauung haperte es. Aber da war er ja nicht der Einzige.” 429 In passages like these the text not only reintroduces the idea of the innocent Germans who both kill and die in spite of themselves, ultimately the victims of a single madman. It also reveals that, similar to Langer’s protagonists, it is not the foremost mission of the story’s ‘good Germans’ to save the world from Germany, but to save the Germans from themselves – or, rather, from what they have become under Hitler’s rule. Werdin himself explicitly attests to this on several occasions. In a conversation with Irma’s father, another ‘good German,’ he states: “Zuerst habe ich mir eingebildet, für unser Land zu arbeiten. Inzwischen tue ich es. [...] Ich habe geglaubt, Deutschland zu nutzen, wenn ich seinen größten Feind bekämpfe und mich dazu mit dessen Feind zusammentue. Um Hitler zu verhindern, wurde ich Kommunist. Bis ich begriffen habe, dass meines Feindes Feind nicht mein Freund sein muss.” 430 And later, in a moment of introspection, Werdin revisits this notion and its consequences: “Er hatte für Stalin spioniert gegen die Nazis, weil er glaubte, dies sei für Deutschland das Beste. 426 DEJ 504. 427 DEJ 141. 428 DEJ 144. 429 DEJ 74-75. 430 DEJ 268. 131 Nun fühlte er sich heimatlos.” 431 In a similar way as the characters of Rettheim, Werdin and Zacher, who also questions the war and the government long before his fateful flight to Minsk, serve to mitigate the criticism otherwise directed at the German military and the SS, others relativize the culpability of the ‘ordinary’ German population. 432 In addition to Irma herself, who already in her first meeting with Zacher is introduced as having no respect for authority, this role is primarily assigned to her parents. Not only do they offer unequivocal assistance to Werdin when he is being hunted by the Gestapo, but both Herr and Frau Mellenscheidt also assume additional narrative functions.433 While Irma’s father primarily represents a silent, middle-class disagreement with National Socialist policy, the character of Irma’s mother, who is initially introduced only as a goodhearted, innocent woman, scared of every encounter with representatives of the Nazi regime, is later used to propagate another theme. 434 In a shocked response to Werdin’s admission that Germans have been killing hundreds of thousands of Jews, Poles and Russians in the East and her husband’s reminder that their son, who also serves in the Wehrmacht, had also previously told them about the murder of innocent civilians, she replies: “Aber doch nicht von Massenmord. Ich dachte, das wären Einzelfälle, Übertreibungen im Kampf gegen Partisanen.” 435 Here, the novel lends another innocent voice to a notion that had already repeatedly been advanced by Werdin himself, suggesting that not only ‘ordinary’ Germans, but even members of the SS were not prone to the information about the Nazi genocide. In response to the disclosures about the massacres on the Eastern front in Werdin’s first conversation with Rettheim, the narrator explains: “Im Osten sollte es richtig gehende Vernichtungslager geben, das hatte Werdin munkeln hören.” 436 And later, in a meeting following Hitler’s death, when Schellenberg contends that the Nazis may have “overdone it” when it came to the Jews, the theme of not knowing is revisited even more explicitly: Die Verschleppung der Berliner Juden hatte Werdin mit eigenen Augen gesehen, von den Deportationen in Frankreich, Belgien und Holland wusste er durch die 431 DEJ 290-291. 432 See DEJ 113, 220. 433 See DEJ 269. 434 See DEJ 167-168, 266-269 435 DEJ 312. 436 DEJ 145-146. My emphasis. 132 Berichte seiner V-Männer. Aber was mit den Juden geschah, wusste er nicht. Er war froh, es nicht zu wissen. Manchmal überkamen ihn böse Ahnungen. 437 In a notable contrast, however, the possibility of this widespread unawareness is refuted by the SS-man Krause, who highlights the intentionality behind such blissful ignorance to which Werdin only alludes: “Man konnte nicht ein paar Millionen vergasen, erschießen oder totschlagen, ohne das die Menschen etwas mitkriegten. Aber die meisten wollten es nicht wissen.” 438 Perhaps one can attest the narrative a certain schizophrenia in these instances, but perhaps it is not entirely coincidental that – in direct contrast to Fatherland, where it is March who ultimately rebukes the myth of an oblivious German population – in Ditfurth’s story the notion of the deceived masses is most radically questioned by a predominantly negative character, while the heroic protagonist firmly upholds this claim. In any case, the sheer quantity of ‘good Germans’ presented in the text, in combination with the counterfactual historic significance of the actions of Werdin and Zacher, as their two most prominent representatives, ultimately “satisfie[s] the fantasy of the Germans being able to rehabilitate their nation themselves with no outside assistance” and thus inevitably results in a devaluation of the role of those who brought about the end of the Nazi regime in real history. 