Architecture and the Nazi Cultural Landscape: Blood, Soil, Building 9781032276922, 9781032276939, 9781003293743

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Endorsement Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter 1 From Ratzel to Hitler: Biographical Influences, Geopolitics, and Cultural Landscape
Chapter 2 Veins of the Nation: The Nazi Autobahn as Geopolitical Propaganda Device
Chapter 3 From Sports Park to Sacred Grove: Embedding the Mass Spectacle in the German Landscape
Chapter 4 “Secret Societies Established in Broad Daylight”: Symbolic Fortifications as Nazi Institutional Sites
Chapter 5 Venerating the Blood-Soaked Soil: Monumentalized Landscapes as Memorials
Conclusion
Abbreviations
Illustration Credits
Index

Citation preview

ARCHITECTURE AND THE NAZI CULTURAL LANDSCAPE

This book traces cultural landscape as the manifestation of the state and national community under the Nazi regime, and how the Nazi era produced what could be referred to as a totalitarian cultural landscape. For the Nazi regime, cultural landscape was indeed a heritage resource, but it was much more than that: cultural landscape was the nation. The project of Nazi racial purification and cultural renewal demanded the physical reshaping and reconceptualization of the existing environment to create the so-called “new Nazi cultural landscape.” One of the most important components of this was a set of monumental sites thought to embody blood and soil beliefs through the harmonious synthesis of architecture and landscape. This special group of “landscape-bound” architectural complexes was interconnected by the new autobahn highway system, itself thought to be a monumental work embedded in nature. Behind this intentionally aestheticized view of the nation as cultural landscape lay the all-pervasive system of deception and violence that characterized the emerging totalitarian state. This is the first historical study to consider the importance of these monumental sites together with the autobahn as evidence of key Nazi cultural and geographic strategies during the pre-war years. This book concludes by examining racial and nationalistic themes underlying cultural landscape concepts today, against this historic background. David H. Haney is an architectural historian whose research focuses on the relationship between architecture, landscape, ecology, and geography. His monograph on the German modernist landscape architect Leberecht Migge (1881–1935), When Modern Was Green (Routledge, 2010), was the first study to reassert the critical role of ecological thinking in Weimar modern architecture. He received his PhD in Architecture from the University of Pennsylvania (US) in 2005 and his Master of Environmental Design from Yale University (US) in 1995. From 2005 to 2018 he taught in the architecture schools of the University of Kent and Newcastle University in England. He has lectured widely and has been the recipient of a number of awards including a Leverhulme Trust Research Fellowship (2015–2016) and the SAH Elisabeth Blair MacDougall Award (2013).

“The formal power of buildings in Nazi Germany has tended to focus historical attention upon the architecture at the expense of understanding the larger sites in which they were located. In this fascinating account, Haney forensically examines a range of ‘cultural landscapes’ each conceived to express an aspect of Nazi mythology.” Professor Murray Fraser, The Bartlett School of Architecture, University College London “This meticulously researched book alerts us to the geopolitical underpinnings of the National Socialist cultural landscape. Never one to bore his audience, David Haney will transform the way in which historians and general readers understand Nazi architectural production.” Associate Professor Ian Klinke, School of Geography and the Environment, University of Oxford

ARCHITECTURE AND THE NAZI CULTURAL LANDSCAPE Blood, Soil, Building

David H. Haney

Cover image: die neue linie, February (1938), cover. Artist: Otto Arpke. First published 2023 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 David H. Haney The right of David H. Haney to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this title has been requested ISBN: 9781032276922 (hbk) ISBN: 9781032276939 (pbk) ISBN: 9781003293743 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743 Typeset in Bembo by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments Introduction

vii 1

1 From Ratzel to Hitler: Biographical Inf luences, Geopolitics, and Cultural Landscape

20

2 Veins of the Nation: The Nazi Autobahn as Geopolitical Propaganda Device

78

3 From Sports Park to Sacred Grove: Embedding the Mass Spectacle in the German Landscape

129

4 “Secret Societies Established in Broad Daylight”: Symbolic Fortifications as Nazi Institutional Sites

197

5 Venerating the Blood-Soaked Soil: Monumentalized Landscapes as Memorials

265

Conclusion

314

Abbreviations Illustration Credits Index

327 328 335

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my deepest gratitude to the Leverhulme Trust for awarding me a Research Fellowship for the academic year 2015–2016. This Fellowship enabled me to spend a sabbatical year in Berlin to begin work on this manuscript. Over the years many people have supported me in the writing of this book and I am grateful to all of them. However, the support and critical advice given by my friend and colleague Dennis Pohl during the pandemic years 2020–2021 were essential to the completion of this project. To him I owe particular thanks. David H. Haney Berlin, June 2022

FIGURE 0.2

Perspective by Heinrich Wiepking of idealized agricultural regional planning in the East.

INTRODUCTION

The Totalitarian Cultural Landscape The Nazi era produced what could be referred to as a form of totalitarian cultural landscape. For the Nazi regime, cultural landscape was indeed a heritage resource, but it was much more than that: cultural landscape was the nation.1 Cultural landscape represented the physical environment, not just the “natural” landscape, but also the historic accretion of human artifacts, from plowed fields and hedgerows, to roads and bridges, to ordinary and monumental buildings. Collectively, this was seen as evidence of superior German culture, a result of the allegedly deep spiritual relationship of Germans to the land, which had supported the evolution of their race. Manipulating the perception of the cultural landscape through media propaganda as well as its actual conservation and redesign was a critical component of the Nazi project of nation-building and territorial conquest. Behind this intentionally estheticized view of the nation as cultural landscape lay the all-pervasive system of deception and the violence that would come to characterize the totalitarian police state. In her consequential 1951 study, On the Origins of Totalitarianism, the renowned twentieth-century political theorist Hannah Arendt analyzes how Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia eventually achieved what she considered to be an entirely new political paradigm – totalitarianism. One of the key techniques for establishing a totalitarian state was the creation of alternative realities: Before they seize power and establish a world according to their doctrines, totalitarian movements conjure up a lying world of consistency which is more adequate to the needs of the human mind than reality itself; in which, through sheer imagination, uprooted masses can feel at home and are spared the never-ending shocks which real life and real experiences DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-1

2

Introduction

deal to human beings and their expectations. The force possessed by totalitarian propaganda – before the movements have the power to drop iron curtains to prevent anyone’s disturbing, by the slightest reality, the gruesome quiet of an entirely imaginary world – lies in its ability to shut the masses off from the real world.2 In this passage and elsewhere, Arendt is not referring to a “lying world” specifically in spatial terms, but rather as an all-encompassing, ruthless system of power underpinned by mass propaganda and indoctrination. Nevertheless, because the Nazis conceived of cultural landscape as the actual physical manifestation of the political territory of the nation, then their tactical exploitation of it can also be understood in the context of totalitarianism as described by Arendt. Propagandistic descriptions and media representations of new and old cultural landscapes were used to present reassuring, persuasive images of an estheticized world anchored in the past, all viewed through the lens of Nazi Party ideology. For Arendt, even though this kind of “fictitious world” superficially provided comfort and pleasure to the obedient masses, it was in fact supported by pervasive state terror, which for her was the primary defining feature of totalitarianism. 3 The new, totalizing world was brought about not only through fictional devices, but just as importantly through actual violence – and its ever-present threat.4 When considering the 12 case studies presented here, the violent, destructive state apparatus that stood in the background should be kept constantly in mind. In the early years of the regime, namely before mid-1938, the cultural landscape as a fictitious world was clearly defined by the international borders of the Old Reich. Following the first conquests of territories in the east, the Germanic cultural landscape was to be recovered and expanded as a critical means of consolidating the nation within its new boundaries. In all cases, the Nazi cultural landscape was sharply distinguished from those of surrounding foreign “races.” One of the most important factors in this endeavor was the need to emphasize the superiority of the German cultural landscape over all others, in order to promote internal cohesion and provide motivation for further cultural conquest. This was presented as means of positively distinguishing the German nation, yet in effect it was also a kind of “shutting off ” from the “real world.” As the object of both passive perception and active design, the cultural landscape was above all a propaganda tool. And as with all propaganda, it was a matter of purposeful editing, in this case, by emphasizing positive Germanic characteristics in the physical environment, and demanding the elimination of everything considered disturbing or foreign. By the late 1930s, it was no secret that this drive to purify the cultural landscape was directly connected to social exclusion and racial cleansing, as a prelude to the totalitarian conditions of the war years. Another of the great significances of totalitarian regimes, according to Arendt, is that they expose the true dynamics of ideologies in general, such as racism and communism, which they did not develop themselves, but rather adapted from

Introduction

3

preceding periods.5 Arendt elucidates the first principle that she derived from this observation: Ideologies are always oriented toward history, even when, as in the case of racism, they seemingly proceed from the premise of nature; here, nature serves merely to explain historical matters and reduce them to matters of nature. The claim to total explanation promises to explain all historical happenings, the total explanation of the past, the total knowledge of the present, and the reliable prediction of the future.6 In service of this drive towards “total explanation,” the Nazis exploited cultural landscape as means of concretely establishing their dominant historical narrative. When contemplating historic landscapes, German citizens were supposed to perceive the greatness of German history; by contrast, the landscapes of the recent past represented a decadent period to be overcome. In the present and near future, the new Nazi state would begin to create the most glorious of all cultural landscapes, heralding the advent of the coming 1,000-year Reich. This narrative was in fact repeated over and again, both to describe cultural landscapes as found, and those being newly created. And as Arendt points out, such historical narratives were further reinforced by pseudo-scientific ones – in the case of the Nazis, the pseudo-scientific claims of the superiority of the Germanic races.7 Perhaps the most important factor in their racist ideology was the alleged biological connection between the German race and the land that supported it. As noted, cultural landscape played a key role in this, for it was both evidence of superior German culture, and of the close relationship of the German people to their native soil – a deep symbiotic relationship literally rooted in the mists of ancient history. In fact, the evocative term “blood and soil” (Blut und Boden) had already been propagated in the years following World War One, as a means of symbolizing this biological bond of their race to the land.8 Particularly in the early years of the regime, blood and soil became a kind of battle cry for Nazis arguing that society needed to return to a healthier and more direct relationship to the land, in contrast to the previous periods of industrialization and modernization. A preexisting political term, “national community” (Volksgemeinschaft), was thoroughly exploited by the Nazis, who perverted it to mean that only the racially pure could actually belong to this ideal social group, that is, to the new Nazi nation itself.9 In the years following World War One, parties on the left had used the term national community in a deliberately inclusive sense, as a means of symbolically overcoming class boundaries. However, for the Nazis, national community was defined above all by whom it excluded, particularly Jews. If cultural landscape described the geopolitical space or territory of the nation, then the national community represented the nation as an anthropological entity, which according to blood and soil ideology was inseparable from the land that supported it. Membership in the national community was predicated above all on belonging to the Aryan race in a biological sense. Ethnic characteristics, such

4

Introduction

as shared language and culture were not sufficient; pseudo-biological principles were used to justify the exclusion of Jews, Roma, and other races by force. These interrelated historic and scientific narratives are clearly ideological constructions, but during the period these were presented as absolutes, even in connection with cultural landscape, which accords with Arendt’s descriptions of the fictitious world of the totalitarian state.10 Following Arendt’s narrative, the Nazi state did not reach the stage of full totalitarian control until after the initial wartime conquests. For at that point, the great gain in population and territory meant that sufficient critical mass had been achieved to support a condition of absolute violence and terror.11 Even if Arendt did not consider the specific logistical developments behind this conquest, obviously geopolitical strategy played a central role in the movement towards totalitarianism. In respect to geopolitics, the prewar dictatorship stage can be divided into two phases: first, the consolidation phase in the early years, when the emphasis was on solidifying the national territory and community; secondly, the expansionist phase in the years immediately preceding the war, which was directed towards territorial conquest and domination over neighboring states and peoples. These phases clearly overlap, but for purposes of clarity mid-1938, when Austria was in the process of being incorporated into the Reich, may be seen as another watershed moment. These two geopolitical phases are highly relevant to the present study, because they correspond to perceptible conceptual shifts in architectural design and the representation of cultural landscape before the war (this will become evident in the case study chapters). Although Arendt claimed that the true totalitarian stage was only reached after conquest, her observations on the necessity of constructing lying worlds certainly apply throughout the years of the regime; the dynamics of how this fictitious world was fabricated and perpetuated is what would change, as she observes in the first passage cited above. Today, the term geopolitics is typically understood as the sphere of political relationships between the nations of the world as self-interested players, with the earth’s surface acting as a kind of gigantic gameboard.12 However, geopolitics also has an internal, domestic dimension, for many larger nations were initially created by joining together smaller states. These then must be continually held together as a political unit, as part of the on-going process of consolidation. This particular geopolitical dynamic is what is being referred to here in the Nazi context as the consolidation phase. As Arendt recognized, the Nazis were the heirs of imperialistic and nationalistic strategies from earlier eras.13 One of the first problems dealt with by the Nazi regime was the internal consolidation of the nation. Germany was then a relatively young country, for it had first been unified under the Prussians in January, 1871 – only a little more than 60 years before the Nazis seized power in early 1933.14 Of course, the Prussians had succeeded in unifying the country by conquering neighboring Germanic states and principalities through political persuasion, as well as warfare and violence. After having established the new German state, the Prussians then recognized the

Introduction

5

importance of appealing to shared Germanic historic and cultural narratives as a means of creating a political and social identity for the new nation.15 The cultures of the individual regions, which had previously been independent states, were emphasized as the constituent elements defining the overall cultural diversity of the country. In part this was a means of preserving a sense of regional autonomy while in fact further centralizing the political power of the state. When the Nazis seized power in 1933, the country was still divided among these strong regional identities, which in some cases still ref lected a degree of cultural and even political autonomy. The Nazis continued the project of political and cultural consolidation according to their own ideological aims, but with much greater intensity and speed. As part of their domestic geopolitical strategy, through official propaganda the Nazis represented the different regions of the country as smaller, regional cultural landscapes sharing a kind of familial resemblance, all within an overall national mosaic. In this way, they could also promote the political and social unity of the country by exploiting the cultural landscape. However, this was more than just a matter of identifying and celebrating regional differences within the whole. Through the concept of cultural landscape as a kind of perceptual framing device, ordinary landscapes such as agricultural fields and hedges could be transformed into entities of great cultural significance, even without any physical intervention. In essence, this was a process of “monumentalizing” the cultural landscape, in service of the grand historic narrative that the Nazis wished to propagate. Beginning in the early years of the regime, as part of this process historic landscapes were identified and described as evidence of German greatness in printed publications and other media, a propaganda exercise that continued well into the war. Within this type of propaganda, there were calls to realize new Nazi-era cultural landscapes through actual design and construction projects at regional and national scales. In practice, this was achieved primarily through the creation of individual monumental sites where the landscape was reshaped and buildings constructed to create a harmonious whole, ref lecting both the identity of the region and the nation. While perhaps not immediately obvious, the massive new autobahn project, an automobile expressway system, was also a cultural landscape project at the scale of the entire nation. Designed and executed under the direction of landscape architect Alwin Seifert, the autobahn cultural landscapes were limited to strips of land on either side of the road, as well as to the framing of carefully controlled views of existing historic landscapes nearby. While neither the monumental sites nor the strip landscapes of the autobahn covered entire geographic areas, collectively they reinforced the process of cultural consolidation, which in turn served the greater geopolitical strategies of the Nazi regime. The transition from the consolidation phase to the expansionist phase was gradual, for in fact from the beginning the Nazi elite saw the first as being necessary preparation for the second (even if mid-1938 may be seen as a turning point). Hitler had clearly stated in his “magnum opus,” Mein Kampf, that

6

Introduction

his ultimate goal was territorial conquest. During the prewar years, propaganda messages made increasingly pointed allusions to armed conf lict in the future, and actual territorial conquest began well before the start of the war. Following the conquest of territories in the east (initially in former Poland) after the war began, comprehensive regional planning was undertaken to transform these areas into new German cultural landscapes. This was known as the General Plan for the East (Generalplan Ost – GPO), which was created under the auspices of the Reich Commissioner for the Consolidation of Germandom, which Himmler was ultimately in charge of.16 In order to realize this transformation at the level of detail, the landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking was engaged to create masterplans for new agricultural villages and surrounding areas, modeled on traditional German cultural landscapes.17 For Wiepking and other Nazi planners, the conquered territories were to be treated as a blank slate in cultural terms, while natural features such as existing woodlands and streams were to be protected. (This kind of comprehensive planning was of course only possible once the existing populations had been forcibly removed.) Wiepking produced charming, indeed beguiling, perspective drawings showing how everything in the new agricultural landscapes would be meticulously organized, from hedgerow configurations, to village layouts, to local road systems (Figure 0.2). These were images of the idealized Nazi world, free of any foreign inf luences, which were all to have been thoroughly suppressed or eliminated beforehand, through genocide or other means. The General Plan was to be carried out under the direction of Heinrich Himmler, who was head of the SS as well as the German police force. This was not incidental, for all of this careful planning was an act of control, and by extension an expression of the power of the official Nazi Party apparatus. Despite the apparently benign character of much of the landscape planning as it was presented, this beautiful fictitious world was ultimately subject to the control of the brutal forces of the totalitarian state. Planning, as an organizational act, went hand in hand with policing – in both cases, the more extensive, the better. This study is focused on the design and realization of new monumental landscape sites and building complexes, including the autobahn, from ca 1933 to 1940. On a geopolitical level, during the last three years of this period the process of expansion gradually began to assume more importance than consolidation. Following Arendt’s analysis, the Nazi state may not have reached the fully totalitarian phase before the war, but the ideological and logistical foundations were already being laid, with cultural production also playing a role in this preparatory process. At the same time that political power was being solidified and military buildup underway, the construction of the sites considered here was nearing completion, while vast extension plans were being made for many of them. All of these projects were conceived to stand at the highest level of cultural production, as symbols of the greatest aspirations of the new sovereign state, including territorial conquest. Heinrich Wiepking’s landscape planning for the General Plan East may be seen as a potent illustration of the extreme control that would have

Introduction

7

been exerted by the totalitarian state, had it been realized. However, since his plans for the east remained unexecuted, there is very little to examine in terms of actual adaptations to given conditions, topographical, cultural, or otherwise. The monumental projects that were actually constructed before the war offer much more concrete material for analysis, and indeed it was during this earlier period that such comprehensive landscape planning principles were first developed. In order to thoroughly grasp the implications of the cultural landscape envisioned for the fully developed totalitarian state that never arrived, a solid understanding of this earlier period is necessary. One of the main points of this study is not only to demonstrate the significance of cultural landscape as a Nazi-era propagandistic device, but also to show how architectural monuments functioned as constitutive elements within this overall project. Individual monumental sites during this period should not solely be approached as independent case studies, for in the context of long-term Nazi planning strategies they were to become part of a cohesive geopolitical network – in effect another manifestation of the fictitious totalitarian world. Before continuing to an outline of this book’s structure, two representative pieces of evidence from the period, a text and an image, will be brief ly examined to provide more concrete illustrations of some of the main points just discussed.

Adolf Hitler and the Touristic Imperative The vast amount of documentation recording what Hitler wrote and said, both publicly and privately, suggests that he made observations on nearly every conceivable topic, always presenting himself as an authority, even when that was often far from the case. On at least one occasion, during a meeting with intimates on March 23, 1944, he is recorded as having discussed the importance of landscape in his life. In one passage he makes a connection between landscape appreciation and territorial acquisition: It is truly a shame that only a limited number of people here in Germany really know their Heimat [homeland]. In the last six years the landscape beauties of the Reich have substantially increased. In addition to the Eastern March,18 in this respect one must also think of the beautiful landscapes of the regions of Bohemia and Moravia, known only to a very few Germans of the old Reich. Who knows, for example, anything about the Bohemian Forest? Who has experienced it?…A German who took a trip once every year within Germany alone would need their entire lifetime in order to get to know all of the beauties of their Heimat with their own eyes.19 Even if there may be no other known instances of Hitler using the word “landscape,” it may be inferred from his own activities that the topic held much more

8

Introduction

than a passing interest for him. The landscape that Hitler specifically refers to here is the Bohemian Forest, which he associates with a specific cultural region, Bohemia, not with an abstract idea of nature as such. Here he also describes the Black Forest as a cultural landscape in this respect, along with other famous Germanic woodland areas. If the Bohemian Forest was an “addition,” i.e. appropriated territory, then it was not only significant as living space (Lebensraum), but also as a cultural asset that had the potential to enrich the lives of average Germans. Again, this was another means of not only cultural, but also political consolidation. Bohemia may have been newly appropriated, but it was to be appreciated as an integral part of the new, expanded Reich – in fact, a part of the German homeland that had been “returned.” Ideally, Hitler suggested, Germans would not just contemplate beautiful landscape through media, but actually visit them in person, as a means of further identifying with them as authentic German territory. And the more regions a German citizen visited, the more informed, and thus intense, their identification with their fatherland would be – a necessary process as the Reich continued to expand eastward. Hitler’s desire that Germans should visit as many regions of their country as possible firsthand should not be interpreted as mere passive tourism. During the Nazi era, this kind of tourism was actively encouraged, not just as a pleasant pastime, nor merely as a means of collecting souvenirs and experiences, but rather as part of the serious endeavor of becoming a good Nazi. The imperative to be an active tourist, particularly one studying the cultural landscape, was yet another common form of Party indoctrination, even when not necessarily acknowledged as such. In Hitler’s statement above, the six-year period he mentions is not incidental. His monologue is recorded as having taken place on March 23, 1944; six years earlier in spring 1938, Austria had been annexed, while the protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia (western Czechoslovakia) were established in 1939. The coercion, violence, and military aggression that accompanied these conquests are known to all today, although at the time these were presented as acts of liberation, that is, as a justified means of reuniting ethnic Germans and supposedly Germanic regions with the Old Reich.20 On the date of his talk, just over a year had passed since the battle of Stalingrad, now considered the major turning point against the Nazis. Only the day before, the Allies had temporarily halted their assault on Monte Cassino in Italy, and two months later the D-Day invasions would be carried out. So while it was not absolutely clear that Germany would lose the war on this date, the tide had turned and the situation was indeed serious. It may seem rather curious then that Hitler would consider one of the more important outcomes of these forced annexations to be the increase in “beautiful landscapes.” Yet this is precisely the point: in Hitler’s mind, and the minds of many Nazis, the one-to-one conceptual relationship between landscape and territory meant that landscape appreciation and geopolitical strategy went hand in hand. Conquest was to be followed by political consolidation, in part through landscape appreciation, in itself a cultural act. Hitler makes this very clear here, even if only by implication.

Introduction

9

The Autobahn and the National Network of Nazi Monumental Sites Although the Nazis ideally planned for the complete reconfiguration of the landscapes of the conquered territories in the East, during the years before the war they obviously could not actually physically reshape the entire landscape of the Old Reich; nor would they have wanted to, since this was the “fatherland,” against which everything else was judged. Rather, they embarked on a process of presenting existing historic landscapes as valuable cultural assets, as part of the living, heroic culture of the Third Reich. Where possible, landscape sites would also be dedicated as monuments in themselves, not to “nature” as such, but rather to important events and people, as a means of reinforcing the new Nazi calendar and hagiography that they wished to establish. This kind of monumentalization was nowhere more evident than in the construction of the new autobahn motor highway system. All along the autobahn, new landscapes were created and views of existing ones carefully framed. Even if the Nazis could not actually redesign the entire country, they could at least control the landscapes and views throughout the autobahn network. At the same time, during the years 1933–1939 a group of monumental sites were being constructed across the county, all of which were conceived to have a strong orientation to their respective landscapes. This seemingly coordinated collection of sites emerged somewhat randomly as the product of a shared set of design values shaped by Party ideology, later giving the false impression that this all had been part of a grand plan from the beginning. After the fact, these monumental sites could be perceived as a network of landmarks, in the literal sense, and many in fact were linked together by the autobahn network. One document from the period perfectly captures the concept of a coherent group of landscape-oriented monuments interlinked by the autobahn: an illustrated foldout map inserted in the May 1939 edition of the official autobahn journal, “The Road” (Die Strasse) (Figure 0.1). Certainly this was a very important journal of the period, not only in terms of engineering, but also for culture in general, particularly cultural landscape and architecture. This map was created for a highly informed target audience, and would have been eagerly consumed by them. However, it would be misleading to suggest that as a document this particular map would have been universally known, nor could it be argued that it was intended as an important piece of popular mass-propaganda. Rather, what is significant for the current purposes is that it graphically represents the autobahn together with an associated group of monuments, new and old, as a unified cultural landscape at the national scale (following recent territorial “additions”). Small graphic icons with labels stand for important historic and new Nazi monumental sites, interspersed with the historic costumes and traditional products of each region, along with symbols of modernity such as ships and planes. All of these are contained within the linear network of the autobahn system. International borders play subtle, if significant roles; note the amount of empty space dedicated to what was then Poland. In the current context, this

10 Introduction

map may thus be seen as a kind of “Rosetta Stone” that the reader is invited to bear in mind throughout this study. At the time that this map was published, the war was still a few months away, but Austria and what is now the Czech Republic had already been annexed, as noted above. In recognition of this, the pre-1938 borders are not indicated here, rather the entire area appears as one political territory, and by implication one cultural landscape. Newly acquired points of Nazi cultural interest in what had been the country of Austria included Hitler’s birthplace in the town of Braunau, and the scenic highway running to the peak of Grossglockner mountain. The graphics were quite simple, and while certainly not daringly innovative, were nevertheless highly effective. Even a casual observer would have understood that this was a celebration of the new Nazi cultural landscape, not just of the autobahn itself, and also have sensed the implication that more territorial conquest was on the horizon. The system was clearly not yet complete, but in a state of becoming, even if it had reached a watershed moment.

The 1939 Autobahn Map and Overall Chapter Organization The illustrated 1939 autobahn map may be used as a starting point for understanding the thematic organization of this study. As is characteristic for maps, it is conceived as an overall graphic field, here representing the cultural landscape as defined by architectural landmarks. In Chapter 1, the origins of the concept of cultural landscape and the field of geopolitics are discussed in the National Socialist context, in connection with the role of monumental sites. On the 1939 map, the next most dominant element is the linear network of autobahn highways, which was ultimately the primary subject for the target audience. Thus, in Chapter 2, the autobahn is analyzed as a geopolitical and cultural construct, which acted as the matrix for the imagined new national cultural landscape. While not immediately obvious to the contemporary viewer, the icons on the 1939 map were carefully chosen to represent important new sites with architectural and other symbolic associations. These were certainly not just incidental decoration, for they would have clearly reinforced the overall message that the Nazis had in effect redesigned the entire country, and were poised to continue this process across the entire continent. Architectural monuments played a critical role in propagating this illusion. Not all of the most important new monumental sites identified during the period as being landscape-oriented (landschaftsgebunden) were shown on the 1939 map, perhaps because some sites were difficult to represent and others were not yet complete. However, the 12 case study sites discussed here in Chapters 3 to 5 were all included in this category by designers and critics at the time, even if their own selected groupings may have varied. (All 12 are indicated in the new map legend added by the author.) These may be understood as an interconnected collection, each being a variation on a set of dominant themes in relation to the respective cultural landscape and geopolitical contexts.

Introduction

11

Thus, these architectural sites are analyzed here in relation to these larger contexts, not just as isolated design objects with their own particular history, nor only as a subgroup within a purely architectural design strategy. In Chapters 3 to 5, the case study sites are grouped by chapter according to the primary architectural/spatial types, in descending scale; in some cases, these subgroupings may coincide with those in period surveys, but the overall chapter organization based on types is original to this study. None of these sites is unknown; the main contribution of this comprehensive study is that it shifts the analytical focus from the built structures alone, to the immediate cultural landscape and relative geographic positioning. The case study sites are as follows: Chapter 3, the 1936 Olympic Park together with the Olympic Village, and the Nazi Party Rally Grounds; Chapter 4, Wewelsburg Castle, the Order Castle elite training centers (three were constructed), and the Sea Resort for 20,000 at Prora on Rügen Island; Chapter 5, the Annaberg memorial, the Bückeberg harvest festival site, the Schlageter Cross memorial, the Saxon Grove memorial, and the Tannenberg memorial. To return to the types: in Chapter 3 the dominant typology is the sports park, which is obvious at the Olympic Park but also underlies the conception of the Nazi Party Rally Grounds; these sites provided gathering spaces for the largest numbers of people, as a means of reinforcing the sense of “national community” (Volksgemeinschaft). In Chapter 4, all projects were related to the concept of the castle or fortification as a generic form-type that was historically integrated with the landscape; as functional typologies, these were similar to retreats or resorts to some degree, even though only the Prora site was officially a resort as such. The projects in Chapter 5 are comparatively the smallest, although they vary considerably in size. This group was based on the field and the depression in the ground as spatial archetypes belonging both to architecture and landscape. Here the architectural interventions were minimal, for at these sites the landscape itself was consciously monumentalized, and the ground fetishized as “blood-soaked” soil; furthermore, this group also exhibited the most explicit geopolitical associations. A common set of design strategies may be identified throughout this group of 12 landscape-oriented sites, despite the range of types and stylistic variations. Each of these sites was dominated by an architectural structure, even if minimal, yet the landscape of the site and its immediate surroundings were the defining elements. All were considered monumental in some way, either for their large scale or their symbolic significance to the Party and national community. The entire range of design decisions made at each site was intended to serve the overall propagandistic message, from the architectural detail at the smallest scale, to the creation of a cultural landscape at the scale of the site, to the establishment of a strategic landmark in the geopolitical dimension. Even though none of these sites had any real significance for defense, all were saturated with militaristic imagery and rhetoric; in this way, the suggestion of future acts of state enacted violence was ever-present. The design process in fact began with the actual selection of the individual sites, with the architecture intended to provide the focal

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point, while at the same time ref lecting the character of the immediate landscape and the associated geopolitical symbolism. The primary design principles were not original but rather simply adapted, such as those propagated by the Heimat preservation (Heimatschutz) movement dating back to the late nineteenth century. Under the Nazis, of course, these were overtly linked to racist and nationalistic rhetoric. As in the Heimat preservation movement, buildings were to be embedded in the soil and vegetation, while construction materials were to be taken from the immediate landscape, or at least appear to be. As a complementary strategy, local building methods and styles were to be employed as part of overall efforts to strengthen the identity of the local area as a geopolitical building block. In the Nazi era, such physical and symbolic connections to the landscape were also a means of emphasizing the mystical relationship between blood and soil, as an architectural manifestation of the relationship of the German body (both individually and collectively) to the land from which it originated. In addition, established garden and park design devices were also utilized, such as viewing corridors and axial paths. Certainly these had been exploited historically as powerful political symbols, for example, the use of the main axis at Versailles to represent the power of the King of France. Of course, in the Nazi era the axis was often oriented towards the Führer as the human embodiment of Party and state power. The mathematical sublime was also at play in landscape construction, such as in the movement of vast amounts of earth, or the installation of massive quantities of plantings, as another form of propaganda through physical design. Here, the sublime ref lected the expansive power of the Nazi state, from the political unit of the region, to the nation, and beyond. All of these design and planning strategies could be fully integrated within the overall design concept, and be presented as the “natural” outcome of the Nazi way of thinking, without any reference to the extreme level of political manipulation and social control underlying the entire enterprise. Judging by their design-related rhetoric, the architects, landscape architects, engineers, critics, and others who wrote about these projects all espoused the same design principles, while emphatically professing their adherence to Party ideology – at least in relation to their professional work. (In fact, had they not, they would have been excluded.) Even those architects and designers who were neither Party members nor involved in political actions nevertheless enthusiastically contributed to Nazi cultural production as part of the overall propaganda machine. Unsurprisingly then, one of the most striking aspects that emerges here is the relentless repetition of the same themes over and again, despite the different contexts and protagonists involved. Yet indeed, this repetition shows the degree to which this group of sites was thematically related, and the extent to which those involved really did believe that design principles could be used to physically express Party ideology. These sites thus should be understood as the product of a set of design principles that operated from the smallest building detail to the landscape of the entire autobahn system. The sum total of the chapters here is intended to contribute to this method of analysis and understanding,

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13

which could potentially be applied to other historical and geographical contexts. Finally, in the Conclusion, three contemporary monumental landscape sites are analyzed as a means of approaching the question of possible ethical lessons to be derived today from the study of thematically related Nazi-era sites.

Notes on Secondary Sources and Intent I have aimed to write this book in a manner that would appeal to an educated lay audience, not only to academic specialists. At the same time, it is my hope that the core arguments and analyses, along with the new historic discoveries will indeed interest specialists as well. To maintain clarity and f low, I have refrained from referring to contemporary historians and secondary studies directly in the body of the text, but have noted as many of these as practicable in the Endnotes. Clearly there are already a substantial number of people, publications, and places mentioned within the main text, therefore, the addition of contemporary names and publications could potentially cause confusion, especially for readers who are not intimately familiar with the National Socialist era. The Endnotes include references to a wide range of both historic and contemporary sources, but I have tried to keep these to an economical minimum, nevertheless. For this reason, comprehensive lists of secondary works related to particular subjects are not included, rather only those that are standard reference works, or are of particular relevance. However, some contemporary individual scholars and their work are of such importance that they must be acknowledged here, if only brief ly. I would also like to take this opportunity to explain how my own work differs from previous scholarship, and how I have tried to propose new ways of thinking about this historical period and the relevant fields: the histories of architecture, landscape architecture, and geography. Arguably, the two most important scholars investigating the landscape architecture of the National Socialist era are Gert Gröning and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn.21 They have produced a great number of publications over the past several decades, both individually and collaboratively. Any new work in this field by necessity is informed by the foundations that they have laid. In terms of this study, I believe that while they have de facto discussed Nazi “cultural” landscapes, they have in fact not intensively examined cultural landscape in this era as a specific topic. Among the main themes within their work are the politicization of “nature” and the “natural” landscape (Naturlandschaft), and conceptions of the so-called “nature garden” (Naturgarten); I would like to think that this explicit study of cultural landscape (Kulturlandschaft) and geopolitics will act as a complement to their own analyses.22 Other critical works in the field include substantial biographical studies on the three most important landscape architects of the period: Charlotte Reitsam on landscape architect Alwin Seifert; Ursula Kellner on landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking; Vroni Heinrich, and more recently Lars Hopstock, on landscape architect Hermann Mattern.23 (Unfortunately only the latter’s study is available in English.) Other

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Introduction

relevant works in the field will only be referenced in the Endnotes, but this is not to suggest that they are of lesser importance. As might be expected, the field of architectural history focused on the National Socialist era is somewhat more extensive. Two of the most significant and senior architectural historians in this field are Hartmut Frank and Niels Gutschow.24 One of the main themes in Frank’s work is that more serious attention should be paid to the various manifestations of traditionalist architecture in early twentieth-century Germany, as a field of equal importance to the more familiar Weimar modernism. In his seminal 1985 essay, “What Language do the Stones Speak” (“Welche Sprache Sprechen die Steine”), for example, he argues that the virtues of architectural form may be analysed independently from the political rhetoric of the period, without detracting from political histories as such. Gutschow has covered a wide range of architectural topics in his writings. He takes an almost forensic approach to Nazi-era architecture and planning, the most important example of this being his book “Ordering Insanity” (Ordnungswahn), which concentrates on architecture and planning in the Auschwitz concentration camp complex, including the role of agriculture and horticulture. (As mentioned, while the camps later played a background role in the formation of new cultural landscapes, they are not included in this study in part because they relate more directly to the landscape planning of the later wartime period.) The classic study in the English language, not only for Nazi-era architecture but also for early twentieth-century German architecture in general, still remains the American historian Barbara Miller Lane’s 1968 book, Architecture and Politics in Germany, 1918–1945.25 Her book is so well-known that there is no need to summarize it here. In this context, however, it is worth highlighting her observation that different styles or modes of architectural expression were assigned to different building types. For example, factories were modernist and functionalist, while youth hostels were rustic and traditional. As an extension of this thesis, my own work shows that the different modes of architectural expression also corresponded to the various locations, conceived at the time as cultural landscapes. Among the newer studies of Nazi architecture and architects are Sebastian Tesch’s biography of Albert Speer, Timo Nüsslein’s biography of Paul Ludwig Troost, and Michael Früchtel’s biography of Hermann Giesler.26 Of these, only Früchtel’s work informed my initial thinking, as it had already been published when I began this project; the other two are nevertheless duly cited. Furthermore, I should note that my own work concentrates on the relationship between architecture and landscape, in contrast to most of these architectural and urban design studies. I am particularly indebted to Despina Stratigakos’ study, Hitler at Home, not because of the primary topic, but because she identified Karl Trampler as the ghostwriter for the important architectural treatise heretofore attributed to Gerdy Troost (widow of Paul Troost): “Building in the New Reich” (Das Bauen im Neuen Reich).27 In the context of Stratigakos’ study, Trampler was only a minor figure. However, my own research has demonstrated that he was unequivocally the author of this treatise, and was in fact a prolific writer on cultural landscape who produced

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many publications – for the most part anonymously. This is clearly one of the most important contributions of this study, with Trampler’s work decisively confirming the importance of cultural landscape to architectural thinking during the period. There are of course standard studies for all of the individual case studies included; here I will mention only three of these. For the autobahn, there is a veritable library of secondary studies available, which obviously cannot be listed in full. Clearly the most relevant work on the autobahn in relation to this study is Thomas Zeller’s, Driving Germany: The Landscape of the German Autobahn, 1930–1970.28 In part because Zeller discusses landscape architecture as a profession, I have shifted my own focus towards the geopolitical dimension. My study additionally includes the three scenic highways of the period – the Alpine Road, the Bavarian East March Road, and the Sudeten Road – which were all of geopolitical significance. My chapter on the autobahn is also meant to show how it was perceived as a monumental work, which provided the matrix for the Nazi cultural landscape on a national scale; it is not intended to be read separately as a stand-alone study of the autobahn. Another architectural phenomenon of the period, the thingstead (Thingplatz), a type of full-immersion Nazi-era outdoor theater, is extensively covered by the historian Rainer Stommer in his survey on the topic; this remains the standard reference work.29 Stommer’s research allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of the functioning of the sites in the final chapter; to his research, I have added new historic details at the level of the individual case studies. On the Sea Resort for the 20,000 at Prora on Rügen Island, the definitive study is Jürgen von Rostock’s, “Ruins of Paradise,” although a number of other historians have also written about this site, including Stommer.30 My research is the first to identify the primary landscape architect at Prora, Theodor Nussbaum, and to discuss the importance of his comprehensive landscape plan for the site, and how it was implemented. The fact that other historians have not really comprehended the importance of the landscape planning for this monumental site provides further evidence that the relationship between architecture and landscape in this period remains comparatively underexamined. Several scholarly works have recently appeared that are focused on the importance of geography to the Nazi era, and undoubtedly more are to come; this study is conceived in part as a contribution to this body of new work.An excellent overview of this field is provided by the collection of essays edited by Paolo Giaccaria and Claudio Minca: Hitler’s Geographies.31 The introductory chapter by these two authors clearly demonstrates the importance of geopolitics to the thinking and practices of this era, which further reinforces the core points of this study. One publication stands out for its similarities to this one, the book Building Nazi Germany: Place, Space, Architecture, and Ideology, by the geographers Joshua Hagen and Robert Ostergren.32 They show how a wide variety of architectural types and programs were distributed within the new internal administrative and geopolitical order, such as the new Gau districts. However, while these authors provide general descriptions of the buildings, there is only minimal discussion of the immediate landscape, or of the cultural landscape as a geopolitical construct. Both of these studies may thus

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be seen as being complementary, with mine more strongly focused on architectural and landscape design principles.These studies also clearly demonstrate the timeliness of geopolitics and National Socialism as a research field, whether concentrated on politics, architecture, landscape, or all of these. Finally, Hannah Arendt’s classic work, On the Origins of Totalitarianism, is cited at key points throughout my own study.33 One of the main themes in Arendt’s essay is political mendacity, that is, how totalitarian regimes construct “lying” worlds as a means of manipulating populations and gaining total control. Because of the recent turn of events in international history, Arendt’s book has become of great interest to those who are trying to understand and even combat such insidious developments.34 However, even at the time Arendt was heavily criticized, especially for her argument that totalitarianism represents an entirely new political paradigm.35 Yet some contemporary scholars have defended her analyses in great depth, for example Anthony Court (whose work I cite in the Endnotes). From my perspective, Arendt’s work on lying and deception may be directly linked to cultural landscape, as a means of showing how the latter was exploited to create an illusory reality, as a kind of lived propagandistic environment that concretized Party ideology. The primary topics in my investigation are cultural landscape and architecture; my intention here is not to establish a new position in Holocaust studies, but rather to try to open wider conversations about cultural landscape in different political contexts. In conclusion, I would like my study to be considered in light of the old canon: “the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.” Although all of these sites are well-known and documented, prior to this they have not been presented together as a special group identified at the time as being “landscape-oriented,” in other words, as conscious manifestations of blood and soil philosophy. In order to provide a theoretical framework, the first chapter introduces the interrelated topics of geopolitics and cultural landscape, and points to how these inf luenced architectural thinking. Readers are invited to keep this background in mind when reading about the individual sites. I also hope that this work will contribute to further studies of architecture and landscape in relation to geography, not only in Nazi-era Germany, but universally.

