The aim of this article is to make clear that, although men largely dominated the institutions of the Holy Roman Empire, beyond these constitutional institutions we can find many examples of women's agency. In particular, women of noble and princely families assumed political roles, both in relation to territories and to the empire as a whole. While it would not be correct to reinterpret the Holy Roman Empire as a “realm of ladies,” it seems clear that the empire, as a communicative context and dynastic network, was constituted with the participation of elite women, and that women were important for the ritual perpetuation of the constitution of the empire. In short, it was not only law and the constitution and the actions of men that held the empire together, but also the actions of women, who helped shape networks and politics just as they influenced the transfer of knowledge and culture.

This article introduces a special issue on the politics of sovereignty in German history. Historical work provides an important corrective to understand the current discursive resurgence of sovereignty. Historians (and other scholars) should treat sovereignty not as a factual description of the world, but rather analyze it as a rhetorical claim to assert power in territorial, political, economic, legal, and cultural disputes. Much of the power of sovereignty lies in the power to define its boundaries, whether geographical or conceptual. German history offers a particularly fruitful route to historicize the concept, as Germany is arguably both a paradigmatic and a special case in the history of sovereignty. From late-nineteenth-century colonialism to contemporary disputes around gambling restrictions, German discourse on sovereignty has intertwined with and challenged international understandings of sovereignty together with neighboring concepts, such as independence, autonomy, supreme authority, and control. In the twentieth century, perhaps no country experienced stronger affirmations of both sovereignty and the necessity to integrate into inter- and supranational structures than the country at the center of the two world wars and subsequently divided during the Cold War.

Few events in Imperial Germany's forty-plus years of existence have been remembered with as much pride and hilarity as the one that took place on October 16, 1906. It began shortly after noon, when a man dressed in a captain's uniform appeared on the streets in the northern part of Berlin and commandeered two small contingents of soldiers returning to their barracks from guard duty. Claiming to be acting on instructions from the kaiser himself, the man ordered the ten soldiers to accompany him to Köpenick, a small but growing city on the southeastern outskirts of Berlin. Arriving in front of city hall around 3:30 p.m., he assigned four of the men to take up positions at the three entrances of the building to ensure that no one entered or left without his permission. The remaining troops followed him inside, where he instructed two men to secure the ground floor. Heading upstairs, he encountered an off-duty constable, who, along with other police officials, was given the task of controlling the growing crowd of curious gawkers that had begun to amass in the plaza and streets outside. With these arrangements set, he barged into the offices of the mayor and other top officials, announcing their arrest on the kaiser's orders and stationing soldiers outside their doors. Within an hour, he arranged to have the mayor and city treasurer transported by carriage to the Neue Wache, the main guardhouse in central Berlin. After issuing orders for the remaining soldiers to withdraw at 6:00 p.m., the unidentified captain disappeared into the night with the contents of the city's cash box, totaling 3557 marks and 45 pfennig.

This article explores the historical background of an issue that is central to present-day constitutional and human-rights discourse: the relationship between human dignity and the fight against poverty. It analyzes the role the idea of human dignity played in the reasoning of nineteenth-century German middle-class authors who were professionally engaged in social-reform debates, with a particular focus on debates about mendicancy. In these debates, notions of dignity were pervasive, and they provoked a troubling question: Is poverty a state of impaired dignity, and if yes, in which direction does causality point? Tracing the shifting perceptions from the enlightened belief in the self-perfectibility of man at the beginning of the nineteenth century to the rise of biomedical theories at its end, the article argues that concerns about human dignity gave the commitment to eradicate destitution an important impetus, yet with side effects that highlight the pitfalls of the dignity concept.

How did early modern sovereigns establish authority over newly acquired territories? This is the question behind this article which examines the beginning of Austrian rule in the Southern Netherlands after the Peace of Utrecht 1713. Transfers of sovereignty like these marked the end of international conflicts and lead to the change or reinforcement of the social and political order within affected territories. Therefore, their analysis offers new insight into early modern state building. To achieve this, the article first offers an overview of the events before and after the transfer of sovereignty. This is followed by a closer look at the vital role of the relationship between the local church and the new ruler. Finally, a spotlight will be cast on a tax called Pain d'Abbaye, which serves as a example for an empowering interaction that helped to create a stable relationship between the new Lord and his new subjects.