439 This effect is by no means accidental, as the manifold examples of overt antiCommunism and anti-Americanism throughout the narrative attest. Werdin’s descriptions of the Americans exhibit many of the common resentments that have already appeared in the previous chapter and will also be of elevated importance in the next: The alleged opportunism of the campaign against the Third Reich; the unjust propagation of the Germans’ collective guilt; the disproportionate suffering caused by the Allied air raids; and the baseless vindictiveness following Germany’s defeat. 440 Considerably more significant, however, is the characterization of the Russians, not only by Werdin, but by the narrative as a whole. In some respects, Stalinist Russia is depicted as being even worse than Nazi Germany and it is explicitly stated early on that the Russians feared Stalin even more than Hitler and that Beria is responsible for more deaths than the Nazis. 441 But for the most part, the narrative demonization of the Soviets is realized by 437 DEJ 288. 438 DEJ 411. 439 Rosenfeld, Hitler, 322. 440 See respectively DEJ 44; 45; 32, 95, 284 and 320; 344. 441 See DEJ 20, 358. 133 equating the two regimes. In this context, the massacre of Katyn, in which the Red Army murdered thousands of Poles, is mentioned as a direct analogy to the German crimes in Eastern Europe. 442 But the most consequential representation of this narrative strategy is arguably the link between Beria and Himmler. Not only is Beria initially described in detail as a depraved pervert, who draws pleasure from abusing women and then sending them off to the Gulag, which arguably implicitly corresponds with Himmler’s characterization as a deranged maniac obsessed with racial purity and obscure Germanic mysticism. 443 Their effective equivalence is also stated explicitly when Rettheim refers to Beria as Himmler’s “Bruder im Geist und im Blut.”444 Ultimately, however, the main criticism of both the Soviet Union and the Americans is that they do not care about what happens to the Germans, but are only interested in their own gain. 445 In light of the establishment of Communism and National Socialism as two sides of the same ideological coin, Werdin’s renunciation of the former already serves as an additional emphasis on his ‘goodness,’ but this fundamental contrast between the heroic ‘good Germans’ and the egotistical ‘Others’ finally cements the importance of an intervention from within. Although it does not propose a blanket vindication of German postwar society in the same way that Langer’s novel does, Ditfurth’s narrative nonetheless functions as an alternate memory. By casting doubt on the intentions and thereby implicitly diminishing the impact of the real historical victors of World War II, and the concurrent exaggeration of German resistance by means of the counterfactual mode, Der 21. Juli offers its readers the redemptive alternative of imagining the existence of an unsung but widespread opposition of ‘good Germans’ who, under only slightly altered circumstances, could have and would have overcome National Socialism of their own accord. The motif of the ‘good German’ and the specific implementation of this narrative device in the Alternate Histories of the Third Reich discussed in this chapter again serves to highlight the importance of national differences. Robert Harris’ novel Fatherland represents the only non442 See DEJ 299-300. It is noteworthy here that both the text’s general preoccupation with Communist transgressions and Werdin’s disillusionment with Stalinist Realsozialismus bear a connection to Ditfurth’s own biography – he was an active member of the KPD, but ultimately cut all ties with the Communist party – and also play a significant role in several of his other works. Such as, for instance, another Alternate History novel which explores the possibility of the reunification of Germany in favour of the GDR as a nightmare scenario. See Christian von Ditfurth, Die Mauer steht am Rhein: Deutschland nach dem Sieg des Sozialismus (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 1999). 443 See DEJ 17, 76-77 444 DEJ 509. 445 See DEJ 45, 225. 134 German Alternate History which features a ‘good German’ protagonist at the centre of its story. As the majority of analyses of this text have concluded, one primary focus of the narrative lies in the indirect self-critical portrayal of British collaboration with the victorious Nazi Germany. However, the character of Xavier March also functions as an indictment of Germans. In Fatherland, this is realized by showing the protagonist as virtually the only German character who is both detached from National Socialist ideology and invested in bringing the truth about the Holocaust to light. The fact that he is faced by an overwhelming majority of devout Nazis who are hostile to his cause stresses the real historical complicity of Germans in the crimes of the regime. At the same time, the text manages to turn the problematic notion of the Holocaust having been conducted almost in complete secrecy into an incriminating narrative by portraying it as a threat to the future of Germany. In this way, Harris’ novel utilizes the motif of the ‘good German’ as an accusation not only against the past crimes of the German collective, but also, symbolically, against the continuities of the ideology that effected them in the democratic society of postwar Germany. In