Notes 1 The semantic and conceptual relationship between the terms “nation” and “state” is fraught. For example, Hannah Arendt believed that in the dictatorship phase preceding totalitarianism, the nation had already taken over the state, with the nation understood as the “people” in a populist sense. On Arendt: Anthony Court, Hannah Arendt’s Response to the Crisis of Her Times (Amsterdam: Pretoria: UNISA Press, 2008), 98, 110–111. The late nineteenth-century and early twentieth century writers whom I cite in Chapter 1 used the term “Staat” which I have translated as “state;” they of course would not have been aware that rightwing populism would become virulent after World War One. (See Chapter 1, note 11.) 2 Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1976), 353. I have relied upon three secondary sources on Arendt: Anthony Court,

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10 11 12 13 14

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Hannah Arendt’s Response; Margaret Canovan, “Arendt’s Theory of Totalitarianism: A Reassessment,” in: Dana Villa, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); Roy T. Tsao, “The Three Phases of Arendt’s Theory of Totalitarianism,” Social Research Vol. 69, 2 (2002): 579–619. Court’s analyses are the most comprehensive of these. “Fictitious world” and variants thereof are frequently used by Arendt, e.g., Arendt, 364. Court, 148. Arendt, 470. Ibid., 470. These contemporary biologists argue that the concept of race itself is entirely invalid from a biological standpoint: Martin S. Fischer, Uwe Hoßfeld, Johannes Krause, and Stefan Richter, “The Jena Declaration. Jena, Haeckel and the Question of Human Races, or, Racism Creates Races,” trans. David H. Haney, Annals of the History and Philosophy of Biology, 24 (2019): 91–124. Historic Sources: August Winnig, Das Reich als Republik 1918–1928 (Stuttgart: Berlin: Gotta’sche Buchhandlung, 1929); Max Wundt, Was heißt völkisch? (Langensalza: Hermann Beyer & Söhne, 1925). Contemporary sources: Anna Bramwell, Blood and Soil: Walther Darré and Hitler’s ‘Green Party’ (Abbotsbrook: The Kensal Press, 1985); Gustavo Corni, and Horst Gies, Blut und Boden: Rassenideologie und Agrarpolitik im Staat Hitlers (Idstein: Verlag Dr. Ullrich Schulz-Kirchner, 1994). Key work on “national community”: Michael Wildt, Volk, Volksgemeinschaft, AfD (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 2017), see for example: 59, 63, 66; in English: Michael Wildt, Hitler’s Volksgemeinschaft and the Dynamics of Racial Exclusion (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012). On such “scientificality” see: Court, 135–136. Arendt, 310–311. On geopolitics in general see: Saul Bernard Cohen, Geopolitics: The Geography of International Relations (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2009). Court, 120–121. I am alluding to the term Machtergreifung, which translates directly as “seizure of power.” Both the German term and the English translation have been in common use for decades, but I am aware that some contemporary scholars think that this is misleading, and instead prefer Machtübernahme or “assumption of power.” I, however, do not share this viewpoint, and believe that this is a personal political decision. For examples of the use of Machtergreifung or “seizure of power” see: Court, 74, and Peter D. Stachura, ed., The Nazi Machtergreifung (Abingdon (UK): Routledge, 2016). See for example: Alon Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor (Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1997), 15 ff; Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 13. I have translated “Reichskommissar für die Festigung deutschen Volkstums” as “Reich Commissioner for the Consolidation of Germandom,” using “consolidation” rather than “strengthening,” because I think the former has clearer political and geographic connotations, and is therefore closer to the original; I have used “Germandom” rather than “the German Nation,” because I believe the former has more of the racist connotations of the original, than the latter which sounds closer to a neutral political body – which is exactly what this did not mean. That this body was directed specifically at consolidation is precisely my point. There is a substantial amount of secondary material available on these topics: Niels Gutschow, Ordnungswahn: Architekten planen im “Eingedeutschten Osten” 1939–1945 (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2001); Czesław Madajczyk, ed., Vom Generalplan Ost zum Generalsiedlungsplan (Munich: Saur, 1994); Mechtild Rössler, ed. Der “Generalplan Ost” (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1993); Bruno Wasser, Himmlers Raumplanung im Osten: Der Generalplan Ost in Polen 1940–1944 (Basel: Birkhäuser, 1993); Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, “Gewalt als

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Grundlage nationalsozialistischer Stadt- und Landschaftsplanung in den “eingegliederten Ostgebieten,” in: Rössler, “Generalplan Ost,” 328–338. Standard biography on Wiepking: Ursula Kellner, “Heinrich Friedrich Wiepking (1891–1973): Leben, Lehre und Werk” (PhD diss., University of Hanover, 1998). On the new “village landscapes” see: Michael A. Hartenstein, Neue Dorflandschaften: Nationalsozialistische Siedlungsplanung in den ‘eingegliederten Ostgebieten’ 1939–1944 (Berlin: Dr Köster, 1998). In the original the Nazi-era designation, “Ostmark,” meaning Austria. Werner Jochmann, Adolf Hitler Monologe im Führerhauptquartier 1941–1944 (Hamburg: Knaus, 1980) 407–409 (my translation); cited in: Kristin Semmens, Seeing Hitler’s Germany (Basingstoke: New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005) 169–170. Semmens uses the English translation from: Hitler’s Table Talk, 1941–1944, third ed., trans. Norman Cameron and R. H. Stevens (New York: 2000) 717. In Table Talk, “landscape beauties” (landschaftliche Schönheiten) is oddly translated as “beauty spots,” thus the significance of Hitler’s use of the adjectival form of the word “landscape” is missed entirely. In this monologue, Hitler is also recorded as mentioning the Rhineland landscape, and other areas such as the Black Forest and the Harz mountains. In addition to Semmens’ study, another critical work on Nazi-era tourism: Rudy Koshar, German Travel Cultures (Oxford: Berg, 2000), 115–159. Both of these studies have informed my own, but I do not believe that either of them expressly make the points related to territorial consolidation and expansion that I do here. For such arguments see for example the heavily illustrated propaganda volumes: Friedrich Heiss and Waldemar Wucher, eds., Böhmen und Mähren (Amsterdam: Berlin: Prague: Vienna: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1943); Friedrich Heiss, Das Böhmen und Mähren-Buch, Volkskampf und Reichsraum (Amsterdam: Berlin: Prague: Vienna: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1943). Their two most important pioneering works: Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Buhlmann, Der Drang nach Osten: zur Entwicklung der Landespflege im Nationalsozialismus und während des 2. Weltkrieges in den “eingegliederten Ostgebieten” (Munich: Minerva, 1987); Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, Natur in Bewegung: zur Bedeutung natur- und freiraumorientierte Bewegungen der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts für die Entwicklung der Freiraumplanung (Munich: Minerva-Publ., 1986). A partial list of their other relevant works: Gert Gröning, ‘Teutonic Myth, Rubble, and Recovery: Landscape Architecture in Germany,’ in: Marc Treib, ed., The Architecture of Landscape, 1940–1960 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 120– 53; Gert Gröning and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, ‘Der Kommende Garten: Zur Diskussion über die Gartenarchitektur in Deutschland seit 1900,’ Garten+Landschaft, 3 (1988), 47–54, 56; Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, ‘Changes in the philosophy of garden architecture in the 20th century and their impact upon the social and spatial environment,’ Journal of Garden History, 09, 2 (1989), 53–70; Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, Grüne Biographien: biographisches Handbuch zur Landschaftsarchitektur des 20. Jahrhunderts in Deutschland (Berlin: Patzer, 1997); Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, ‘Zum Verhältnis von Landschaftsplanung und Nationalsozialismus. Dargestellt an Entwicklungen während des Zweiten Weltkriegs in den “eingegliederten Ostgebieten,”‘ in: Stiftung Naturschutzgeschichte, ed., Naturschutz hat Geschichte (Essen: Klartext, 2003), 163– 91; Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, Auf der Suche nach Arkadien: zu Landschaftsidealen und den Formen der Naturaneignung in der Jugendbewegung und ihrer Bedeutung für die Landespflege (München: Minerva, 1990); Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, ‘Gärten, Natur und völkische Ideologie,’ in: Rainer Hering, ed., Die Ordnung der Natur: Vorträge zu historischen Gärten und Parks in Schleswig-Holstein (Hamburg: Hamburg University Press, 2009), 143–87. (I have cited additional work by them in the Endnotes.) See for example: Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, “The National Socialist Garden and Landscape Ideal: Bodenständigkeit (rootedness in the soil),”

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25 26

27 28 29 30

31 32

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in: Richard A. Etlin, ed., Art, Culture, and Media under the Third Reich (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002): 73–97. Charlotte Reitsam, Das Konzept der “bodenständigen Gartenkunst” Alwin Seiferts: fachliche Hintergründe und Rezeption bis in die Nachkriegszeit (Frankfurt Main: Lang, 2001); Ursula Kellner, “Heinrich Friedrich Wiepking (1891–1973): Leben, Lehre und Werk,” (PhD diss., University of Hanover, 1998). Vroni Hampf-Heinrich, Hermann Mattern: Gärten, Landschaften, Bauten, Lehre (Berlin: Technical University, 2013); Lars Hopstock, “Hermann Mattern (1902–1971),” (PhD diss., University of Sheffield, 2015). Hartmut Frank, ed., Faschistische Architekturen: Planen und Bauen in Europa 1930 bis 1945 (Hamburg: Christians, 1985), particularly his seminal essay therein: Hartmut Frank, “Welche Sprache sprechen die Steine,” 7–21. Niels Gutschow, Ordnungswahn: Architekten planen im “Eingedeutschten Osten” 1939–1945 (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2001). Although the agricultural experiments at the concentration camps mentioned by Gutschow were intended to support landscape planning in the East, the “cultural landscapes” of the camps were not meant for public consumption, and thus do not belong to the public monuments considered here. Barbara Miller Lane, Architecture and Politics in Germany, 1918–1945 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). Sebastian Tesch, Albert Speer (1905–1981) (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2016); Timo Nüßlein, Hitlers Architekten: Paul Ludwig Troost (Vienna and Cologne: Weimar: Böhlau, 2012); Michael Früchtel, Der Architekt Hermann Giesler: Leben und Werk (1898–1987) (Tübingen: Edition Altavilla, 2008). Despina Stratigakos, Hitler at Home (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2015); Gerdy Troost, Das Bauen im Neuen Reich. Vol. 1 (1938) Vol. 2 (1943) (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayerische Ostmark). Thomas Zeller, Driving Germany: The Landscape of the German Autobahn, 1930–1970, trans. Thomas Dunlap, (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2007). Rainer Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft: die “Thing-Bewegung” im Dritten Reich (Marburg: Jonas Verlag, 1985). Jürgen von Rostock, and Franz Zadniček, Paradiesruinen. Das KdF-Seebad der Zwanzigtaudsend auf Rügen (Berlin: Links, 2001); Rainer Stommer, “Prora auf Rügen: Architektur für den Massentourismus der 1930er Jahre,” in: Bundesamt für Bauwesen und Raumordnung, ed., Bau und Raum, Building and Regions Annual (2005), published separately as excerpt/Sonderdruck in German and English, n.p. Paolo Giaccaria, and Claudio Minca, Hitler’s Geographies: The Spatialities of the Third Reich (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2016). Joshua Hagen, and Robert Ostergren, Building Nazi Germany: Place, Space, Architecture, and Ideology (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2020). I was only made aware of their book in August, 2021, by an anonymous reviewer of my own manuscript, and am very grateful for this reference. (I began writing this book in 2015–2016 while on a Leverhulme Fellowship in Berlin.) Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1976); I have purposefully avoided citing other post-WWII theoretical writings, again in order to avoid over-complication. However, I have based my discussions of Arendt on Antony Court’s analyses in particular, without citing him directly in the text, for the same reason. See for example this relatively recent article: Zoe Williams, “Totalitarianism in the Age of Donald Trump: Lessons from Hannah Arendt,” The Guardian (February 1, 2017), www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/feb/01/totalitarianism-in-age-donald -trump-lessons-from-hannah-arendt-protests Court rigorously defends Arendt throughout his book. On her early critics see for example: Court, 54.

1 FROM RATZEL TO HITLER Biographical Influences, Geopolitics, and Cultural Landscape

The interrelated concepts of geopolitics (Geopolitik) and cultural landscape (Kulturlandschaft) first gained prominence in German geographic discourse in the late nineteenth century. During this period, the fields of biology and anthropology were exerting an increasing inf luence on geography, and the conceptual relationship between geopolitics and cultural landscape was born of this interdisciplinary intersection. Geopolitics as practical theory was assuming greater political importance at the same time, due largely to new German colonization efforts (especially in Africa). Cultural landscape was a subordinate concept within geopolitical discourse and was used as an illustrative device, even when it was not referred to by this term. At the same time, conservative nationalism and continental imperialism were also on the rise, not insignificant factors for German geographers. The intellectual inf luence of this period continued in Germany until the end of World War Two. A genealogical line of geopolitical thinking can be traced from the late nineteenth-century geographer Friedrich Ratzel to the early twentieth-century conservative Swede Rudolf Kjellén, to the German army general who became a geographer in the interwar period, Karl Haushofer. Haushofer was the main figure to promote the field of geopolitics during the Nazi era and even had direct contact to Hitler via his right-hand man Rudolf Hess.1 Although Hitler was no great intellectual, he was a master at simplifying complex ideas for mass-consumption by a rightwing populist audience; geopolitics was a central theme in his two-volume work, Mein Kampf.2 Paradoxically perhaps, in respect to geopolitics and cultural landscape, the Nazi era represented both a radical break and a continuation, that is, general concepts were passed on, but were instrumentalized for ideological purposes – eventually in support of an oppressive totalitarian regime.3 Thus, the exploitation of these concepts in the Nazi era can be more fully understood through this broader historic context. DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-2

From Ratzel to Hitler

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The transmission of biopolitical and geopolitical ideas from geography into mass culture via a wide range of popular sources, including rightwing ideology, was an even more important conceptual inf luence on the design fields than the original academic publications. (Indeed, Hitler’s “great” work, Mein Kampf, was truly a bestseller.) One popular expression related to biopolitics and geopolitics among ultra-conservatives following World War One was “blood and soil,” a pseudo-scientific coupling referring to the belief that the German race had an intrinsic relationship with the soil. The concept of blood and soil is loosely related to earlier studies of biology and geography by the geographers Ratzel and Kjellén, but it was interpreted by Nazi-era critics and designers in a literal or even naive manner. Another important term found in both academic and popular discourse was “Heimat” (homeland), which was used almost interchangeably with “cultural landscape,” although with broader connotations. As a less academic, more emotionally resonant term, Heimat could be used to refer to the cultural landscape, as well as to a perceived existential need to be rooted in the soil, as a means of deeply identifying with one’s own home territory, from the scale of village to nation. In the Nazi era, this bond was expressly linked to racial ideology. In relation to design, Heimat was also used as a rallying cry for the preservation of historic landscapes and buildings, as well as the adaptation of traditional land management and construction technics. Two important figures for the so-called Heimat preservation movement are of particular relevance here: Paul Schultze-Naumburg, and Alwin Seifert. Schultze-Naumburg was an architect and design critic, who had begun his career as a symbolist painter in the late nineteenth century. He continued to be highly inf luential, even after Hitler personally spurned him in the mid-1930s. Some of Schultze-Naumburg’s most important works on cultural landscape will be discussed in this chapter, and in fact he was connected to a number of the projects and people in this study, such was the level of his importance. The second protagonist, Seifert, was trained as an architect, but his greatest success was in the field of landscape design, where he propagated his idea of the “earthrooted” (bodenständig) garden, which drew upon blood and soil ideology. Yet there is a clear geographical component to his thinking, as will be discussed. Of course, there were many other critics and designers engaged with cultural landscape and architecture during the period, but these two are arguably the most significant. Surprisingly perhaps, the biographical chain of intellectual connections mentioned above, which includes the well-known figures Friedrich Ratzel and Karl Haushofer, concludes here with a virtually unknown geographer and writer, Karl Trampler, who was the ghostwriter for one of the most important architectural treatises of the period, “Building in the New Reich” (Bauen im Neuen Reich). While the widow of the Nazi architect Paul Troost, Gerdy, is credited as the “editor” (Herausgeber), in fact the entire work was conceived and written by Trampler. His text focuses on the relationship between Heimat, or cultural landscape, and architectural production in the Third Reich, which is celebrated

22

From Ratzel to Hitler

for its allegedly unique, landscape-oriented approach. Trampler himself is significant for his own geopolitical writing and personal connection to Haushofer, but most importantly here, his treatise captures the design thinking of the day in relation to Nazi political ideology like none other in this period. No other historical studies up to this point have recognized the importance of the geographic concepts in his treatise. Firstly because Trampler acted as a ghostwriter and secondly because the connection to geographic concepts, like cultural landscape to architecture, has not been adequately grasped in the post-war period. This chapter aims to address this lack of understanding as a general historiographic problem, while providing the conceptual framework for approaching the case studies to be presented anon.

Friedrich Ratzel’s Anthropological and Political Geographies The Nazi-era usage of both the terms “cultural landscape” and “geopolitics” can be traced back to the late nineteenth-century German geographer Friedrich Ratzel. Cultural landscape was an older term coined by the geographer Carl Ritter in the early nineteenth century, yet Ratzel was more successful in propagating it, even when he appealed more often to the concept than the exact wording.4 And while the Swedish political scientist Rudolf Kjellén first coined the specific term “geopolitics” in the early twentieth century, he consciously based this category upon earlier writings by his mentor Ratzel. It is reasonable to assert that in Germany before 1945, anyone putting forth a theoretical geographic position would have been reacting to Ratzel in some way. One of the reasons for Ratzel’s importance was that he was an extremely prolific writer, who actually began his career as a popular journalist. At the height of his career at the end of the nineteenth century, Germany was involved in colonial exploration and occupation in Africa and elsewhere, and Ratzel was fully in support of this project. He was conservative in the Wilhelminian era sense, and many of his writings were received at the popular level.These are some of the reasons that his name continued to be cited in a wide variety of literature through to the Nazi era. Here, selected citations from his works will be analyzed in relation to cultural landscape, geopolitics, and tourism, the latter presented as the informed pursuit of the German Heimat. In his two-volume work, “Anthropo-geography” (Anthropogeographie), Ratzel endeavored to establish methods of analyzing geographical space that would literally ground human culture on the surface of the entire earth, for one of his main purposes was to situate anthropological studies within geographic space. When he introduced “cultural landscape” in this work in 1891, he obviously considered it an established term. However, he argues for its use as a statistical tool for studying less developed cultures, for example, population density is indicated by evidence of human settlement and cultivation.5 With the German colonial project standing implicitly in the background, he suggests that areas with fewer people necessarily would show less evidence of “culture,” in contrast to highly developed cultures and landscapes in countries like Germany itself.6 Later in this volume, Ratzel

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claims that this phenomenon is most accurately referred to as “historic landscape,” so at that point cultural landscape was not his preferred term. A few years later in his 1897 study, “Political Geography” (Politische Geographie), Ratzel systematically outlined a comprehensive method of situating human culture in relation to politically defined territory. In one particular passage, he celebrates the importance of cultural landscape specifically: Cultural work [Kulturarbeit]. Through the work of cultural heroes [Kulturheroen], changes made to the soil as part of the culture result in a mythopoetic formation. The soil that has been cultivated “from wild roots” expresses this transformation of life as a whole. Swampy areas are drained, forests cleared, lands surveyed and apportioned for permanent cultivation and fixed ownership, roads built, river mouths converted into harbors, temples built on heights, and cities laid out. To have conjured up a cultural landscape [Kulturlandschaft] from out of the natural landscape can only be seen as a heroic achievement – the cumulative, collective, and intense work of forebears and ancient ancestors, which can only be comprehended as an act of creation.7 This passage was also presented in the context of colonial settlement. “Cultural work” here meant the establishment of culture as part of an overall process, presumably in a less civilized territory. This cultural work was not merely a mundane activity but the labor of cultural “heroes,” and the cultural landscape thus produced was not purely utilitarian but rather signified the mythopoetic. Outside of the colonial context, this understanding of the mythopoetic cultural landscape could apply equally well to the German homeland. By implication, in either context the heroic achievement was that of Europeans establishing their culture on the land, as a means of claiming territory. Ratzel notes that in fact, the creation of the cultural landscape through the clearing of the land and the building of infrastructure was a more effective means of establishing power than more severe, episodic military interventions. For Ratzel this was both a cultural and a biological problem at the same time. Because he was not thinking of geographical areas as being simple two-dimensional maps, but rather of the earth as a biological entity in itself, the nature of this new synthetic way of thinking facilitated additional levels of interpretation: Every state is a fragment of humanity and a fragment of earth. The human cannot be conceived without the ground and thus neither can the greatest work of humans on the earth, the state. When we speak of a state, just as with a city or a road, we always mean a fragment of humanity or a human work and at the same time a piece of ground. The state must live from the ground [Boden].8 In German the word Boden may mean soil, ground, land, and territory.9 Ratzel of course would have been aware of this and the multivalence of this term actually

24

From Ratzel to Hitler

reinforced his point.10 In this equation, the state and the piece of earth on which it is grounded may be perceived in a literal one-to-one relationship.11 In this work, he presents a different argument than in his previous anthropological study, shifting the emphasis towards the biological imperative as the assumed basis of political geography: The state is for us an organism…not merely because it is a connection between the living people and the immobile earth, but because this connection strengthens itself through reciprocation to the extent that both become one, and can no longer be thought of separately from one another, without the life f lowing away.12 Appealing to the scientific authority of the new field of biology, the state was to be understood as a biological entity in symbiotic relationship with the earth, which was itself both biological substrate and territory. Although Ratzel’s arguments are presented as being entirely rational and scientific, it is not difficult to see how the path was opened towards a more mystical understanding of the union of a people and its land. Ostensibly, Ratzel is not making any mystical allusions but rather scientifically observing the evidence provided by human culture in general. He is arguing for a biological understanding, but the spatial implications of cultural production remain a primary emphasis: The customs of communal life further bind not only the elements of a people with one another, but also with the soil, in which the remains of past generations are embedded. From out of this develop religious relationships with holy places, which often weave stronger bonds than the simple custom or collective effort.13 Here Ratzel has moved from a general biological observation to the consideration of the summative effect of generations of humans leaving behind artifacts on the earth’s surface, as well as within the soil itself. This connection was material, spatial, and cultural, leading naturally towards the spiritual. Time, or history, was also important in this process of the production of cultural landscape. But the cultural landscape was now synonymous with the surface of the earth, as well as what lay immediately below it. All of this could be considered as the physical evidence of the state, in a fusion with the people who continued to live in a given spatial area and upon its soil. The social implications of Ratzel’s Darwinian world view are also implicitly clear. Ratzel makes a number of anti-urban remarks in his writings, which are of a piece with this observation: “The simpler and more direct the connection of the state with its soil, the healthier is its life and growth at all times.”14 While Ratzel is not directly arguing for the importance of the German farmer, later Nazi-era rhetoric could be linked to this line of thinking.15 Another critical

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term coined by Ratzel, “living space” (Lebensraum), has come to be associated primarily with Nazi ideology, particularly in support of the territorial conquest of countries to the east. Living space quite literally refers to the physical space on the earth’s surface that any particular organism needs to survive and thrive; one common translation of Lebensraum is “habitat,” depending upon the context. Evolution as the survival of the fittest was not only driven by the species itself but also by the way that the species was able to appropriate space for immediate and future use. While a direct line of intellectual development may be drawn from Ratzel’s writings to those of Hitler and his inner circle, one should be careful not to judge or assess Ratzel and his work solely on that basis. Ratzel’s writings also may be taken at face value as an argument for the consideration of ecological factors on a geographic scale, yet in relation to nations and governments.16 In a small book that he published in 1898 titled “Germany: An Introduction to Heimat Studies” (Deutschland: Einführung in die Heimatkunde), Ratzel turned to the problem of the cultural landscape of the German nation. The continuous illustration running from the back to front book cover depicted the thematic outline of the book rendered as picturesque scenery: the German cultural landscape divided into three sections, beginning with the coastal plains to the north, followed by the central mountain ranges, and concluding with the Alps to the south (Figure 1.1). The scene faced east, towards the rising sun, perhaps another symbolic gesture. In his text, Ratzel presented the regions of the German Heimat

FIGURE 1.1

Cover of Ratzel’s book “Germany” showing the three characteristic German cultural landscapes.

26 From Ratzel to Hitler

following these geographic designations, at the scale of the entire country. This book was not a guidebook providing directions to important sights but more of a compendium detailing the various implications of cultural landscape, which was to serve as a popular educational text: In an age when for many Germans there are no more foreign countries, and many of our countrymen are travelling to non-European countries rather than within the Heimat, one must intensify the knowledge of the fatherland. A familiarity, such as the child has with their father’s house, must be the goal of Heimat studies. Above all Germans must know what they have in their country. The following work derives from the conviction that this goal may only be achieved when one shows how the soil and the people belong to one another.17 If the soil and the people belong to one another, then Germans must learn that they belong to the fatherland, and in order to achieve this, they needed to cultivate a familiarity with the cultural geography of their own country. The Heimat, as a cultural construction, was not only defined by monuments or traditional buildings set in beautiful landscapes. Rather, for Ratzel the German Heimat was also a political entity, and the two readings of the national territory were not mutually exclusive. He included discussions of how the topography of the country affected trade routes as well as military strategy and defense. For example, he pointed out in great detail that because Hamburg was the most significant international port for the country, German commercial and military ships had to pass through a relatively narrow water body between the Netherlands and Britain.18 In this era of intense national competition, Ratzel did not simply write his Heimat study to praise Germany’s beauties or strengths but also to point to the vulnerability of the nation owing to its position on the continent. An implied military and economic agenda is subtly joined to the discussion of cultural landscape. Here the study of Heimat was not merely about the preservation of traditional culture but also the economic development and defense of the country. While his Heimat study was not a travel guidebook as such, Ratzel later penned a journal article in 1901 supporting this genre, dedicated to the wellestablished Baedeker Guides (published in Leipzig, where he was a professor).19 Ratzel predicted that a future “cultural historian” would give these travel handbooks a “high ranking” among “the sources for cultural history and popular psychology.”20 Baedeker guides provided not only practical information but also gave some sense as to the cultural and scientific importance of any given region. For Ratzel, it was important that tourism not be merely about pleasure but more importantly about informed, purposive observation of the places visited and the customs of their inhabitants. His serious geographical studies could inform this manner of educated travel and thus contribute to the solidification of the collective sense of German identity. In relation to the Hitler monologue discussed in the introduction, this shows that the idea of Germans needing to become acquainted with their Heimat in order to be better citizens did not originate

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with the Nazis. But as with many other cultural phenomena, they recognized how they could exploit tourism in support of their ideological and political ends.

The Swedish Political Scientist Rudolf Kjellén and His Term Geopolitics Ratzel’s work continued to exert great influence and be interpreted long after his death in 1904. One of his most important followers was Rudolf Kjellén, a member of Swedish parliament and an academic political scientist. Most significantly for this current study, Kjellén coined the term “geopolitics” (Geopolitik) within a comprehensive study of the state, described in his 1916 book, “The State as Life-Form” (Der Staat als Lebensform), first translated from Swedish into German in 1917. Kjellén had studied at the university in Gothenburg in Germany and was fundamentally influenced by the writings of Ratzel. The contracted term “geopolitics” succinctly referred to the relationship between geography and politics in a memorable manner, so much so that it is still in use today (even though he is now a relatively obscure figure). However, Kjellén intended this term to have specific connotations within his system. Much of his writing recalls Ratzel but is even more emphatic, such as this passage on the relationship between physical territory and the sovereign state: The state cannot move. It has its fixed dwelling place and its homeland rights, in contrast to the rambling nomadic hordes, and furthermore on a particular, permanently determined ground. It is bound to its soil, and dies if it is torn away from it. It is a “serf” of the territory. Let us imagine that the occupants of Sweden with the monarchs and the flag at the forefront, along with their entire moveable culture, migrated in order to settle in another climate – we couldn’t take Sweden with us; behind us, the Swedish state would lay dead.21 Kjellén informs the reader rather dramatically that the relationship between the state and the soil upon which it exists is so strong that the state would “die” if its people departed and settled elsewhere.22 By implication, the defense of a territory is a matter of life and death, for the culture of a given people could not exist in the same form on any other soil. The relationship between the land as cultural artifact and the geopolitical unit of the sovereign state, in this case Sweden, could not be more imperative, nor more literal. Although he doesn’t mention the term “cultural landscape,” this is clearly what he is alluding to, following Ratzel’s understanding. Here again, the biological component in this equation is even more explicit than in Ratzel’s formulation, for Kjellén directly applies an ecological analogy to the life of the state: We recognize a society here that is comparable to plant societies, e.g. the forest: the state cannot hang in the air, like the forest it is bound to a particular area of ground from which it draws its nutrition, and under its surface the roots of individual trees are intertwined.23

28 From Ratzel to Hitler

Although the coupled term “blood and soil” may not have yet been coined at this time, this kind of thinking clearly points the way to the pairing of race with the native land, and the connection to social Darwinism is also not difficult to discern here. Indeed, Kjellén’s writings on race presage the thinking of the far-right in Germany in the 1920s. In another section of his book, “The State as People (Ethnopolitics),” Kjellén informs the reader that: “One certainly cannot deny the possibility that if it [racial theory] is affirmed in future, then once the types of sovereign state are increased, it will yet play a real political role in this way.”24 In other words, the current form, the nation state, could be composed of many different races. But in future, a new type of state could arise that was based primarily on race, clearly a desirable outcome for him. In the final section of his book, “Politics as Science,” Kjellén observes that every sovereign state has its own unique collective personality, represented as a totality in negotiations with other states, or in the theater of war, for example. It is also not difficult to imagine that following this logic, the state could be represented by a specific personality, in the form of a real person. While it would not be entirely correct to equate Ratzel’s nineteenth-century nationalism with twentieth-century fascism, with Kjellén the connection is much closer conceptually, not only chronologically. Thus, it is unsurprising that a variant of Kjellén’s system of geopolitics was propagated in Germany during the Nazi era. Through his analyses describing the state as a life-form, he established connections between cultural landscape, geopolitics, and biological and racial theory, with the cultural landscape being the most esthetically susceptible of these conceptual categories.

The Fraught Pattern of Infuence from Ratzel to Kjellén to Haushofer to Hitler Another of Ratzel’s most fanatical disciples was the World War One German army general turned geographer Karl Haushofer, who tried to influence Nazi ideology with varying degrees of success, ultimately ending in rejection.25 The biographical connections here are undeniable. Ratzel had been one of the founders of the conservative nationalistic Pan-German League (Alldeutscher Verband), and Haushofer’s father knew all of the leading figures in the organization. More significantly, Ratzel was frequently a guest in the home of Haushofer’s parents.26 It is thought that the younger Haushofer would have become personally acquainted with Ratzel’s ideas through this connection. To continue with the biographical narrative, one of Hitler’s earliest confidants, his deputy Rudolf Hess, had been Haushofer’s student at Munich University, and the two became very close. This much is certain.27 Some historians assert that Hitler became acquainted with the works of Ratzel when he was introduced to Haushofer by Hess while Hitler and Hess were both incarcerated at Landsberg in the early 1920s. Haushofer later claimed that he had brought Hitler a copy of Ratzel’s “Political Geography,” as proof of his own critical influence on the writing of Mein Kampf.28 Yet a number of other historians argue that Hitler could have received similar ideas about territory and politics from any number of early twentieth-century conservative writers.29 The truth perhaps lies somewhere in

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between. Hitler would have been introduced to Haushofer and to Ratzel’s work by Hess, but he clearly did not expand upon Ratzel’s theories in any rigorous manner in his own “magnum opus.” Haushofer certainly enjoyed a degree of professional and popular success in his promotion of the field of “geopolitics” as he redefined it. The founding moment of Haushofer’s version of geopolitics as an official field in Germany was the year 1924, when he and his colleagues first published the “Journal for Geopolitics” (Zeitschrift für Geopolitik).30 In that same year, the journal’s editors published a new German translation of Kjellén’s “The State as Life-Form,” claiming that this publication was the basis of their own collective work.31 However, Haushofer and his colleagues were primarily interested in the category of “geopolitics” as presented in Kjellén’s book, and they virtually ignored the other sections on economy and the welfare of the people, for example.32 They openly acknowledged Kjellén, but claimed to be the true propagators of the new field of geopolitics, and indeed they brought their own political agenda to the field. Both Haushofer and Kjellén were deeply committed to the study of the Darwinian aspect of Ratzel’s analyses. Haushofer embraced Kjellén’s proposal that the state was a kind of organism, with a collective, supra-individuality, which Haushofer and his colleagues believed could be thought to have a personality like the single individual, only with much greater power.33 Despite the fact that all spaces of the globe were potential objects of study, Haushofer’s “applied discipline” of geoscience was largely oriented towards the restitution of lands lost by Germans after World War Two, as well as towards the acquisition of new lands and power, in Europe and throughout the world. Haushofer noted in 1927 in a book specifically dedicated to “border problems” that “border pressures and lack of space bear down with suffocating weight upon Europe’s interior.”34 In relation to Germany, he exclaimed that “a sovereign state must have borders that it can defend with its own power!”35 To achieve this, military action would have to be resorted to. Within his version of geopolitics, Haushofer exploited the term “defense geopolitics” (Wehrgeopolitik), as a branch dedicated to military preparedness and tactics. It was of central importance that defense geopolitics be developed as a field and that it be the basis of an education beginning with the local Heimat, subsequently expanding in scale to the entire German nation and beyond, to include the great political powers of the earth.36 Despite his reference to Heimat studies, Haushofer specifically rejected the cultural landscape analyses of another colleague in geography, Siegfried Passarge, as being irrelevant to geopolitics.37 Haushofer was interested less in geographic space as a cultural repository, for his entire system was conceived in the service of political goals, which were ultimately militaristic as well. However, Haushofer reprinted much of Ratzel’s writing, including some of his essays on cultural landscape.38 Unlike Ratzel’s work which still invites careful reading, Haushofer’s writing primarily holds significance for the National Socialist period. Haushofer never really embraced the racial implications of blood and soil thinking, and his relationship with the National Socialist establishment was problematic. One contemporary historian has concluded that Haushofer was “more of a journalist than a geographer” and further that he was

30 From Ratzel to Hitler

“obsessed by mysticism counter to any logic.”39 In any case, his personal connection to the National Socialist regime was not insignificant. In a book dedicated to the writings of Ratzel in 1940, Haushofer stated that “in Germany Rudolf Hess held his protective hand over the development of geopolitics, and declared geopolitical education a necessary component in the preparation of all the Führer’s political soldiers.”40 Hess himself identified “spatial politics” (Raumpolitik) as the “most serious task” of the [Nazi] movement, to which everything else was subordinated.41 Despite this, Haushofer and his followers in geopolitics did not initially support National Socialist war plans, although during World War Two they felt obliged to publicly support war efforts.42 After Hess made his infamous flight to Britain in 1942, Haushofer immediately ceased to have any further influence.43 While Haushofer’s formal relationship with the Nazi regime may have been problematic, he was nevertheless an important popular figure who exerted some influence on the culture of the era, even if sometimes indirectly, as shall be seen.