In May 1906, the Habsburg protectorate of Bosnia and Herzegovina experienced an unprecedented level of labor unrest. The discussions between civil servants and workers that arose from these events, in particular those that occurred during the strike at the government-owned Sarajevo Tobacco Factory, provide a key point of departure from which to explore the character of Habsburg rule in Bosnia. This article examines how late Habsburg imperial rule functioned in Bosnia by analyzing moments of apparent bureaucratic irregularity in order to suggest a different interpretation of Habsburg administrative practice. It argues that in the case of the Sarajevo Tobacco Factory, the relationship between subjects of the Habsburg empire and its administrators was characterized by processes of debate and discussion that were in many ways grounded in concerns about fairness. This observation opens up new questions about the broader relationship between the Austro-Hungarian administration and the people it governed.

In August 1942, an internal Sicherheitsdienst (SD) memorandum raised concerns surrounding the media currently circulating in Germany about its Asian ally: “The previous view, that the German soldier is the best in the world, has become somewhat confused by descriptions of the Japanese swimmers who removed mines laid outside Hong Kong, or of the death-defying Japanese pilots who swooped down upon enemy ships with their bombs. This has resulted in something a bit like an inferiority complex. The Japanese look like a kind of ‘Super-Teuton’ [Germane im Quadrat].” In its anxiety that the German public might be taking the wrong lessons from the incessant drumbeat of positive news coverage around Japan's string of victories in the winter of 1941–1942, this statement speaks to the ambivalent position of the Japanese within Nazi propaganda. On the one hand, these images of Japanese self-sacrificial loyalty to the nation reaffirmed the patterns of behavior and thought commonly valorized in the Nazi regime's captive media. At the same time, the reality that it was the Japanese—and not the Germans themselves—performing these feats of valor raised the comparison that the author found so demoralizing, and potentially even destabilizing. Nevertheless, despite the author's reservations, the conclusion was that this media's benefits outweighed the political risks because of its utility in highlighting the “inner weaknesses of Europe” for those elements of the German public still skeptical of National Socialism. In effect, the memorandum conceded, images of Japanese heroism could be persuasive as propaganda because they revealed the weakness and corruption endemic to Western modernity by contrast, which in turn affirmed the Nazi regime's decision to stake its future on a utopian “counter-modernity” framed around a synthesis of völkisch cultural authenticity and technological modernism.

Wilhelmine Germany's Weltpolitik is widely regarded as a precursor to World War I, as a reckless break from the Bismarckian past, and as a counterproductive form of German deviation from European norms. Yet, when one reexamines certain German overseas expansion schemes between 1897 and the early 1900s, a strong intellectual continuity emerges between the methods of Weltpolitik and wider views about colonial sovereignty. Like Bismarck and other European imperial powers in the late nineteenth century, the actors producing Weltpolitik sought to enlist private businessmen in colonial governance, as well as to parcel and transfer sovereignty as a commodity in places like the Caribbean island of St. John. Counterintuitively, this way of treating sovereignty was highly imitative and compliant with norms, both at home and abroad. It also represented an alternative, at least at times, to a more aggressive course in foreign policy.

In July 1992, nearly two years after the demise of the German Democratic Republic (GDR/East Germany), Erich Honecker, former general secretary of the ruling Socialist Unity Party (SED) was arrested in Berlin for his complicity in the murder of citizens fleeing his country. Yet his subsequent imprisonment brought forth unexpected help: former SED member Rudolf Bahro, who had been imprisoned by Honecker's regime a decade earlier for publishing a party-critical text, Die Alternative. Bahro wrote to his former jailer on August 17, ironically to offer support for his legal defense. Now, Bahro also expressed hope for a “human understanding … about the substance of our undoubtedly still existing difference of opinion about the path of the GDR” and enclosed his recently published article connecting his support for Honecker with the GDR's founding ideals. In the article, Bahro rejected reducing East German history to the SED's abuses, arguing that “our impulse was conceived with the heart, and no such impulse is ever entirely lost.” That impulse, for Bahro, ultimately emanated from antifascism, its entwined relationship with socialism on German soil, and those who fought for both. Though he acknowledged that “a German revolutionary continuity did not exist en masse” after the Nazi seizure of power in 1933, it did survive among the few socialists, like Honecker, who struggled against fascism and “rightly wanted a new German state” after 1945. For his role in building this alternative to capitalism, Bahro argued that Honecker should be allowed to retire in peace.