contrast, both German Alternate Histories employ the ‘good German’ as a redemptive narrative. This is already evidenced by the fact that in both Siegfried Langer’s Alles bleibt anders and Christian von Ditfurth’s Der 21. Juli the reader is not merely presented with a singular ‘good German’ but with an entire group. Although these two texts develop very different plots, their narrative strategies are almost identical. A central feature of both texts is the counterfactual exaggeration of German resistance. In direct opposition to Fatherland, both prominently feature the myth of a widespread obliviousness with regard to the crimes of the Nazis as an exculpatory element. And in both allohistorical scenarios the agency of ‘good Germans’ is instrumental in the fall of the Third Reich. Langer’s novel embeds these themes in the construction of a parallel worlds story which contrasts an idealized image of the real contemporary Germany with a dystopian alternative. It thereby erases the continuities of National Socialism in postwar German society and promotes the notion of a complete rehabilitation of the German population from within. Ditfurth’s approach is more subtle insofar as it does not propagate an unambiguously positive portrayal of present-day Germany. It also presents a distinctly critical appraisal of real historical resistance efforts against the Nazi regime, which are frequently celebrated in the context of non-literary counter-memories. But underneath this critical surface, Der 21. Juli nonetheless reproduces exculpatory themes. The relative abundance of ‘good Germans’ in the story promotes the notion of a widespread silent opposition to National Socialism and the fact that both the end of World War II and the prevention of World War III are achieved through the 135 actions of dissident Germans produce a narrative of consequential German resistance. In this way, both stories create similar alternate memories that supplant actual memories of the overall ineffectual and relatively scarce defiance of the National Socialist apparatus from within with fantasies of counterfactual German heroism. 136 5. ALTERNATE HOLOCAUSTS: VICTIMIZING THE PERPETRATORS The theme of German victimization represents the most prominent element of the discourse of German normalization. Stories of Germans as victims have proven prolific across all historical phases of the postwar period and, especially in the present era of the Berlin Republic, across seemingly opposing political camps. As the vast majority of scholars of German postwar memory posit, the fate of German expellees and refugees from Eastern Europe in the final days of World War II, as well as that of German prisoners of war following the defeat, did not only begin to surface en masse in the earliest postwar years, they in fact dominated the first two postwar decades, until the gradual shift of the commemorative focus onto the victims of Nazi Germany in the second half of the 1960s. In contrast to some accounts, represented most prominently by Aleida Assmann’s studies on German postwar trauma, scholars such as Ruth Wittlinger assert that “a clear continuity of the victims’ theme in the post-war history of the Federal Republic can be established.” 446 A relative consensus exists, again, on the impact that German reunification and the paradigmatic shift accompanying the political and generational changes effected by the establishment of the Berlin Republic have had on the quality and quantity of narratives of German suffering. Assmann herself notes that while “German suffering was a topic of discourse immediately after the war in the private and political sphere [...], the intensity of the unexpected return of these issues [in the current context] and their wide social resonance among different classes and generations” constitute a novel development. 447 There is little (scholarly) debate about the fact that the amount of popular treatments of German suffering due to the events and the after-effects of the Second World War has dramatically increased in the 21st centur y. Following the paradigm shift of 1998, a new focus on the victimization of Germans – driven to a considerable degree by the intentional transgression of the supposed previous tabooization of this issue – began to gradually emerge. The resurgence was initially spearheaded by such illustrious names as W. G. Sebald and his controversial essay Luftkrieg und Literatur (1999) that expounded a radical indictment of the alleged failure of postwar German society to acknowledge the suffering especially of the victims of Allied 446 Ruth Wittlinger, “Taboo Or Tradition?: The ‘Germans as Victims’ Theme in West Germany Until the Early 1990s,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, ed. Bill Niven (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 75. 447 Aleida Assmann, “On the (in)Compatibility of Guilt and Suffering in German Memory,” German Life and Letters 59, no. 2 (2006), 187. 