During the late nineteenth century, prostitution became the subject of controversy and debate because of an enormous increase in the number of prostitutes who walked the streets of all large European cities, including Hanover. This growth was a byproduct of rapid urbanization and of the frequent economic contractions that characterized urban economies. Young women who were drawn to the cities often found only low-paid or seasonal work. They turned to prostitution when other work was unobtainable, or, occasionally, prostituted themselves in order to supplement low wages or to support themselves when they were between jobs. The creation of a large market in prostitution was noted by many observers, some of whom estimated the population of prostitutes to be in the tens of thousands.

The relationship between the Roman Catholic church and the state in nineteenth-century German history appears to have been plagued by discord and mistrust. From the secularization of church lands and the dissolution of sovereign ecclesiastical territories at the beginning of the century to the Kulturkampf of the 1870s, church and state found themselves repeatedly at loggerheads. One thinks of the negotiations between Prussia and Rome on a concordat after 1815, the Cologne mixed marriage controversy of 1837, the Frankfurt Parliament's debates on Article III of the Reich Constitution in 1848, and the hostility aroused by the Raumer decrees of 1852. In a recent article on the Catholic church in Westphalia during the 1850s and his book on popular Catholicism in nineteenth-century Germany, Jonathan Sperber has challenged the validity of this picture of conflict between church and state.

Hans Rosenberg, who died in Freiburg on 26 June 1988, was not only a critical historian, he was above all a self-critical one. Looking back upon his life during his last years, he always saw first what he had set out to do but had not accomplished, or what, in his judgment, had turned out less well than he would have wished. At most he granted that he had exercised a certain influence upon many historians of the next generation. “Not everything has been futile”: that was the most positive statement he allowed himself to make about his work.

At a time when the Republican party in America seems to have abandoned its brief hopes of proclaiming a new paradigm, it may seem apropos to observe that old ones die hard—and not only in public life. A case in point from the scholarly world is the subject of this essay: the persistent historiographical notion of industrial factionalism. Throughout this century, students of German political economy have tended to see the country's business world as divided between two groupings. One comprises the classic heavy industries of the first Industrial Revolution and the Ruhr: coal, iron, and steel. Supposedly oriented toward domestic markets, burdened with high labor costs, doomed to flattening gains in productivity and profits, and habituated to hierarchy within their plants and the nation, executives in this grouping have figured in the historical literature as consistently and intransigently united against free trade, labor unions, and parliamentary government—indeed, against modernization itself.

The age of high imperialism was also the age of the emergence of mass journalism. This heralded a steady widening of what might be called the “political nation,” that is, those groups who took an active interest in politics in contrast to the mass of the population still largely outside the political arena. Up to the 1890s politics tended to be Honoratiorenpolitik—confined to “notables” or Honoratioren, a term first applied by Max Weber around the turn of the century to describe the elites who had dominated the political power structure up to that time. Gradually “public opinion” ceased to be, in effect, the opinion of the educated classes, that is, the classes dirigeantes. In Wilhelmian Germany the process of democratization had been successfully contained, if seen in terms of the constitutional system; the age of mass politics was still far away.

Before Hans Rosenberg reached his thirtieth year, the National Socialist seizure of power, abetted and applauded by disproportionate numbers of his contemporaries, drove him into exile. Many years later he wrote of the “curiosity and anxiety” he felt toward the catastrophe of German fascism, which had “disfigured and besmirched the wrinkled historic face of my native land beyond recognition,” giving it “the most sordid and brutal expression in its entire past.”

Between 1928 and 1932, the National Socialist movement transformed itself from an insurgent fringe party into Germany's most potent political force. The most important factor in this dramatic turnabout in political fortunes was the rapid deterioration of the German economy beginning in 1929. It does not, however, logically follow that the German people simply fell into the lap of the party and its charismatic leader. To the contrary, the party aggressively employed sophisticated propagandistic and organizational strategies for attracting and mobilizing diverse segments of German society. With the onset of the economic crisis, and the consequent social and political turmoil, the party stood ready to receive, organize, and mobilize Germans from all social strata.

In many respects, Hamburg and Berlin represent two societal models at work in Wilhelmian Germany. Hamburg and the other Hanseatic cities, Lübeck and Bremen, have traditionally been thought to represent bourgeois society as it might have been in Germany as a whole: self-assured, liberal, and antiaristocratic. Historians are generally in agreement with Richard J. Evans in his assertion that “neither the economic activity nor the social world nor finally the political beliefs and actions of the Hamburg merchants corresponded to anything that has ever been defined, however remotely, as ‘feudal.’” Berlin, on the other hand, was dominated by the imperial court and the aristocracy, which, it is said, seduced and fatally weakened not only the business elite of the capital, but in fact the most influential segment of the German bourgeoisie as a whole.

To what extent was liberalism a resurgent force in the last decade of the German Empire? Considerable debate has materialized around this question. After he became chair of the National Liberal caucus in the Reichstag, the Badenese attorney Ernst Bassermann gathered around himself a coterie of young reformers (the most notable of whom was Gustav Stresemann) who were eager to rejuvenate German liberalism. While opening themselves to alliances with social democracy and the working class, these self-consciously proud members of the business and educated middle classes vigorously asserted an aggressive liberal profile and busied themselves with the creation of new organizational structures to undergird a revivified liberal movement. We know a great deal about some of these political-organizational projects, most notably the Young Liberal movement and the Hansabund. Historians have, however, neglected the rural component of this revival—the German Peasant League (Deutscher Bauernbund, or DBB)—which Bassermann recognized as equally important to the National Liberal party's future as the Hansabund.

I shall teach this course as a stiff graduate course, and if you don't like it, get out now. The words came with a pronounced German accent, which somehow made them all the scarier to a college junior. Having taken two semesters of European economic histry with this professer, I had no illusions. He meant what he said. For those of us who had naively considered his “baby” courses in economic history draconian, his words were all the more frightening. What the devil were we in for on this round? Whether anyone “did not like it,” I have no idea, but no one dropped.

When I returned from a long summer in Israel, following the Six Days War of June 1967, Berkeley seemed to belong to an altogether different universe. Things that had been upper-most in my mind, indeed in everyone's mind, during those months in Jerusalem were of marginal interest to the bustling students and respectable faculty members on campus. In comparison with the hectic atmosphere in Israel at that time, even the most politically involved campus in the United States appeared like the proverbial ivory tower. After a brief hiatus during which everyone had breathlessly observed the events of the war in the Middle East, these events quickly receded into the background, and on the shores of the Pacific other issues seemed far more important. While activists were busily preparing an attack on United States government policy in Vietnam, everyone else, secluded in the innumerable Berkeley classrooms, seemed concerned with purely academic matters.

My first encounter with Hans Rosenberg was in the fall semester of 1952 when I switched from evening classers to day sessions full-time at Brooklyn College. His presence in the classroom was both fascinating and intimidating. He constantly took pains to engage each student in the room, and he still serves me as a model of teaching-effectiveness. Short and slightly pudgy but with ramrod posture, he had an expressive, unusually lively face and a profoundly serious but good-natured demeanor; he spoke with a slight impediment, with the heavy accent of his native Rhineland, and with an English vocabulary that was dazzling in scope. He was the epitome of the learned European professor, respected and esteemed by his colleagues. Some of his reputation as a teacher who demanded much of himself and of his students had preceded my entry into his class, and had conveyed a picture of a man who often literally got drunk on ideas in front of his students.