Geographic Connotations in Hitler’s Mein Kampf Hitler’s programmatic work, the two-volume Mein Kampf, drew upon a wide variety of inf luences, all deeply entangled within his convoluted prose. As to be expected, his rhetoric embraced the most extreme forms of social Darwinism, which he presented as simple “life lessons” that he had learned on his own. The book served the dual purpose of explaining Nazi philosophies on all levels for a popular readership, while at the same time giving “evidence” of Hitler’s sharp sense of judgment as a natural-born leader. Hitler claimed in the opening section on his youth that his favorite subjects had been geography and world history, on the one hand suggesting that he had an unusual talent for understanding these subjects, on the other indicating the importance that he wanted to attach to political geography in the minds of his readers.44 Whether or not Hitler ever actually read Ratzel’s (or Kjellén’s) writings, he certainly had absorbed the basic principle that the state was a biological organism dependent upon the land. In the first volume (1925) for example, we read that the healthy paradigm for the German state should be “a racial (völkische) organism.”45 Rather than the state being a “fragment of humanity” in Ratzel’s terms, for Hitler, “The masses are a part of nature…What they desire is the victory of the stronger, and the destruction of the weak, or their unconditional subordination.”46 Such rhetoric was easily connected to the need for living space (Lebensraum) and the corresponding expansion of territory. In the second volume in 1927, the Nazi geopolitical program was spelled out even more explicitly. Hitler, seeking to explain why Germany had lost World War One, identified the policy of concentrating on the acquisition of colonial territories outside of Europe as being a key cause of the downfall. Instead, the “correct way” would have been the “strengthening of continental power through the winning of new lands.”47 However, this would have required the approval of Britain or would have meant an enormous military effort lasting 40 or 50 years, necessitating the suspension of all cultural activities

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during this time. Yet despite these claims, the military and warfare itself would later be estheticized by the Nazi regime, so that these became forms of cultural production in themselves, in turn resulting in new types of landscapes. Although Hitler did not discuss cultural landscape as such, and believed that the term blood and soil was overused, the text of Mein Kampf suggests more than a slight underlying affinity with both.48 A professor of geography, Hans Schrepfer, writing in 1936 in his article “Landscape and Humans in the German Living Space” (“Landschaft und Mensch im deutschen Lebensraum”) cited a statement by Hitler from Mein Kampf, which he placed in the context of a larger discussion of the concept of cultural landscape: the Führer states that all of the cultures that Aryans have founded almost always are determined by the given soil and the given climate. And on the other hand, he [Hitler] emphasizes that: “The limited fertility of the living space [Lebensraum] may spur one race to the highest achievements, while for another only causes bitter poverty and perpetual undernourishment with all of the consequences. The inner disposition of the people always determines the extent of the impact of external forces. What leads to starvation with one, teaches the other to work hard.”49 Schrepfer claimed that Hitler understood that the environment affected the characteristics of “Aryan,” meaning authentic German culture, while at the same time recognizing that the German race had an innate ability to confront and overcome harsh environmental conditions. Here Hitler is referring to living space, another concept derived from Ratzel, but this was clearly the equivalent of territory, which Hitler also equated with landscape (as discussed in the introduction). For Hitler, cultural landscape was both the cultural determinant and the cultural product of the superior German race. This worldview generally would have been held in common within the Nazi Party milieu.

Two Key Related Terms: Heimat and “Blood and Soil” (Blut und Boden) As noted in the introduction, the term “Heimat” was used almost interchangeably with the term “cultural landscape.” Heimat (homeland) came into common use in the mid-nineteenth century against the background of rapid industrialization and urbanization.50 Heimat is still much discussed today as a specifically German concept that allegedly cannot be translated into other cultures; in this current study, it will only be considered in relation to cultural landscape and architecture. The term was used in the nineteenth century to refer to places considered to be “home,” such as rural villages and farms, where the families of many recently arrived urban dwellers had originated. The cultural productions of such places, from traditional costumes to household objects were collected in local Heimat museums. Heimat landscapes, such as valleys, villages, and even

32 From Ratzel to Hitler

entire regions were represented in images that could also be collected. During the consolidation process in the late nineteenth century, the ruling Prussians appealed to an image of the separate Heimat cultures all unified within the German fatherland, as a means of creating a new collective national identity. The Heimat cult also fueled the rise of tourism, which was recognized early on as a threat to the preservation of traditional culture. Heimat could have much more immediate emotional appeal than the more academic term cultural landscape but could still be used in a similar manner. The range of Heimat landscapes in Germany could be understood in scientific, geographic terms as Ratzel did, or on a more popular, naive level such as through collections of sentimental postcards and other souvenirs. Nazi propagandists realized the significance of Heimat to German regional and national identity, and of course exploited this in support of their own ideological and political goals. As we shall see, Heimat also literally and figuratively stood in the background of much Nazi architectural production. The biological connection of the nation to its land and soil as discussed by Ratzel and Kjellén came to be referred to by the coupled term “blood and soil” (Blut und Boden), which first gained currency at some point in the early 1920s.51 From the beginning, blood and soil stood specifically for the connection of the Germanic races to the land. This may be understood as a specific definition of Heimat in biological and thus racist terms. However, attempts to put forth rigorous arguments as to what blood and soil actually meant unintentionally exposed the inherent logical flaws within the pseudo-scientific basis of Nazi-era racial theories.52 To begin with, there was the problem of the myth that the German race had originated within a given territorial area, their Heimat, thought to be a particularly blessed environment that had directly determined the positive evolution of the race itself. The opposing argument, which Hitler alluded to in the citation above, was that because of their superior racial qualities, Germans could overcome and thrive in negative environments. The two arguments could not really be logically reconciled, but were often appealed to separately as suited the occasion. The so-called Nazi Farmers’ Leader, Walter Darré (1895–1952), was responsible for the popularization of this term among Nazi Party elite, primarily as an argument for supporting German farmers as the foundation of society. Since the German farmer had the closest relationship to the soil, he was the most authentic representative of German culture, as per Darré. The role of blood and soil in Nazi Party ideology rose and declined with Darré’s career; initially his own personal fall from grace meant that his ideas lost favor. Furthermore, once wartime conditions demanded greater industrial buildup, the emphasis on the German farmer naturally decreased, as did the mystic importance he placed upon the soil. Many architects, landscape architects, and cultural critics of the period literally translated blood and soil symbolism in concrete form. The emphasis on the soil, as in physically embedding buildings in the soil or using native plants and building materials actually began around 1900 before the term blood and soil had even been popularized, possibly inspired in part by the writings of Ratzel and others claiming that culture was rooted in the soil. This was interpreted to mean that healthy, culturally relevant buildings and landscapes would clearly

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represent this relationship. A series of related words were used to describe this, particularly bodenständig, which can be translated generically as “native,” as in “native plants,” or more literally as “earth-rooted,” following the tree metaphor. A bodenständig house and garden were in fact physically rooted in the soil, and culturally in the landscape. Another word which was more direct was landschaftsgebunden, which can be translated literally as “landscape-bound,” or more loosely as “landscape-oriented.” During the Nazi era, architectural works thought to stand in a harmonious relationship with their surroundings were referred to as being “landscape-oriented,” considered to be a high ideal. The soil even came to be fetishized as a material in itself, manifested in various ways, as shall be seen. This did not mean that the soil should not be touched, to the contrary, the act of embedding building complexes in the landscape often involved vast earthmoving work, regularly documented in glowing terms. In the 1920s, when modernist architecture achieved prominence at the same time that conservatives were beginning to use the catchphrase blood and soil, the landscape-oriented approach was often alleged to represent conservative as opposed to modernist design practice, but this was often a misleading oversimplification. In any case, because of the inf luence of Darré and others such as the Nazi ideologue Alfred Rosenberg, blood and soil symbolism, earth-rootedness, and landscape-oriented buildings became the order of the day. That is, until the abstract neoclassicism favored by the architect Albert Speer and others came to dominate in the late 1930s as an expression of territorial ambitions at the scale of empire. According to the popular understanding at the time, the biological relationship of culture and landscape was embodied in the life of the nation, through its people, in a similar manner to the logic of Ratzel and Kjellén. In Germany a term had evolved which was seized upon by the Nazis, the Volksgemeinschaft, which may be translated as “national community,” with “nation” here meaning the people as a whole.53 When it first arose at some point in the late nineteenth century, Volksgemeinschaft was intended as a kind of slogan to unite the German people across all class divides. But under the Nazis the term Volksgemeinschaft was redefined with explicit racial connotations, for it meant that the “people” were ethnic Germans. The different kinds of cultural landscapes could be symbolized by different types of people within the national community, with farmers representing farmland, fishermen the seashore, etc. However, monumental sites under the Nazis represented all of the people of the nation, at the highest level. Most of the monumental sites considered in this study were set within woodlands, thought to symbolize the original living space of ancient Germans, with the oak tree occupying the most noble position. These woodland sites were frequently described using allusions to Wagnerian operas and romanticera paintings, and thus were not seen as being raw nature by any means, unless this represented a sublimity that could be tied to the innate strength of the German race. Thus while only one important Nazi site was dedicated expressly to the German farmer (Bückeberg, see pp. 266–273) the cultural landscape as a manifestation of national territory and collective identity was an important component in all of the case studies included in this study.

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The Heimat Preservation Movement and Heimat Style Architecture Heimat was not just a reference to a feeling of home, nor to the physical cultural landscape on its own. The touristic pursuit of Heimat in the nineteenth century and its subsequent degradation led to a movement calling for its preservation, particularly the landscape, and eventually towards the formulation of a Heimatoriented approach to new architectural design, dubbed the “Heimat style” (Heimatstil). All of these developments lay in the background of Nazi-era architectural thinking. Understandably then, in the late nineteenth century, those with Heimat sensibilities would have reacted with great alarm to the destruction of buildings and landscapes. At the same time that the railroads were making even relatively remote places accessible to tourists, the rapid pace of industrialization also meant that the landscape was increasingly being consumed as raw material in the service of capitalist production, ironically resulting in the destruction of many of these same Heimat landscapes. What had once been a passive activity of collecting and remembering evolved into acts of resistance to rampant physical changes in the environment. The writings of one figure, the musicologist Ernst Rudorff, crystallized tendencies towards the preservation of traditional places. In an inf luential article of 1897, Rudorff introduced the important term Heimatschutz, which essentially means “Heimat preservation.”54 Rudorff ’s article was published at almost the same time as Ratzel’s “Heimat Studies,” suggesting that the time had arrived for systematic, nation-wide approaches to Heimat appreciation. Rudorff was born in Berlin in 1840 to a highly sophisticated family, whose circle of friends included the architect Friedrich Schinkel and the writer Bettina von Arnheim.55 Although he was born and raised in Berlin, from his childhood onwards he spent considerable time in his ancestral family home in the landscape of Lower Saxony near Hanover. Over the decades he observed and lamented the rapid changes to the landscape there, especially the channelization of a nearby stream, which destroyed the traditional picturesque scenery along with animal habitat.56 Rudorff did not develop the idea of Heimat preservation all at once, it arose gradually as he published opinion pieces on the destruction that he witnessed at the local level.57 He published his treatise “Heimat Preservation” (Heimatschutz) in 1901, which was soon to become the guiding text for the movement to bear the same name. Rudorff was neither a geographer nor an art historian but a cultured observer. Clearly, he approached the problem of Heimat preservation from an elitist perspective. In his treatise, he specifically called for the cultivation of traditional, authentic culture and was generally opposed to industrialization and capitalism, yet his concern was with the physical environment, not with social inequality. He observed that the two key destructive elements were neatly summed up in a remark he claimed to have heard firsthand: “There is a terrible truth embedded within the statement of one citizen of Laufenburg: ‘Either tourists or factories.’”58 Being an elitist, Rudorff had no sympathy for the mass

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tourism already in place in the late nineteenth century. He referred with derision to the “barracks for Englishmen” in Switzerland, meaning tourist hotels, and the accompanying “lawn tennis courts” as incongruous, foreign elements contrasting unpleasantly with the eternal snow-covered peaks in the background.59 There is no doubt that for Rudorff, Heimat preservation meant the protection of German culture specifically, in the face of the international homogenization of culture: The world not only becomes uglier, more artificial, and more Americanized every day, for with our rushing after and hunting for the illusions of supposed happiness every day, we also relentlessly undermine further and further the soil that supports us.60 The worst possible example of the degradation of traditional culture was represented by the new, multi-ethnic society of the US, which was not rooted in the soil as was traditional German Heimat culture. Following Rudorff ’s logic, German culture was literally and figuratively “earth-rooted,” as demonstrated by traditional buildings and cultural landscapes. Cultural difference was not only bound to local areas but to the nation as well. Rudorff asked why it was that if “costume and customs” were “the same on this side and on the other side of the ocean,” then “why does one bother at all to maintain the barriers that one state has erected against the others.”61 The emphasis on cultural borders lent more than a slight nationalistic tone to his arguments. While Rudorff did not necessarily intend to impart militaristic or political associations, these indeed would become components of Heimat rhetoric in the 1930s. Rudorff ’s 1901 text “Heimat Preservation” was received with considerable attention as a manifesto.62 A movement to establish a national Society for Heimat Preservation was soon underway, which incorporated the many existing Heimat activities and institutions but now was also to be actively oriented towards preservation efforts, on practical and political levels. As such, the design professions became involved, with many individuals among them now joining the movement.63 The artist, cultural critic, and architect Paul Schultze-Naumburg was asked to be the first Chair of the Society, a proposal which he readily accepted. Finally in 1904, the Society for Heimat Preservation was able to hold its inaugural meeting in Dresden, and a mission statement was soon published.64 Some of the most important architects, designers, and cultural reformers in the country were active members.65 For Rudorff and his colleagues, the preservation of the Heimat also meant adapting traditional building methods to new construction projects. He argued that it was desirable, “to utilize materials in new building construction that are characteristic of every landscape.”66 Rudorff was careful to emphasize that he was not opposing new forms of architecture nor new lifestyles. He believed that “connecting with the old proven” techniques and “adding the good new” ones would result in “fresh life for rural building methods.”67 A Heimat design ethic originally drew upon rural, rather than urban building

36 From Ratzel to Hitler

types, but it was subsequently adopted for suburban villas and even urban structures. By the early twentieth century, “Heimat-style” architecture had evolved to become a species of building design recalling traditional German culture as a general, often vague notion. To summarize, the term Heimat could be used interchangeably with cultural landscape, which in turn could be equated with the national territory, while at the same time Heimat could refer to local traditional cultural practices, including construction. Because of this range of emotive associations, Heimat remained an important term in a number of contexts, even if it often defies precise definition.

The “Cultural Work” (Kulturarbeit) Volumes by Paul Schultze-Naumburg Paul Schultze-Naumburg, the first Chair of the Society for Heimat Preservation, was initially trained as a painter and began writing art criticism as a young man in the 1890s. He soon turned to architectural and garden design, becoming a leading figure in related design reform movements before World War One. As a cultural critic for the interconnected fields of Heimat preservation, architecture, and landscape architecture, his importance for the period 1900–1945 cannot be overestimated. His multi-volume study, “Cultural Work” (Kulturarbeit), was initially published as a series of articles in the journal Kunstwart in the 1890s and then as a series of volumes in the early years of the twentieth century. His thinking obviously drew upon cultural landscape and Heimat appreciation, but he shifted the focus toward the transformative act of design, as opposed to objective geographic categorization or detached esthetic contemplation. These studies earned him considerable attention among cultural reformers of various persuasions.68 Certainly, those engaged in architecture, landscape design, urban design, and even the well-educated public in general would have been familiar with “Cultural Work.”69 Quite possibly he took this term from Ratzel; in any case, the underlying logic of his work suggests that he was strongly inf luenced by geographical concepts. His “Cultural Work” volumes were extensively illustrated with photographs, most of them taken by him. Although Schultze-Naumburg included photographs of buildings and landscapes around Germany, and even elsewhere in Europe such as England and France, his studies were not structured according to specific geographic regions, even if regional identity was an important factor. Rather he organized these volumes by spatial typologies, such as house, town, and garden. Schultze-Naumburg traveled extensively throughout Germany during this period, for he was among the first to own a motorcar and a portable camera. Born in Thuringia in 1869, from a very early age he spent his free time sketching buildings and landscapes, showing a preference for houses built before Goethe’s death in 1832.70 As a painter and photographer, Schultze-Naumburg was concerned with framing and editing landscape views, in order to arrive at an esthetically pleasing composition. In an 1899 article on painting techniques, he illustrated the

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FIGURE 1.2

Marked-up photo by Schultze-Naumburg showing how to crop views.

FIGURE 1.3

Resulting landscape painting by Schultze-Naumburg.

manner in which he had transformed a photo of a house atop a hill to arrive at a composition for an oil painting (Figures 1.2 and 1.3). He offered this key advice to aspiring artists: The artist must first re-form this nature into a work of art, that is, he must leave aside all that is extraneous or doesn’t support the atmosphere, in this

38 From Ratzel to Hitler

way facilitating the expression of the essential. The greater his ability to achieve this, the greater his art.71 The purpose of this observation was to guide beginning landscape painters, but it also reveals some fundamental truths about Schultze-Naumburg’s worldview as an esthete. In his artist’s mind, painting was an act of transformation, of perfecting, of achieving an ideal representation of beauty where it may have been lacking in real life. By extension, the same process applied to designing the environment. He emphasized over and again the beauty of cultural landscapes dating from before the onslaught of industrialization versus the ugliness of those that followed. He was not necessarily arguing that the clock be turned back but rather that beauty be the guiding principle for all design. Yet the inherent danger of eliminating anything that he deemed not beautiful came to the fore in his later writings about art and race. In these polemical texts, he expressed his belief that all art that did not express pure racial ideals or that wasn’t based on historical precedent was to be eradicated, especially if associated with Jews. This position should not really be seen as standing in contradiction to his pursuit of beauty, since in both cases he was following his own discriminatory judgements. Schultze-Naumburg was undeniably a brilliant man, but his career serves as a warning of the potential dangers of estheticizing morality. In his 1907 book, “The Defacement of the Land” (Die Entstellung unseres Landes), Schultze-Naumburg took the policies of the Society for Heimat Preservation as a starting point, assuming a moral stance on the need to preserve the German Heimat as a whole. He decried the current state of affairs in the most dramatic terms: “We stand before the fate, that Germany will lose its character as our dear homeland [Heimatland], becoming a place of the grimmest sobriety… The former beauty of our country will be destroyed forever.” 72 The need to conserve the Heimat was not just a matter of ensuring a high-quality environment but rather of preserving the cultural identity of the people. In his studies of the built environment, the “Cultural Work” volumes, he explained that his observations were aimed at a broader readership, not only those already involved in design and preservation. The need to conserve the German Heimat was a project for the entire country because the cultural identity of the German people as a whole was at stake. In the foreword to the first volume in the “Cultural Work” series, “The House,” he declared that “the purpose of this publication is to open eyes,” but this was not merely a visual problem in itself. He wanted his reader to be able to differentiate between the “beautiful and ugly” as well as the “good and bad,” in the sense of “practically useful and not useful” and “morally good and bad.” The utilization and understanding of visual images was critical to him for “the eye doesn’t need to make judgements based on linguistic logic.” 73 The esthetically pleasing was linked with the ethically sound and by extension to a morally grounded national culture and political state; the fact that these were subjective judgments was beside the point. He believed that through simple, clear text

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and didactic images, all classes of the lay public would come to understand the importance of the cultivation of beauty in the everyday environment. In the early years of the twentieth century, there was a strong backwardlooking turn towards the period that immediately preceded the onslaught of industrialization in Germany, identified as the period before Goethe’s death in 1832 or that before the revolutions of 1848. A book by the architect Paul Mebes published in 1908 with the programmatic title “Around 1800” focused on the neoclassical architecture of Goethe’s lifetime, thought to be purer and more timeless in comparison with the bombastic historical revival buildings of the late nineteenth century.74 Schultze-Naumburg expressed his understanding of the culture of the “Goethe” period in a metaphorical historical lineage: “Northern spirit and antique spirit came together in marriage here, and the children that resulted at that time were beautiful creations.” 75 In keeping with this imagined historical union rooted in a mythical past, the photos of buildings and landscapes in Schultze-Naumburg’s books emanate an ethereal, other-worldly quality. His earlier writings on art reveal that he was particularly fascinated by the work of the Symbolist painters at the turn of the century. In an 1899 article on the Belgian Symbolist artist Fernand Khnopff, he wrote: “that which dominates all of Khnopff ’s work is a dream-like atmosphere. It has but little to do with the real world. A secrecy spreads over everything that his hand creates.” 76 A few photos in the “Cultural Work” volumes, especially those of gardens, included a lone female figure in a f lowing reform-era dress, occupying the visual frame like a ghostly image, in a similar manner to those female figures in Khnopff ’s paintings77 (Figure 1.4). Schultze-Naumburg’s description of the time

FIGURE 1.4

Female figure in Schultze-Naumburg photo reminiscent of Symbolist paintings.

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period of Goethe’s life was imbued with a mythopoetic quality, very different from the standard Heimat imagery of rural life, which often had a country-fairlike character. As a painter his images were much less literal and linked more to the neoclassical than the late medieval. The photographs in the “Cultural Work” volumes were organized very carefully, first following the subject of the books, such as houses, gardens, and urban planning, and further organized into morphological studies. This categorization of forms was particularly well developed in the last volume of the series, “The Design of the Landscape through Humans” (Die Gestaltung der Landschaft durch den Menschen) which was actually published in 1928, over 25 years after the first volume had appeared.78 Schultze-Naumburg was trained neither as a geographer nor as a geologist, but he clearly was aware of the principles of both disciplines. In pseudo-apologetic tones, he noted that a geographer would approach the problem by describing land forms, the organization of water bodies and streams, where f latlands occurred, evidence of glacial formations, and the locations of human settlements. If a significant number of images were added to these discussions, then an “illustrated guidebook to the beauties of Germany” would be the result. But, as he carefully pointed out in distinction, he “deliberately chose the word ‘design’” in order to emphasize that the people were responsible for the appearance of the country. The landscape of “our fatherland” was not to be understood through dry geographic studies but as the expression of human culture.79 In “Design of the Landscape,” the photographic survey was intended to give an overall sense of the German landscape, which the reader could identify through spatial categories, such as paths, woodlands, and human settlements. One of his statements sums up the overall focus of the book: “today contemporary Germany receives its primary character through the landscape, which by far and away dominates the largest areas”80 (Figure 1.5).

FIGURE 1.5

Landscape photo by Schultze-Naumburg emphasizing landscape patterns.

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Typically, he was less interested in cities, and when he did include them, it was usually to show negative examples resulting from industrialization and population displacement. He particularly emphasized trees as key landscape elements, categorized according to species and type of arrangement. Photographs were used to contrast the dull, monotonous character of commercial forests to that of ancient woodlands, which also had cultural connotations: “It is truly an impossible situation that such an important part of our cultural life as the woodland [Wald] is managed following economic inclinations alone.” 81 In German, the word Wald (woodland) denotes an area where the trees are not managed, in contrast to the word Forst (forest), which usually refers to what are essentially commercial plantations. Even though unmanaged German woodlands were relatively untouched by human hands, they nevertheless had great cultural significance for Schultze-Naumburg and others as the symbol of the most ancient form of Germanic landscape. He alluded further to ancient connections with woodlands when discussing the grove as being in fact a cultural product: The concept of the grove is associated with the related concept of cultism. Like the forest, the grove was also created from out of the ancient forest through human action, however in this case not for materialistic, but for spiritual reasons: the Germans worshipped their deities in the woods, and thus the wild thicket was transformed into a clearing in the woods with an openly accessible place for sacrifice, where through cultivation and care, and the most careful selection of the most beautiful tree specimens, a natural cathedral was formed, entirely on its own.82 The grove for him thus occupied an ideal position between untouched ancient woodland and the overmanaged forest. Schultze-Naumburg continues by lamenting that given the utilitarian mindset of the day, the setting aside of grove spaces for esthetic reasons was probably not a possibility. Yet he appeared to yearn for this as an alternative outcome. During the Nazi era, groves and wooded areas were utilized as the settings for some of the monumental sites considered in this study. Although there is possibly no direct connection to Schultze-Naumburg’s writings, these later developments further demonstrate how woodland landscape types were associated with Germanic cultural identity. Yet Schultze-Naumburg also argued for the importance of buildings in the landscape: “one can state, without being at all paradoxical, that the most beautiful [element] in the landscape is human dwelling.” 83 In the section on human dwelling, denoted as villages, houses, and hotels, he qualified “good” and “bad” examples primarily in terms of their suitability to the surrounding landscape (Figures 1.6 and 1.7). This physical connection to the landscape, as the ground into which the building needed to be “set,” was critical to the harmonious character of the German Heimat. Beginning in a poetic tone and

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FIGURE 1.6

Schultze-Naumburg photo focusing on castle embedded in the ground.

FIGURE 1.7

Negative example by Schultze-Naumburg of a poorly sited mountaintop hotel.

ending sarcastically, he contrasted the character of old and new buildings in relation to the land: Buildings from more fortunate times always appear like the tree, shrub, or rock that grew out of the depths of the soil in which they were rooted, and from which they arise like a powerful trunk, nourished and protected by purely native sap. By contrast, these new houses appear as though they were manufactured in another location and just dropped off here, as though the

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house servant, in any case a completely incompetent one, had hurriedly dug out the soil with a shovel, and thrown the house somewhere within.84 While his insistence on the necessity of embedding buildings physically within the landscape was primarily directed towards visual harmony, this fusion of human work with the native soil at once recalled his mythopoetic understanding of time and implied a kind of biological connection to “native sap,” as though the house was like a tree with sap running through its arteries. The “bad” houses appeared to be factory-produced and could have been placed anywhere, for they were not rooted in the Heimat landscape. This statement shows how the physical connection of building to ground could easily shift towards a psychological connection between human culture and the soil, which could even be cast in pseudo-biological terms. In the same year that he published the second edition of “Design of the Landscape through Humans,” 1928, he brought out the first edition of his notorious work, “Art and Race” (Kunst und Rasse).85 While the link to the racist construct of “blood and soil” was only implied in his metaphorical discussions of embedding buildings in the landscape, in “Art and Race” he blatantly associates “good” works of art with pure, northern European racial character and “bad” works with foreign, or mixed, degenerate races, both presented here via contrasting images. What had been an esthetic argument for good design in the early years of the century here becomes a battle cry and a vehement attack on modern art and architecture, as well as on internationalism in general. He was inf luenced by one contemporary in particular, the racial “theorist” F. K. Hans Günther, whose studies of racial types were heavily illustrated with clinical photographs of human specimens, including degenerates.86 Schultze-Naumburg literally adapted these principles, by making visual comparisons between deformed humans suffering from various illnesses and maladies, and recent abstract portraits by modern artists. A photo of a woman with a diseased eye was compared to an expressionist portrait where the woman’s eyes were not symmetrical, along with other similarly horrific examples (Figures 1.8 and 1.9). He must have realized on some level that this was a naive technique, but he clearly was aiming for a sensational reaction (and to this day he has achieved just that). As opposed to the healthy art of the past, “the art of today only concerns itself with forms of decline and degeneration from a one-sided perspective.”87 It was a species of art “that one must call pornographic.”88 (Indeed, his own book “Art and Race” could be considered obscene.) By contrast in healthy art, “a deep bond between the artwork and creator must exist, such as between parent and child.”89 In this manner one could observe the relationship between the good artwork and the racial type of the artist. While much of the book concerns paintings and sculptures, in a section titled, “The Effect of Race on the Design of Our Environment,” he analyzed Heimat themes through racist analogies, in a much more direct, inf lammatory manner than in his previous landscape studies. As was the case with fine artworks,

44 From Ratzel to Hitler

FIGURE 1.8

Collage of modernist portraits by Schultze-Naumburg.

FIGURE 1.9

Photos of deformed faces that Schultze-Naumburg compares to modernist portraits.

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cultural conditions, good and bad, could be read within the wider landscape: “The environment that every people or every individual constructs for itself, is an expression of their innermost being.”90 He showed a generic image of a German Heimat village and surrounding landscape, as an example of healthy settlement, which he contrasted to a modernist housing project, Praunheim in Frankfurt Main, as a clearly degenerate example (Figures 1.10 and 1.11). Of

FIGURE 1.10

Schultze-Naumburg’s photo of an ideal German village.

FIGURE 1.11

Schultze-Naumburg’s photo of a modernist Siedlung (Praunheim).

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From Ratzel to Hitler

individual dwellings, he observed that: “Houses have faces like people, which bear a very specific expression.”91 Accordingly, this architectural “physiognomy” could be categorized and studied in a similar manner to human physiognomy, and on egregiously racist terms. In his politically conservative phase beginning in the 1920s, SchultzeNaumburg continued to be an inf luential figure, if even more controversial. He joined the National Socialist Party in 1930 and had already acquainted himself with Hitler through the publisher Hugo Bruckmann in Munich as early as 1924.92 In the 1934 edition of “Art and Race,” Schultze-Naumburg made his support of Hitler clear. He referred to Hitler’s book Mein Kampf as “a kind of people’s bible for the Germans,” further stating that: “The essence of the art of the new Reich has been clearly described by Adolf Hitler.”93 As one of the founding members of the “Militant League for German Culture” under Alfred Rosenburg’s direction in 1928, Schultze-Naumburg frequently published articles on culture in one of the Party’s leading journals, “The People’s Observer” (Völkische Beobachter).94 In 1930, he was appointed by the Nazi minister of culture in Thuringia, Wilhelm Frick, to be the head of the restructured architecture school in Weimar (the former Bauhaus), and immediately after taking power Schultze-Naumburg purged the school of modern artworks and modernist inclined teachers.95 Despite his reputation as a cultivated esthete, some of his public lectures of the early 1930s were so inf lammatory that fights broke out in the lecture halls.96 The Nazi national minister of culture, Alfred Rosenberg, cited Schultze-Naumburg as an authority on the topic of art and race, and a recent historian has observed that Hitler’s 1933 speech on culture appears to exploit rhetorical tropes and style that were almost identical to those of Schultze-Naumburg.97 However, his inf luence declined once Goebbels began to gain ground in the cultural sphere. Schultze-Naumburg later recalled that he instinctively felt Goebbels to be an “evil angel” of Hitler, and Goebbels himself made it clear that he did not support the work of the older man, for he believed him to be oldfashioned and out of touch.98 At the opening of the Opera House in Nuremberg in 1934, following Schultze-Naumburg’s interior renovations, Gerdy Troost, the widow of the architect Paul Troost, was rumored to have whispered something in Hitler’s ear about the older architect that enraged him.99 After this incident, Schultze-Naumburg effectively fell from grace. Outside of political circles, Schultze-Naumburg’s inf luence in the emerging field of landscape preservation continued to be felt. For example, in his book “Care of the Land” (Landespflege), published in 1940, the landscape planner Ernst Mäding paid homage to the lasting importance of Schultze-Naumburg’s study, “Design of the Landscape through Humans.” However, Mäding also noted that this older work had focused more on esthetic issues than ecological ones, which had taken on considerable prominence by that time.100 In any case, it is not possible to fully understand cultural landscape concepts in Germany during the Nazi period without some knowledge of Schultze-Naumburg’s earlier work and its inf luence. He did in fact draw upon academic fields of geography and geology, as well as the popular Heimat

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preservation movement. But due to the clear esthetic appeal of the systematic collections of images in his publications, he had a much stronger direct inf luence on designers and planners, who used his visual rhetoric to guide actual design decisions affecting the physical environment.

The Architect Alwin Seifert and His Geographic Planting Categories Alwin Seifert’s “earth-rooted” (bodenständig) garden design theories were an outgrowth of the Heimat preservation movement, since he was essentially promoting the use of traditional German plants and garden design. Seifert was not arguing for the creation of a “natural” landscape as such, for he was not only calling for the use of “native” plants but also for plants that had long since been assimilated within German culture. His arguments differ from the typical Heimat-oriented calls for traditional materials and methods, however, in that he placed specific emphasis on a geographic logic for planting design, which subtly linked him to the geopolitical arguments of the day. He was not the first to turn his attention to traditional German garden design. At the same time that Rudorff was writing about Heimat preservation in the 1890s, some cultural critics such as the Hamburg Art Museum director Alfred Lichtwark had begun to argue for the use of wild plants in contemporary gardens and a revival of the “oldfashioned” plants of the idealized “German farmer’s garden.”101 In the early years of the twentieth century, the garden designer Willi Lange formulated the notion of the “ecological” garden, which would continue to be inf luential into the 1930s.102 The basic premise of Lange’s ecological garden was that plants should be grouped as they were found in typical natural areas in the wild, such as the heath or woodland, as a microcosm representing the broader native landscape. Yet it was really Seifert who approached the problem of earth-rooted garden design in a sustained, systematic manner, and his ideas were not purely based on pseudo-ecology as such. Born and raised in Munich, Seifert identified himself with his hometown and the nearby Alpine region. He received his architecture degree from the Technical College in Munich in 1913, and in 1920 he obtained a position as academic assistant to the chair of an institute for agricultural building. This position no doubt raised his awareness of the importance of land and soil in relation to design.103 Seifert had an early interest in botanical studies, and experimented with his own garden in the 1920s. Like many others, Seifert was also strongly inf luenced by the design ideals espoused by Schultze-Naumburg. Seifert’s breakthrough as a writer and figure within the field of landscape design came in 1929 when he published a series of articles in the journal “Garden Design” (Die Gartenkunst) under the simple title, “Earth-Rooted Garden Design” (“Bodenständige Gartenkunst”).104 In these articles, he adapted much of the original concepts of Heimat as a traditional, culturally authentic environment that could be assigned to geographic regions, yet in his writing this was scaled down to the residential garden and the plants within it. Later in 1942, in a collection of essays

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titled “The Age of the Living” (Im Zeitalter des Lebendigen) he published an essay of the same title, which differed substantially from the original series of articles on many key points.105 Seifert is most well-known for being in charge of landscape design for the entire Reich Autobahn system under the direction of the engineer Fritz Todt. This project alone would have represented a lifetime achievement for any landscape architect. But Seifert was also responsible for a number of significant projects for the Nazi elite, including the enormous greenhouse at Hitler’s Obersalzberg compound, the garden for the Munich residence of Rudolf Hess and his wife Ilse, the gardens for a housing project in Munich under the direction of Martin Bormann, and the garden for the main residence of Gau Leader of Thuringia in Weimar, among many others.106 He was also a consultant for the so-called “plantation” at the Dachau Concentration Camp, an experimental farm maintained by inmates under inhumane conditions. Immediately after World War One, he became intimately associated with ultra conservative political groups in Munich, a fact that cannot be overlooked in his work and personal connections. Although there were at least two other “star” landscape architects during the Nazi period, Hermann Mattern and Heinrich Wiepking, it was Seifert who was most successful in rigorously defining the earth-rooted garden in the context of Heimat preservation. Thus, it was no coincidence that he attained a high level of prestige within Nazi landscape design and management enterprises. Native or earth-rooted materials to be used in building were simply defined as those which came from the area, such as timber from the forests, stones from the ground, and reeds from lakeshores. Local building styles could be readily documented through existing historical buildings, and in some cases even local building craft practices had been perpetuated. The garden and its materials, the living plants within it, were naturally more subject to change over time. Seifert recognized the problem of defining the Heimat garden from the beginning, noting that: “In no time period did the German garden consist primarily of native f lowers and plants, and even the term ‘native’ is not unequivocal, for it was defined over time.”107 He observed that the farmhouse garden and its plants could be traced, “through a seamless connection from the cloister garden of the early middle ages back to the horticulture of the antique.”108 This was certainly a more historically supportable claim than Schultze-Naumburg’s figure of the German architecture of the Goethe period as being an ideal marriage between northern and classical spirits, but was similar in that it was intended to establish the allegedly innate connection between Germanic and classical culture. In any case, this movement of plants had occurred at a geographic scale, as Seifert recognized: Where does earth-rootedness begin, and where does it end? Where are its boundaries in terms of plant migration, in which the human hand has played a role?109 [My emphasis.] Although his statements reveal the problem of defining “native” plants in relation to particular regional boundaries, he nevertheless attempted to form some

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essential principles by which the earth-rooted garden could be defined. He presented the two definitive principles of his system: Every plant in the garden is earth-rooted that thrives best on ancestral soil… Every garden is earth-rooted that consists of a selection of earth-rooted plants that stand in natural and artistic harmony with their surroundings.110 These statements were inherently tautologies. A plant could be from any part of the world and nevertheless thrive in the soil of the German Heimat, and good gardening practices by necessity led towards the selection of plants that would grow well in given local conditions. The key factor in this selection process was “artistic harmony,” by nature a highly subjective proposition dependent upon the judgment of the landscape designer. In terms of categorization, some plants in Germany had become “naturalized” over the centuries, meaning that these could be considered “earth-rooted” at this point, but as he had noted, this had been “defined over time.” Photos of Seifert’s gardens suggest that plants were to be allowed relative freedom to grow, and that a more wild appearance of lush growth was encouraged (Figure 1.12). Plant species were thus enabled to display their true physiognomy, without being corrupted by artistic manipulation, and the boundaries of the garden were blurred with that of the surrounding landscape. While Seifert both recognized and underplayed the problem of establishing a historically-based definition of native garden plants, he also endeavored to incorporate his garden idea within the existing understanding of Heimat regions. He proposed that his system of earth-rooted garden design, “creates a unity in the landscape, and variety in the Reich, as is characteristic of all earth-rooted art.”111 The characteristic earth-rooted garden could be recognized as a symbol of its

FIGURE 1.12

Seifert’s photo of a wild-flower meadow merging with domestic garden designed by him.