137 bombings, and Günter Grass, whose aforementioned novella Im Krebsgang (2002) highlighted the hardships of German refugees during the final stages of the war. The comparatively scarce amount of controversy generated by Grass’ novella already foreshadowed a new quality of normalization that has characterized the years since. In its wake, ever more popular and ever less critical treatments of the theme surfaced, represented especially by a host of cinematic interpretations, such as Sönke Wortmann’s Das Wunder von Bern (2003) and Oliver Hirschbiegel’s Der Untergang (2004), as well as TV productions like Dresden (2006), Die Flucht (2007), and Die Gustloff (2008). All of these titles enjoyed both commercial and relative critical success as well as very favourable reactions from the German public overall, with critical assessments growing increasingly marginalized with every release. At the same time, the quality of these engagements with the German past has also experienced significant alterations. Although it was arguably always true of the postwar preoccupation of Germans with their own suffering that this type of selective memory generally tended towards a decontextualization of the Holocaust and the guilt originating from it, as Dan Diner suggests, its more recent incarnations perform this task in new ways. 448 A central change lies in the publicization and politicization of memory. With regard to the entirety of the postwar era, Aleida Assmann’s suggestion that private (family) memories of suffering endured by Germans during and after the war had never before garnered any real public interest is demonstrably false. 449 At the same time, it is true that the period between the late 1960s and the early 1990s was more dominated by the commemoration of the Holocaust and its immediate victims than by public discussions of German trauma. In recent years, however, it has in turn been “private family memory, standing up to the official historical consciousness, which finds an outlet in the new German victims’ discourse”. 450 As a result of the altered discursive conditions of German national identity and national pride under the aegis of the Red-Green government, this type of family memory now “feels even more confident to express itself in the context of the 448 See Dan Diner, “Der Holocaust im Geschichtsnarrativ: Über Variationen historischen Gedächtnisses,” in In der Sprache der Täter: Neue Lektüren deutschsprachiger Nachkriegs- und Gegenwartsliteratur, ed. Stephan Braese (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1998), 29. 449 See Aleida Assmann, Der lange Schatten der Vergangenheit: Erinnerungskultur und Geschichtspolitik (Munich: Beck, 2006), 193; 199. 450 Stefan Berger, “On Taboos, Traumas and Other Myths: Why the Debate about German Victims of the Second World War is Not a Historians’ Controversy,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, 223. 138 discourse of ‘normality’ which has brought forth a new patriotism in the reunified Germany.” 451 In accordance with this normalizing trend Helmut Schmitz posits: One of the most striking features of recent representations of German suffering is that they appear to be in competition with the legacy of the Holocaust. That is to say, they frequently borrow from Holocaust imagery and tropes in order to attain gravity and legitimacy. Through this rhetorical operation, German victims are allocated a status similar to that of Holocaust victims. 452 Specifically, Schmitz is referring here to popular historical accounts of German suffering such as Jörg Friedrich’s Der Brand (2002) and Brandstätten (2003), in which the author explicitly borrows terminology previously used in the commemoration of the Holocaust (e.g. German bomb shelters as ‘crematoria’). However, in a less overt way this practice can generally be observed in a large number of other works. In popular accounts of German victimization the actual victims of the National Socialist apparatus – that is, the Jews, ‘Gypsies,’ Homosexuals, Handicapped, Communists and other ‘subhumans’ or enemies of the state – are not only largely absent from the story, but also replaced by Germans, who in turn are presented not merely as victims of the Allied bombings, the atrocities of the advancing Red Army, or the forced expulsions at the hands of the previously occupied Eastern Europeans, but as victims of the Nazis themselves. Robert Moeller identifies this as an overarching tendency of the commemorative theme of German victimization, asserting that “[i]n both East and West, rhetorics of victimisation laid the groundwork for analyses of the past in which victims could not be guilty, and the only real perpetrators were a handful of fanatics.” 453 And, indeed, this separation into ‘ordinary’ Germans and Nazis, with the former figuring as the ‘first victims’ of the latter, represents a central tenet of narratives of German normalization since the end of the war. According to Schmitz, by means of such “empathetic representations of ‘German’ wartime suffering, the victims are configured on an axis of German-ness that is frequently divested of the taint of Nazism.” 454 This denial of the complicity of the majority of the German collective in the 451 Ibid. 452 Helmut Schmitz, “The Birth of the Collective from the Spirit of Empathy: From the ‘Historians’ Dispute’ to German Suffering,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, 103-104. 453 Robert G. Moeller, “The Politics of the Past in the 1950s: Rhetorics of Victimization in East and West Germany,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, 41. 