The article analyzes Allied attempts to try German war criminals after the First World War and the ensuing Leipzig trials. Historians of international law commonly describe these as the first (failed) attempt to break principles of national sovereignty by implementing principles of international humanitarian law, which were later realized at Nuremberg and The Hague. The article brackets the question of the Leipzig trials’ alleged success or failure by situating them not so much within the long-term history of international justice but, rather, within the political and intellectual culture of Weimar Germany. The article shows how the German government tried to use its limited domestic sovereignty in order to enhance its international sovereignty. By asking how German sovereignty was contested, negotiated, and reaffirmed, the article historicizes the Leipzig trials and also addresses the more general question of which conditions facilitate international war crimes trials. Drawing on the literature on transitional justice, this article suggests that contestations over German domestic and international sovereignty after the Versailles Treaty offer a more productive frame to understand the trials than measuring success according to international humanitarian law.

Klemens von Metternich played an important role as leader of the Austrian bureaucrats and diplomats in supporting construction of the Suez Canal. He participated in many ways, often informal ones, which before 1848 resulted from his political circumspection and afterward from the fact that he was just a private individual. His so-to-speak informal diplomacy is interesting not only because it discloses the high level of interest he and other Austrian dignitaries paid to the issue but also because it reveals how accessible Metternich was to those involved in the project regardless of nationality, political leanings, and religion. Metternich's interest in the Suez Canal brought him into contact with Europeans as well as Ottomans, conservatives as well as liberals, and even Saint-Simonians: in other words, all who wished to cooperate for the benefit of central Europe and beyond.

This article explores the development of modern refugee camps in Austria-Hungary during the First World War by looking at the organization and implementation of child assistance in the camps. The article argues that a state-driven mobilization of relief and rehabilitation was organized to alleviate the plight of refugee children. It points particularly to children's health care and the organization of education as instances that marked a shift in the scope of refugee camps in wartime Austria-Hungary. At first, camps represented a temporary measure to immobilize and control displaced populations. As the war progressed, they became a permanent feature of refugee policy and a microcosm of agendas of state consolidation. Ultimately, the case of child assistance shows that the organization of refugee camps in wartime Austria-Hungary was a fluid and gradual process that meshed technologies of population containment with humanitarian and welfare practices.

Stanley Kubrick's film The Shining (1980) can be read as a central European imaginary retelling Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain (1924). The film constructs a dark meditation on the human condition not only through its formal and thematic focus on Mann's novel but also through the lens of works by numerous other central European artists and scholars. Consequently, The Shining presents historical comprehension as the product not only of knowledge, but of experience, memory, and artistic representation/reception. Just as The Magic Mountain addressed itself to the crisis of European civilization that had culminated in the First World War, a deep-laid historical subtext in The Shining concerns the more desperate crisis facing the West in the wake of the Second World War. At its dark center, Kubrick's horror film reflects its creator's and its era's struggle with the reality and representation of the Holocaust.

The postwar deconcentration of IG Farben AG shows that the Allied military governments and their German counterparts were anything but united on the extent and form of sovereignty the Federal Republic of Germany should receive. The American plan to divide the corporate enterprise into a large number of individual companies aimed to establish a democratic state independent from the influence of domestic business. By contrast, West German government officials and the business community were convinced that the future sovereignty of the Federal Republic depended on the global competitiveness of large industrial conglomerates. To thwart the American deconcentration plans, they traded off one dimension of sovereignty against the other. Leading members of the West German government accepted delegating the negotiations over the future of IG Farben to business representatives, thereby sharing domestic sovereignty because the delegation promised to maintain a powerful German chemical industry that could support the trade balance of the future West German state. This development contributed to the emergence of a Federal Republic characterized by the close involvement of economic actors in political decision-making. It contained important elements of a post-democratic sovereignty, which is commonly used to describe the development of the late twentieth century.