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region, along with other Heimat objects and places, which in turn would be part of an overall collection of regional garden expression. Seifert very clearly understood the implications of this concept, which could be connected not only to human culture but also to “wild” nature, with esthetically defined ecological implications. He looked towards other contemporary disciplines for guidance: “What ecology and botanical geography have achieved for wild f lora, we must also obtain for horticulture.”112 These disciplines had produced maps that showed, “similar growth patterns according to zones.”113 But Seifert’s system of scientific geographic plant classifications would not be limited to wild plants alone, for it was to include all so-called earth-rooted garden plants. He explained this principle in the introduction to his new system: “handbooks will no longer give entries for our perennial, deciduous, and evergreen trees such as: ‘for deep soils in warm locations,’ but rather: ‘thrives 1-3, R, T; cultivable 4-7, P, Q, S.’”114 This was a very abstract manner of defining the physical characteristics of Heimat regions through coded plant geography, but clearly was intended to ensure scientific accuracy at a geographical scale. Seifert’s driving idea was to establish a recognizable set of earth-rooted plants for each Heimat region, which would function as cultural symbols of local and national identity. His project was metaphorically rooted in his own conservative political philosophy as well: I have introduced the term “earth-rooted” into garden design intentionally. It seemed important to me to incorporate garden design into this conf lict between the “native” and the “supranational” that has f lared up in every area of life in our times, and to clearly demonstrate my support for it.115 The move from a cultural geography of Heimat regions to a political geography defined by national boundaries is manifested here through the smaller scale of garden plants, but with the same implications. This type of rhetoric, already found in Rudorff ’s writings in the 1890s, reached a much greater level of intensity in the 1930s, forming a cultural link to the militaristic symbolism of the Nazi era. Throughout the National Socialist regime, Seifert remained an inf luential figure, even when he was subjected to the typical political denunciations of the era.116

The Old German Heimat and the New National Socialist Cultural Landscape Published under the name of Gerdy Troost, the treatise titled, “Building in the New Reich” (Das Bauen im Neuen Reich) has been considered an authoritative source on the subject of architecture and planning in the National Socialist era since the first of the two volumes was published in 1938.117 At the time of publication, volume one was the most comprehensive survey of the architectural achievements of the initial five years of the regime. Astonishingly then, it was

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recently revealed for the first time that a ghostwriter named Kurt Trampler actually wrote the text.118 This is not an insignificant detail. Today, Trampler is a nearly forgotten figure, but in terms of the conceptual link between geopolitics, cultural landscape, and architecture, he played an important background role. The introductions for both “Troost” volumes read like a handbook on how to understand the historical evolution of the traditional cultural landscape, and how this in turn had been reinforced and reinterpreted by the Nazi building program – not only through the monumental buildings in the cities, but also through buildings in the countryside, and even the new autobahn. Trampler received his PhD in 1929 from the University of Innsbruck, and the geopolitically-oriented publication that resulted, “States and National Communities: A Solution to the Problem of European Minorities” (Staaten und Nationalen Gemeinschaften: Eine Lösung des europäischen Minderheit-Problems) opened with a fulsome dedication written by Karl Haushofer himself.119 However, as a journalist Trampler went on to write commentaries in an inf lammatory newspaper in 1931, where he sharply criticized the Nazi Party for having leftist tendencies and even decried Hitler’s approach to Mussolini for being a “betrayal” of the German people.120 Although he became a Party member in May, 1935, shortly thereafter his earlier newspaper commentaries were exposed, and he was refused permission to write in July, 1935.121 He was authorized to write again in summer 1937, probably due to the efforts of connections such as Karl Haushofer, although he continued to publish as a ghostwriter.122 (Thus, it is not surprising that he would have proposed the same arrangement to Gerdy Troost.) Before his anti-Nazi commentaries had been exposed, Trampler had collaborated with Haushofer on several publications, fervently taking up the call of geopolitics. Trampler’s earlier writings on geopolitics are of interest, for these reveal the intellectual biases that he brought to his later writings on cultural landscape, and subsequently architecture. Trampler was obsessed with borders, particularly those established to the east of Germany by the much loathed Treaty of Versailles. In a 1931 article published with Haushofer titled, “The Totality of the Eastern Problem” (Einheit des Ostproblems), he warned his countrymen of the threat presented by the new Slavic states, especially Czechoslovakia. He claimed that the Czech geographer Hanus Kuffner had proposed in 1918 that the German people should be forced into a relatively small, defined area that would be a “Reservation for Germans,” based on the “Indian reservations of North America”123 (Figure 1.13). Two institutions were important in establishing Trampler’s career. Most importantly, he was a writer for the Party-sanctioned publishing house of the Bavarian East March (Bayerische Ostmark), a Gau created by the Nazis in 1933 along the Czech border of Bavaria, with Bayreuth as its capital city.124 This publishing house was founded by the first Gau leader, Hans Schemm, who had already founded the National Socialist Teachers League (Nationalsozialistischer Lehrerbund) in 1929.125 This publishing concern was linked to the League, meaning that editorial direction was aimed at educating children and youth about their

52 From Ratzel to Hitler

FIGURE 1.13

Trampler’s map of alleged Czech plans for a “German Reservation.”

cultural heritage and political responsibilities. Kurt Trampler was involved in all of these activities and was one of the primary writers for this publishing concern from 1934 at the latest, up until the end of the war.126 Another organization that was important for Trampler’s career and worldview was the “Foundation for Research on Germandom in the South and Southeast” (Stiftung zur Erforschung des deutschen Volkstums im Süden und Südosten) established in 1930 to study the “plight” of ethnic Germans in those regions of Europe.127 Through this foundation, Trampler made further connections and established himself as an authority on eastern European “problems.” In conjunction with the Institute and the Gau leadership, under his own name Trampler published a small book in 1934, “The Bavarian East March: The Building-up of a German Borderland” (Bayerische Ostmark: Aufbau eines deutschen Grenzlandes), predictably focused on the Czech threat.128 This was the first publication where he explicitly made polemic connections between geopolitics and visual studies of the cultural landscape. In a similar manner to how Schultze-Naumburg estheticized morality, Trampler estheticized geopolitics. Trampler opened this publication with an aerial photo showing Walhalla, then in the Bavarian East March, which he described not only as a monument, but also as a target. Although when built in 1832 it had stood well within Germany territory, “Since 1919 it lies in the firing range of foreign artillery.”129 As usual,

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the Treaty of Versailles was to blame. A subsequent book dedicated to the East March region published in 1936, “Borderland under Construction,” was not credited to Trampler, but phrases similar to those he had used elsewhere strongly suggest that he was the author.130 The layout of this book was designed by the painter and graphic artist Gustav Lüttgens, whose melodramatic collages served Trampler’s rhetorical ends. In one composite image, a menacing Czech hand threatens to seize German territory (Figure 1.14). In another, a typical Heimat photo of a small town in a valley was pierced by a white jagged line representing the new border with Czechoslovakia (Figure 1.15). Thousands of years of established living conditions among Germans were torn apart by this dangerous border, the caption claimed. The abstract borderline on the map is imposed over a typical, beloved Heimat scene, intended to have great emotional impact in the observer, and to further reinforce the connection between political territory and cultural landscape. A number of photos of the East March landscape were grouped under the heading “The Picture of the Border,” and on first glance seem nothing more than esthetically attractive landscape photos. But the text under

FIGURE 1.14

Collage with menacing Slavic hand poised to seize the Bavarian East March.

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FIGURE 1.15

Jagged line representing the “unnatural”post-Versailles boundary between Germany and Czechoslovakia.

one photo of a charming agricultural landscape complete with haystacks, the “Further Valley,”131 warns the reader that: Here lies the next connection between the French and Czechs. This valley has already presented the gravest danger to the German people many times, as the entry point for foreign attacks.132 The geopolitical implications of an unjust, indefensible border that that did not correspond to actual settlements patterns, nor logically follow any topographical features, were conceptually layered over familiar Heimat imagery, in an attempt to create a new, disturbing synthesis in the reader’s mind. Most importantly for the study of cultural landscape during the Nazi era, Trampler was the ghostwriter for a series of five books published between 1935 and 1941.133 The first two volumes were titled “German People – German Heimat” (Deutsches Volk – Deutsche Heimat) and although on a superficial level these were typical illustrated Heimat studies, the text and the selection of images were intended to reinforce the Nazi geopolitical agenda134 (Figure 1.16). All five volumes are worth considering as a set, for each has a slightly different geopolitical message, which began subtly in the initial 1935 edition but ended with an undisguised celebration of violent acts of military conquest in the final 1941 volume.135 From the outset, these publications were intended to educate German youth, who were supposed to form their sense of political and social identity by studying images of cultural landscapes and the German people. Furthermore, the close association of the publishing company with the National Socialist Teachers League meant that a captive student audience was assured.

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FIGURE 1.16

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Cover of Trampler’s “German People – German Heimat” as ideal German cultural landscape.

The underlying message of the first volume from 1935 was that Germans were entitled to lay a historic cultural claim on territories to the east, most of which then lay in Poland after the Treaty of Versailles. This volume contained a large number of high-quality photographs made by notable photographers of the period including: Max Baur, Erna Lendvai-Dircksen, Gustav Lüttgens, Wilhelm Carl-Mardorf, Hans Hildenbrand, Robert Petschow, Hans Saebens, Erich Rettslaff, Waldemar Titzenthaler, and Dr. Paul Wolff. This was one of the most artistically significant Nazi-era books on Heimat landscapes to that point. The introduction signed by Fritz Wächtler made the political purpose behind this cultural study clear: “People and Heimat are therefore independent of state borders. People and Heimat are not bound by state treaties, but by life and growth, by fate and constructive labor.”136 Although no maps were included in the first volume, the limitations of national borders stood firmly in the background. The purpose of the selected photographs was to provide visual evidence of German cultural presence on the land, as explained in the opening: Thus, the pictures in this book intentionally reach out beyond the borders of the Reich, and attempt to represent all German settlement areas in Europe. Every town and landscape for which a picture couldn’t be published here, may be taken as a positive sign that the life of our people is so

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varied, that even hundreds of pictures could not provide a truly complete representation.137 As in earlier representations and discussions of the German Heimat, the nation as a whole was understood as being composed of a myriad of smaller Heimat regions that together formed the composite German Heimat, which all Germans were to identify with at various scales. The fact that there were territorial interruptions within this overall patchwork, such as the Polish corridor between the main region of the Reich and East Prussia, could be used as an argument for closing these disturbing gaps in the cultural landscape. In a section titled “The German Cultural Islands in the East,” the text explains the cultural importance of the German presence beyond the Reich: The creative, culture-forming strength of the German people has led for centuries to countless waves of emigration, of German farmers, craftsmen, artists, and statesmen into the eastern territories…Wherever they came, the cultural landscape bore the mark of their labor. The Germans of these linguistic islands also won the legal rights to settle in foreign states through their own efforts.138 Here, Trampler’s statement implies that because of their superior character, Germans were able to greatly improve the character of the eastern territories (which were by no means unoccupied). Of course there was some historical veracity to the claim that German settlers had left their mark on the land, but such evidence was often greatly exaggerated during the Nazi era (Figure 1.17).

FIGURE 1.17

Germanic settlement in the “East” presented by Trampler as justification for German territorial claims.

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For Trampler and others, the cultural landscape that they left behind was not only evidence of the strength of historic German culture, for most importantly this presence served to support a political claim for territory. Trampler grounded the underlying concept for this and the other volumes on the blood and soil dictum that the German Heimat was formed by people working in harmony with the land that nurtured them. Thus, the human portraits included were intended to demonstrate this symbiotic relationship of the people with the different cultural landscapes and to emphasize the resilience of German racial character. The majority of these portraits were taken by Erna LendvaiDircksen, who had made a name for herself with her 1931 book, “The Face of the German People” (Das deutsche Volksgesicht), focused primarily on ordinary, working people, many of whom were quite aged; some of these portraits were reproduced here.139 Most of these photographs featured farmers, fishermen and their families, as well as other laborers on the land, but one image of an impoverished mother and child was intended to show the degeneracy of life in the big cities. In order to fully represent regional Heimat landscapes, some important monuments such as cathedrals and castles were in fact included, but the dominant tone was set by farmhouses and landscapes valued as cultural artifacts, explained as follows: The way that the labor of the people shaped the Heimat is to be shown in these pictures. Not only the highest cultural achievements, but more importantly, that which the good, honest, hard-won work of these people has accomplished.140 The book did not focus on landscapes of pleasure such as private parks, but on working farms, ports, and even modern factories. The portraits of older men and women showed the harshness of their lives through the wrinkles on their faces and their stern expressions. These were not intended to be sentimental portraits, but rather images of endurance, intended to inspire commitment to the German national community (Volksgemeinschaft). The inclusion of younger laborers, wives, and daughters completed the sense of generational continuity, and asserted the importance of maintaining tradition. The second volume of “German People – German Heimat” continued the themes of the first, but was entirely text with no photographic images; instead, it included a collection of appended maps. The maps and texts told the story of the development of the German cultural landscape over the ages, with an emphasis on territorial and cultural expansion. Although the previous volume had depicted traditional German culture, the second study was to provide a foundation for future development: This book does not want to be an ending. This book wants to be a breakthrough to a new, vibrant worldview, a signpost to new paths, to which a new people’s education can point the direction.141

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This volume was presented in no uncertain terms as being a call for action. Perhaps the most memorable line in the book was a quotation contained within a eulogy to the recently deceased pedagogue and publisher Hans Schemm, who allegedly: once answered the question of what National Socialism is: “National Socialism is a march into the Heimat.” He [Schemm] recognized the deepest essence of the great German people’s movement, that it once again secured the biological foundations of folkish life: the life-giving unity of blood and soil.142 This “march” could be interpreted as an inward move, a consolidation of cultural identity within the existing borders of the Reich following World War One, and as the militarization of the term Heimat. (Trampler was so taken by this statement that he cited it in his initial typescript for the first Gerdy Troost volume.143) Yet this “march” could also be understood as a move outwards, as a means of “reconnecting” with the cultural islands in the East, all of which could be conceptualized as a strengthening of the traditional Heimat, and as a literal bond between race and land. After recounting the history of German culture through the landscape, including the “fall” in the nineteenth century through the deterioration of the relationship between people and land brought about by industrialization, Trampler asked the reader to, “think one, two, three decades in the future, then a wonderful image of the renewed German cultural landscape emerges before us.”144 “The National Socialist Cultural Landscape,” as Trampler titled this section, would resolve the damaged relationship between town and country through better planning, to be realized by the regime. Volume three appeared in 1938 and was of higher production quality, and included at least as many photographs as the first one. Titled “Germans Far from The Heimat” (Deutsche fern der Heimat) this photo-essay album depicted the many locations around the world where Germans had settled, showing that they were able to use their Heimat-making instincts to make their mark on the land locally, while contributing to cultural improvement on a global scale (Figure 1.18). While the political message in the previous two books had been clear, that is, the need to claim cultural heritage in the east, further geographic domination only had been implied.145 Volume four in the series was published after the conquest of Poland in 1939, and the annexation of Czechoslovakia and Austria in 1938. Titled “The New Heimat” (Die neue Heimat) this book was aimed at introducing readers in the old Reich to the newly acquired territories that had been “returned” to their cultural brethren.146 The fifth and final volume in the series, “Building the Reich in the East” (Reichsaufbau im Osten) published in 1941 during a period of great German military success, was the most overtly nationalistic, racist, and indeed violent in tone, of the entire series. Now that World War Two was fully underway, there was no longer any need to speak in coded language. Slavs and Jews were an

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FIGURE 1.18

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Collage portrait of young German man in Africa.

unwelcome irritant in the new cultural landscape. A photograph of a city on fire, with billowing clouds of smoke in the distance, portrayed a group of Nazi officers observing the scene with great interest, as though before a staged military display (Figure 1.19). This horrific scene was justified in casual, mocking terms: One of the last measures of the irresponsible class of [moral] bankrupts who ruled Poland, was the defense of the capital city of Warsaw, where in

FIGURE 1.19

SS men observing the burning of Warsaw.

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addition to the city citizens, thousands of refugees were packed together… The illusion of Versailles Poland collapsed at the same time in the f lames of the Polish capital city…The Poland of 1919 perished from incompetence, delusions of grandeur, and culturelessness. It will never rise again.147 Warsaw in f lames represented the negative cultural landscape that needed to be eradicated in order to make way for the new National Socialist version. The publisher later credited Trampler as being the author of this book, so there can be no doubt that these were his words.148 What began with abstract maps and diagrams in the guise of academic research ended with photographs of the brutal destruction of eastern Europe. In the previous volume, “The New Heimat,” Trampler had already explained that to the west a different strategy had been followed. Hitler had ordered the construction of the Westwall (Siegfried Line) to establish a strong border, in locations where the Versailles Treaty had pushed German territory far behind what had once been strong natural defenses149 (Figure 1.20). In one photo, soldiers are shown entering a bunker within the Westwall fortifications, through an entrance disguised with planting designed by landscape architects (Figure 1.21). Ironically, the bunker entrance resembles a grotto in a landscape park, unintentionally suggesting that even this military defensive work had been estheticized and incorporated into the Heimat scenery, here labelled the “defensive landscape” (Wehrlandschaft). This five-volume series is perhaps the clearest and most comprehensive presentation of the interrelated terms cultural landscape and Heimat in the service of Nazi cultural and geopolitical aims. Even taken on their own, these volumes are important documents in themselves, yet they also provide the background for Trampler’s understanding of the related role of state-sponsored architecture.

FIGURE 1.20

The cultural landscape of the new Westwall.

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FIGURE 1.21

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Nazi soldiers entering disguised bunker within the Westwall system.

The Troost/Trampler Volumes: The Old Heimat and the New Architecture Trampler’s text for “Building in the New Reich” proves that he more than any other writer had a thorough grasp of the role of architecture and cultural landscape as instruments of Nazi geopolitical ambitions. This is no mere survey, for the work is intended to inform and persuade the reader towards the Nazi worldview. Trampler first approached Gerdy Troost confidentially in January, 1938 on behalf of his publisher, the Bavarian East March Gau Press.150 He explained that he had convinced the Gau leadership in the Bavarian East March to publish an architectural survey, and that because of her position as the representative of her husband’s work, she would be the ideal person to bring out such a book. Trampler’s own authorship would remain anonymous, and he assured her that she would neither have to write the text nor gather the images, although nothing would be published without her express permission. Furthermore, she was welcome to make suggestions as to organization and content. He emphatically justified the project to Troost: Even though one hears here and there that the time for an overview of the new building design has not yet arrived, I don’t agree with this. This book should not establish a particular, narrowly-defined style, but rather should generally show what has been achieved in Germany in the last half-decade, in terms of good building and the informed adaptation of construction to the landscape. For a review such as this I believe that the time is ripe – not least because of the truly inspiring materials collected for the new edition of the book “German Folk – German Heimat.”151 [My emphasis.] Shortly before writing this letter, Trampler had completed the new, revised 1937 second edition of the illustrated first volume of “German Folk – German

62 From Ratzel to Hitler

Heimat,” which differed significantly from the original, for he had added an illustrated section on the new Party architecture and the autobahn at the end.152 This section titled, “The Face of the New Reich,” was in effect a shorter version of what he was proposing to Troost as a monograph (providing conclusive evidence that the concept for the “Troost” volumes was his own). A survey of new Nazi architecture had been published by Hubert Schrade the year before (1937), “Buildings of the Third Reich” (Bauten des Dritten Reiches), but it was relatively small and of relatively low production quality, with limited illustrations.153 The monograph envisioned by Trampler would be much greater in scope, with high production values and a carefully selected collection of highquality black and white plates. Trampler’s original proposed title, “Germany Builds!” was changed to “Building in the New Reich,” with Gerdy Troost being credited in the publication as sole editor, lending it the authoritative character that the ghostwriter had predicted. The first volume was published in 1938, followed by a second volume in 1942154 (Figure 1.22). Other architectural surveys were published after the 1938 Troost volume, including one showcasing the work of Albert Speer in 1941, “New German Architecture” (edited by Rudolf Wolters), and another by Herbert Hoffmann in 1939, “Germany Builds: Construction and Building Plans” (Deutschland Baut: Bauten und Bauvorhaben).155 In any case, the “Troost” volumes were highly successful, selling thousands of copies, and their comprehensive scope and high production quality overshadowed all other

FIGURE 1.22

Cover of “Building in the New Reich,” with detail from the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.

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comparable publications; the final editions of both Troost volumes appeared during the depths of the war in 1944.156 All of the works that Trampler had written previously were focused primarily on cultural landscape with buildings as components within the whole, not upon architectural works alone. Here, his previous geopolitical arguments were subsumed under broad rhetoric supporting the Party, with its ever present militaristic symbolism. There were no maps in this monograph, yet the individual architectural works were intended to represent all regions of the country. The introduction to the book was significantly titled, “The Old Heimat,” and clearly based upon his earlier writings, as per this statement: “The fact that the appearance of the landscape is often the product of the collective work of an entire people stretching back thousands of years, means that the design of landscape and buildings becomes an unmistakable measure of culture.”157 Trampler thus immediately placed the focus upon both landscape and architecture, the two together being equated with “Heimat.” One central theme was the historic evolution of the cultural landscape, or Heimat, according to the standard Nazi historical periodization that he had previously observed, which almost by necessity began with a brief mention of the achievements of the ancient Greeks. Here this was followed by a longer description alluding to the medieval period, with the suggestion of underlying geopolitical themes: Proud, free farms; defiant citizens and hard-won borders; small cottages in the neighborhood of magnificent castles; walled cities with high cathedrals and broad squares158 [My emphasis.] The medieval period was idealized by Nazi pundits such as Trampler, and analogies were often drawn to the typological hierarchy within the contemporary Nazi building program: from monuments to communal structures to farmhouses. During another period favored by Nazis, the early nineteenth century: The painters of German romanticism faithfully preserved the image of our Heimat at the beginning of the previous century. It is the portrait of an incredibly diverse, organically grown cultural landscape159 Predictably, during the Nazi era the Romantics were celebrated for their deep artistic feeling for nature and the German nation. The paintings of Caspar David Friedrich and others were regularly reproduced and referred to when describing contemporary landscape designs. Following the historical order of his earlier studies, Trampler titled the next section of the introduction, “The Fall” referring to the period of industrialization and urbanization: In the second half of the 19th century, the image of the German cultural landscape was fundamentally altered. Particularly in the cities, it began to harshly contrast with innate German cultural sensibilities.160

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This kind of rhetoric dated back to the time when the Heimat preservation movement was first being formulated. Here, Trampler again described the Romantic versus the industrial eras in terms of cultural landscape, much as Schultze-Naumburg had. Nazi critics were not necessarily anti-urban, but rather were opposed to the kinds of urban development that originated during this period. And the period that followed World War One was thought by Trampler and others to be even worse: The architectural barbarity promoted under the term “new objectivity,” which was realized in spite of being clearly rejected by the people, was nothing other than an attempt to take the cultural value of their native Heimat from the German people, and to force Jewish cultural Bolshevism upon them. Buildings thus became weapons in the Jewish takeover of the world.161 Up to this point, Trampler had generally not employed anti-Semitic rhetoric, but in an important publication such as this one, it would have been more or less expected. Other Nazi Party publications regularly condemned modernist architecture using similar rabid anti-Semitic clichés, but here this polemic is specifically linked to Heimat as built environment. The next text section in the book, “National Socialist Building Design,” was naturally a paean to the Führer, extolling the future world promised by the Party: When the German Architecture Exhibition in the House of German Art [1938] presented for the first time the complete picture of the buildings created by the Führer, thousands and thousands looked upon the coming face of the National Socialist cultural landscape in all its greatness, in its wealth of formal expression, and its deepest sense. The buildings of the Führer are witnesses to the philosophical change of our time. They are built National Socialism.162 [My emphasis.] The greatest achievement was not just the individual buildings alone, but the sum of the buildings within the “National Socialist cultural landscape,” again, as the physical representation of the nation, and indeed of the Party itself. Set within the English Garden in Munich, “The “House of German Art” (Haus der deutschen Kunst) had in fact been designed by Gerdy Troost’s late husband Paul, so this was a fitting opening for a book supposedly written by her (Figure 1.23). In his opening texts, Trampler sought to set up an historical narrative that would give the Nazi era the status of a cultural renaissance, based upon the past glories of the German Heimat. In this sense, the architectural program was clear. In keeping with the writings of Kjellén and Haushofer, Trampler also grounded the evolution of the cultural landscape in racial terms here, emphasizing the importance of “the primal power of the soil” in the first opening

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FIGURE 1.23

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The House of German Art in Munich by Paul Ludwig Troost.

statement to the book.163 And like these geographers, Trampler conceived of human interaction with the environment in social Darwinist terms: Geological forms, the fertility of the soil, raw materials and climatic inf luences – in brief, all the forces of the area – are very strong inf luences on the fate of a people. But each race, each people utilizes these in very different ways even in the same area. A weak people allows itself to be driven by environmental inf luences. A strong people can overcome these almost entirely.164 In his previous writings on German cultural “islands” in the East, he had stressed the capability, and indeed superiority, of the German settlers as justification for their claim to the territory, and the implication was the same here. Except that here the totality of Nazi architectural production up to this point was presented as evidence of the strength of the German people in the contemporary era. Furthermore, this book was also a call to action. Later in his text, Trampler cited the new statute on, “Purity and Beauty of City and Country,” enacted by the Bavarian Minister of the Interior, Adolf Wagner, which stated: Everything that is not beautiful or pure, every disfigurement of our landscape must disappear. We want the whole country, cities, villages, streets, and farms to undergo a thorough deep-cleansing [Durchreinigung].165 On the most obvious level, this statute was of course intended to set up practical programs for improving the physical environment. However, in the context of

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Nazi Germany, this reference to the “deep-cleansing” of the cultural landscape evokes ominous associations of racial cleansing, which was not incidental to architectural and planning concepts at the time. Despite the focus of the introductory sections, the visual component of the book consisted of photographs of built architectural works and models, but with regional landscapes shown in the background, as evidence of their rootedness. The exception to this was the section on the autobahn, where by necessity the photographs of roads and bridges were dominated by the landscapes in which they were literally embedded. Nearly all of the monumental sites in this current study were included here, and Trampler discussed many of these in relation to the surrounding landscapes, despite the comparatively limited visual evidence. (Trampler’s comments on each site will be discussed in the relevant case study chapters.) The overall organization of the objects presented in the first volume of the treatise was arguably more important to the underlying argument than the individual photos themselves. In one passage Trampler specifically comments on the implied geographic scope: It is of the most decisive importance for the future design of the German cultural landscape image that communal buildings are not concentrated in a few cities. They have been constructed in even the smallest communities, in even the most remote areas. Because of the essential embrace of earthrooted cultural values, the result has been that despite central planning these have never been erected as soulless stereotypes. The most sincere and successful efforts have been made, so that every community building is designed as a unique artwork, whose form is co-determined by respect for the landscape and Heimat-based culture.166 Elsewhere in the book, Trampler made it clear that by “communal” buildings he meant the smaller scale ones serving social and public functions, such as Hitler Youth hostels, townhalls, etc., which he distinguished from the monumental structures that he referred to as “buildings of the faith.”167 However, this statement about the deliberate location of public buildings in regional landscapes could have also applied to the monumental sites as well, as per his separate discussions of them. In a similar manner to the 1939 autobahn map discussed previously, Trampler presents all official buildings as a coherent collection defining the national territory. In addition, the way that Heimat-style facades were used to conceal modern building infrastructure was similar to how regional stylistic variations in effect camouf laged the vast, centralized bureaucratic apparatus needed to coordinate all of these Party-sanctioned projects on a national, and later international, scale. Despite his constant emphasis on landscape, only in one passage did Trampler specifically refer to the contribution of professional landscape architects and garden designers: We recognize a truly valuable extension of architecture in garden design, which has experienced a far-reaching transformation in these years.

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Professor Alwin Seifert, Karl Foerster, Professor Wiepking-Jürgensmann and others have again brought the garden into meaningful harmony with architecture and the environment…Gardens designed in this spirit become connecting elements among the [built] works themselves, as well as with the surrounding landscape.168 The profession of landscape architecture had indeed expanded considerably during the Nazi years, particularly through landscape planning, with the autobahn project being the most visible example of this. But here Trampler only credits landscape architects with garden design, while merely hinting at the significance of their work to the larger scale of regional landscapes. Furthermore, despite Alwin Seifert’s important role in the design of autobahn landscapes, in the autobahn section Trampler only credited the engineer in charge, Fritz Todt.169 However, Trampler did brief ly mention professional landscape planning as another means of protecting existing cultural landscapes, and of assuring that new construction was harmoniously introduced.170 The focus in this book was upon cultural landscape and Heimat, not the professional work of landscape architects. Trampler concluded with a comprehensive vision for the new Heimat: From the most sublime building of faith, to the humblest farmstead, to the most powerful works of technology, to the simplest dwelling house, the German Heimat grows together into an orderly and organized whole, becoming a true ref lection of the ideologically united, industrious folk.”171 Judging by this statement, Trampler appeared to believe that it was the work of architects that would result in the new cultural landscape, through the buildings that they created. The general tone of architectural thinking and design during the era reinforced this conviction, as shall be seen. Following upon the success of the first volume, a second volume largely conceived as a response to Nazi military power and recent territorial conquests was first published in 1943, and then again in 1944. As to be expected, Trampler enthusiastically lauded the conquest of the territories to the East, towards which all of his writings in various guises had been directed for the previous fifteen years: With the reconstruction of the areas that have returned home to the Reich, above all in the northeast, architecture assumes serious responsibility. Landscape-oriented settlements and farms in these Gau districts must become the Heimat for a continually increasing number of people. The construction of farms and settlements was given a high level of support from the very beginning of the new Reich – a meaningful starting point for the overall, all-encompassing task of creating a German cultural landscape in the new territory to the East.172

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FIGURE 1.24

New German settlement realized in territory within newly conquered Poland.

Without mentioning it directly, he was clearly referring to the General Plan East, which relied heavily upon professional landscape planners (Heinrich Wiepking in particular), as well as architects.173 As noted in the introduction, this plan called for the creation of an entirely new “Germanic” cultural landscape in the former Slavic areas, replete with villages, fields, and hedgerows. However, within this treatise only one new farmstead in the Hohensalza district near Posen (Poznań) was included as the very last image, perhaps as a suggestion of the future soon to come174 (Figure 1.24). The majority of the projects illustrated were of the vast array of military buildings, campuses, and related complexes that had been constructed in connection with the war. But these were not of a temporary nature, rather they were of the highest architectural quality realized in masonry and other durable materials, all carefully set within the landscape. As in the first volume, there were no maps, but the architecture of numerous regions was represented, here also including schools and other state-sponsored buildings. The military presence was overwhelming, especially in the opening images of memorials to fallen German soldiers, consisting primarily of sublime renderings by the architect Wilhelm Kreis, who envisioned an intercontinental ensemble of massive monuments on seashores and mountain peaks, from northern Europe to northern Africa. Each of these monuments was referred to symbolically as a Totenberg (tumulus), which could literally be translated as a “mountain of the dead.”175 Trampler explained the geopolitical implications of these colossal monuments in historic terms: They also embody the sense of great historical change within the landscapes of military decisions. On the rocks of the Atlantic coast arise great construction works, erected against the West as an eternal monument to the freeing of the continent from dependence upon Britain, and to the

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FIGURE 1.25

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Monument designed by Wilhelm Kreis overlooking the English Channel.

unification of Europe under the leadership of the people of the German heartland.176 Here, Trampler was specifically referring to the rendering by Kreis of a massive monument proposed for the continental shore of the English Channel, defiantly facing the British Isles – in effect as the architectural pendant to the Atlantic Wall (Figure 1.25). Other sites with monuments proposed by Kreis included the Norwegian coast, the banks of the Vistula River in the East, the strategically important Rupel Pass in the mountains between Bulgaria and Greece, and northern Africa, all border areas of great geopolitical significance.177 Such massive military monuments would not only serve as landmarks and memorials to the dead, they would also mark important boundaries, and although not defensive structures as such, they were to act as symbolic bulwarks marking German territorial claims. Many other symbolic buildings produced by the regime had been located near the borders of the old Reich, and new ones would have been built in strategic locations following World War Two had Nazi Germany been victorious. The new architecture and cultural landscapes inherently served geopolitical strategies, even when they may have had no actual significance in terms of defense.

Summary The fact that the unknown geographer Trampler actually conceived and executed this important architectural treatise previously attributed solely to Gerdy

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Troost is not merely a minor historical detail, particularly not for our current inquiry. In the first lines of his text, Trampler makes clear that the cultural landscape, which he refers to as the German “Heimat,” acts as an important symbolic link between architecture and geopolitics, mediating between the scales of the local, national, and international, in both spatial and political terms. His observations do not represent an anomaly within the cultural propaganda of the time, far from it, but his discussions of the overall spatial contexts within which the new Party architecture was situated are particularly well articulated. This is of course unsurprising given his background. It will become clear in the subsequent chapters of this study that other writers and designers also saw individual sites as being bound together thematically through blood and soil related design concepts – as well as being physically interconnected through the new auto roads, above all the autobahn system.

Notes 1 On the circumstances of Haushofer and Hess first connecting see: Christian W. Spang, Karl Haushofer und die OAG: Deutsch-japanische Netzwerke in der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich: IUDICIUM Verlag, 2018), 83. 2 This critical re-edition of Hitler’s work includes substantial scholarly texts and explanatory footnotes: Christian Hartmann, Thomas Vordermayer, Othmar Plöckinger, and Roman Töppel, eds., Mein Kampf: Eine kritische Edition (Munich: Berlin: Insitut für Zeitgeschichte, 2016). 3 Paolo Giaccaria, and Claudio Minca, Hitler’s Geographies: The Spatialities of the Third Reich (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2016): “Hitler’s Geographies, Nazi Spatialities,” pp 1–15; Giancaria and Minca, “For a Tentative Spatial Theory of the Third Reich,” pp. 19–44, esp. “Bio-Geo-Political Philosophies of the Third Reich,” p. 27. 4 Potthoff claims that Carl Ritter was the first to coin the term Kulturlandschaft: Kerstin Potthoff: “The use of ‘cultural landscape’ in 19th century German geographical literature,” Norsk geografisk Tidsskrift – Norwegian Journal of Geography, 1 (2013): 49–54 (52). 5 Friedrich Ratzel, Anthropogeographie, Vol. II. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1975), 167–168. [Reprint: Stuttgart: Verlag von J. Engelhorn, 1899; first ed. 1888.] The first mention of the term Kulturlandschaft that I have found is on p. 167. According to Kerstin Potthof, Ratzel first used the term cultural landscape in the 1893 second edition of his two volume study of the USA: Potthoff: 49–54 (52); Friedrich Ratzel, Die Vereinigten Staaten von Nord – Amerika, Vol. I (1878), Vol. II (1880) (Munich: Oldenbourg). (Here: second ed. 1893, p. 725). 6 Ratzel was among the founders of the Pan German League (Alldeutsche Verband) dedicated to the promotion of German overseas interests: Bruno Hipler, Hitlers Lehrmeister: Karl Haushofer als Vater der NS-Ideology (St. Ottilien (DE): EOS Verlag, 1996): 19. 7 Friedrich Ratzel, Politische Geographie, oder die Geographie der Staaten, des Verkehres und des Krieges (Osnabrück: Zeller, 1974): 33–34. [Reprint: third ed. 1923; first ed. summer 1897.] 8 Ratzel, Politische Geographie, 2–3. 9 I have translated this word (Boden) using all of these terms, depending on the context in the original text. 10 Johannes Steinmetzler, “Die Anthropogeologie Friedrich Ratzels und ihre Ideengeschichtlichen Wurzeln,” Bonner Geographische Abhandlungen 19 (1956): 53–54.