454 Helmut Schmitz, “The Return of Wartime Suffering in Contemporary German Memory Culture, Literature and Film,” in A Nation of Victims?: Representations of German Wartime Suffering from 1945 to the Present, ed. Helmut Schmitz (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 15. 139 atrocities of National Socialism turns, as Samuel Salzborn argues, “the victim-perpetrator paradigm […] to the advantage of the Germans insofar as the remorse expressed in this attitude relates only to the destruction and extermination of the Germans’ own character and desires,” effectively creating alternate catastrophes while the victims of the Holocaust are relegated, at best, to the status of a historical referent in comparison to which Germans can narrate their own trauma. 455 Bill Niven sums up this narrative strategy in no uncertain terms: “At the same time as the boundaries of the ‘perpetrator collective’ are being shifted to embrace the Allies, those of the ‘victim collective’ are being altered to encompass the Germans. What this amounts to is a complete reinterpretation of the Second World War.” 456 Advocating a memory culture in which the remembrance of German guilt and German suffering may harmoniously coexist, Aleida Assmann argues that “various levels of heterogeneous memory can exist side by side if they are contained within a normative frame of generally accepted validity.” 457 The question, however, cannot be whether this could be the case under ideal social and political circumstances, but if such a conceptualization can reasonably be applied to the current conditions under which the remembering (and selective forgetting) of National Socialism takes place. That these two discourses can exist side by side, which they unquestionably do, does not preclude the possibility that the relegation of one type of memory to the margins constitutes an essential element of another. While it may not be a discursive necessity, in many (and arguably the most prominent) cases, the act of superimposing the memory of German suffering on the memory of German guilt is not incidental, but programmatic. After all, Assmann herself concedes this tendency by observing that in cases of the “perpetrator renounc[ing] his guilt by asserting the memory of himself as a victim – we are dealing [...] with the pattern of an argument that has gained a perpetually recurrent and almost ineradicable status. According to this age-old strategy of self-exculpation, one guilt is set against the other and thereby reduced to zero.”458 And Karoline von Oppen and Stefan Wolff concur that “[a]lthough not in all cases, it is certainly often the case that this shift [of broader societal 455 Samuel Salzborn, “The German Myth of a Victim Nation: (Re-)Presenting Germans as Victims in the New Debate on their Flight and Expulsion from Eastern Europe,” in A Nation of Victims, 96. 456 Bill Niven, “Introduction: German Victimhood at the Turn of the Millenium,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, 15. 457 Assmann, “Guilt and Suffering,” 187. 458 Ibid., 194. 140 recognition of German victimhood] is intended as a deliberate counterbalance to the supposed dominance of Holocaust-centred memory in the Federal Republic.” 459 Assmann’s optimism therefore springs from a certain degree of self-imposed naiveté, which expresses itself as a peculiar form of biased interpretation. On the one hand, she identifies the popularity of narratives of German suffering in the immediate postwar years as a form of political instrumentalisation. On the other hand, she uncritically understands their post-unification renaissance – what she calls the “look[ing] back in empathy” of the first and second postwar generations – as a quasidisinterested expression of authentic (post)memory. 460 This selectiveness is epitomized in her reference to Erika Steinbach as a positive (or at least neutral) example of negotiating the divide between private and public/political remembrance. 461 Steinbach, who has been the president of the Federation of Expellees since 1998, was born in Rumia (Poland), where her father had been stationed in 1941 as part of the German occupation. As many critics have argued, her selffashioning as an expellee from a ‘homeland’ to which her family had come as hostile occupiers a mere two years prior to her birth exemplifies the systematic forgetfulness of the discourse of German expulsions. Volker Hage sums up in simple, yet concise, terms why it is precisely this type of programmatic omission which makes the majority of discourses of German victimization so problematic: “It makes a difference whether writers (or others) address experiences of suffering without first attempting to acknowledge the suffering Germans inflicted on virtually the entire world.” 