The rising German interest in rescuers of Jews during the Holocaust has been accompanied by an emphasis on their exceptionality among the wartime German population. Seen as aberrations, rescuers are used to present a simplified generalization of the German majority’s wartime conduct by defining what it was not. This article argues that this view, as well as the common claim that rescue and rescuers of Jews were “forgotten” in the postwar Germanys, are based on a certain interpretative model concerning the relationship between exception and rule. I trace the different uses of this model and show that from 1945 to the present, many Jewish and non-Jewish Germans employed variously defined exceptions to trace and determine one's preferred image of the majority—as an object of desire or critique. The article presents the different conceptualizations and idealizations of rescue and their functions in imagining a collective self in commemorative and historiographical portrayals of past and current German societies.

This article explores how the concept of post-traumatic stress disorder was developed and debated during the wars of Yugoslav succession 1991–1995. It focuses on the rich, wide-ranging, and complex psychiatric and psychotherapeutic discussions of war trauma in the post-Yugoslav space, arguing that arguments about PTSD became a site for expressing political tensions, controversies, and anxieties that could not otherwise be addressed or identified.

This research explores how Yugoslav psychiatrists tailored the language of PTSD to their own particular clinical and political needs, infusing it with local assumptions and experiences, often radically changing its original meaning and intentions in the process. Moreover, the article engages with discourses of psychological trauma in Eastern Europe and the socialist world, which remains a neglected topic. It examines how the post-WWII and socialist-era psychiatric discourse and silences were reinterpreted and worked into the psychiatric-political attempts to make sense of the wars of Yugoslav succession.

Divided Germany became one of the focal points for international disputes over sovereignty in the late 1960s and early seventies. In a period that is commonly associated with West German Ostpolitik and the diplomatic recognition of German division, the international community disputed how the sovereignty of “divided nations” should be framed under international law. The German-German battle over the terms of détente unfolded within these politics of sovereignty surrounding conflicts over “national divisions” along Cold War front lines as well as the simultaneous confrontations over postcolonial sovereignty. At the United Nations, the issues of German and Chinese division converged at the height of decolonization when East German concepts of sovereignty and self-determination challenged the UN foundational principle of “one nation, one seat” rooted in ethnic nationality. Eventually, the United Nations accepted a German exceptionalism in admitting both German states as members in 1973 based on historical rather than legal explanations for divided German sovereignty, while conflicts around “divided countries” in Asia remained unresolved. In turn, these clashes over international law transformed older German legal traditions of sovereignty and self-determination and opened up Staatsrecht frameworks to legal concepts originating from decolonization.

Had Eric been allowed to live the long life that he deserved, he might have looked back and recognized the retrospective logic of his scholarly work. By then, I am sure, he would have produced more pathbreaking and important books and essays. Indeed, following the publication of his magnum opus, A World Divided, Eric was already at work on a study of Ralph Bunche, featured in A World Divided and one of the most prominent African Americans in the United States in the immediate aftermath of World War II who went on to have an influential role as an advocate of human rights in the newly established United Nations.

It does not require great powers of observation to note the pervasiveness of Nazi Germany in contemporary U.S. cultural and political discourse. For better or worse, the discursive landscape is saturated with depictions of and references to Hitler, the Holocaust, and the Gestapo—an obsession visible everywhere, from the progressive left to the far right, from TV shows to Twitter feeds to video games. The allure of using the Third Reich as a rhetorical weapon may seem obvious enough in a hyperpartisan political climate, but the resonance of that historical period clearly extends well beyond politics. Indeed, National Socialism now functions as an all-purpose conceptual barometer that can be applied to conversations about all sorts of subjects. Over the past few years, scholars have sought to shape such discussions with an unusually heavy outpouring of projects that explore correlations between Nazi Germany and the United States. What they rarely address, however, is why Americans are so prone to invoking the Third Reich as a framework for thinking about life in their own country to begin with. No less important to consider are the implications of how that trend has taken on such a wide-ranging salience and sense of urgency lately. With these questions in mind, Bradley Nichols (History, University of Missouri) convened an interdisciplinary roundtable, composed not only of historians, but also scholars of U.S. politics and culture. He invited Jens-Uwe Guettel (History, Penn State University), Sabine Hake (Germanic Studies, University of Texas), Emanuela Kucik (English and Africana Studies, Muhlenberg College), Alexandra Minna Stern (English, University of California, Los Angeles), and S. Jonathan Wiesen (History, University of Alabama at Birmingham) to share their insights and reflect on the issues at stake.