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11 In the original German text, Ratzel consistently uses the word “Staat.” EnglishGerman translation dictionaries give both “state” and “nation” as appropriate translations. For the nineteenth century and pre-WWI texts, I have translated “Staat” as “state.” Ratzel and his contemporaries preceded the rise of populist nationalism and the rightwing use of “national community.” The Nazis were ambivalent or even negative about the concept of “state,” which they considered to be separate from the “people” (Volk), as observed by Arendt. (See Note 1, Introduction.) 12 Ratzel, Politische Geographie, 4. 13 Ibid., 12. 14 Ibid., 7. 15 Werner Köster, Die Rede über den “Raum”: zur semantischen Karriere eines deutschen Konzepts (Heidelberg: Synchron, 2002), 63. 16 Like Ratzel, Kjellén consistently uses the term “Staat” which I have also translated as “state” here. (See Note 11 above.) 17 Friedrich Ratzel, Deutschland: Einführung in die Heimatkunde (Leipzig: Grunow, 1898), “Vorbemerkungen.” 18 Ibid., 16. 19 See: Susanne Müller, Die Welt des Baedeker. Eine Medienkulturgeschichte des Reiseführers 1830–1945, (Frankfurt Main and New York: Campus-Verlag), 2012. 20 Friedrich Ratzel, “Baedeker,” Die Grenzboten (1901): 235–245 (243). 21 Rudolf Kjellén, Der Staat als Lebensform (Berlin: Kurt Vowinckel, 1924), 51. 22 On translation of “state” see Note 11 above. I also believe that Kjellén is using the term “state” in both ideological and political terms, and does not intend for these to be separate categorizations. 23 Kjellén, 51. 24 Ibid., 129. 25 On Haushofer’s inf luence on Nazi policy see: Stang, 83–92; Mark Bassin, “Blood or Soil? The Völkisch Movement, the Nazis, and the Legacy of Geopolitik,” in: FranzJosef Brüggemeier, Mark Cloc, and Thomas Zeller, eds., How Green Were the Nazis? Nature, Environment, and Nation in the Third Reich (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2005), 204–242. Although Bassin (2005) has discredited Bruno Hipler's claim that Haushofer acted as Hitler’s “tutor,” Hipler's work contains useful biographical details on Haushofer: Bruno Hipler, Hitlers Lehrmeister: Karl Haushofer als Vater der NS-Ideology (St. Ottilien (DE): EOS Verlag, 1996). Hipler also makes the wholly unsupportable claim that Haushofer was more “talented” and “significant” than Ratzel: Hipler, 77. Another discrediting of the myth of Haushofer as Hitler’s tutor: Frank Ebeling, Geopolitik: Karl Haushofer und seine Raumwissenschaft, 1919–1945 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1994), 164. On geopolitics and cultural landscape: Mark Bassin, “Race contra space: the conf lict between German Geopolitik and National Socialism,” Political Geography Quarterly, 2, April (1987), 115–134. 26 Ebeling, 47. 27 Stang, 83. 28 Hartmann et al., Mein Kampf, Vol. II, 1630–1631, Note 9. 29 Loc. cit. 30 Köster, 112. 31 Kjellén, end page. 32 Köster, 113; Ebeling, 49–50; Karl Haushofer, Erich Obst, Hermann Lautensach, and Otto Maull, Bausteine zur Geopolitik (Berlin-Grunewald: Kurt Vowinckel Verlag, 1928), 3. 33 Haushofer, Bausteine, 2–3. 34 Karl Haushofer, Grenzen: In Ihrer Geographischen und Politischen Bedeutung (Berlin: Kurt Vonwinckel Verlag, 1927), 1. 35 Ibid., 4.

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36 Karl Haushofer, “Wehr-Geopolitik des III. Reiches,” no location, no date: Archive of the Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Film MA 619-2855 (typescript), Autumn 1933, cited in: Hipler, 188–189. 37 Haushofer, Bausteine, 70. 38 Karl Haushofer, ed., Friedrich Ratzel, Erdenmacht und Völkerschicksal: Eine Auswahl aus seinen Werken (Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner, 1940), 214–216. 39 Michel Korinmann, “Quand l’Allemagne pensait le monde. Grandeur et décadence d’une géopolitique” (Paris: Fayard, 1990), 327, cited in: Köster, 118. 40 Haushofer, Friedrich Ratzel, “Introduction.” 41 Köster, Die Rede, 105. 42 Ebeling, 199–219. 43 Ebeling, 218–219. 44 Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, Vol. I (Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, 1938), 19. 45 Ibid., 323. 46 Ibid., 331. 47 Hitler, Mein Kampf, Vol. II, 252. 48 The only instance I have found of Hitler using a form of the word “landscape” (Landschaft) is in the monologue transcript that I cited in the introduction (see pp. 7–8). 49 Hans Schrepfer, “Landschaft und Mensch im deutschen Lebensraum,” Zeitschrift für Erdkunde 4, 1 (1936): 145–156 (147). On Schrepfer see: Hermann Overbeck, ed., “Hans Schrepfer, Allgemeine Geographie und Länderkunde,” Geographische Zeitschrift 16 (1967); his post-war colleagues tried to contextualize the racial content in Schrepfer’s work, pp. XV-XVI. The British geographer Davidson considered Schrepfer an important geographer of his generation, who was killed during WWII: Robert E. Dickinson, The Makers of Modern Geography (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969), 152, 170–171. 50 On Heimat in general: Alon Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor (Chapel Hill: London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1997); Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990). 51 Period treatise: Max Wundt, Was heißt völkisch? (Langensalza: Hermann Beyer & Söhne, 1925); history of the term: Gustavo Corni and Horst Gies, Blut und Boden: Rassenideologie und Agrarpolitik im Staat Hitlers (Idstein: Verlag Dr. Ullrich SchulzKirchner, 1994). 52 Bassin, “Blood or Soil?,” 204–242. 53 Wildt, see for example: pp. 59, 63, 66. 54 Andreas Knaut, “Ernst Rudorff und die Anfänge der deutschen Heimatbewegung,” in: Edeltraud Klueting, ed., Antimodernismus und Reform: zur Geschichte der deutschen Heimatbewegung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1991), 20–49. Secondary studies on Heimatschutz: William H. Rollins, A Greener Vision of Home: Cultural Politics and Environmental Reform in the German Heimatschutz Movement, 1904–1918 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997); Thomas Rohkrämer, Eine andere Moderne? Zivilisationskritik, Natur und Technik in Deutschland 1880–1933 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1999). 55 Knaut, 23. 56 Ernst Rudorff, Heimatschutz, Walther Schonenichen, ed., Forward by Paul SchultzeNaumburg (Berlin: Hugo Bermühler Verlag, 1926), 8–10. 57 Knaut, 24–25. 58 Rudorff, Heimatschutz, 49. 59 Ibid., 49. 60 Ibid., 68. 61 Ibid., 76–77. 62 Knaut, 24–25. 63 On involvement of architects: Birgitta Ringbeck, “Architektur und Städtebau unter dem Einf luss der Heimatschutzbewegung,” in: Edeltraud Klueting, ed.,

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64 65 66 67 68

69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78

79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95

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Antimodernismus und Reform: zur Geschichte der deutschen Heimatbewegung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1991), 216–287. (Architects included: Theodor Fischer, Hermann Muthesius, Richard Riemerschmid.) Knaut, 42; Rudorff, Heimatschutz, 12. Knaut, 42. Rudorff, Heimatschutz, 81–82. Ibid., 83. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kulturarbeiten Vols. I–VI (Munich: Callwey, 1906, third ed.) Note, Vols. V–IX followed, see: Norbert Borrmann, Paul Schultze-Naumburg 1869–1949: Maler, Publizist, Architekt (Essen: R. Bacht, 1989), 245. An earlier use of the term Kulturarbeit: Ratzel, Politische Geographie, 33–34. (This suggests that the term may have originated in geography and/or anthropology.) Borrmann, Paul Schultze-Naumburg, 7 (in foreword by Julius Posener). Ibid., 15–17. For an older, biased biographical sketch see: Ludwig Bartning, Paul Schultze-Naumburg: ein Pionier deutscher Kulturarbeit (Munich: Georg Callwey, 1929). Paul Schultze-Naumburg, “Die Komposition in der moderne Malerei,” Die Kunst für Alle, XIV (March, 1899):161–166 (165). Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Die Entstellung unseres Landes (Munich: Kastner & Callwey, 1908, second ed.), 7. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kulturarbeiten Vol. I, Hausbau (Munich: Callwey, 1906, third ed.), Foreword (n.p.). Paul Mebes, Um 1800 (Munich: Bruckmann, 1908). Schultze-Naumburg, Kulturarbeiten Vol. I, Hausbau, 29, 32. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, “Ferdnand Khnopff,” Die Kunst für Alle V, July (1900): 435–440. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kulturarbeiten (Munich: Callwey, 1906), Vol. II, 242, 244, and Vol. II revised, plate 32. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Die Gestaltung der Landschaft durch den Menschen, Kulturarbeiten Vol. VII, Part I (Munich: Georg Callwey, 1916), 9. (Die Gestaltung originally published as Vols. VII-IX in the years 1916–1917; revised and republished as one volume in 1922, and again in 1928; see: Borrmann, Paul Schultze-Naumburg, 245–246.) Schultze-Naumburg, Gestaltung, 1916, 9. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Die Gestaltung der Landschaft durch den Menschen (Munich: Callwey, 1928), Part I, third ed., 123–124. Schultze-Naumburg, Gestaltung, 1928, Part I, 56–57. Ibid., 70. Schultze-Naumburg, Gestaltung, 1928, Part III, 39. Ibid., Part III, 107. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kunst und Rasse (Munich: J. F. Lehmann’s Verlag, 1928). For example: Hans Günther, Rassenkunde des deutschen Volkes (Munich: J. F. Lehmanns, 1922). Schultze-Naumburg, Kunst und Rasse (Munich: J. F. Lehmann’s Verlag, 1938), 118–119. Ibid., 121. Ibid., 31. Ibid., 129. Ibid., 135. Borrmann, 14, 198. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kunst aus Blut und Boden (Leipzig: 1934), 37. Barbara Miller Lane, Architecture and Politics in Germany, 1918–1945 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1968), 162. Thomas Mathieu, Kunstauffassungen und Kulturpolitik im Nationalsozialismus (Saarbrücken: PFAU, 1997), 283.

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96 97 98 99 100 101

102 103 104 105 106

107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116

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Miller Lane, 158. Mathieu, 194–195, 198–199. Borrmann, 185. Despina Stratigakos, Hitler at Home (New Haven: London: Yale University Press, 2015), 115–116; Borrmann, 199. Erhard Mäding, Landespflege (Berlin: Deutsche Landesbuchhandlung, 1943), 112, 158. Alfred Lichtwark, Makartbouquet und Blumenstrauß (Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1905). First pub. in: Hamburger Weihnachtsbuch (Hamburg: Meißner, 1892), 202–212; first pub. as book: (Munich: Verl.-Anst. für Kunst u. Wissenschaft, 1894). See also: David H. Haney, When Modern Was Green: Life and Work of Landscape Architect Leberecht Migge (Abingdon (UK): Routledge, 2010), 18–19, 21–23. Haney, Migge, 37–38, 208–210; see also on ecological design principles: Dorothea Hokema, Ökologische Bewußtheit und künsterliche Gestaltung (Berlin: TU, 1996). On Seifert: Charlotte Reitsam, Das Konzept der “bodenständigen Gartenkunst” Alwin Seiferts: fachliche Hintergründe und Rezeption bis in die Nachkriegszeit (Frankfurt Main: Lang, 2001), 19–20. Alwin Seifert, “Bodenständige Gartenkunst,” Die Gartenkunst (1929): 118–123, 131–132, 162–166, 175–178, 191–195. Alwin Seifert, Im Zeitalter des Lebendigen (Munich: Müllersche Verlagshandlung, 1942). On the greenhouse at Obersalzberg: Reitsam, 165; on gardens in the Siedlung Pullach: Susanne Meinl, et al., Pullach, Heilmannstrasse (Munich: Gemeinde Pullach 2014), 40–41; on Reichsstatthalter Sauckel residence garden in Weimar: email to David H. Haney from architect Jochen Wilk (August 8, 2014) confirming that Seifert was the garden designer; on Weimar garden see also: Michael Früchtel, Der Architekt Hermann Giesler: Leben und Werk (1898–1987) (Tübingen: Edition Altavilla, 2008), 105–111; on the plantation at Dachau: Daniella Seidl, “Zwischen Himmel und Hölle:” das Kommando “Plantage” des Konzentrationslagers Dachau (Munich: Utz, 2008), 156–157; on the Rudolf Hess residence garden in Munich-Harlaching: Uwe Werner, Anthroposophen in der Zeit des Nationalsozialismus: (1933–1945) (Munich: Oldenburg: 1999), 89, and: “Garten R. H.,” Der Baumeister 10 (1935): 337–339. Alwin Seifert, “Bodenständige Gartenkunst,” Die Gartenkunst (1929) 118–123, 131– 132, 162–166, 175–178, 191–195 (119). Seifert, “Bodenständige,” 163. Ibid., 123. Ibid., 132. Ibid., 164. Ibid., 175. Ibid., 175. Ibid., 175. Ibid., 166. Reitsam, Das Konzept, 23; Seifert commented in a letter to Hess that without his protection, he would have ended up in Dachau concentration camp; whether this was serious or in gest is unclear: IFZ, ED 32, Akte Heß-Seifert, April 23, 1941, cited in: Reitsam, 39. Gerdy Troost, ed., Das Bauen im Neuen Reich, Vol. I (1938), Vol. II (1943) (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayreuth). Note: publisher’s name later changed to “Gauverlag Bayreuth.” Stratigakos, Hitler, 117–118. Stratigakos was the first to discover Trampler’s involvement. Despite Stratigakos’ claim, Gerdy Troost did not determine the thematic organization of the book, as shown by the first draft outline that Trampler sent her in January 1938 attached to his letter. Stratigakos only notes that Trampler was “a nationalist,” and makes no reference to his connection with the fields of geopolitics and cultural landscape.

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119 Florian Mildenberger, “Heil und Heilstrom – Die Karrieren des Dr. Kurt Trampler (1904–1969),” Zeitschrift für Parapsychologie und Grenzgebiete der Psychologie (2005/2006/2007): 149–162 (151); this publication appears to have been based on Trampler’s PhD thesis: Kurt Trampler, Staaten und Nationalen Gemeinschaften: Eine Lösung des europäischen Minderheit-Problems (Munich: Berlin: Verlag von R. Oldenbourg, 1929), introductory remarks by Karl Haushofer. 120 Mildenberger, 152. 121 Loc. cit. Although Trampler published at least two books in 1935, these presumably appeared before July of that year. 122 Mildenberger, 152–153. 123 Kurt Trampler, “Einheit des Ostproblems,” in: Prof. Dr. Karl Haushofer, and Dr. Kurt Trampler, eds., Deutschlands Weg an der Zeitenwende (Munich: H. Hugendubel Verlag, 1931), 39–53 (39–40). 124 Helmut W. Schaller, “Der Gauverlag Bayerische Ostmark/Bayreuth: Bücher, Zeitschriften und Zeitungen 1933–1945,” Archiv für Geschichte von Oberfranken Vol. 83 (2003): 423–456. Albrecht Bald, “Braun schimmert die Grenze und treu steht die Mark!” Der NS-Gau Bayerische Ostmark/Bayreuth 1933–1945 (Bayreuth: Bumerang Verlag, 2014). 125 Bald, 39, 42, 74, 75, 94. Fritz Kuhnel, Hans Schemm Gauleiter und Kultursminister (1891–1935), Schriftenreihe des Stadtarchivs Nürnberg Vol. 37 (Nuremberg: Stadtarchiv, 1985), 245–262; Manfred Heineman, Erziehung und Schulung im Dritten Reich, Vol. I, Kindergarten, Schule, Jugend, Berufserziehung (Suttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1980), 195–196, 205; Mildenberger, 151. 126 Kurt Trampler, “Kunst als völkische Lebensmacht,” in: Karl Seibold, Rufe in das Volk, Ein Almanach (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1944), 305–310, biographical sketch by Seibold on Trampler, 346–347. Seibold was then head of the publishing house, Deutscher Volksverlag. 127 Matthias Berg, Karl Alexander von Müller 1882–1964 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 191–194; Bald, 405–413; 128 Kurt Trampler, Bayerische Ostmark: Aufbau eines deutschen Grenzlandes (Munich: Bayerland Verlag, 1934). 129 Trampler, Bayerische Ostmark, 7. 130 Gauleitung Bayerischer Ostmark der N.S.D.A.P., eds., Grenzland im Aufbau, Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayerische Ostmark, 1936, n.p. The acting Gau Leader Ludwig Ruckdeschel was credited as being responsible for the text, but this seems unlikely. Ruckdeschel was passed over as Schemm’s successor, and it was he who assassinated Fritz Wächtler in 1945, allegedly on orders from Hitler: Bald, 137–140. 131 “Further” is the place name, it is not a word found in contemporary German dictionaries. 132 Gauleitung, Grenzland, n.p. 133 Seibold, 305310, 346–347. 134 Hans Schemm, Deutsches Volk – Deutsches Heimat, Vol. 1 (Bayreuth: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1935); the photo credit sections gives dates when publication permission was granted. The German People’s Press, (Deutscher Volksverlag) was located in Bayreuth in 1935, and relocated to Munich by 1937; the Bavarian East Mark Press (Gauverlag Bayerische Ostmark) printed the first and second editions (1935, 1937) of the first volume of the series. 135 The series German Folk – German Heimat (Deutsches Volk – Deutsche Heimat) appeared over the following years: Volume I, first ed., Deutsches Volk – Deutsche Heimat (1935); Volume II, text and map complement to volume one, Deutsches Volk – Deutsche Heimat (1937); Volume I, second ed., Deutsches Volk – Deutsche Heimat (officially cataloged as 1937, but could have appeared in 1938); Volume III, Deutsche fern der Heimat (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1938); Volume IV, Die Neue Heimat (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1940); Volume V, Reichsaufbau im Osten (1941).

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136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155

156

157 158 159 160

The last of these publications appears to be Volume IV, third edition, (1943), but additional editions of the other titles were published, including a fifth edition of Volume I (1942). It probably is not possible to trace definitively all of the editions in the series, because public library holdings are not complete. Hans Schemm was the original editor of the first edition of volume I (before his death), but Fritz Wächtler is credited as editor for the following books in the series; Kurt Trampler is never mentioned. Hans Schemm, Deutsches Volk – Deutsches Heimat, Vol. I (Bayreuth: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1935), Foreword. (Who actually wrote the original foreword is open to question.) Schemm, Vol. I, 1935, Foreword. Ibid., 1935, 182. See: Erna Lendvai-Dircksen, Das deutsche Volksgesicht (Berlin: Kulturelle Verlag, 1932); Falk Blask, ed. Menschenbild und Volksgesicht: Positionen zur Porträtfotografie im Nationalsozialismus (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2005). Schemm, 1935, 53. Fritz Wächtler, ed., Deutsches Volk – Deutsches Heimat, Vol. II (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1937), 3. Wächtler, Deutsches Volk, 1937, 72. Trampler referred to this citation in the first draft of his book on architecture that he proposed to Troost in 1938: Dr. Kurt Trampler to Frau Professor G. Troost, January 4, 1938, Gerdy Troost Papers, BHSA, Folder 16: Korrespondenz. Wächtler, Deutsches Volk, 1937, 78. Fritz Wächtler, ed., Deutsche fern der Heimat (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1938). Fritz Wächtler, ed., Die Neue Heimat (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1940). Fritz Wächtler, ed., Reichsaufbau im Osten (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1941), 137. Seibold, Rufe, biographical sketch on Trampler, 346–347; Trampler’s text in this edited volume: Kurt Trampler, “Kunst als völkische Lebensmacht,” 305–310. Wächtler, Die neue Heimat, 172–173. Dr. Kurt Trampler to Frau Professor G. Troost, January 4, 1938, Gerdy Troost Papers, BHSA, Folder 16: Korrespondenz. Ibid., 3. Hans Schemm [and Fritz Wächtler], ed., Deutsches Volk – Deutsches Heimat, Vol. I (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1937, second edition), 216–247. Hubert Schrade, Bauten des Dritten Reiches (Leipzig: Bibliographisches Institut, 1937). Troost, Bauen. (Note: publisher’s name later changed to “Gauverlag Bayreuth.”) Albert Speer and Rudolf Wolters, Neue Deutsche Baukunst (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1940, fourth ed., 1943); Herbert Hoffmann, Deutschland Baut: Bauten und Bauvorhaben (Stuttgart: Verlag Julius Hoffmann, 1939); another survey published in 1938, but with more emphasis on sculpture: Werner Rittich, Architektur und Bauplastik der Gegenwart (Berlin: Rembrandt-Verlag, 1938). On surveys/treatises of the period, esp. Neue Deutsche Baukunst, see: Jörn Düwel, and Niels Gutschow, Baukunst und Nationalsozialismus: Demonstrationen von Macht in Europa (Berlin: DOM publishers, 2015), 134–143, 151–166. The fifth ed. of Vol. I in 1943 was printed in 38 to 40 thousand copies; the second ed. of Vol. II in 1943 was printed in 12 to 22 thousand copies; the catalog of the German National Library in Leipzig records editions of both volumes published in 1944. Troost, Vol. 1, 1938, 5. Ibid., 5. Ibid., 8. Ibid., 9.

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161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177

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Ibid., 9. Ibid., 10. Ibid., 5. Ibid., 5. Ibid., 134–135. Ibid., 60. Ibid., 41. Ibid., 154. Ibid., 98. Ibid., 135. Ibid., 157. Troost, Vol. 2, 1943, 6–7. See for example: Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Buhlmann, Der Drang nach Osten: zur Entwicklung der Landespflege im Nationalsozialismus und während des 2. Weltkrieges in den “eingegliederten Ostgebieten” (Munich: Minerva, 1987). On settlement architecture and planning in the East: Michael A. Hartenstein, Neue Dorflandschaften: Nationalsozialistische Siedlungsplanung in den ‘eingegliederten Ostgebieten’ 1939–1944 (Berlin: Dr Köster, 1998). Wilhelm Kreis personally presented Hitler with an album of these Totenberg drawings on December 29, 1942: National Archives, Washington DC, file 8441. Troost, Vol. 2, 6–7. Ibid., 10–14.

2 VEINS OF THE NATION The Nazi Autobahn as Geopolitical Propaganda Device

The new autobahn system was the single largest design and construction project undertaken by the Nazi state in the years before World War Two.1 Not only due to the amount of earth moved or concrete poured, but more importantly for this study, because it traversed every region in the country. By its nature, the autobahn was a geopolitical device, and exploited as such by Nazi propagandists from the beginning. The two phases of geopolitical strategizing, that is, the initial drive to consolidate the Reich and the subsequent move towards territorial expansion, are very much evident both in how the autobahn was conceived, and how it was presented through different media. As mentioned, the autobahn was understood by many as a monumental construction that tied together the various cultural landscapes and monumental sites across the country (Figure 2.1). The obsession with the design of the new landscapes along the autobahn was not only a matter of ensuring esthetic harmony or honoring the blood and soil connection, for the autobahn was to function as a unique type of cultural landscape that consolidated all of the others into one geopolitical whole. This new unified entity represented the nation as being rooted in the soil and the past, as well as thoroughly modern. The autobahn itself was a medium of communication, with the carefully curated landscape views along the roadsides providing images of the “fictitious world” of the ideal national community, thus reinforcing the Nazi regime’s claims of being a benevolent state. If the autobahn cultural landscape was to be experienced in real time and space as the national Heimat itself, then through autobahn maps the geopolitical potential of the system could be immediately communicated to all levels of German society, and indeed to foreigners as well. The 1939 autobahn map previously discussed showed how the system would consolidate the entire nation. By only showing the outer borders of the country on the map, but none of the internal political divisions such as the new Gau or the former borders of “annexed” countries, this message of consolidation DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-3

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FIGURE 2.1

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Bridge by architect Paul Bonatz framing a view of the cultural landscape.

was further reinforced. In this way this 1939 map presaged the end of the initial consolidation phase. Another geopolitical significance of prewar autobahn maps was that they cast the problem of international borders in high relief, almost unavoidably; where autobahn routes reached an international border, they simply stopped. Anticipating the coming expansionist phase, in one of his 1937 volumes of “German Volk – German Heimat,” Trampler included a map of the autobahn system with the routes in illustrated in red, highlighting both how the network consolidated national territory, and the way that it had been interrupted by postWorld War One borders (Figure 2.2). Autobahn propaganda such as this was not only a means of promoting the system’s value domestically – it also acted as a polemical device suggesting that the road system offered another self-evident argument for territorial expansion. Recognizing the importance of the autobahn as an architectural work, Trampler included it within his first survey, while alluding to its importance to his own geopolitical program: [The autobahn roads] were designed by General Inspector Professor Dr. Fritz Todt. Up until the National Socialist seizure of power, parliamentary indecision and atomistic provincialism hindered all such important road construction. Today the autobahn is being consciously constructed as the embodiment of the unity and authority of the new Reich. In this way it reveals its extraordinary political significance, for the autobahn brings

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FIGURE 2.2

Trampler’s diagrammatic map of the new autobahn network.

remote landscapes closer together, overcomes former interior boundaries, and is not being built arbitrarily by any special interest group, but rather as the life-veins of the German people’s body.2 Here, Trampler reinterprets the biological relationship represented by the blood and soil analogy, by metaphorically referring to the German state as a collective “body” with the autobahn as its “veins.” This was not just a matter of a f low of goods and people but of the “life” of the national community, as another layer of ideological symbolism. The autobahn not only consolidated the nation, it also strengthened the connection of the national community to the land. His comment on a “special interest group” most likely refers to the HAFRABA Society’s autobahn route dating back to the 1920s, which the Nazis essentially co-opted. The earlier project in fact enjoyed wide international support, but of course the Nazis believed it necessary to discredit the Society as being insignificant in comparison to the boundless capacity of the Reich.

The Engineer and the Landscape Architect: Willing Ideological Instruments Two individuals had the greatest impact on the design and construction of the autobahn system: the engineer Fritz Todt, and landscape architect Alwin Seifert. Trampler’s claim that Fritz Todt “designed” the autobahn was not entirely unfounded, for he was in charge of the entire project, and answerable only to

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Hitler. Although a technocrat and not a politician, Todt was nevertheless one of the stars of the Nazi elite. At the time of his death in a mysterious airplane accident in 1942, Todt was the most important man for all state construction activity in the Reich, including the provision of war materiel; the architect Albert Speer succeeded him in all these roles. Even though not a politician Todt was politically active, having joined the Nazi Party as early as 1923.3 In 1931, he was invited to join the “Militant League of German Architects and Engineers” (Kampfbund Deutscher Architekten und Ingenieure), because of an article he had written for a Party journal.4 He quickly succeeded in gaining attention through his philosophical views on technology, emphasizing the importance of feeling and intuition as well as rationality and precision.5 In recognition of his work, in early 1932 he was named the “Personal Deputy to the Representative of the Führer [Rudolf Hess] on All Questions of Technology and its Organization.”6 A half year later in June 1933, Todt was personally invited by Hitler to an audience in Berlin, who thereafter named him “General Inspector for German Road Construction,” meaning that Todt was responsible for all road construction in the Reich, not just the autobahn system.7 Seifert joined Todt on the project about six months later; after reading Todt’s views on autobahn construction, he wrote directly to him in November 1933, offering his services. Todt answered within a week stating, “I am pleased that you have the same healthy and natural philosophy of landscape design as I do.”8 Seifert began by assembling a group of like-minded landscape architects to take responsibility for different regions of the country. He bestowed upon them a title of his own invention, “landscape advocates” (Landschaftsanwälte), as a means of emphasizing that they were not mere garden designers, but authoritative representatives of the natural environment.9 Seifert subsequently played a critical role in the conception and execution of the autobahn and other road projects, although he was forced to make many compromises with the roadway engineers.10 Both Todt and Seifert were dedicated Party members, and thoroughly steeped in Nazi ideology. And both were conscious of being willing instruments of the Nazi regime, roles that they felt honored to fulfill. Through them, the autobahn became the biotechnic manifestation of blood and soil beliefs at a massive scale never witnessed before. Even though Seifert would go on to have a prolific career after the war, the autobahn remained his single most important project. Todt was not only an engineer and the director of works, he was also a clever and proficient propagandist, as befitted the nature of the autobahn project. He frequently gave public talks, wrote articles, organized exhibitions, and authorized publications. Most significantly, he even founded a journal dedicated specifically to the autobahn titled, “The Road” (Die Strasse), which debuted in August, 1934 (Figure 2.3). “The Road” was not merely a dry technical journal with only abstract tables and technical details, rather it was intended to appeal to an educated general audience, if predominately male. Here again, because it was a cultural project Todt and his editorial team invited contributions from a wide variety of writers and artists representing various viewpoints, which were acceptable to the Party.11 These included the popular travel writer Alfons Paquet, the photographer Hans Saebens, the geologist Edith Ebers,

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FIGURE 2.3

Cover of the first issue of “The Road,”August, 1934.

and the noted plant geographer Reinhold Tüxen. Naturally, Alwin Seifert and his landscape advocates were also regular contributors from the beginning. Production quality was very high, with full-page black and white landscape photographs and illustrated maps. Publication of “The Road” continued well into the war years, only ceasing in 1942, its pages providing a definitive source for high-level Party propaganda on the topic.12 All of Todt’s propaganda activities were aided by official support from the regime, with Hitler his most important patron. The pages of “The Road” and other authorized publications are filled with photographs of Hitler in various poses, shoveling dirt, shaking hands with workers, and of course leading ceremonial motorcades. Popularly known as “Adolf Hitler’s Roads,” the system not only represented the collectively body of the national community, but also Hitler as the human embodiment of state power. Through his expertise and ideological zeal, Todt supported not only the autobahn and other road projects, but also the myth and person of the Führer himself.

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Early Propaganda: Feigned International Cooperation versus Perceived Victimization Despite the appellation “Adolf Hitler’s Roads,” plans for an expressway system had been under serious discussion in Germany since the early 1920s. The first concrete plan conceived in 1926 called for a single expressway to run from Hamburg in the north, through to Frankfurt Main, and on to Basel. Planned and promoted by the HAFRABA Society (the name being an anagram of the major cities connected), the project was subsequently extended through Switzerland to the Italian city of Genoa, so that the planned expressway would connect ports on the North Sea and Mediterranean (Figure 2.4). Piero Puricelli, the Italian engineer responsible for the northern Italian highway system in the early 1920s under Mussolini, was one of the most active proponents of this road plan. Highly committed to

FIGURE 2.4

Map of proposed HAFRABA route from Genoa to Hamburg.

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international expansion of the expressway system at a European and even Eurasian scale, Puricelli genuinely believed that such roads would not only serve economic growth and tourism, but also act as instruments of international understanding and peace. Overall, HAFRABA plans were oriented towards practical goals, rather than the cultivation of the Heimat and the symbolic relationship to the soil. Although HAFRABA’s geopolitical strategy was supposed to support peace and international collaboration, competing nationalisms nevertheless continued to exert inf luence. Marcel Violette, a French critic who feared the competition posed by the HAFRABA project, proposed an alternative route from Cherbourg to Genoa in 1927.13 He claimed that the HAFRABA road would diminish the cultural inf luence of France, and that the connection to a German port would seriously affect France’s ability to compete for international tourists.14 As his comments reveal, promotional rhetoric touting the peaceful aims of the HAFRABA project did not mean that it was viewed favorably by all Europeans. Significantly, the original HAFRABA plans only called for one north-south route, not an entire system of expressways, for east-west routes through Germany would have been much more problematic. Throughout the 1920s, the entire western border area of Germany was a militarized zone occupied by French and British troops, and the newly created Slavic countries to the east understandably were wary of permitting German highway connections across their borders. However, once plans had become more familiar to a pan-European specialist audience, HAFRABA expanded its proposals into an entire European network, to extend as far as Moscow, Ankara, and even Casa Blanca via Ferry.15 Because HAFRABA published this pan-European plan in 1932, a few months before the Nazi seizure of power, it was soon suppressed and forgotten. Despite their assertion that the autobahn was wholly their own conception, the Nazis drew heavily upon these earlier planning proposals. The overall geopolitical direction of the autobahn obviously changed substantially as soon as the Nazis seized power. In the early years their efforts understandably concentrated on domestic routes, while they aimed to at least appear to be supportive of European international collaboration and peace. Already in 1930, the Association Internationale Permanente des Congrés de la Route had planned its next meeting (scheduled every four years) to be held in Germany in 1934.16 The seventh International Road Congress in fact took place in 1934 in Munich, a major Nazi Party stronghold, where some of the most scenic autobahn segments were being constructed nearby. The Nazis seized the opportunity to promote their new road building projects, including not only the autobahn, but also the “German Alpine Road,” a two-lane scenic highway running in an east-west direction through Bavaria just north of the international border. An exhibition organized by Todt titled simply “The Road,” opened in Munich at the same time (Figure 2.5). Both Fritz Todt as the director of the project, and Rudolf Hess as the Representative of the Führer gave the opening addresses at the congress. Hess explained to an international audience that the autobahn project was, “closely connected with centuries-long efforts towards consolidation [Festigung], achieved through the political unity of the Reich under National

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FIGURE 2.5

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Hitler and Todt at the autobahn exhibition,“The Road.”

Socialism.”17 Hess stressed that for them the autobahn roads were, “not just symbols of German technical expertise,” but more importantly, “a political-historical document of the era.”18 Careful to assure the international audience that Nazi intentions were noble, Hess proclaimed: “The more the expressways of neighboring countries are brought into harmony with one another, the more everyday tourism over the great national roads…will also foster increasing recognition among peoples.”19 This call for international collaboration would mean facilitating border crossings into other countries, which despite his peaceful rhetoric, would soon be seen as having strategic significance for the Reich. Todt’s speech was comparatively bland, but continued the theme of international collaboration. He noted in practical terms that, “similar to the way that international railroad lines were developed, so too will international autobahn routes be realized.”20 The most proactive internationalist speech was that by Puricelli, who called for a “European system of automobile highways.” As he saw it: Automobile highways are the doors to peace, not to war! Bringing the people of Europe closer together only serves the cause of peace.21 Puricelli, who represented Mussolini’s Italy, may well have been wholly sincere in his desire for an expressway system that would facilitate peaceful relations in

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Europe. And while the Nazi delegation at the 1934 conference expressed a desire for international cooperation and peace, articles in that same year in “The Road” took a different tact. As usual, the international boundaries set by the Treaty of Versailles were the subject of particular ire, as in this typical observation: Everyone knows the photographs of severed roads at the borders, on which today grass sprouts…The neighboring states killed these veins of national traffic with carefully calculated intentions.22 Germans were presented as the targets of political victimization, symbolized by images of abandoned roads. Another article that year explained that on the other hand, the Versailles Treaty had not specifically forbidden new automobile expressways and thus had unintentionally favored Germany, further evidence of the backward, nineteenth-century thinking of the Treaty’s framers.23 But overall, the post-World War One situation was thought to be a disaster in logistical terms, for example according to another writer in 1937: “In the border area between Aachen and Monschau, the Dictate of Versailles made an absolute monstrosity of the traffic routes.”24 The tone of these comments was more suggestive of the need for vindication than collaboration, for it was widely believed that the boundaries were set with malicious intent. As often the case in the early years of the regime, what was being said to an international audience differed significantly from what was being communicated to the German public, and even more so from confidential discussions within Hitler’s inner circle.25

Neighbors and Borders: Highways as Measure of National Achievement In the years before 1938, the overall geopolitical situation was not interpreted as being a generic internal/external relationship, for perceptions of neighboring countries varied considerably. Germany, it may be recalled, was (and still is) bordered by nine countries with very different cultures. Since the autobahn was a complete infrastructure system at the national scale, it naturally served as a catalyst for discussions about international borders, which to some degree affected design and realization. The perceived variations among neighboring countries and regions were not only political, but also cultural, and critically for the Nazis, racial. As Trampler claimed in his writings, individual cultural landscapes in borderlands were shaped by their own internal culture, but also defined strategically according to which country lay across the immediate boundary. Plans for the autobahn and other roads were made accordingly. The autobahn was the largest infrastructure project in terms of miles covered, but there were also three significant scenic borderland highways, as well as a line of fortification along the western borders, the Westwall. Although the latter was not a road, it was part of the overall border infrastructure that included additional military roads. A 1937 cite from Hitler precisely sums up the main assumption underlying autobahn discourse in relation to neighboring countries: “If previously one

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FIGURE 2.6

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Diagrammatic map showing threat of foreign races.

often sought to gauge the living standards of a nation through the number of kilometers of railroad track, then in the future the number of kilometers of roads designed for motorized traffic will be given as the measure.”26 As always the case in Hitler’s writings, the implication was that racially superior nations had higher levels of cultural achievement, and the converse. By necessity then, the German highway system was to be the greatest in all Europe, if not the world. Nazi geopolitical thinking in respect to the autobahn was inf luenced by simplistic race-based characterizations of neighboring national communities: to the south and the north of the country lay the kindred “Germanic” or “Nordic” countries respectively, while to the east and west were found inimical nations, in particular the Slavs and the French. This kind of racist thinking had a direct effect on autobahn planning 27 (Figure 2.6). The Nordic peoples of Denmark, Finland, Norway, and Sweden, had long been held to be “Germanic” ancestors by folkish thinkers, and valued as the source of much ancient culture, such as Viking mythology. A German “Nordic Society” (Nordische Gesellschaft) was founded in Lübeck in 1921 as a politically independent organization, but was taken over by the Nazis in 1933 and placed under the direction of Alfred Rosenberg. The Society soon became a Nazi Party organ, with Heinrich Himmler as an active member, among other Party elite.28 On the occasion of the fourth annual national meeting of the Nordic Society in June 1937, Todt gave a talk elaborating on the significance of the automobile and the autobahn as products of Nordic culture. He carefully qualified the Nordic need for movement: It is a fundamental characteristic of the Nordic person that he is not driven towards a better climate, but towards open space. Furthermore, he never became a nomad, like the Slav29

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FIGURE 2.7

Nazi plans for highway expansion into Scandinavia.