462 The Alternate Histories discussed in the following reflect the same issue, but in a way that is specific to the strategies of alternate memory. The first thing that is apparent in comparison with the previous chapters is the fact that here no non-German texts have been chosen to represent this theme. Not least, this highlights the difference between what I am calling a theme of alternate Holocausts and Gavriel Rosenfeld’s similar category of ‘hypothetical Holocausts,’ in which he includes two of the texts discussed here (Thomas Ziegler’s Die Stimmen der Nacht and Christoph Ransmayr’s Morbus Kitahara), as well as a number of British and 459 Karoline von Oppen and Stefan Wolff, “From the Margins to the Centre?: The Discourse on Expellees and Victimhood in Germany,” in Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany, 209. 460 See Assmann, “Guilt and Suffering,” 190-192. 461 Ibid., 197. 462 Volker Hage, “To Write Or Remain Silent?: The Portrayal of the Air War in German Literature,” in Victims and Perpetrators: 1933-1945: (Re)Presenting the Past in Post-Unification German Culture, eds. Laurel Cohen-Pfister and Dagmar Wienröder-Skinner (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 110. 141 American examples. In contrast, I am not interested in this chapter in stories in which the real Holocaust was either averted, carried out in full, or subsequently avenged – the three themes which characterize the non-German texts in his selection. Rather, what will be of primary interest here is the counterfactual imagination of truly alternate catastrophes, in which Germans themselves feature as victims. Such stories do not exist in the British and American contexts but, as the exemplary selection in this chapter will show, do represent a prominent theme in Germanlanguage Alternate Histories. The three novels discussed under this heading all envision an alternate present in which Germany has been turned into a dystopian wasteland as a result of the Morgenthau plan and focus exclusively on the ramifications for the German (and Austrian) postwar population. 463 Ian Foster delivers a concise summary of this program: The Morgenthau plan itself, entitled ‘Program to Prevent Germany from Starting a World War III,’ called, among other things, for the complete demilitarization of Germany, the removal and destruction of key industries needed to produce military strength, the partition of the state into a number of smaller states and internationally administered zones, and a complete suspension of education until suitable new officials had been appointed. 464 While counterfactual realizations of this ominous proposal feature prominently in all three texts, the theme of victimization differs in terms of its narrative status in the text. In Thomas Ziegler’s Die Stimmen der Nacht (1984), the suffering of Germans as a result of the de facto destruction of their society functions as both a central object of the plot and as an omnipresent backdrop for other narrative elements. In Christoph Ransmayr’s Morbus Kitahara (1995), the dire lives of the rural population of Austria in the wake of the country’s demise provide the exclusive narrative focus. Finally, in Oliver Henkel’s Im Jahre Ragnarök (2009), the disastrous effects of the first and second Morgenthau plan feature only, albeit ubiquitously, as the setting for a more classical SF tale of time-travelling Nazis. A key aspect of these novels’ character as alternate memories and their function in the 463 In Ransmayr’s novel, the name Morgenthau has been changed to Stellamour – assumedly to reduce the antiSemitic connotations involved in the discussion of this spectre of Jewish vengeance and prominent element of German angst, which still features prominently in the propaganda of neo-Nazis and Holocaust deniers today –, but the terms in which the renamed program and its effects are described remain clearly recognizable. 464 Ian Foster, “Alternative History and Christoph Ransmayr’s Morbus Kitahara,” Modern Austrian Literature 32, no. 1 (1999): 113. That Henry Morgenthau’s contemplations were never actually anything closely resembling a ‘plan’ intended for actual implementation and that much of what the German public believes to know about them actually can, in fact, be traced back not to Morgenthau himself, but rather to his pre-emptive condemnation in Goebbels’ propaganda, has been show in great detail by Bernd Greiner. Cf. Bernd Greiner, Die MorgenthauLegende: Zur Geschichte eines umstrittenen Plans (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 1995). 142 context of German normalization is their narrative strategy of portraying German victimization in terms similar to those in which the suffering of the victims of National Socialism has traditionally been portrayed in memory literature. As Helmut Schmitz has suggested for nonfictional types of revisionist counter-memories replacing the victims of Germany with German victims, the imagery and tropes used to illustrate the suffering caused by the Morgenthau plan are, at times very obviously, borrowed from the discursive traditions of remembering the Holocaust. This constitutes what Bill Niven calls cases of an “implicit equation” of suffering. 