This was a vague reference to Viking military conquests, and hence by implication a historical justification for contemporary military action (Figure 2.7). Todt made direct, if fanciful analogies to the present, claiming that modern “northern” man, “uses the automobile just as the knight once used his horse, and the Viking his ship”30 Therefore, he asserted without irony, “the automobile is a cultural product of Nordic man.”31 In this way Todt justified modern transportation technology as the latest manifestation of traditional Nordic racial sensibilities directed towards, “mastering the world by overcoming space”32 On a more practical level, Todt’s journal “The Road” featured articles and photo studies of highways of all the Nordic countries, with generally positive assessments, but directed towards future highway expansion in the region either in collaboration with or under the direction of the Nazis (depending upon the political situation at the time).33 Because Denmark shared a common land border with Germany, even before the war it was of particular interest to Todt and other autobahn propagandists. In the same 1937 talk, Todt reported that “Once Germany had begun its Reich Autobahn, a plan was developed in Denmark to connect the Scandinavian countries to one another and the continent with a continuous route that would bridge

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over the intervening Sound.”34 He appears to imply that this Danish road would ideally be connected to the German autobahn, thus offering his own country a great advantage. Denmark, Finland, Iceland, and Sweden had already had founded the Nordic Road Association in Stockholm in 1935, although the idea dated back to 1923, suggesting that the German autobahn project may not have been the primary catalyst as Todt claimed.35 Denmark, with its strong engineering community, was the leader among the Nordic countries in terms of planning new auto roads, and had in fact proposed an expressway to Sweden in 1936.36 However, this project only progressed further after the Nazi invasion in July 1940, when German engineers proposed building an autobahn from Germany to Sweden along almost the same route. During the ground-breaking ceremony in September 1941, the ceremonial spade used by the Danish minister of public works broke in the presence of Todt. This was interpreted by many Danes as an ill omen, suggesting that they were not entirely comfortable with this collaboration. Todt’s successor Albert Speer stopped work on this highway in 1943 due to the war.37 In Norway, the site of the northernmost section of the Atlantic Wall, another grand scale infrastructure project, the situation was very different. Although a new autobahn system for Norway was discussed, in the end almost all efforts there were directed at military defense works.38 Although Nazi Germany planned autobahn routes across the continent after the war began, in the early years the only immediate collaboration envisioned was with Denmark and the other Nordic countries. While the countries to the west were not considered culturally inferior, they were regarded as being inimical, in particular France, and before the war, these nations were the most feared militarily. (While Britain did not share a border, it also represented a potential threat from the west.) At the same time, the western regions of the Rhineland and Ruhr Valley were home to the most important industrial centers in the Reich. In a 1935 article in “The Road,” a writer described the Ruhr District as, “a landscape of endless productive potential, a European center of power, the industrial heart of Germany” In keeping with the esthetic appreciation of the “industrial cultural landscape” being cultivated by Nazi propaganda, he also emphasized that, “The Ruhr District is [also] an ancient cultural landscape.”39 Because this area was so thickly settled and industrialized, it necessarily required a high-density autobahn network, he claimed. While a logical argument economically, his call also represented another act of consolidation in a sensitive border region, then still demilitarized. In the west of the country particularly, in the early years the German military was concerned that the autobahn posed a security threat, and argued against “any Reich automobile road west of the Rhine,” fearing in particular that bridges over the Rhine could facilitate rapid enemy advances.40 Todt responded by pointing out that major bridges were planned as large architectural works, which the military understood could be detonated on short notice as a means of blocking enemy advance. He succeeded in convincing the military to allow him to extend the planned system up to the western boundary of the Reich in Aachen and Saarbrücken, yet

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no international road-building collaborations were planned further to the west at that point. The most significant infrastructure project along the western border was the defensive Westwall, which Hitler ordered be built in 1936 in concert with the remilitarization of the area. In the beginning, Westwall construction was under the direction of military engineers, but because Hitler was displeased with their progress he appointed Todt as director of works. Despite the aggressive militaristic presence of these fortifications, the Nazi propaganda machine presented the Westwall as a “Building Work of Peace,” intended to end “the eternal strife with France once and for all.”41 After completion, it was seen as an effective deterrent to the French, to the extent that it was thought to have helped facilitate the peaceable 1938 “return” of the Sudetenland in the southeast.42 Following the invasion and conquest of countries to the west, the boundary shifted farther to the west, to the coast where an Atlantic Wall was constructed. Because of the continued threat from Britain (and the US), the autobahn remained a more problematic proposition to the west of the Reich. The Slavic races to the east, and the Poles in particular, had long been regarded as both inferior and inimical. Before 1938, some attempt was made to at least appear to be cooperating with Poland, but assessments of conditions there were negative from the beginning. Whatever the validity of the statistics, it was claimed that Poland was seventeenth in Europe in terms of the density of the national road network, with Germany and Czechoslovakia possessing networks that were four times as large, and that even Romania’s was twice as large as Poland’s.43 Already in 1935, an autobahn propagandist hinted that Poland was primarily significant as a territory that would serve further German expansion: “The Polish-German land area in the middle of the European continent is a transit area from the Atlantic Ocean to the Urals, from the Mediterranean to Asia Minor and to the Baltic and North Sea, as determined by nature.”44 Even the Slavic country of Czechoslovakia was treated with greater respect. However, the most negative comments of all were reserved for the Soviet Union, which Germany did not share a border with, but nevertheless had in its sights. It was reported in 1936 that, “the current road system of the Soviet Union is by no means comparable to those of central or western European states, neither in respect to the density of the network, nor in respect to its qualities.”45 As compared to the “peaceful” road building projects in Germany, the Soviet government was only concerned with roads for military purposes, the writer charged.46 Since Poland was directly adjacent to Germany, it was naturally of greater logistical interest. Of all the bordering countries, the situation with Poland had been the most complex since 1919, for the German territory of East Prussia and the ethnic German Free City of Danzig were both separated from the old Reich by the Polish Corridor, created to give the new nation of Poland direct access to the sea. Understandably, the Poles did not grant Germany permission to build a connecting autobahn across the corridor. Todt did succeed in constructing an autobahn route from Königsberg (Kaliningrad), the capital of East Prussia, to Elbing (Elblag) on the edge of the Free City of Danzig, but because the latter city

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was independent from the Reich, the highway could not enter it. The completion of this section prompted the travel writer Alfons Paquet to muse: In the East the autobahn appears to be created primarily to overcome the imperial distances. The section from Elbing to Königsberg points in the direction of one of the great rays.47 The “great ray” in this case was the route from Königsberg via Danzig to Berlin, which was projected but never completed. Before the invasion in September 1939, clearly the territory of Poland had already been eyed for potential autobahn expansion, but any concrete plans were understandably thwarted by Polish refusals to collaborate. Three border areas that may appear to have little in common were all sites of new scenic highways that ran roughly parallel to the international boundaries: the Alpine Road in southern Bavaria above the Swiss and Austrian borders, the Bavarian East March Road to the west of the Czechoslovakian border, and the Sudeten Road to the north of the other section of the Czechoslovakian border. One characteristic that these marginal areas all shared was their dramatic mountain scenery, but that was not the only reason that these roads were built there. Writing in 1937 in “The Road,” Rudolf Hoffmann explained the need for these border roads in pseudo-biological terms, expanding upon geopolitical analogies of the State as organism: Circumscribed national territories are comparable to living bodies that contain a dense network of blood-filled veins. Just as the circulation in the limbs, the “extremities” of living bodies, is weaker than in the torso, so too is the traffic f low that joins economic and living spaces [Lebensräume] in the border areas weaker than in the interior.48 Border areas thought to be weakened by the Versailles Treaty were thus in need of particular help, giving even more impetus to the reinforcement of their internal road systems as a matter of great national significance. But these new scenic roads were not only utilitarian means of transport, they were cultural products by virtue of their careful detailing, and in the way that they provided for a high quality esthetic experience of their respective landscapes. By constructing these roads, the Nazi state increased its cultural presence in these areas as a means of raising domestic awareness, while making defiant gestures to the neighboring countries. Before 1938, the countries to the south of Germany, Austria and Switzerland, were also seen as belonging to the Germanic cultural sphere, yet relations between the German Nazis and the Austrian government were particularly strained because of the threat of annexation. In early 1933, as a demonstration of political will the Nazi government forbade German tourists from traveling to Austria, on pain of a 1,000 Mark fine. This ban lasted until 1937 and was a primary

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reason that southeastern Bavaria quickly developed as a major tourist destination within the old Reich.49 One result of this political skirmish with Austria was that the Reich government started construction of the scenic two-lane Alpine Road, which had actually been in planning phases since the 1920s.50 A primary objective was to provide German tourists with an alternative to foreign mountain roads, particularly those in Austria. Alwin Seifert was in charge of design and construction of the Alpine Road, a project that he pursued with great passion. For Seifert, the cultural landscape of the Alpine piedmont held special significance for the German people, as he explained in his study of Alpine stonework: Racial studies long ago identified this unique border that runs along the Jura and veers north in France. It is the northern boundary of the ancient settlement area of the Alpine race, which bequeathed the qualities of industriousness, joy, and a deep soul to the contemporary German people51 In a similar manner to the Nordic lands, the tribes of the Alpine region had contributed, “sharp understanding, daring, and vigor,” to the German race52 (Figure 2.8). The Alpine Road was also imbued with this sense of racial bonding

FIGURE 2.8

Photo of an Alpine Road worker.

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with the mountainous Alpine landscape, expressed through elaborate stonework and other details derived from local Heimat culture. As a precedent it was considered a great success, which was one reason behind the construction of the other two similar border roads. As discussed, Trampler and others emphasized the “threat” that Czechoslovakia posed to Bavarian East Mark, along with the general poverty and isolation of the region – all allegedly exacerbated by the post-VersaillesTreaty border. A road in this region would connect this poorer area to the rest of Germany through a traffic interchange at the northern terminus of the road in the city of Hof.53 Since the Nazis had created the new Bavarian East March Gau by combining smaller regions, the new road would also foster a new sense of collective identity there. As with the building of the Alpine Road, careful attention was paid to design detail, since this was also to be a scenic highway for tourists. The Bavarian East March Road was seen as a means of consolidating this border region, as a real and symbolic gesture of unity in the face of a perceived hostile neighbor. Another area on the Czechoslovakian border located at the southern edge of German Silesia was even more problematic: the Sudetenland. Although official propaganda often suggested otherwise, only part of the Sudetenland was located within Czechoslovakia. Along the German side of the border construction of another scenic highway was begun, named simply the Sudeten Road. This was also a symbolic road intended to strengthen German presence in another highly contested post-Versailles border region. According to one writer commenting in “The Road” in 1936: “The Sudetenland is one of the most beautiful and varied landscape areas of the German Reich.”54 He further emphasized that this was not an isolated project: “In the German Sudeten Road an engineering work is being created, a road segment that fits admirably within the overall reconstruction and construction plans of the Reich government.”55 While these three road projects are much less well-known today than the autobahn system, they were nevertheless attributed with great strategic importance at the time they were built. In his 1937 article on road-building in border areas, Rudolf Hoffmann remarked: “Therefore the border parallel [road] Hof-Passau in the Bavarian East March is one of the most important projects, just as border parallels like the German Alpine Road from Königsee to Bodensee now under construction are for tourism, and thus for the welfare of the respective border areas.”56 He concluded: “The planned German Sudeten Road in Silesia may be interpreted similarly.”57 Here, the economic justification was used to mask political intent. All of these different border situations illustrate that the creation of the autobahn was not understood as simply an act of casting a uniform network of roads over the country as a purely technical and logistical problem. Rather, roadbuilding and other infrastructure projects were conceived in response to local cultural and geopolitical factors, particularly in sensitive border areas.

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One People – One Reich – One Führer: Transport Infrastructure and the New European Order The question of the logistical importance of the autobahn to the Nazi military highlights the differences between what was being claimed by propagandists in “The Road” and elsewhere, and what was really occurring in practice. In the early planning stages, it was Hitler’s wish that the autobahn could be planned in part to serve the new motorized Army, but for various reasons this motorization process was never realized.58 Only during the early phases of the war did the autobahn play a role, and not a particularly significant one at that59 (Figure 2.9). Nevertheless, once “annexation” and armed invasion had begun, the military significance of the formerly “peaceful” roads was emphasized by propagandists in the early stages of conquest. According to one historian, in August 1938 Hitler did in fact order Todt to ready the roads to Czechoslovakia for rapid military invasion.60 In 1940, General Guderain retrospectively wrote with pride in “The Road”: “We already have enjoyed the advantages of the Reich Autobahn on the liberation march to Vienna, then on the march into the Sudetenland, during the attacks against Czechoslovakia, against Poland, and against the Western

FIGURE 2.9

German army unit on the autobahn in 1941.

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powers.”61 At the Road Construction Conference in Munich in 1939, Todt boasted that the roads along the Westwall and in the Sudetenland had been built to serve a military function as well, and that the good condition of borderland roads had greatly aided the campaign against Poland.62 Since the conquest of new territories was believed to be a necessary act, the autobahn would be just as essential as a means of settlement and control following military conquest.63 The first great gain in territory and roads came with the annexation of Austria in March 1938, prompting Todt to observe: “The network was expanded by about 12,000 km [ca 7,450 mi] through the return of Austria.”64 At Walserberg near Salzburg Todt announced that: Adolf Hitler’s Roads are the expression of political unity. These sections are indeed works of technology, but they are also the material and political expression of the idea of a people…One People – One Reich – One Führer.65 Only three and a half weeks after the annexation, autobahn construction in Austria was begun under Todt, with the section from Salzburg to Vienna receiving top priority.66 Planning for this route had already begun in summer 1937, proving that they had counted on the annexation being a success for months prior. Former Czechoslovakia, since March 1939 renamed the “Protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia,” was also to receive new roads. Now that the former borders were no longer a problem, the scenic Sudeten Road suddenly became less of a priority. Hess opened the ground-breaking ceremony for the autobahn in the Sudetenland in December 1938, which would provide an east-west connection through Bohemia, while an additional north-south route from Berlin to Munich was also to pass through the area.67 In “The Road,” Waldemar Wucher announced that, “a few weeks following the solution of the German-Czech question,” an autobahn route from Breslau to Vienna passing through former Czechoslovakia had been agreed upon.68 As mentioned, before the war Poland had refused to allow the autobahn to continue across the border into their territory. Constructing autobahn segments up to the Polish border before September 1939 was clearly intended as an act of provocation. One writer in “The Road” admitted after the invasion that, “The Reich Autobahn Berlin – Frankfurt Oder was projected from the beginning to be a connector to Pozen [Posnan]…[and] an extension in the direction of Lodsch [Łódź] is [now] under consideration.”69 The architect Friedrich Tamms designed a substantial bridge to cross the Oder River at Frankfurt Oder, but his later design for a bridge crossing the Vistula River much farther to the east recalled military fortifications, symbolically highlighting its purpose as a symbol of German geopolitical control70 (Figure 2.10). Hitler had used the problem of roads being interrupted by international borders as an argument for breaching the Treaty of Versailles to facilitate greater freedom of movement for Germany. The fact that Czechoslovakia already had agreed to allow an autobahn connection inside of its borders, or conversely that Poland had formerly rejected an autobahn route through the Corridor had little effect on planning after the war began.71

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FIGURE 2.10

Autobahn bridge over the Vistula River by Friedrich Tamms.

At the end of 1939 the vast increase in the territorial area controlled by the Reich was cause for celebration among the Nazis and their supporters, prompting speculations of future greatness and new roles for the autobahn. Todt exclaimed: The Führer created the Great German Reich…The spatial divides between east and west, between north and south are shrinking, and in this way these roads are also helping to create an interconnected and unified people.72 These conquests were viewed by many as the just return of territories that had been lost as a result of World War One, and the annexation of Austria as simply a matter of incorporating it within a stronger pan-German state, a vision dating back to the late nineteenth century. The arch-conservative poet and autobahn writer Emil Maier-Dorn, turned to geopolitics as a means of explaining current events: Spaces grow into a living unity, primarily through the transportation capabilities of a people, even if they already appear to be geopolitically predestined to unification. The originator of geopolitical thinking – Friedrich Ratzel – left to us, the happy sons of the Hitler-era, a serious concept for serious ref lection. He raised the political meaning of the road to one of the main determinants of the pan-German historical fate…The Roads of the Führer indeed serve a purpose, for which no sacrifice can be too great: the unity of the German people and German living space!73 The new autobahn and other symbolic roads were prized as critical instruments of territorial expansion. The “new” territories to the east, however, were still viewed as conflict zones, at least until “undesirables” had been removed, and the war brought

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to its final conclusion. In the conquered areas, the “military character” of the roads was to be emphasized. Construction of ordinary bridges was to be more practical, with the use of natural stone facing reserved for structures in the old Reich, that is, within the pre-1938 borders. Completion dates were to be placed on every bridge so that drivers could date them in relation to political and military advances.74 Workers who had been engaged in autobahn construction in the old Reich were often relocated to projects in the conquered areas. Richard Auberlen explained to readers of “The Road” in 1940 that “The German soldier is followed by the road builder on foot, whether to aid in supplying the troops, or to get the economic traffic moving again by removing obstacles caused by warfare, or to prepare the way for German settlers heading to their new Heimat.”75 Road workers were thus elevated to the level of the heroic soldier. At the end of 1941, Todt announced that autobahn construction would begin winding down (although the last section was not completed until July 1943), but even after that military road-building continued.76 Despite the introduction of forced labor, the actual construction of roads dwindled considerably in the early years of the war, yet the planning of transcontinental autobahn systems continued apace.77 Once the old borders had been eliminated, the border condition simply shifted farther abroad following troop advancements, with the farthest frontiers of the continent of Europe projected as the logical end of military campaign and conquest.78 Todt envisioned connecting all of the Eastern Territories including the former Soviet Union through a gigantic road network following the war, and expressly set up a team in Cracow to begin planning this system. In 1939 Todt confided to colleagues: I had two life-long wishes for the autobahn. The first was the autobahn to Vienna; that is now being worked on. The second wish is that someday an autobahn will go to the Caucasus.79 In October 1941 at a meeting of the leaders of the Reich Ministry for the Occupied Eastern Territory, Todt suggested the construction of major autobahn routes to be constructed in the coming 30–40 years: Königsberg-Kowno-Wilna-Minsk (to connect to the auto road Minsk-Moscow); Königsberg-Riga-Reval; PosenWarsaw-Brest-Minsk.80 Todt’s colleagues, the planners in the Reich Working Group for Spatial Research (Reichsarbeitsgemeinschaft für Raumforschung) were working with him to develop an entire transportation network for the East, including not only automobile roads but also railroads and navigable waterways.81 In February-March 1942 the Nazis held a major exhibition in Budapest to explain these projected networks as symbols of the new European political and economic order to an audience of central Europeans whose support was being sought by German planners.82 Two posters were prepared that graphically depicted these changes, which were reproduced in the professional journal, “Spatial Research and Spatial Order” (Raumforschung und Raumordnung).83 One was titled, “The Old Europe: Fragmented and Dependent upon England,” and the other, “The New Europe: A Free Organism” (Figures 2.11 and 2.12).

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FIGURE 2.11

Diagrammatic map showing European shipping routes dominated by Britain.

FIGURE 2.12

Diagrammatic map showing European land route network centered on Berlin.

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Despite the aggressive military actions and mass atrocities then being committed, Nazi officials and planners presented themselves as agents of peace, even as social and political reformers. England was vilified as an avaricious power that had used its naval advantage to exploit Europe. In the old order, transportation was dependent upon sea routes that ultimately led to London. In the new order, continental motorways and waterways would bring Europe together in a cohesive organization, centered on Berlin. In his commentary in “Spatial Research and Spatial Order,” Rudolf Hoffmann observed that: “The move towards stronger unity and interconnection among European nations signifies a shift in orientation from maritime to continental transportation.” 84 (How exactly Europeans would be “freer” under a Nazi government based in Berlin was not explained.) Writing in “The Road” that same year, Hoffmann declared, “road building is a European task,” further observing that: “In the wider spaces of the European East and Southeast, the establishment of a continental-scale economy would be an indispensable requirement for economic self-sufficiency and independence in Europe” 85 Not only were recent territorial conquests clear military and political victories, they also represented an opportunity for Nazi planners to realize the possibility of the complete spatial and economic reorganization of Europe, with the autobahn and other transportation networks as key elements. Nazi Party elite and technocrats were absolutely clear that the Germancontrolled autobahn was of great economic and strategic significance, even more so if extended across the entire continent. However, the following anecdote hints at another dimension as well. In July 1940, the “Reich Farmers Leader” (Reichsbauernfürher) Walther Darré, recorded a dinner conversation among Nazi elites in his diary: Dinner with Hitler. At the table, the Führer fantasized about his peace plans: a monumental road from Carinthia [Austria] through all of Germany, across the Danish Straits, through Norway to the North Pole. And there a gigantic city near Trondheim…It wasn’t clear if it would be called Atalantis (Himmler), Atlantis (Frank II), Northern Lights (Ley), or North Star (Goebbels)…It was obvious to me that the Führer only thought in terms of cities…otherwise one wouldn’t dream of such things at such times86 Darré’s comments suggest that he considered talk of an autobahn route to the North Pole and the building of a new Nazi northern city to be unrealistic fantasizing, particularly in the early phases of the war. His diary entry also unintentionally conveys the great sense of excitement that such prospects aroused among the elite circle around Hitler. The ability to overcome time and space, as well as cultural and political boundaries, through technology and the power of the totalitarian state conjured up exhilarating visions among these men. The autobahn may have been a practical means to their end goal of increasing power,

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but even those at the very top were caught up in the kind of romantic, futuristic fantasies that they themselves had set into motion.

Seifert’s Landscapes as Cultural Work: Bringing the New Roads Closer to the German Soul At the level of design and construction, blood and soil symbolism dominated, although interpretations among the protagonists varied from the most literal to borderline metaphysical. For engineers, the autobahn was a vast technical project, an achievement that could be represented quantitatively through statistics and graphics.87 Speaking at the 1937 Nazi Party Rally in Nuremberg, Todt emphasized the international significance of the autobahn as purely a construction project: The movement of earth for the Reich Autobahn has reached the figure of about 230 million m³ [ca 301 million yd³]. Thus in comparison with the 220 million m³ [ca 288 yd³] for the Panama Canal, the Reich Autobahn stands as the greatest continuous earth-moving project in the world88 While this massive amount of earth-moving could be seen as purely a technical achievement, for an engineer immersed in Party ideology such as Todt, this was also an act of engaging both physically and symbolically with the German soil. Todt also noted that autobahn planting was also carried out at an immense scale, for example, “with three million young plants for every 1,000 km [621 miles] – whole forests are being planted.”89 As further symbols of the innate German bond with the land, Todt greatly valued trees and forests, but here again he expressed their significance through statistics. In this context, these immense figures are also presented as a kind of mathematical sublime, intended to awe the German nation and foreign observers as well, for this was not only an exercise in good design, but also a display of national ability and power. If nothing else, the autobahn was intended to evoke amazement as the greatest construction project in world history. The design work of Seifert and his landscape advocates presented a more poetic interpretation of blood and soil symbolism based on literal references to historic cultural landscapes, as evidence of a time when the relationship of the race to the land was more direct and authentic. Previously, Seifert had experimented with his earth-rooted planting and garden design principles at the scale of the private garden and park. Now, he was able to apply these at the greater scale of the autobahn network, as a means of representing entire regional landscapes through the strips of land along the roadways. In the debut issue of “The Road,” in October 1934, Seifert’s article, “Trees and Shrubbery along the Roadside” (“Baum und Strauch an der Strasse”), appeared after a discussion of bridge building by the architect Paul Bonatz. This was Seifert’s first opportunity to address professional colleagues in this new journal, and he clearly intended to demonstrate that

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prevailing practices among railway and highway engineers were outdated and unhealthy. The onus was on the landscape advocate, for: “Those who want to reintroduce trees and shrubbery along the roadside must prove that these are not merely ornamental, but belong to the essence and purpose of the highway, meaning that the technician should not carry this out for beautification purposes, but in order to achieve a perfect state of completion.”90 Seifert believed that for esthetic and ecological reasons, plantings by necessity had to be included along the roadsides, and the whole conceived as a complete cultural and natural system. Beyond that, his design work was also motivated by the ideological conviction that the German race enjoyed a naturally superior relation to the land, as evidenced by traditional rural roads that “belong to the German landscape, which cannot be imagined without them, that belong to the German people, to the folk song, to the folk custom, to art.” But he cautioned: “The new highways, however, are foreign to the people…they have something American or Russian about them, they belong to the steppes, and thus are foreign to the German landscape and the German soul.”91 According to him, purely practical and instrumental highways were more of a piece with American capitalist or Russian communist pragmatism, devoid of established cultural traditions and understanding. Seifert was specifically criticizing the way roads had been built in Germany before 1933, arguing that despite being products of modern technology and industry, the new motorways should be treated as complements to the traditional German cultural landscape (Figures 2.13 and 2.14). From Seifert’s perspective, one of the primary means of transforming roads as signs of modern technology was through careful landscape design, which thus bestowed upon his profession the critical role of

FIGURE 2.13

New autobahn rest stop with “traditional” detailing.

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FIGURE 2.14

Photo of hayricks beside the autobahn.

cultural mediators who physically embedded roads in the ground, and symbolically in history. Claims by Todt, Seifert, and others that previous motorway designers in Germany had not shown adequate respect for existing landscapes were not entirely without justification. In the late 1920s HAFRABA published an iconic image representing the society’s ideals: a heroic nude male worker with shovel in hand, surveying the new highway before him92 (Figure 2.15). The motorway in the image showed no particular consideration for the mundane landscape it bisected, in stark contrast to the heroism of the figure. During the HAFRABA era, various types of planting schemes were in fact proposed, such as an eccentric system conceived by a Herr Becker of Kassel, who believed that plantings could be used directly for highway safety purposes.93 Rather than appealing to the tradition of the landscape park, Becker turned to the clipped hedges of the architectural garden as his prototype, perhaps a naive adaptation of the current modernist passion for geometric design (Figure 2.16). Hedges would replace guardrails, and where dangers such as sharp curves were approaching, rhythmically spaced pyramidal evergreen shrubs were to provide a kind of coded message for drivers. At particularly steep drops, dense banks of plantings would prevent errant vehicles from rolling downwards. In late 1930, the celebrated modernist architect Mies van der Rohe contributed an article to the HAFRABA journal, rhetorically asking if autobahn design was an “artistic question.”94 Answering with a definitive yes, Mies penned his own article as a direct criticism of Becker’s system. Mies argued that the autobahn should be designed not only to protect the character of the landscape, but also to result in, “an intensification of the landscape image.” Becker’s “obelisk-like” evergreen shrubs in reality would “result more in separating the road from the landscape image, rather than incorporating it within.” Then as now, Mies was known for his architectural garden designs

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FIGURE 2.15

HAFRABA poster with heroic highway builder.

FIGURE 2.16

HAFRABA-era proposal to use clipped hedges as warning markers along new auto routes.

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that acted as extensions of the bold geometries of his villas. However, for the autobahn Mies proposed an approach based more on the landscape park paradigm, suggesting that Seifert’s own position was not quite as unique as he would later argue. But because Mies’ recommendations came a few months before the Nazi seizure of power, the HAFRABA society never had the chance to implement a coordinated landscape design program following his suggestions. For Seifert, sensitively incorporating the autobahn into the landscape was not just a matter of design, it was more of an act of “cultural work,” following the philosophy of Paul Schultze-Naumburg and others. Strengthening the connection of the autobahn to the landscape was a necessary means of affirming German cultural identity. Like Schultze-Naumburg, Seifert turned to landscape archetypes, here the tree as the quintessential mediator between race and nature: It is indeed not enough, if we just ensure that the new roads are no longer foreign bodies in the German landscape. We must bring them nearer to the German soul, to the people, so that they will not remain foreign and indifferent…And here again the mediator is the tree. The tree belongs to everything that stands close to the German people and the German soul; the tree belongs to the house, to the courtyard, to the garden, the tree by the church, the tree by the dance terrace, the landmark tree, the tree by the well, in the folksong. It is anchored in the depths of the soul: the natural healers of the Indo-Germanic peoples are the tree and the spring, just as the stone and the mountain are for Mongolians.95 Not a mere design element, the tree was a symbolic presence that Seifert situated within folkish beliefs surrounding the special character of archetypal German places. While the tree long had been praised as a Germanic symbol, here Seifert also managed to link a contemporary design problem with traditional village space. Through the tree, the autobahn would be transformed into a traditional landscape of spiritual import. The type or species of tree was also critical. Seifert returned to the problem of identifying appropriate earth-rooted (bodenständig) plants, here to be used at the scale of the autobahn: That does not mean, that only native woody plants may be planted. Even apples, pears, and cherries all originate from foreign zones…Woody plants must be earth-rooted in the sense that they are typical for a landscape, and that they clearly express its special features.96 In this way, Seifert distanced himself from the automatic rejection of non-native species. The problem for him was more cultural, meaning that the main criteria for selection was whether plant species had become identified with a particular region through traditional use. At the same time, Seifert recognized that culturally accepted plants and planting practices were also inherently ecological sound. Drawing upon his experiences in farm design, he noted that the presence

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of hedgerows did not result in a reduction in productivity. Rather, they in fact ensured greater yield by providing a home for birds and other animals who consumed insects, and held in moisture and blocked the wind, thus protecting plants, while also serving as essential cultural landscape elements.97 Although he didn’t state it as such, these planting tactics were critical for creating the illusion that the new autobahn landscape was a seamless extension of the surrounding Heimat environment. Writing two years later in “The Road,” in an article titled “Meandering?” (“Schlängelung?”) Seifert defended the design of curving roadbed layouts that carefully followed the topography, even if this resulted in longer routes. Again, it was not merely a practical question, but one of metaphysical significance as well: “The straight line is of cosmic origins; it does not come from the earth, and does not appear in nature.”98 The dead-straight highways of the Italians and Americans designed for maximum speed and efficiency were thus foreign bodies in the German landscape, he claimed. The good roadway designer took a different approach: “One creates the best and most beautiful road by following the lines of the landscape, letting it be determined by every bend, not following the preconception that I have to make a curve now, because a straight line would be too long”99 (Figure 2.17). Curved road beds responded to the lay of the land, he argued, and were not arbitrary. Even beyond that, they responded to the natural, earthly order, and thus were transcendent, released from the cold pettiness of engineering calculations. Seifert ignored the fact that during the Nazi era grand axes were often incorporated in the design of urban ensembles and monumental sites as deliberate expressions of state power. While Seifert’s argument for aligning roadbeds with the curves of the topography may seem to be merely good design practice, this in fact set up another illusion, here of apparent artistic and spiritual freedom within an oppressive, intolerant fascist state.

FIGURE 2.17

Idealized view of the autobahn cultural landscape.

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Seifert was not only concerned with large design gestures such as the planting of groups of trees or the alignment of roadbeds, but even with the smallest details, such as the selection of plants for the green strips between the traffic lanes and alongside the outer edges. Given that these strips were relatively narrow relative to the overall scale of the landscape, they were disproportionally loaded symbolically. In two articles, “Meadow Flowers by the Roadside” (“Wiesenblumen am Strassenrand” – 1938), and “In Praise of Blackberries” (“Lob der Brombeeren” – 1939), Seifert discussed the use of wild species, or indeed “weeds” in roadside plantings. Ornamental, non-native plantings had been under criticism for some time by garden designers acting in the reform spirit of the early twentieth century. However, this was possibly the first time that native plants had been deliberately utilized in conjunction with highway construction in Germany. Seifert recounted that every spring the meadows of southern Bavaria were abloom with wild f lowers, typical local scenery that he incorporated into the highway design: “And the fact that these meadow f lowers were not expected on the median strips, but were genuinely recognized as something special, is revealed by the many questions as to why this actually had been carried out.”100 The meadow blossoms on the median strip and highway shoulders visually and thematically connected highway and landscape. Seifert further noted that other, larger permanent plantings could also be wild, or at least not sourced from a commercial nursery. Blackberry shrubs, Seifert proposed, could be transplanted from the wider landscape, assuring that “[we] thus will always have truly native shrubs.”101 Blackberry plants checked erosion and offered habitat for birds and other species, and were a part of the native landscape. He was in effect arguing for a general change in taste and perception, not only among highway engineers: Blackberries and wild roses, long despised as thorny weeds, become pioneers, commodities, become things of value, and sources of joy and health, while the ornamental beauties of our fathers, the blue spruces and silver fir, foreign spirea, and shrubs with bright-colored leaves, which are unbearable foreign elements for us today, will completely disappear!102 The racial undertones of “foreign elements” are clear, but this was also an argument for a return to simpler conditions, and a rejection of the estheticism of their late nineteenth-century forebears.103 There was also the sense of an act of healing the “landscape organism,” not just in order to cover up construction scars, but more importantly perhaps, to resuscitate idealized landscape images of a golden past. Writing in 1939 in the journal, “Art in the Third Reich” (Kunst im Dritten Reich), Seifert looked back upon the success of his autobahn planting program: Thus the extraordinary occurred, still unexpected in 1934, that alongside the most intense and hardest attack that technology had ever dared in the Heimat environment, the most native, richest, and truest German

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landscape grew up…The traveler on Germany’s new roads is shown with an extraordinary intensity that: here is Hessen’s true image, there is Lower Saxony in all its glory, this is Carinthia, and that is Upper Franconia, and everything together, every great feature, all the technology, all design calculations – is German Heimat.104 For Seifert and the landscape advocates, their detailed planting schemes were not just a matter of improving the autobahn experience itself, but of representing the identities of Heimat regions, and hence of the Reich as well. In reality, through his methods Seifert created an idealized world where all contradictions were resolved: ecological plantings healed the wounds of violent construction incursions, the use of traditional forms meliorated the frank modernity of the concrete expressways, and the whole system represented a natural continuation of the historic process of German cultural development. In Seifert’s autobahn landscape environment, there were no technological scars or unpleasant disruptions, it was to be perceived as a continuous series of perfected scenes.

The Alpine Road as Artifact: Seifert’s Disdain for the Mechanized Landscape Although the Alpine Road was primarily a new construction project designed to accommodate automobiles, it was of an entirely different character than the autobahn, and its design was handled with much greater care than would have been the case with normal two-lane regional roads. As a scenic highway, the Alpine Road was intended neither as a commercial route nor as the fastest means of getting from one place to another. Rather, it was part of the touristic cultural landscape of the Alpine piedmont of southern Bavaria, serving as both a means of traveling leisurely from one resort to another, and as an attraction in itself. Among the three borderland highways, the Alpine Road had the most elaborate stonework bridges and support structures, and surely the most dramatic scenery; it was truly a showpiece for the regime. As mentioned, however, it had already been conceived before the Nazi era, and some sections had already been constructed by 1933, although many more still needed to be cut through the rugged mountainous terrain. Seifert was heavily involved with both planting and construction of the Alpine Road, and wrote several articles about his experiences there. He was highly enthusiastic about this road, possibly even more so than the autobahn, for here his obsessive attention to detail was satisfied down to the smallest degree. Indeed, this particular cultural landscape demanded careful detailing: Much more so than in f lat and hilly country, the image of the road in the Alpine region is defined by construction, by walls and bridges. Therefore it is especially important that these arise from the building methods unique to this cultural region, and not those from a foreign area105

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FIGURE 2.18

Stone bridge on the Alpine Road.

Essentially, Seifert was applying standard Heimat design principles to road building, while making the questionable argument that such care would not be as necessary in more ordinary landscapes. While autobahn bridges were primarily built of concrete structures covered in stone cladding, on the Alpine Road the bridges and walls were composed of actual load-bearing stone masonry (Figure 2.18). Seifert explained that this project was utilized as a means of reviving old practices: The new walls gave the stonemasons pride and joy in their handwork. The older ones among them recognized that stonework had been laid this way earlier, while the contractor realized that this method of stone laying is the most economical106 Seifert’s admiration for this work accorded with his general dislike of scientific engineering methods: “Old handcraft knowledge is thus of greater importance here than the laboratory experiment.”107 This revival of traditional stonework also connected to regional identity on a racial level: “The Alpine man is a mason according to his innate talent, the German settler, a carpenter. This cross-fertilization of differing talents has served very well”108 He identified a dividing line running from Lake Constance to Eichstätt to Breslau (Wrocław), with heavy masonry techniques preferred to the south of it, in contrast to a similar line from Eichstätt to Paris and on to London, north of which frame construction dominated, once again demonstrating the importance of cultural geography to his design thinking. Following this logic, the Alpine region was a masonry construction region, and the Alpine Road was to embody that. As an example taken in the care of stonework detailing and construction, his article showed an arch built in a retaining wall, specifically to avoid the roots of an adjacent tree.109 The degree to which Seifert valued small handwork details is revealed in his discussions of fence construction in locations where the Alpine Road ran through

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FIGURE 2.19

109

Seifert’s design for generic wooden fencing along the Alpine Road.

mountainside pastures. In these areas new embankment plantings were immediately protected from livestock by fences, but metal fences were never allowed: “Iron is particularly alien to the Alpine region because it only consists of natural and, at most, cultural landscapes, not machine-age landscapes.”110 (Tellingly, he neglected to recognize that the Alpine Road, designed explicitly for automobiles, also fell into the latter category.) Since constructing wooden fences based on the traditional practices of each locality would have been too expensive and impractical, his team developed a generic type that could be mass-produced and easily assembled (Figure 2.19). Fence posts of larch were set at ca 9 foot (2.75 m) intervals, with the cross members attached using larch or resinous pine pegs – without any nails.111 Removable planks to offer further protection against pasture animals were inserted in the summer and removed in the winter to avoid snow accumulation.112 Seifert’s examples indicate that he and others thought of the entire Alpine Road as a gigantic handcrafted artifact, of a completely different character than the autobahn expressways. As a complement to the handcrafted stonework, outstanding natural stone features were to be preserved as unique elements in the Heimat scenery. A Todt-appointed consultant on the Alpine Road, the geologist and natural scientist Edith Ebers, identified a site that she named the “glacier garden” (Gletschergarten), a section of intricate pockmarked rock formations created by retreating glacial action (Figure 2.20). Ebers reported in “The Road” in 1936: “In their extent and state of preservation they offered something so outstanding that the General Inspector for German Road Building [Todt] decided to stop any further stone quarrying here, and to uncover this powerful natural monument.”113 In general, Ebers was concerned with the conservation of geological features nationwide. In another article, she referred generically to “natural landscape space,” with the word “space,” understood here in a

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FIGURE 2.20

The so-called “Glacier Garden” by the Alpine Road.

geo-architectonic manner. As a geologist she was conscious of geological land formations and other elements that defined spaces, from the immediate scale of the site to that of the entire country: “The German landscape is divided into a multitude of more or less enclosed, natural landscape spaces, and each is distinguished from the other by its particular character.” She concluded: “such spaces follow one another like pearls on a string.”114 Existing geological features, such as glacial moraine or rocky outcrops, should not be avoided or destroyed but preserved and separated from the highway by a protective strip, to provide evidence of geological history while adding visual interest. On the Alpine Road and elsewhere, Ebers’ arguments for preserving geological features, along with her observation that geological substrates largely determined the distinctive character of each Heimat landscape, may be seen as yet another kind of scientific justification for blood and soil ideology. Seifert’s yearning for small handcrafted details, his refusal to allow any kind of metalwork along the Alpine Road, and his denial of the fact that the Alpine Road was a machine-age landscape, give the impression that he was perhaps not entirely comfortable with contemporary technology or even twentiethcentury modernity. The Alpine Road was designed to accommodate automobiles, but it could just as well have been intended as a scenic carriage road, its typological forebear; there was nothing about its design overtly suggesting that it belonged to the twentieth century.115 Despite his many paeans to the glories

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of the autobahn landscape, it appears that in the end Seifert may in fact have considered his work there as an amelioration of the necessary evils of technology and modernity.

The World as a Color Movie: Tourism and Seeing Correctly The autobahn and its construction obviously offered an ideal opportunity to promote civic tourism using the entire range of propaganda media. For decades, the German public had been urged to educate themselves about the different Heimat regions in their country, but now a new mode of experience, the auto expressway, potentially offered greater freedom and access to a wider variety of cultural landscapes than ever before. (Thus it was perfectly suited to the Nazi touristic imperative discussed earlier.)116 Over and again, autobahn designers and promoters stressed that the new road system was designed to eliminate distractions and to provide an enlightening, even entertaining, experience for drivers and passengers.117 A new form of auto tourism arose, promoted on the pages of “The Road”: the point was not simply to reach a destination as quickly as possible, but to enjoy the ride on the autobahn as a leisure activity in itself. Since the Nazi state saw tourism as a form of indoctrination, much official autobahn literature was designed to inform motor tourists on how to constructively and correctly perceive the significance of the new driving experience. However, the reality was that only a relatively limited segment of the population could actually afford a private auto; the low-cost “people’s car,” the Volkswagen, was still not in mass-production on the eve of war. Arguably then, media representations and discussions were more significant to the overall propaganda effort than actual autobahn travel itself. The vast quantity of illustrated autobahn publications were of a piece with literature on cultural landscape and Heimat. One of the recurrent themes in autobahn discourse was the great degree of individual freedom provided in contrast to the older railway system. In a private vehicle on the autobahn one could travel anywhere at will, and the landscapes on offer were much more varied, because the auto was capable of rapidly going up hills and down dales, while the railway was limited to relatively level grades. The Heimat landscape experience was continuous and not limited to any location, there was no need to even disembark from one’s auto. Yet the autobahn drive was a highly controlled, constructed experience, and from what we know of the Nazi regime, the appeal to individual freedom was illusive and manipulative. Before World War Two, state institutions even exploited autobahn tourism as a means of foreign diplomacy and international propaganda. In an autobahn book sanctioned by Todt, he himself proclaimed: “Invisibly, but palpably, over the entrances to Germany’s new roads must stand: ‘Welcome to Germany!’”118 In a number of locations, grand monuments such as the ensemble designed by Speer for the Austrian border crossing at Linz would indeed act as ceremonial portals, but these functioned as much or more as sublime symbols of the power of the State, than as welcoming gestures (Figure 2.21).

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FIGURE 2.21

Model of the autobahn gateway at the Austrian border near Salzburg.

The Reich Railway Travel Office had long been promoting tourism in Germany, and as an official institution touted the new auto tourism through their own publications, in German and other languages. The US American market was specifically targeted by the English-language brochure “Driving your own car in Germany,” which included a pictorial map showing how Chicago and New York City were linked to the monumental centers of old German cities via the ship acting as virtual highway (Figure 2.22). The tourist was reassured: “GERMANY the land in which the GOVERNMENT takes a personal

FIGURE 2.22

English-language tourist brochure persuading American tourists to bring their autos to Germany.

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interest in making MOTORING COMFORTABLE.”119 (The “government” in this case could take a “personal interest,” because embodied in the figure of one man.) Clearly aimed at a well-to-do audience, the concept of bringing one’s own auto across the Atlantic meant maintaining a sense of familiarity and accustomed comfort in foreign surroundings. Another Reich Railway brochure in English, “Welcome to Germany,” promoted the great variety of German highway scenery as a delightful experience for the foreign visitor, always presenting “pleasant surprises.”120 The visitor was assured of wholly positive experiences, “whether you come to Germany as a friend or are still oppressed by all kinds of doubts.”121 Foreign tourism also served as another opportunity to demonstrate the success and normality of the Reich, as a way of winning over new friends. After the visitor was transformed by their travels, “then it would be very, very hard to leave – to leave Germany to which many a man first came as a doubter like Saul and then left heavyhearted, but as a believer like Paul.”122 Auto tourism as propaganda represented another kind of (re)education project, in this case for foreigners. On the domestic front, the new form of tourism was promoted as auto “rambling,” in the tradition of the journey made for its own sake. In one of the more memorable essays in “The Road,” one writer explained the serious purpose of auto tourism to readers. Auto tourists should be able to compare different Heimat regions according to their distinctive features, such as geological formations, but not on a superficial level: Some travelers, however, don’t notice these differences at all: they still haven’t learned to “see,” they take everything on a childish level, as it is, they enjoy it and find everything “charming” or – they’re bored. But others on auto trips have trained their eye to look “behind things.”123 The speed of travel facilitated by the autobahn was not to distract motor tourists from careful observation of their surroundings. Rather, this mode of travel experience fostered a new form of spatial perception, reinforced by the controlled environment of the expressway. For this writer, autobahn travel had an almost other-worldly character: For the driver on the Reich Autobahn a Sunday-morning-like atmosphere hovers over the landscape: the busy haste of everyday life with its hectic confusion is missing, nothing detracts from the essential things. Form and color are emphasized more strongly, the woods stand there like fairytale forests, the forms of the landscape are clearly revealed, one can read them like an open book.124 Such an interpretation of the autobahn was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the questionable argument that the system could be utilized to move troops and military equipment quickly. Here, esthetic perception on the autobahn was detached from the everyday, presenting the familiar Heimat landscape from a

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perspective that was literally new. (The contemporary reader may well wonder why an expressway would evoke the stillness of a Sunday morning; this was probably because of the relatively low number of private autos in the country at the time.)125 Speed in this case also meant that whole districts could be explored on a single trip, giving a more complete understanding of the region’s identity as a whole. Separation of the highway from regular local traffic resulted in a more controlled environment for appreciating the German landscape and its various forms of identity, whether geological, ecological, or political. All of these factors were intended to contribute to a form of solid educational experience for the average German. Writing in early 1939 in “The Road,” the well-known popular travel writer Alfons Paquet compared different modes of experiencing the landscape, placing auto travel within an older context: To the auto we owe a new means of observing the landscape. The landscape of the hiker and the landscape of the railway are completely different!126 Those on foot observed the landscape close-up and in detail, but at a limited spatial scope. Railroads only traversed a narrow strip of the landscape, Paquet claimed, and generally railway lines were limited to valley f loors or at best to the bases of mountains. The automobile offered much greater freedom of movement, especially through the autobahn: “They are the double-bands upon which the auto rolls along freely and on its own, a living bullet, a seeing and steerable creature, propelled by a storm wind.”127 Paquet’s rather purple prose poetically interpreted the automobile as a kind of sentient being, almost like a mythical figure. But such was the enthusiasm with which autobahn travel was greeted by many writers. After having made analogies to older modes of travel, he then compared the auto to another new form of transport: The auto experiences the landscape of the landscapes almost like the airplane. It would only need wings to achieve the grand overview, through which all individual spaces f low together, as a counterpoint to the boundless space of the sky.128 The airplane as a machine offered even greater freedom of movement, that of f light. But airplane travel was just as much or more of a luxury pursuit than auto ownership. The ride on the expressway could be imagined as being like a plane f light, because it offered a more comprehensive perspective. The greater view led to a deeper sense of comprehension, suggesting a kind of personal territorial acquisition in the mind of auto travelers. Although Paquet and other writers did not openly state it as such, the move from the individual sense of spatial comprehension to the collective sense of identifying with the territory of the nation lay under the surface of official propaganda, discernable to those who wished to see it. Esthetic perception was not as far from the aims of territorial conquest as might first appear.

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FIGURE 2.23

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Color rendering of an idealized autobahn landscape.

In complete contrast to the professionally-oriented, masculine tone of “The Road,” the high-end ladies’ fashion magazine, “the new line” (die neue linie), promoted autobahn travel as one of the new sophisticated leisure activities of the day. Referred to by contemporary historians as “Bauhaus at the newsstand,” this journal was noted for its bold graphic designs, especially the cover images.129 Despite the modernist styling, within the journal the aims of the regime were communicated clearly without any sense of irony or criticism. In a short article titled, “When one makes an RAB [Reich Autobahn] trip…what can they say about it?,” driving on the autobahn was again linked to travel in an airship or airplane, from which, “the world may be viewed like a color movie, figuratively speaking”130 (Figure 2.23). This latest mode of travel added another dimension as well: “The construction of the Reich Autobahn itself has the effect of designing the landscape, and travel on this newest transport route in a certain sense defines a new landscape within the familiar old Heimat.” In comparison with the random view of the landscape from the air, the author could appreciate that the autobahn landscape had been designed to heighten this experience to the maximum extent. Within the context of this ladies’ magazine, the editors understood that the “old” Heimat had been modernized in a sense, and thus made more fashionable via the auto (itself a luxury product at the time). While there were few actual articles on the autobahn in “the new line,” two cover designs featuring the autobahn are among the more important documents of popular propaganda from the period. On the July 1937 cover, a plan of the city of Munich hovers above the new House of German Art building, intertwined with a ribbon of concrete highway standing for the autobahn, visually linking the city to the graphic representation of the German Alps beyond (Figure 2.24). In the foreground, a woman in a modernized version of traditional Bavarian costume asserts the cultural connection between geography and fashion. The aerial perspective, similar to the airplane view, shows that the graphic designer wished to

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FIGURE 2.24

Cover of “the new line,” with the House of German Art and diagrammatic view of autobahn leading out of Munich.

convey the sense of excitement over the ability of the autobahn to connect the cultural center of Munich with the sublime natural landscape (and the national boundary beyond). These improbable graphic juxtapositions furthered the sense of the wonder of modern life, with its speed and contrast between old and new. Another somewhat more conventional graphic representation (by the same artist) on the February 1938 cover, shows an eagle perched on an Alpine crag, looking northward across Germany, with an overview of significant new monuments including Königsplatz in Munich, the Zeppelin Field at the Nazi Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg, and the Olympic Stadium in Berlin (Figure 2.25). Here, the view is that of the eagle rather than the airplane, but the comprehensive perspective of the autobahn connecting important cultural sites across the landscape is similar, this time at the scale of the entire country. As to be expected, a wide range of guidebooks was published for the auto tourist, which included not only the autobahn system but regional roads as well, many

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FIGURE 2.25

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Cover of “the new line,” with an eagle overlooking the autobahn cultural landscape at national scale.

of which were in the process of being improved. In 1938, Todt brought out the first comprehensive “Reich Autobahn Atlas,” which contained numerous maps of individual segments, with a key reference map of the entire Reich system at the end.131 However, this publication contained no tourist information at all, it was strictly a series of large-scale practical road maps. In that same year, the prominent travel publishing house of Baedeker in Leipzig brought out their first guidebook dedicated wholly to automobile tourism, the first of its kind. Following the “annexation” of Austria in 1938, Baedeker published a second edition in 1939. As the chief editor Karl Baedeker himself explained, this edition had not only been expanded to include Austria and other annexed territories, but in fact had been completely redesigned.132 This Baedeker’s publication also functioned as the official guidebook of the German Automobile Club (Der Deutsche AutomobilClub – DDAC), which had been taken over by the paramilitary National Socialist Motor Corps (Nationalsozialistisches Kraftfahrkorps).133 Accordingly,

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Hitler’s “achievements” in establishing the new Greater Reich were congratulated emphatically in the 1939 edition. More than just a description of the roads in the Greater Reich, “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” (Baedekers Autoführer) made careful note of many important monuments, including those recently built by the Party. While architecture journals may have illustrated both monumental buildings and the autobahn, “Baedeker’s Automobile Guidebook” gave precise directions as to how the new sights could be reached via the national motor road system. Logically, the new Party buildings and monuments were discussed alongside older ones nearby, yet some were given special emphasis in the opening section, where the most important sights in the Greater Reich were listed. As to be expected, the Nazi Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg was in the first section, as was the new seaside resort for 20,000 at Prora on Rügen Island, two of the Order Castles (Krössinsee and Vogelsang), as well as the Tannenberg and Schlageter monuments. In addition to public sites associated with the Party, Hitler’s private house at Obersalzberg, the Berghof, was alluded to in the introduction by the comment that Berchtesgaden was his “adopted Heimat.”134 Elsewhere in the book, the Berghof was mentioned by name, as was Hermann Göring’s country house, Karinhall, north of Berlin.135 “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” was not illustrated, and contained only a few maps, mostly of individual cities. But in typical Baedeker’s style, the concise, detailed text provided the average German motorist with the most relevant “facts” for each site and route. As a publication sanctioned by the Party, this special Baedeker’s guidebook established auto travel as the preferred means of experiencing the new National Socialist cultural landscape.

The Built Work that Covers the German Reich: The Autobahn and the Monumentalized Cultural Landscape As discussed in the introduction, the 1939 autobahn map provides graphic evidence of the common perception among Nazi designers and propagandists that the system was a monumental work in itself, which interconnected both new and old monumental sites across the country (Figure 0.1). One of the most succinct discussions of this phenomenon was made by the architect Rudolf Wolters in his 1941 survey dedicated largely to the works of Albert Speer titled, “New German Architecture.” Wolters noted that by this time, a significant portion of state sanctioned building was located in the countryside. Most of these had been planned by central Party organizations in Berlin and Munich, such as the Hitler Youth organization and the German Labor Front, the Nazi national trade union (see pp. 205, 208). The automobile, and the airplane as well, had helped facilitate this shift outwards away from the large cities. The trend towards rural building was also related to official efforts to resettle urban populations in relatively unsettled areas, often border areas seen to be insecure. At the same time, urbanites were also being sent to the countryside temporarily to relax in fresh air, as a means of maintaining national health (and by implication military readiness). Wolters and others stressed that none of these locations existed in isolation for: “All of these

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buildings are connected with one another by a built work that covers the entire German Reich, the network of the Reich Autobahn.”136 Despite the fact that many monumental sites could not be reached directly by the autobahn system itself, for Wolters and others the autobahn symbolized the physical consolidation of the Reich, which could be directly experienced and comprehended by mass numbers of German motorists. The architects, landscape architects, and planners working on the autobahn actively participated in creating this illusion of a monumentalized cultural landscape. From the beginning, they endeavored to incorporate nearby cultural landmarks into the driving experience. Following principles long established in landscape park design, views were framed and viewing axes set up to incorporate scenery for the benefit of the auto traveler. Todt’s collaborator, the architect Eduard Schönleben, informed readers that: Wherever the opportunity presented itself, the route of the autobahn was directed towards particular important views, whether of a church, a mountain peak on the horizon, a castle, or a valuable group of trees, the latter in some cases carefully planted at great expense to enrich the field of view.137 Roadbeds were laid out to capture views, and in some cases interchanges were designed so that after leaving the autobahn, the driver passed under the bridge that they had just crossed, thus entering the town as though through a gateway.138 Such visual connections were particularly important in the vicinity of great monumental ensembles such as the Nazi Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg (pp. 163–189), or smaller monuments such as the Annaberg memorial in Upper Silesia (pp. 282–288). These connections were not only spatial, they were also meant to link the autobahn as symbol of modernity to older landmarks and sites with important historical and regional associations. In addition, wherever possible direct autobahn connections allowed auto tourists and visitors to access sites as conveniently as possible. A comparison of the 1939 autobahn map with an earlier 1934 map of similar characters, provides graphic evidence of the success of this enterprise, as both construction project and propaganda exercise. The map, “Germany and its Reich Autobahn,” was created by the successful Munich illustrator Valentin Zietara for display at the important 1934 exhibition in Munich, “The Road,” mentioned previously.139 Shown in a period photograph as a wall-size artwork, Zietara’s map also was available as a smaller poster, for educational purposes. At this point, the autobahn network had been planned, but barely begun, and many of the monuments that would be so important in 1938 had not even been conceived as yet. Zietara included icons of the classic German sites, “the places where our thinkers and poets, whom every German today should know, were born,” as one commentator noted.140 Since there were no new Nazi monumental sites at that point, Zietara included icons of historic sites that had long stood for German nationalism and folkish thinking. He also made the somewhat unusual decision

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of including of an icon of Hitler’s Mein Kampf as a giant red book, by the city of Landsberg where he had written it while incarcerated. The artist also took the liberty of including an architectural icon representing Hitler’s birthplace, then located in Austria, ca four years before the “annexation.” The most important focus of the map, the autobahn routes, were illustrated in stark white bands, which contrasted greatly with the colorful background of imagined vegetation and array of icons. While the icons on the later 1939 map that stood for the new Nazi sites were not labeled or linked to a key, savvy readers at the time would have immediately identified them and grasped the overall significance, especially in comparison with earlier maps, like this one by Zietara.141 In the southeast corner of the map, Zietara’s icons, such as the book for Landsberg and Hitler’s birthplace in Austria, along with one for Berchtesgaden near Hitler’s Berghof, suggest that a special kind of Nazi cultural landscape had already begun to emerge in this area. As is well-known, Munich was referred to among Nazis as the “City of the Movement,” for the Party had its earliest beginnings and greatest support there and in surrounding southern Bavaria. Zietara’s map also indicates that not all significant sites associated with the Party were public monuments, some were private and could only be viewed from a distance. Although not shown on this map, the Führer’s own home was a prime example. If the autobahn was a portrait of the Führer at a territorial scale, then his home in Obersalzberg, the Berghof, represented him at the domestic level.142 In this same area one of the most beautiful segments of the autobahn traversed the Alpine piedmont between Munich and Salzburg, with the Alpine Road not far to the south. It is no wonder then, that one of the most elaborate rest stops in the entire autobahn system was built on the shore of Chiemsee (lake) in this region, allegedly on a spot chosen by Hitler himself (Figure 2.26). “Baedeker’s

FIGURE 2.26

The autobahn rest stop at Chiemsee lake, architect Fritz Norkauer.

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Automobile Guidebook” was the most significant, but not the only publication to mention Hitler’s private mountain retreat at Obersalzberg, situated high above the town of Berchtesgaden, the closest rail connection. The Berghof had become a major tourist attraction by the mid-1930s. Hitler originally had purchased an existing house for himself, which he greatly extended. He was joined in turn by a number of the Party elites, such as Hermann Göring, and an entire complex was developed under the direction of Martin Bormann. (Some existing residents were forcibly “relocated.”)143 Todt was responsible for all of the roads and paths within the Obersalzberg complex. Bormann and others observed that the existing road leading up the mountain to Obersalzberg had become overburdened, primarily by throngs of tourists. He claimed that anywhere from 3,000 to 10,000 tourists a day passed by Hitler’s Berghof (presumably many of these drove by in their autos).144 In January 1938, Bormann penned an impassioned plea to State Secretary Fritz Reinhardt, who was in charge of finances, for 20 million Reich Marks to construct a new Obersalzberg access road: Berchtesgaden has assumed a particularly special place in German history: over the past few years it has become the pilgrimage site of the German people, and it will remain so for all times…and it is ultimately necessary that the pilgrimage of the German people to Obersalzberg not be hindered and obstructed because the roads and paths for the thousands are lacking.145 In a state dominated by the cult of the Führer, Obersalzberg could be seen as the ultimate destination for the serious automobile tourist. Not only was Todt responsible for the roads at Obersalzberg, these roads were also being connected to the Alpine Road as part of a scenic road system for the region, effectively rendering a drive by the Führer’s home part of an overall program. Bormann’s use of the term “pilgrimage site” [Wallfahrtsort] was not incidental. Auto tourism to the important sites of the Reich was not just a pleasant pastime, nor even a form of education, for in the context of the fervent mass-belief in the Party, the autobahn and other symbolic roads served as modernized pilgrimage routes in the most literal sense.

Hitler’s Vision Fulflled: The Perfected World of the Autobahn as Image of the Totalitarian State On the pages of “The Road” in its final years, the autobahn was celebrated as one of the greatest triumphs of the regime. Writing in 1941, the historian Waldemar Wucher looked back upon the dramatic emergence of the system: No one could have appreciated the full political importance of the work of the Reich Autobahn. How many were small minded! The number of those who blindly trusted the Führer was already great. From the early days, the

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Führer himself recognized all of the bold measures required by his task, which in retrospect appears to be pure prophesy.146 Here, the autobahn as a kind of portrait of Hitler was perceived on a territorial scale. As the above citations reveal, the autobahn during this period was not understood solely as a functional transportation system, nor was it merely a design problem involving professional designers and engineers. The national and later continental scale of the project meant that it was embedded within geopolitical thinking, as both logistical strategy and ideological propaganda. By nature, the expressway concept of completely separating high-speed automotive traffic from all other roads meant that it was removed from the everyday world, especially in the early twentieth century when it was still a relatively new phenomenon. The scenic highway also did not originate with Nazi-era designers, and indeed the idea of making special scenic carriage roads was even older, and not associated with any particular nation. The scenic highway, and in particular the expressway, offered any state the opportunity to create an idealized, running image of the national territory as landscape. As discussed, the Nazis immediately recognized this potential, determining that the new auto expressways would pass through carefully designed representations of Heimat scenery. Construction of the autobahn as an ideological project was not just a matter of sensitively embedding the new roads in the soil and landscape in homage to blood and soil symbolism. More importantly, the project was aimed at creating the impression of a new cultural landscape on a national scale. The autobahn landscapes functioned like vegetal facades, since they were limited to narrow strips along the roadside and framed views, with the exception of large intersections and special roadside features. Seifert and his landscape advocates ensured that the new autobahn appeared as though it had always been part of the cultural landscape, while Todt and his engineers designed the roadbeds to offer the most comfortable ride, with no interruptions to continuous movement until exiting. As always with the Nazi era, superficially this all may appear straightforward. However, in accordance with Arendt’s observation that the totalitarian state set up a carefully constructed fictitious world, the autobahn projected the image of a perfected state, where all was in harmony, with no disturbing distractions. In the consolidation phase, the main focus was upon creating an image of a controlled cultural landscape within the old Reich borders. In the expansion phase, which autobahn maps hinted at from the beginning, the autobahn would become a means of finalizing the act of conquest. The construction of new autobahn routes in the east would have complemented plans by Wiepking and others to create a new cultural landscape there, with both playing major roles in the process of cultural erasure. In the new territories, the autobahn would not only have been exploited logistically as a means of transporting goods and people, for it would also have aided the propagation of Party ideology and the oppressive machinery of the totalitarian state.

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Notes 1 Although the amount of secondary literature related to the autobahn is substantial, these are the most important works for this current study: Martin Kornrumpf, HAFRABA e.V. Deutsche Autobahn-Planung 1926–1934 (Bonn: Kirschbaum Verlag, 1990); Michael Kriest, Die Reichsautobahn: Konzeption, räumliche Struktur und Denkmaleigenschaft eines historischen Verkehrsnetzes (Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2016); Charlotte Reitsam, Rechsautobahn-Landschaften im Spannungsfeld von Natur und Technik: transatlantische und interdisciplinäre Verflechtungen (Saarbrücken: Müller, 2009); Erhard Schütz, and Eckhard Gruber, Mythos Reichsautobahn: Bau und Inszenierung der “Strassen des Führers” 1933–1941 (Berlin: Links, 1996); Rainer Stommer, Reichsautobahn: Pyramiden des Dritten Reiches (Marburg: Jonas Verlag, 1982); Thomas Zeller, Driving Germany: The Landscape of the German Autobahn, 1930–1970. Thomas Dunlap, trans. (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2007). As stated previously, Zeller’s book on the autobahn is probably closest to my own chapter here, but there are some significant differences. Zeller states one of his main points in his intro: “These studies [by Gert Gröning and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn] also fail to examine to what extent the ideas of landscape architects were realized, and whether the claimed closeness between landscape architecture and National Socialism was in fact as constant and consistent as contemporary pronouncements suggest. This weakness also affects the otherwise useful media history of the National Socialist Autobahn by Erhard Schütz and Eckhardt Gruber, and the anthology edited by Rainer Stommer” (p. 4). Zeller’s work does extensively examine what actually happened behind-the-scenes in terms of decision-making and execution. However, his investigations do not negate the importance of propaganda related to landscape during the period, much of which was concerned with cultural landscape more generally, rather than with professional design. Zeller does not deal with geographic concepts during the period to any great extent. By contrast, Kriest’s book based on his PhD dissertation on the autobahn does focus specifically on geographic issues, primarily through the framework of regional planning (Raumplanung). Kriest does not focus on cultural landscape, nor on the relationship to architectural sites, other than those that were part of the autobahn system, as I do here. 2 Troost, Bauen, 98. 3 Franz W. Seidler, Fritz Todt: Baumeister des Dritten Reiches (Munich: Berlin: Herbig, 1986), 24. 4 Seidler, 27. 5 The classic study on Nazi struggles to balance the traditional with the modern, particularly through the adaptation of technological practice to Party ideology (Todt is frequently discussed herein): Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 6 Seidler, 39. 7 Ibid., 99. 8 Ibid., 116–117. 9 See aslo: Axel Zutz, “Harmonizing Environmentalism and Modernity: Landscape Advocates and Scenic Embedding in Germany, c. 1920–1950,” in: National Identities 3 (2014): 271–281. 10 On the conf licts between landscape advocates and autobahn engineers: Zeller, Chapter 5, “Conf licts over the Harmonious Road,” 79–126. 11 Roland Jaeger, “Bücher zum Zeitgeschehen: Der Volk und Reich Verlag, Berlin,” in: Heiting Manfred, and Roland Jaeger, eds., Autopsie. Deutschsprachige Fotobücher 1918 bis 1945, Vol. I (Göttingen: Steidl, 2012), 440–445. 12 A complete index to articles in Die Straße: www.vahrenkamp.org/die_strasse/ diestrasse.html

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13 Martin Kornrumpf, HAFRABA e.V. Deutsche Autobahn-Planung 1926–1934 (Bonn: Kirschbaum Verlag, 1990), 36. 14 Kornrumpf, 36–37. 15 C. G. K., “Europa wird kleiner durch Autobahnen!,” HAFRABA, July 1, 1932, 3. 16 “VII. Internationalen Straßenkongresses in München 1934,” Die Straße (1934): 25. 17 Rudolf Hess, “Die Eröffnung des VII. Internationalen Straßenkongresses in München” Die Straße (1934): 34–38 (36). 18 Hess, “Eröffnung,” 36. 19 Ibid., 38. 20 Fritz Todt, “Ansprache des Generalinspektors für das deutsche Straßenwesen,” Die Straße (1934): 39–42 (42). 21 Piero Puricelli, “The European System of automobile highways” Die Straße (1934): 44. [N.B.: original text in English.] 22 Karl C. von Loesch, “Die volkspolitische Bedeutung der Straße,” Die Straße (1934): 100–104 (103). 23 Friedrich Lange, “Die Straßen im Friedensdiktat,” Die Straße (1934): 139–141 (139). 24 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Die Autobahnnetzgestaltung in den Randgebieten des Deutschen Reiches,” Die Straße Vol. I (1937): 67–71 (67). 25 Given the generally duplicitous nature of the Nazi regime, there are of course many instances of this. One of the most detailed and dramatic accounts is given by Adam Tooze, where he describes the massive military build-up that was kept from the public eye in the early years esp., which resulted in extreme strains on the national economy: Adam Tooze, The Wages of Destruction. The Making and Breaking of the Nazi Economy (London: Penguin, 2006). 26 Otto Reismann, ed., Deutschlands Autobahnen: Adolf Hitlers Strassen (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayersiche Ostmark, 1937), 15. 27 Since the Nazis considered “national community” to be based on race, they also extended this categorization to what they saw as the race-based “communities” of neighboring countries. These characterizations did not specifically concern Jews, for they were regarded as a pan-European problem. Rather, the Nazis understood other national communities as also being characterized by the allegedly dominant race (e.g., Slavs in Poland). Unfortunately, this kind of thinking has not gone away in Europe, that is, in particular but not exclusively among the far-right. (See for example discussion of Grunwald here: 298–299.) Figure 2.6 is a particularly crude illustration connecting race with geopolitics found in: Wilhelm Ludowici, Das deutsche Siedlungswerk (Heidelberg: 1935), 17. This drawing shows an African black male and an east Asian male poised to pounce on Germany, along with labels and arrows indicating the migration roots of undesirable Slavs, Semites, and “Romanen,” e.g. “Latins.” This was not a “fringe” publication, Ludowici was a well-respected planner. 28 Birgitta Almgren, and Jan Hecker-Stampehl, “Alfred Rosenberg und die Nordische Gesellschaft Der ‘nordische Gedanke’ in Theorie und Praxis,” Nordeuropaforum 2 (2008): 7–51 (36). 29 Fritz Todt, “‘Der nordische Mensch und der Verkehr,’ Vortrag des Generalinspektors für das deutsche Straßenwesen Dr.-Ing. Fritz Todt auf der 4. Reichstagung der Nordischen Gesellschaft am 21. Juni 1937 in Lübeck,” Die Straße Vol. II (1937): 394–400 (394). 30 Ibid., 399. 31 Loc. cit. 32 Ibid., 397. 33 See for example: Carl Schnell, “Autobahnen in Dänemark,” Die Straße, Vol. I (1936): 679–681; Fritz-Anton Schifferer, “Straße und Straßenverkehr in Finnland,” Die Straße Vol. I (1939), 47–51; “Auf den Straßen Norwegens vom Skagerrak zum Nordkap,” Die Straße (1940): 346–349.

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34 Todt, “Der nordische,” 400. 35 Knut Boge, “Votes Count but the Number of Seats Decides: A Comparative Historical Case Study of 20th Century Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian Road Policy” (PhD diss., Norwegian School of Management, Series of Dissertations 4/2006), 133. On Nazi plans for infrastructure in Norway see also: Despina Stratigakos, Hitler’s Northern Utopia: Building the New Order in Occupied Norway (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2020). 36 Boge, 69–71. 37 Boge, 71. 38 Boge, 229. 39 Just Dillgardt, “Das Ruhrgebiet,” Die Straße (1935): 851–857. 40 Bericht der Vertretung Bayerns beim Reich über Besprechung mit dem Chef des Truppenamts, Generalleutnant Beck, November 2, 1933 Bay HStA Munich MWi 8682; Der Generalinspektor für das deutsche Straßenwesen November 18, 1936 BArch R113/1617, Bl. 23, cited in: Seidler, 137. 41 Curt Hotzel, Walle im Westen. Vor 2000 Jahren – und Heute (Berlin, 1940), 127, cited in: Seidler, 192. 42 Seidler, 192. 43 Kurt Kroll, “Das Straßenbauproblem in Polen,” Die Straße (1935): 11–13 (11). 44 Franz von Karaisl, “Beiträge zu den geschichtlichen Straßenbeziehungen zwischen Deutschland und Polen,” Die Straße (1935): 601. 45 Erwin Haudan, “Das sowjetrussiche Straßenwesen,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 694– 695 (694). 46 Haudan, 695. 47 Alfons Paquet, “Die Autobahn in der Landschaft und im Reich,” Die Straße, Vol. I (1939): 274–276 (276). 48 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Die Autobahnnetzgestaltung in den Randgebieten des Deutschen Reiches,” Die Straße, Vol. I (1937): 67–71 (67). 49 Vahrenkamp, 235–238. 50 Reissmann, Otto, Deutschlands Autobahnen: Adolf Hitlers Strassen (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayersiche Ostmark, 1937), 32. 51 Alwin Seifert, Alpenländisches Mauern (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1938), 6. 52 Ibid., 6. 53 Reissmann, 38. 54 Max Veit, “Die deutsche Sudentenstraße,” Die Straße Vol. I (1936): 514–518 (514). 55 Veit, 518. 56 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Die Autobahnnetzgestaltung in den Randgebieten des Deutschen Reiches,” Die Straße Vol. I (1937): 67–71 (68). 57 Ibid., 68. 58 Kriest, 76. 59 Ibid., 169–170. 60 Seidler, 138–139. 61 Generaloberst Guderain, “Mit der Panzerwaffe auf den Straßen des Sieges,” Die Straße (1940): 504–506. 62 Seidler, 139. 63 Kriest, 166. 64 Todt Fritz, ed., Fünf Jahre Arbeit an den Strassen Adolf Hitlers (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1938), 37. 65 Erhard Schütz, and Eckhard Gruber, Mythos Reichsautobahn: Bau und Inszenierung der “Strassen des Führers” 1933–1941 (Berlin: Links, 1996), 62. 66 Karl Lärmer, Autobahnbau in Deutschland 1933–1954 (Berlin: 1975), 100, cited in: Schütz and Gruber, 64. 67 Waldemar Wucher, “Die Straßen Adolf Hitlers im sechsten Jahr” Die Straße Vol. II (1938): 765–769; cover of December 2 issue.

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68 Loc. cit. 69 Carl Schnell, “Reichsautobahnen im neuen Osten,” Die Straße Vol. II (1939): 631– 632. (632). 70 On the bridge architect, Tamms, see: Jörn Düwel and Niels Gutschow, Friedrich Tamms Architektur udn Städtbau: Gewissheiten und Gesetzmäßigkeiten, 1933–1973 (Berlin: DOM, 2021). 71 Dorothee Hochstetter, Motorisierung und “Volksgemeinschaft”: das Nationalsozialistische Kraftfahrkorps (NSKK); 1931–1945 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2005), 162. 72 Fritz Todt, “Die Straßen Adolf Hitlers,” Die Straße Vol. I (1939): 240–241. 73 Emil Maier-Dorn, “Verkehrswege und ihre Bedeutung für die Völker,” Die Straße Vol. II (1939): 516–518 (516). 74 Seidler, 141. 75 Richard Auberlen, “Deutscher Straßenbau außerhalb der alten Reichsgrenzen,” Die Straße Vol. I (1940), 508–514 (508). 76 On cessation of work: Kriest, 171. On military road-building in the East: Bruno Wehner, “Der Ersatz des Straßenmeisters im Osten,” Die Straße (1942): 136–137. On forced labor see also: Zeller, 61. 77 On slowdown of work: Kriest, 170–171; on transcontinental planning: Kriest, 158–172. 78 Ibid., 158. 79 Statement by Todt, BArch NS26/1188 cited in: Seidler, 142. 80 Letter from the “Reichsministers für die besetzten Ostgebiete” October 24, 1941, IfZ, Parteikanzlei Files, 101 11823 cited in: Seidler, 142. 81 See: Michael Venhoff, Die Reichsarbeitsgemeinschaft für Raumforschung (RAG) und die reichsdeutsche Raumplanung seit ihrer Entstehung bis zum Ende des Zweiten Weltkrieges 1945 (Hanover: ARL, 2000). 82 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Das alte und das neue Europa,” Raumforschung und Raumordnung 6/7 (1942). (Plates between pp. 216 – 217; text on back of right-hand plate). 83 Journal title in German: Raumforschung und Raumordnung. 84 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Das alte.” (Plates between pp. 216 – 217; text on back of righthand plate). 85 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Straßenbau als europäische Aufgabe,” Die Straße (1942): 122– 126 (123). 86 Entry for July 8, 1940, Selections from Darré Diaries, Papers of Walther Darré, N 1094, Teilbestand II – N 1094 II, Folder 65 (a-d) Bundesarchiv Koblenz. On this planned city see also: Stratigakos, Utopia. 87 On role of engineers see: Zeller, 79–126. 88 Anon., “Der Generalinspektor für das deutsche Straßenwesen berichtet auf dem Parteitag der Arbeit Nürnberg 1937 über Bau und Verkehr auf den Straßen Adolf Hitlers,” Die Straße Vol. II (1937): 518–521 (519). 89 Anon., “Der Generalinspektor,” 519. 90 Alwin Seifert, “Baum und Strauch an der Straße,” Die Straße (1934): 19–22 (19). 91 Ibid., 19. 92 HAFRABA November 1, 1929, cover image. 93 Editors, “Die Bepf lanzung neuzeitlicher Autostraßen,” HAFRABA November 1, 1929; Landesoberrat Becker, Kassel, “Bepf lanzng von Autobahnen,” Die Autobahn November 1, 1932, 1–3. 94 Mies van der Rohe, “Autobahnen als künstlerisches Problem,” Die Autobahn October 1, 1932, 1. See also: Zeller, 50. 95 Seifert, “Baum und Strauch,” 20. 96 Ibid., 20–21. 97 Ibid., 21–22. 98 Alwin Seifert, “‘Schlängelung?’” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 582–583 (582). 99 Ibid., 583.