465 As is characteristic for alternate memories, this task is facilitated by the counterfactual nature of the narratives, in which the allohistorical implementation of the Morgenthau plan functions as a symbolic stand-in for a real historical German trauma. In this sense, the texts do not only borrow their imagery from the commemorative legacy of the Holocaust, but also from that of nonallohistorical narratives of German victimization, with both explicit and implicit representations of air raids, expulsions, and even the Treaty of Versailles. They thus manage to present a criticism of German suffering while avoiding the need to mention it directly. Much more so than contemporary non-allohistorical German novels concerned with German wartime suffering, of which Stuart Taberner states that they “engage not only (and often not even primarily) with the events themselves but also participate in a series of related discussions […],” 466 these Alternate Histories therefore succeed in creating a “performative representation of trauma,” which “sets upon readers an ethical obligation to empathize with the victims and share their sufferings [...] by preserving the truth of trauma in its literariness, and transmitting it to others in a traumatic and traumatized account.” 467 The following sections will explore the specific strategies by means of which the individual texts perform this mnemonic shift. Overall, it can already be said that, while the general premises off all three novels are strikingly similar, there are both differences and unifying elements in this regard. A central unifying theme, for instance, is the inherent antiAmericanism featured in all three texts. As Bernhard Giesen asserts, “[t]he social construction of victimhood presupposes an outside actor who is at least partly responsible for the misfortune of 465 Bill Niven, “Implicit Equations in Constructions of German Suffering,” in A Nation of Victims, 107. 466 Stuart Taberner, “Literary Representations in Contemporary German Fiction of the Expulsions of Germans from the East in 1945,” in A Nation of Victims, 243. 467 Adami, Trauma Studies and Literature, 46. 143 the victim [...].”468 This fact is doubly reflected in all three novels – including Ziegler’s, which features an American protagonist – in the sense that their characters (and the German population in general) are portrayed both as victims of Nazi madness and of the ruthlessness of specifically American politicians and military leaders. Other similarities include the strategy of creating an air of objectivity by distancing the narration from the victimized Germans by means of nonGerman protagonists (Ziegler and Henkel), an emphasis on the differentiation between ‘ordinary’ Germans and insane Nazis (all three, but especially Ziegler and Henkel), the establishment of South America as a refuge (Ziegler and Ransmayr), the theme of extreme technological deceleration and even regression (Ransmayr and Henkel), and the stipulation of a necessary link between the destruction of Germany and the decline of the rest of Europe (implicit in all three, but explicit especially in Ziegler and Henkel). The differences comprise obvious elements such as the setting of Ransmayr’s novel in Austria and thus in the specific context of Austrian collective memory and the fact that Ziegler’s and Ransmayr’s texts are true alternate histories, while Henkel’s is, on the surface, a traditional time travel story. But less immediate factors also play a role, such as the fact that only Ziegler’s novel features a distinct scenario of ‘reactionary modernism’ (technological acceleration vis-a-vis social regression), while the more recent texts – somewhat in contrast to Winthrop-Young’s delineation of the theme’s narrative evolution – depict technology and society as equally in decline. Not least, only Henkel relies on an almost complete omission of pre-Morgenthau German crimes, while Ziegler and Ransmayer find ways of reconciling the task of emphasizing German suffering with an at least partial acknowledgement of German guilt. In the following pages, I will analyse these similarities and differences in greater detail and illustrate how these specificities play into the unifying theme of promoting the narrative of German victimization as an alternate memory. 5.1 DIE STIMMEN DER NACHT Thomas Ziegler’s novel Die Stimmen der Nacht, published in 1984, represents the first instance of a German Alternate History envisioning the effects of the defeat of the Third Reich under altered circumstances. 469 While the small number of previously published examples had all imagined the ramifications of a counterfactual German victory in World War II, Ziegler’s novel 468 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 47. 469 Thomas Ziegler, Die Stimmen der Nacht (Frankfurt a.M.: Ullstein, 1984). Cited in the following as SdN. 144 creates the image of a postwar world which presents itself as no less dystopian than those scenarios which enabled the Nazis to overcome their enemies and carry out their diabolical agenda. 470 Instead of using their newly established secret weapon against the Japanese, the United States, still under Roosevelt, drop an atom bomb on Berlin in 1945, killing Hitler in the Führerbunker and ending the war. Following the defeat of the German Reich, Roosevelt is ‘persuaded’ – as the novel portrays it – by Henry Morgenthau to adopt his eponymous plan and not only withhold all restorative measures, but dismantle what remains of Germany’s industry and infrastructure and ship it to Poland, the Soviet Union, and, notably, Israel as a form of reparations. While the country is left to lie in ruins, a program is instituted facilitating the remaining population’s emigration to South America, where, over the next four decades, the ‘Latino-Germans’ succeed in building a new society. Along with ‘ordinary’ Germans, many of the surviving members of the former Nazi elite also find their way to South America and, as a result, the new Reich built in the jungles of Brazil, with its capital Germania, becomes a new haven for National Socialist ideology under the control of the Martin Bormann and his ODESSA organization. 471 While the new Reich thrives – defined by the kind of ‘reactionary modernism’ that Geoffrey Winthrop-Young describes as the embracing of “twentieth-century hardware while rejecting its eighteenth-century software” 472 – and quickly manages to rebuild its resources at an accelerated speed to a point where it once again becomes an economic, technological and military force to be reckoned with, the old Reich, and with it large parts of Europe, fall into a deep decline. The only remaining inhabitants of Germany are fanatic followers of the ‘Werewolf’ cult, guerrilla groups at constant war with the American occupiers, holding out for the return of a new Führer to restore the wasteland that Germany has become to its former greatness. This is the setting for the novel’s main narrative in the fictional present of the 1980s. The protagonist, American television host Jakob Gulf, is asked by the CIA to travel to the old Reich to consult on a worrisome new development of which he has unique knowledge. A few years earlier, Gulf’s wife committed suicide on live television and has since been haunting him in the 470 Prior to 1984, there were a total of four German texts dealing explicitly with alternative histories of the Third Reich: Otto Basil’s Wenn das der Führer wüsste (1966), Sissini’s Samuel Hitler (1973), Helmut Heißenbüttel’s “Wenn Adolf Hitler den Krieg nicht gewonnen hätte” (1979), and Arno Lubos’ Schwiebus (1980), all of which feature scenarios of Germany winning the Second World War. 471 ODESSA stands for “Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen.” Its existence in real history has never been definitively proven, but it has been repeatedly suggested in a number of popular historical accounts that this organization was elemental in the escape of high-ranking Nazis to South America following World War II. 472 Winthrop-Young, “Third Reich,” 889. 145 form of an electronic ‘Klette,’ a tiny robotic device the shape and size of a fruit fly, originally designed by scientists in Germania as a tool for espionage. The ‘Klette’ follows Gulf everywhere he goes and speaks to him with the voice (and the knowledge) of his dead wife Elizabeth, constantly blaming him for her death. In a recent discovery, the same disembodied voices have been heard in the ruins of the destroyed Dom in Cologne. Here, however, the ‘Kletten’ speak with the voices of Hitler and Goebbels and other dead Nazi leaders and are inciting the remaining Germans to fight against the occupation and restore the supremacy of the German Vol k. Despite protestations that he also does not know how the ‘Kletten’ actually work and why they speak with the voices that they do – it has been discovered that their memory banks are actually empty –, Gulf is brought to Cologne to investigate. After he encounters the Nazi ‘Kletten’ in the Dom, his party is attacked by ODESSA-funded Werewolf units, when they try to bring Gulf and the disembodied Nazis to German-America, but Gulf manages to retreat to a boat and head for the Netherlands. On board, Gulf notices that the Nazi ‘Kletten’ are now following him in the same way Elizabeth does and it soon turns out that the New Reich had hoped precisely for this development. In a power play against the ODESSA, Gulf is ultimately abducted by agents of the PSE (Policía Secreta del Estado), the not-racially-pure secret police of the New Reich, and brought to Germania, where Bormann is secretly preparing for nuclear war. While the leader of the PSE had hoped that, with the help of the ‘Kletten,’ Gulf would be able to dissuade Bormann from this apocalyptical plan, the arrival of the voices of the Führer and the lost comrades has the opposite effect on the remaining Nazi elite. Bormann orders the GermanAmerican fleet to head for Europe and retake the old Germany from the Allies. The situation quickly escalates and Bormann authorizes the use of nuclear warheads against the British embargo off the coast of the old Reich. As nuclear World War III breaks out, the old Nazis retreat to an underground city they have built below the Andes and Gulf, who refuses to join them, dies, alone with the voice of Elizabeth, as Bormann’s bunker is destroyed by an American atom bomb. Although it may appear on the surface as though the disastrous effects of the Morgenthau plan serve merely as a backdrop for the main plot of Nazi survival and the continuing quest for world domination, a closer look reveals that
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UBC Theses and Dissertations
Alternate history - alternate memory : counterfactual literature in the context of German normalization Schenkel, Guido 2012
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