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100 Alwin Seifert, “Wiesenblumen am Straßenrand,” Die Straße Vol. II (1938): 606–608 (606). 101 Alwin Seifert, “Lob der Brombeeren,” Die Straße Vol. I (1939): 400–401 (400). 102 Ibid., 401. 103 See for example: Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, ‘Gärten, Natur und völkische Ideologie,’ in: Rainer Hering, ed., Die Ordnung der Natur: Vorträge zu historischen Gärten und Parks in Schleswig-Holstein, (Hamburg: Hamburg University Press, 2009), 143–87. 104 Alwin Seifert, “Die Eingliederung der Reichsautobahnen in die Landschaft,” Kunst im Dritten Reich Vol. II, Ausgabe B (1939): 359–362 (362). 105 Alwin Seifert, “Alpenländische Brücken,” Die Straße Vol. I (1937): 42–45 (42). 106 Alwin Seifert, “Mauerwerk an der Alpenstraße,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 751–754 (753). 107 Ibid., 753. 108 Alwin Seifert, “Alpenländische,” 43. 109 “Bilder von der Sudelfeldstraße (1936)” in: Alwin Seifert, Im Zeitalter des Lebendigen (Munich: Müllersche Verlagshandlung, 1942), 118–123 (119). 110 Alwin Seifert, “Alpenländische,” 42; Seifert, “Sudelfeldstraße,” 120. 111 Seifert, “Sudelfeldstraße,” 120. 112 Ibid., 120. 113 Edith Ebers, “Der Gletschergarten bei Inzell an der Deutschen Alpenstraße,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936), 478–482. 114 Ibid., 468. 115 An American example of scenic carriage roads from my own research: David H. Haney, “The Legacy of the Picturesque at Mount Desert Island,” The Journal of Garden History (1996:16:4): 275–297. 116 On the touristic imperative see pp. 7–8. 117 See also: Zeller, 138–141. 118 Reismann, 66. 119 Anon., “Driving your own car in Germany” (Berlin: Reichsbahnzentrale für den Deutschen Reiseverkehr, n.d., n.p.) [original in English], HAT, D060/00/-45/ RDV/4/Sonstiges. 120 Ludwig Kapeller, “Welcome to Germany” (Berlin: Reichsbahnzentrale für den Deutschen Reiseverkehr, n.d., n.p.) [original in English], HAT), D060/00/-45/ RDV/4/Sonstiges. 121 Loc. cit. 122 Loc. cit. 123 Stanislaus M. Zentzyztki, “Neues Wandern mit dem Kraftwagen,” Die Straße Vol. I (1936): 85–88 (85). 124 Ibid., 88. 125 Vahrenkamp, 235. 126 Alfons Paquet, “Die Autobahn in der Landschaft und im Reich,” Die Straße Vol. I (1939): 274–276 (274). 127 Paquet, “Die Autobahn,” 274. 128 Ibid., 274. 129 On the magazine die neue linie see: Patrick Rössler, Das Bauhaus am Kiosk (Bielefeld: Kerber Verlag, 2009). 130 Anon., “Wenn einer eine RAB – Reise tut…was kann er da erzählen?” die neue linie (May, 1939): 22. 131 Fritz Todt, ed., Reichsautobahnatlas (Dresden: Verlag Meinhold-Mittelbach-Karten, 1938). 132 Karl Baedeker, Baedekers Autoführer: Deutsches Reich (Grossdeutschland). Offizieller Führer des Deutschen Automobil-Clubs. (Leipzig: Karl Baedeker, 1939): V. 133 Hochstetter, Motorisierung.

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134 Baedeker, Autoführer, XVIII. 135 Ibid.: Berghof, 612; Karinhall, 27, 398. 136 Albert Speer, ed. [with Rudolf Wolters] Neue Deutsche Baukunst (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1941), 13–14. 137 Eduard Schönleben, “Planen und Gestalten,” Die Baukunst, Die Kunst im Dritten Reich Ausgabe B (1939): 330–332 (331), cited in: Stommer, 181. 138 Otto Kurz, “Zukünftige Landschaftsbilder an der Reichsautobahn,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 622–624 (623). 139 “Die Ausstellung die Straße in München II,” Deutsche Bauzeitung June 26, 1934, 477–481 (map: 478); on Zietara: Hellmut Rademacher, Kunst, Kommerz, Visionen: Deutsche Plakate 1888 – 1933 (Berlin: Deutsche Historisches Museum, 1992), 279. 140 Max Eckert-Greifendorff, Kartographie: Ihre Aufgaben und Bedeutung für die Kultur die Gegenwart (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1939). 141 The key numbers and legend were added to the 1939 map by the author. 142 On Hitler’s Berghof see: Despina Stratigakos, Hitler at Home (New Haven: London: Yale University Press, 2015). 143 On Obersalzberg, esp. the brutal clearance of existing occupants, see: Ulrich Chaussy, and Christoph Püschner, Nachbar Hitler: Führerkult und Heimatzerstörung am Obersalzberg (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2001). 144 Letter from Martin Bormann to Staatssekretär Fritz Reinhardt, Berlin, Obersalzberg, Jan. 13, 1938: BArch, R/4601/1816. 145 Loc. cit. 146 Waldemar Wucher, “Die Reichsautobahn als politisches Werk,” Die Straße (1941): 278–280.

3 FROM SPORTS PARK TO SACRED GROVE Embedding the Mass Spectacle in the German Landscape

Of the 12 case studies presented in this study, these two sites are probably the most well-known, and were arguably of the greatest propagandistic importance to the Nazi Reich: the 1936 Olympic Park (Reichssportfeld) and Olympic Village (Olympisches Dorf ) in Berlin, and the Nazi Party Rally Grounds (Reichparteitagsgelände) in Nuremberg.1 What may not be immediately clear are the conceptual links between them – both were derived from the sports park type, and the design of the Olympic Park subsequently inf luenced the development of the Party Rally Grounds, with the latter soon eclipsing the former in importance.2 Thus the fate of these two sites was intertwined. Unlike the other case studies to follow, the Nazis chose these locations for their practical advantages and geopolitical symbolism, not for their outstanding landscape beauty, nor because any important historical events had occurred on them. The presence of the existing “German Stadium” built for the aborted 1916 Olympics on the Berlin site made it the logical choice for the 1936 Summer Games, and the Nazis had already been holding their annual Party Rallies in Nuremberg, where they had utilized a city park that would later be incorporated into the much larger, dedicated rally grounds. Both cities were of great geopolitical significance, which in the case of Berlin as the capital city of the Reich was immediately clear; however, for the Nazis Nuremberg was also an important geopolitical symbol because historically it had acted as a capital of the Holy Roman Empire. In respect to the selection of the actual sites, location trumped landscape beauty. While the immediate landscape of each site was reasonably pleasant, the topography was not outstanding, and each had been developed in an ad hoc manner over the decades, with no overall plan. On the other hand, the natural beauty of surrounding landscapes beyond each site was constantly praised. As typical urban fringe locations, they were neither city nor country; yet in keeping with longstanding garden design tradition, Nazi-era designers exploited this symbolic DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-4

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transition from city to country as a design strategy. The design of these sites was primarily a remedial exercise, aimed at elevating them to the status of pieces of hallowed German earth imbued with the rhetoric of blood and soil ideology. This deliberate rooting in the soil meant that they were to become important geopolitical locations in themselves. In addition, landscape design devices such as capturing distant views of hills and prominent buildings were exploited as another means of tying them to the larger surrounding cultural landscape, on a geographic scale. Another factor that both sites had in common was the presence of existing sports facilities: in Berlin, the German Stadium and a surrounding horse racing track, and in Nuremberg a noteworthy 1920s modernist sports park that also incorporated an allotment garden colony. In a similar manner to how these relatively banal sites were redesigned to satisfy Nazi propaganda demands, the sports park was reconceived as an embodiment of blood and soil symbolism. The “park” aspect of this typology as a kind of cultural landscape was much more important for the Nazis than it had been for the modernists, who thought more in terms of generic functional outdoor spaces, whether paved or planted. Earlier sports parks were functional arrangements of spaces intended to serve specific activities; the Nazis understood the practical aspects of grouping specialized spaces for sports within greenspaces, but their driving design concept was to reconfigure the whole as an esthetically conceived, monumental architectural ensemble. (How the design process evolved at the two sites was very different, as shall be seen.) By 1933, Germany had already established itself as a country where modern sports parks had become common urban amenities; this typology was not solely a foreign importation. However, the Nazi transformation of the sports park as realized at both of these sites should be understood in the context of the general repudiation of international modernist design, in favor of architecture and landscapes ostensibly based on specifically German cultural traditions. Of course, sports parks and stadia had long been exploited for propaganda purposes, most significantly by the Olympics, and there are many modern examples. Despite the apparently internationalist goals of the International Olympic Committee (IOC), even in the early years each site served in part as an opportunity for nationalistic self-promotion. In general, sporting facilities had also been associated with symbols of the military and past wars, such as the ubiquitous “war memorial” stadia in the US. These were not Nazi formulations by any means, yet it is not difficult to understand how they were able to link mass Party rallies with sporting events at the Party Rally Grounds. Of course, a particular hallmark of these Nazi sports-park permutations was their blood and soil symbolism, especially as manifested through landscape design. To what extent these represented “fictitious worlds” as per Arendt, is a more complex matter. At the 1936 Olympics, the primary target of this mass deception were foreign visitors and observers, not the German national community alone. As one postwar German historian has noted, this was facilitated by a “temporary suspension of a core part of National Socialist ideology.”3 The symbolism embodied in the

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design of the Olympic facilities and the staged events was more subtle, allowing for double readings. For example, the torch relay initiated by the Nazis could be read as a sign of their underlying geopolitical intentions, while a box of soil brought from the World War One era Langemarck battlefield was enshrined in relatively discrete location where it could be overlooked by outside visitors. At the Party Rally Grounds by contrast, the political symbolism was deliberately all-encompassing and overwhelming; after all, this was the raison d’être for the entire site. The main emphasis at both the 1936 Olympics and the Rally Grounds was on mass spectacle, for in the propagandistic sense the sporting activities in themselves were nearly an aside. Critical to the whole was the setting, not just the architecture but also the landscape, for this was not simply passive infrastructure but an essential component of the media through which the National Socialist message was broadcast to Germany and the world.

Early Planning Phases of the Berlin Olympic Park Berlin had already been chosen as the site for the 1936 Summer Games by the IOC in 1931, two years before the Nazis seized power.4 At first, the Nazis were reluctant to embrace the Olympics, because of the emphasis on international brotherhood and equality. However, Reich Propaganda Minister Goebbels soon convinced Hitler that the Summer Games presented “a splendid opportunity to demonstrate German vitality and organizational expertise.”5 From then on, Hitler was a fanatical supporter of the project, and was determined to stage the grandest Olympics yet. As Hitler’s deputy Rudolf Hess later acknowledged in his speech at the 1936 Party Rally in Nuremberg, the IOC decision to hold the Olympics in Berlin that year was an unintended gift to the Nazi regime: the fact that the Olympic Games came to Germany at all is truly a fortunate coincidence that we could not have arranged any better if we had been able to inf luence fate ourselves. The Olympic Games would never have been held in Germany if the vote on their location had taken place after we came to power.6 Hess further observed that the Olympics provided: the occasion and the pretext above all for a large number of foreigners to stay in Germany; the motivation to travel to the great event under the sign of the five rings allowed them to make a trip to Germany without arousing the suspicion among their countrymen of being Nazi Party sympathizers.7 In order to successfully persuade foreigners of their supposed good intentions, the Nazis realized that they would have to promote the internationalist agenda of the IOC through the design of the facilities and staging of the events. At the same time, they were planning for the permanent use of the Olympic sites

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following the Games, when they could openly promote their own racist ideological agenda. This meant that the architecture and landscape would have to be designed to serve both kinds of symbolism, depending upon the audience and occasion. For example, while it may not have been immediately obvious, the Greek cultural associations of the Games could easily be appropriated to serve Nazi racist ideology. Recall that Schultze-Naumburg had referred to the neoclassical architecture of the early nineteenth century as an ideal “marriage” of Germanic and Hellenic sensibilities, a widely held sentiment that retained currency through the 1930s.8 Neoclassical architecture had long been used to support claims of European racial supremacy, even if not openly stated. However, in the Nazi context, neoclassicism was exploited to support the belief in Aryan racial superiority specifically. The underlying blood and soil as well as militaristic symbolism could be read by the initiated as a kind of coded message. A wide range of German-language literature, including the architect’s own publications, made sure that such points would not be missed. The insistence that the Olympic park was carefully embedded in the landscape and the soil was not just a design problem, but more importantly an ideological goal, just as was the case with the autobahn. The pre-World-War-One “German Stadium” standing on the future 1936 Olympics site had been designed by the prominent Berlin architect Otto March, so it was a logical move to engage his son Werner to prepare the stadium renovation plans in 1931, well before the Nazis seized power.9 Prior to this in the late 1920s, Werner and his brother Walter had designed the German Sport Forum complex along the northern edge of the same site.10 Before plans for renovating the existing stadium had even been prepared, Werner’s brother Walter traveled to the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics expressly to study the facilities there as precedents. Up until then, the Olympic sites had been relatively modest by comparison, but nevertheless had introduced new architectural elements. The 1928 Olympic Stadium in Amsterdam was of significant architectural quality, and featured the first modern Olympic f lame, located atop a high tower in front of the stadium. At the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics existing buildings were employed for all events, partly because the Games took place during the depths of the great depression. However, one significant new addition to the Olympic architectural program there was the so-called Olympic Village, then a separate residential site planned for male athletes only. (Female athletes were assigned upscale hotel accommodation.) The only aspects from Los Angeles that were incorporated in the 1936 Games were the Olympic Village and an outdoor theater inspired in part by the Hollywood Bowl (which also predated the 1932 Olympics). Werner March’s initial designs for the remodeling of the Olympic stadium in Berlin were conceived before the Nazi takeover, and thus much more limited in scope than the final scheme. Architecturally, the stadium remodeling initially proposed by March was comparatively modernist and abstract in character, retaining none of the nationalistic Wilhelminian motifs or sculpture of his father’s design. A perspective drawing from early 1933 showed

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FIGURE 3.1

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March’s original design for the Berlin Olympic Stadium, early 1933.

that March as yet had given virtually no attention to the landscape, and that the new stadium was to be reached by pedestrian tunnels running under the surrounding horse racetrack, following the existing situation11 (Figure 3.1). At the Amsterdam Olympics, even though the stadium was carefully designed, the site itself was treated somewhat casually, with no architectural connections between the elements; thus March’s initial proposal represented no significant departure in this respect. As to be expected, the overall design direction changed considerably once the Nazis took control of the project. The main conceptual turning point appears to have occurred in the first meeting of the local Building Committee on July 15, 1933, a few days after March’s first design had been exhibited. The committee was chaired by the athletics promoter and pedagogue Carl Diem, with Werner March and Paul SchultzeNaumburg among those present. Judging by the minutes, it was probably the latter who instigated the major change in design direction: Schultze-Naumburg pointed out just how important the layout of the Sport Forum grounds and the adjacent Spree valley must be for the population of Berlin, from urban design and artistic standpoints. In recognition of the natural beauty, he argued for unified planning for the entire area of the grounds, to bring it together into an integrated, impressive facility. In particular the beautiful green wood of the Spree valley must be incorporated, the numerous fences and hoardings must disappear, and the entire facility brought into a natural connection with the major traffic arteries through new access routes.12

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Schultze-Naumburg was suggesting an approach completely different from that taken by March to that point, and indeed from that of all previous designers of Olympic facilities. As seen, Schultze-Naumburg had long argued that buildings and complexes be embedded in the landscape and soil, while also advocating for a racial interpretation of architecture and design. He may have belonged to an older generation, but his suggestions as summarized in the minutes would have been perfectly in keeping with Nazi ideology. He also recognized that this was a particular type of site on the edge of the city, not located out in the open countryside, but nevertheless oriented towards the surrounding landscape. Even if the site was to be designed as “an integrated, impressive facility,” the overall layout was not to be merely an extension of the urban fabric, but rather act as a link to the more natural environment of the Spree river valley. March convincingly incorporated all of Schultze-Naumburg’s main suggestions in his design thinking, as is evident in his final scheme of December that year. There was no exact precedent for March’s final site plan, but it bears a strong resemblance to the 1910 Hamburg City Park design by the Hamburg city architect Fritz Schumacher.13 (Figure 3.2) In the early years of the century Schultze-Naumburg had been active in the garden and park reform movement, of which the Hamburg City Park was a prime example; both he and March would certainly have been familiar with Schumacher’s design. Like the later Olympic Park, the 1910 site design featured a prominent central axis along which monumental spaces, sports facilities, and other structures were organized.14 Even though the Hamburg Park layout was considerably more open and less compact, it was also conceived as an architectonic ensemble, a tactic that Schultze-Naumburg would have considered

FIGURE 3.2

Aerial photo of Hamburg City Park.

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an effective means of synthesizing architecture and landscape – now associated with blood and soil ideology. Although Schultze-Naumburg undoubtedly inf luenced Werner March’s design thinking on this project, it was not a collaboration as such and March retained sole authorship. His and his brother’s earlier design for the German Sport Forum on the edge of the Olympics site had already employed a stylistic vocabulary similar to that used for the new stadium. Further, the Forum complex was situated to take advantage of views from the elevated site out into the valley beyond (Figure 3.3). Clearly, Werner March would have been sympathetic to the landscape approach proposed by the older architect. By contrast, Albert Speer’s post-war claims that he had persuaded Hitler to change March’s design for the stadium have been completely discredited; it is more likely that March’s design inf luenced Speer’s site designs for the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.15 In December 1933, March produced a site plan for the Olympic Park that was more or less the final version16 (Figure 3.4). Because March designed the Olympic site relatively early in the regime, it is conceivable that his work served as an inspiration for the designs of future monumental ensembles. Some of the primary elements of his Olympic Park scheme, such as the large plaza for gathering, the “Führer” tower with bell, and the grand axis later became standard features of new Nazi urban forums, while the orientation towards the landscape provided a model for the other monumental sites included in this study.17 Publicly, Hitler was credited as the motivating genius behind the project, as usual. He made his first official visit to the Olympic site on the fifth of October, nearly three months after the initial Building Committee meeting (Figure 3.5).

FIGURE 3.3

View of valley in background beyond the Olympic Park.

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FIGURE 3.4

March’s plan for the Olympic grounds as approved by Hitler.

FIGURE 3.5

Hitler and Wilhelm Frick at the Olympic site, pre-construction.

An official document later recorded the event as though no planning of any significance had occurred before this historic moment: To begin with, a picture from memory: on the fifth of October 1933, the Führer and the Reich Minister Dr. Frick stood on broad Brandenburg fields, in scraggly grass on sandy soil, with tall pine trees in the background. Adolf

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Hitler indicated with broad sweeping gestures his plan for the Olympic Park in this area: here shall be built the Olympic Stadium for one-hundredthousand spectators. Next to it a marching field suitable for mass rallies shall be created. In the charming Murellen ravine a great open-air theater shall be constructed. The Sport Forum shall be expanded in generous proportions to become the leading facility for German physical education18 Other published reports were similar, claiming that it was Hitler’s idea to include a grand space for rallies and an outdoor theater, as well as to expand the capacity of the stadium to 100,000. His “sweeping gestures” were to be translated by the architect into concrete plans, which Werner March duly delivered the Führer about two months later. Hitler also declared at this point that the Reich would cover construction costs, meaning that there was no longer the need to keep to a restrained budget. Hitler further decreed that a new stadium would be necessary. Therefore, the old one would have to be demolished and the existing horse race track relocated, consequently removing any obstacles to the realization of Schultze-Naumburg’s vision of a unified site design. In the above recollection, the reference to “scraggly grass on sandy soil” was not insignificant, for Hitler and his designers were being credited with completely transforming the neglected site into a beautiful landscape (a typical exaggeration). Another official record of this site visit took a different tact, reporting that: “The beauty of the landscape scenes surprised the Chancellor.”19 Whether or not he actually reacted in this way, the point was that Hitler’s own chosen cultural landscape was that of the Alpine foothills of southeastern Bavaria. The Brandenburg region by contrast consisted of a relatively flat, glaciated landscape punctuated with lakes, substantially less dramatic in character. Hitler nevertheless immediately appreciated the importance of the landscape at the site, according to this particular narrative. In the copious literature on the construction of the Olympic sites, substantial attention was paid to the topics of the landscape and soil of the local Heimat region, the Brandenburg March.20 For despite the site’s relative proximity to the dense urban core of Berlin, it was necessary to stress that the Olympics would take place within an authentic German Heimat landscape setting – as another means of minimizing internationalist associations in favor of blood and soil references.

Werner March’s Description of the Olympic Park Design The most eloquent and detailed period publication on the architecture and landscape of the Olympic Park is unsurprisingly the monograph written by Werner March, published in 1936 after the Games. Lavishly illustrated, it included photos by the celebrated fashion photographer Charlotte Rohrbach.21 As befitting the spirit of the dictatorship, March credited Hitler as the genius behind the scheme: With one glance he [Hitler] recognized here the given opportunities for magnanimous planning…and sketched out a truly monumental

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building program that could be carried out in the space thus opened up, with unique breadth, clarity, and a strong connection to the landscape [Landschaftsverbundenheit].22 [My emphasis] Whether or not Hitler actually referred to this special “connection,” for March the character of the existing landscape had become one of the most important determining factors in the overall planning. In his site plan, March showed the greenbelt surrounding much of the site, included as much for symbolic as hygienic reasons.23 March carefully noted that the site was bordered on three sides by woods, with steep slopes to the north and west; by contrast, the eastern section of the site, of comparatively unremarkable character, was fortunately where the main rail stations and approach routes lay. The overall planning emphasized the connection to the Heimat beyond: “The building masses were arranged upon this high area of land open to all sides, such that the distant landscape views were to be kept open as far as possible.” Surrounding wooded areas and the, “verdant park areas of the former Grunewald race track to the south,” were to be carefully preserved and kept free of buildings.24 Of his previous Sport Forum design he noted: “The northern wooded slope along the Spree valley provided a living landscape extension to the strictly defined playing fields.”25 This statement suggests he had extended the design philosophy underlying the earlier Sport Forum to the entire site, in accordance with Schultze-Naumburg’s vision. The grand central axis formed the spine of the overall planning scheme. It began to the east as an extension of an existing city street, and continued through to the valley on the opposite side, passing through center of the Olympic Plaza, the Stadium, and the May Field (Maifeld).26 (However, in contrast to later Naziera design axes, this one was primarily compositional and did not allow for marching along its length.) March explained the underlying logic: “the organization of the whole was limited to a few dominate building masses, which were brought together in a beautiful interplay through a simple and grand axial relationship visible from far away”27 (Figure 3.6). The spaces along March’s organizing axis changed significantly in character moving from east to west, following the classic garden design sequence of town, to field, to woodland. The main entry approach from the east led through the large stone-paved Olympic Plaza edged with double-rows of linden trees, which acted as a forecourt to the two massive pylons dubbed the “Olympic Gate.” This was followed in sequence by a mature transplanted tree, which although named for its pre-World War One predecessor, the Podbielski Oak, was a different specimen. According to March, a hierarchy of architectural elements was created, with the stadium itself providing the “visual core to the Olympic Park.”28 From the stadium’s exterior, the moving spectator was offered, “constantly changing distant views through the open colonnade of the Olympic Park and the extensive landscape in the background,” as another connection to the site and Heimat. Inside the Stadium, at the end of the axis to the west, the open gap dubbed the “Marathon Gate” offered a framed view of the marching field and the bell tower in the middle-ground:

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FIGURE 3.6

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Aerial view of main spaces of Olympic Park along the central axis.

“The synthetic effect of the festive symbols of the Olympic f lame, the victors’ plaques, and the Olympic bell in the background bestows upon the Marathon Gate a special sacred quality”29 (Figure 3.7). The organizing axis unified the large-scale spaces and the smaller emblematic details, while providing a visual grand finale to the spectacle within the Stadium. It was there in the Marathon Gate that the final Olympic torch runner lit the f lame in the enormous brazier, symbolically linking the Greek and German cultural landscapes. The so-called May Field, the large open field to the west of the stadium and the Marathon gate, was another Nazi addition to the Olympic spatial program. According to contemporary reporting, the May Field was intended to take over the role of the enormous Tempelhof Field (scheduled to become an airfield) as the primary Berlin location for Nazi rallies and Party events. Most significantly, Tempelhof Field had been used by the Nazis as the site for their first labor day festival on May 1, 1933, hence the name for the new Olympic Park space.30 During the Games, the May Field was used for polo tournaments and equestrian

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FIGURE 3.7

Lighting of the Olympic flame in the Marathon Gate.

dressage, and its future Party usage downplayed. Said to hold anywhere from 250,000 to one million people, it was surrounded on the western side by massive banks of seating with a capacity of 75,000.31 For Werner March, the May Field provided an important architectural opportunity within the overall composition: the May Field creates the massive, monumental termination of the entire Olympic Park to the West. The f lat arch-like curve of the spectators’ seating ref lects the gigantic scale of the curving movement of the Olympic Stadium and allows the high ridge to harmonize with the impressive natural character of the adjacent open landscapes to both sides.32 The actual seats were of turf with stone risers, providing another connection to the landscape, as March observed (Figure 3.8). These reviewing stands and the bank of earth supporting them followed the more “natural” line of the curve, which March also consciously played off of the curve of the stadium. The other element marking the visual terminus of the axis was the Bell Tower, originally labeled the “Führer Tower” but later renamed, probably as a means of reducing the number of overt references to the fascist dictatorship. It contained an elevator leading to a platform on top, from which the surrounding landscape could be

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FIGURE 3.8

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View of the May Field at the Olympic grounds.

viewed. Although clad in rusticated stone, the tower’s internal structure was of steel. At the base of the tower, facing the field and the stadium, was located the dais that incorporated the Führer’s seat of power. The conglomeration of the reviewing stands for the May Field, the Bell Tower, the Langemarck Hall located under the banks of seating, and the massive colonnade opening to the west was the most unusual aspect of March’s entire design, and indeed the most ideologically loaded. In his book, March included a dramatic photo showing the great quantities of excavated soil from the stadium site being mounded up to form the earthen walls at the western edge of the May Field; the photo was taken while covered in snow, to heighten the visual effect.33 A separate report by Diem had dryly recorded that site construction had necessitated, “the movement of around a half-million cubic meters [ca 654,000 cu yd] of earth”34 As with the autobahn, the massive quantities of the masses of earth moved often were mentioned in Nazi-era architectural descriptions, as if to assure readers of the true bonding of building with the ground. Excavation for the Olympic stadium was made for practical reasons, but the resulting earth fill was used symbolically to create the impression that a great colonnade set within an embankment provided the entrance to an underground chamber, the Langemarck Hall. Well after World War Two Diem claimed that the Hall had been his own idea, and references to it first appear in documents from late 1934/early 1935.35 In post-World War One German conservative mythology, Langemarck was renowned as the site of a battle in Belgium where young, enthusiastic university students had been mercilessly shot dead in droves, allegedly marching to their deaths singing “Deutschland über Alles.”36 Historians have since proven that the young soldiers died because they were ill-trained and

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FIGURE 3.9

Langemarck Hall with the box of earth from Langemarck battlefield in Belgium.

ill-equipped, in a disastrous battle that need not have taken place. The Nazis of course embraced this nationalistic mythologizing, exploiting the symbolism of Langemarck as a means of instilling a sense of military obligation in the young. Diem himself fought in the Battle of Langemarck, and later claimed to have brought back the box of soil from the battlefield that was given a place of honor in the Hall (Figure 3.9). However, there was little mention of the Langemarck Hall in publications promoting the Olympics, with March’s own description of the Hall being perhaps the most detailed. Most significantly, the Hall illustrated how the young athletes, especially the males, were valued as future soldiers. In his book March included a section drawing through the cavern-like Langemarck Hall penetrated by the tall Bell Tower, revealing the peculiar, Janus-like character of the reviewing stand assemblage (Figure 3.10). When viewed from the east on the stadium side, the stone-clad reviewing stands and tribune appeared as though embedded in a hillside, like an ancient Greek theatre. From the western approach on the valley side, effectively the rear, the reviewing stands were almost imperceptible. Instead grass slopes at either side gave the appearance of a natural hillside, and the stone colonnade in the center suggested a subterranean passageway. In fact as the section drawing showed, the ca 246 foot (75 m) wide center section was supported by a steel structure, just like the tower.

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FIGURE 3.10

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Section through Langemarck Hall and the bell tower.

March informed his readers that from the west the “massive middle section… had the effect of an imposing embankment wall of powerful and ancient native origins.”37 The illusion of entering into an underground chamber reinforced the tomb-like atmosphere of the Langemarck Hall (Figure 3.11). Usually perceived from the exterior as the vertical climax to the grand axis, the Bell Tower also played a symbolic role within the Langemarck Hall, as March explained: The Bell Tower in the middle of the space stands like a sublime block of stone, on whose side walls are located the ten steel plaques listing the names of the divisions and their troops. In front of this block, set into the f loor and protected by a steel plate, lies soil from the cemetery at Langemarck. The high openings in the western colonnade with views of the Brandenburg landscape strongly evoke the feeling of the connection of this memorial with the Heimat.38 These observations show the extent to which the architect expected the observer to be able to perform the mental gymnastics necessary to connect the small object, the box of soil, with the far away foreign cemetery, and thence back again to the local native landscape, which in turn stood for the entire German Heimat. This type of synthesis of esthetic perception and geographic consciousness, charged with the overt nationalism and militarism of the Third Reich, lay at the core of architectural thinking during this period, for which this structure was among the first important examples. On the other hand, foreign visitors to

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FIGURE 3.11

Aerial view of entrance to Langemarck Hall and rear of the May Field reviewing stands.

the 1936 Games could have easily avoided entering the Hall, since they could access the reviewing stands via ramps that climbed the adjacent grassy slopes.39 Hitler was credited with the idea of building a new open-air theater in the Olympic Park, another site feature that would be tied to Party ideology, if more subtly than Langemarck Hall. However, March had already designed a smaller open-air theater for the Sport Forum, and was intimately familiar with the terrain, so the new version may have in fact been his idea as well. March’s design obviously drew upon the “Greek theater” prototype, yet he also claimed that his own design was inspired by the Hollywood Bowl at the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics, studied in person by his brother Walter.40 In the open-air theater for the Olympics, all of the most modern lighting and acoustic technology was incorporated, but not emphasized as a design determinant.41 Yet there was another theater type that March did not mention, the Nazi-era “thingstead” (Thingplatz), based upon supposed ancient Germanic gathering places of the folk. In the early 1930s, construction of thingstead theaters was almost a fad, and in the beginning was officially supported by Propaganda Minister Goebbels42 (see p. 266). In contrast to March’s rhetoric, these were celebrated as being purely Germanic forms, even if paradoxically they also resembled the classic Greek theater. The first performance held in the Berlin Olympic theater was “The Frankenburg Dice Game,” a reactionary conservative work which went on to become one of the most successful of all the thingstead plays (Figure 3.12). In another ideologically-loaded move, the theater was named for Dietrich Eckhart,

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FIGURE 3.12

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Nighttime performance at the Olympic amphitheater.

who was mythologized as the poet and playwright of the Movement; it was Eckhart who promulgated the term “Third Reich” among the Nazis.43 Jailed following his participation in the 1923 Putsch, Eckhart died shortly thereafter. Several years older than Hitler, Eckhart had acted as mentor to the younger man, who later dedicated Mein Kampf to him. Werner March may have presented his open-air theater design as a quiet, harmonious insertion in the landscape, but its namesake and the plays performed within it reinforced a more militant conservative message, even during the Olympics. (Although most foreign visitors probably would not have been aware of Eckhart’s true significance.) In his description of the theater March emphasized the appropriateness of its location within the overall site: “The embedding of the Dietrich Eckhart Open Air Theater in the quietest and least touched part of the landscape corresponded entirely with the festive and artistic purpose of this structure.”44 Located away from the main sporting fields and transportation networks, the theater was surrounded by the pine woods, at a lower level from the roads. This situation offered unique theatrical possibilities: The grand scenery of the wooded slope above the stage can be incorporated in the stage setting through the lighting facilities. When the play takes place at sundown, the western sky lights up behind the fine silhouette of the high wooded backdrop for a long while.45

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Lacking even any basic ornament, the theater design was minimalistic and abstract, for “any competition with nature was avoided” in order to achieve the “greatest simplicity.”46 As determined by the setting of theater and landscape, “Here only the greatest gestures, only the form and content of the spoken word will have effect.” Once again, the use of natural materials would reinforce this sense of simplicity and connection to the landscape: “Through the stone construction of the Dietrich Eckhart Open Air Theater, the color effect of the Brandenburg sand against the dark pines is reintroduced.”47 Together with the curves of the theater seating that emphasized the topography, the natural stone furthered the sense of harmony with the surroundings, which in turn became part of the theatrical backdrop. While the curved banks of seating along the western edge of the May Field terminated the primary spaces of the site, in the area behind them the composition took on a different character, as March explained: in contrast to the rigid monumental approach to the east, in the west the characteristic lines of the landscape guide the main axis, blending it into the landscape through the picturesque movement of Bell Tower Road, while alongside it these lines are beautifully accentuated as they find their conclusion in the Dietrich Eckart Open-Air Theater.48 In this area March suggested that the landscape itself set the tone, transforming the linear axis into the curving Bell Tower Road leading farther into the Grunewald municipal forest (Figure 3.13). While he stressed the power of the

FIGURE 3.13

Aerial view of the Olympic Park with amphitheater in foreground.

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organizing axis, he also imbued the landscape forms with a different kind of transformative character. This symbolic interplay between the formality of the geometric forms representing the power of the state and the freer lines of the landscape drawing upon the primordial power of the German land, appears to have animated the entire composition in the mind of the architect. On site these interrelationships could only have been clearly comprehended from the top of the Bell Tower, but the range of effects achieved through the architectural engagement with the landscape were readily perceptible. Stylistically, the architecture of the Olympic complex offered variations on the overall theme of abstracted historic models adapted to modern needs, but these were chosen to reinforce specific locations and associated symbolism. For the theater, March was clear that the classical Greek prototype and the contours of the land almost entirely determined the formal expression, and detail was avoided. By contrast, the form as well as the stylistic expression of the stadium were based on the Roman amphitheater, in a manner recognizable to all. March informed readers that although the ovoid form of the Stadium was based on antique models, it was clad in a natural German material, Franconian limestone.49 Although the two-story columns were a deviation from the classical norm, this gesture was intended to emphasize height. Of the Stadium exterior March further explained that: “The composition of the surfaces were determined decisively by the scale of the Brandenburg landscape,” with the columns mimetically echoing the characteristic movement of its “peaceful pines” resulting in a “sensitive and reserved” character.50 The old Prussian master architects Schlüter, Knobelsdorf, and Schinkel had also taken cues from the Brandenburg landscape, building in a “fine and delicately composed” manner. Not only was the Olympic Stadium clad in stone from the southern German region of Franconia, its columns and facade composition were mimetic imitations of native pine forest scenery, following alleged Prussian building tradition. March obviously felt a strong need to justify the neoclassical imagery through the use of such Heimat-oriented analogies. For the Bell Tower and the entry to the Langemarck Hall, March employed rusticated stone cladding, with detailing and massing vaguely recalling medieval or Romanesque architecture, thought to be Germanic and “earth-rooted.” As March pointed out, the Bell Tower was to be understood as an element growing out of the Langemarck Hall, a pseudo-biological metaphor once again connecting culture to soil. Finally, some of the smaller ancillary structures on the main Olympic site such as the Tennis Pavilion and smaller buildings around the equestrian facilities, evoked more rustic associations through detailing such as thatched roofs (Figure 3.14). This kind of architectural hierarchy recalls the paradigm of peasant cottages surrounding the central castle, although not directly stated as such here. March’s application of different styles on the site was dependent upon hierarchy and symbolism, as well as relative location in relation to the surrounding woodlands, yet in all cases he asserted the importance of the connection to the landscape.

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FIGURE 3.14

The Tennis Pavilion with thatched roof in the Olympic Park.

Landscape Planting and Heinrich Wiepking’s Role at the Olympic Park Although Schultze-Naumburg, March, and others had emphasized the importance of bringing the site into harmony with the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape, professional landscape architects were not significantly involved before early 1934. In effect, through his site plan Werner March had already determined the overall landscape design; it only remained to execute the planting. Gustav Allinger, director of the German Society for Garden Design in collaboration with the Militant League for German Culture, recommended that the planting of the green spaces be directed by landscape architects.51 (Note that Schultze-Naumburg was an active member of the Militant League.) Professor Erich Maurer, director of the esteemed Berlin Agricultural University was hired in March 1934 to oversee all landscape work.52 A month later, Werner March was officially awarded the architectural contract for the Olympic Park, and that summer he directly engaged landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking as his horticultural consultant. It was Wiepking who undertook the actual planting and earthwork.53 At that time, Wiepking was professor and director of the Institute for Garden Design at the Berlin Agricultural University, and was soon to become one of the most significant landscape architects in Nazi Germany.54 His involvement at the Olympic Park project was primarily technical, for he only oversaw the transplanting of trees, the laying of turf, and the design of a relatively limited

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number of ornamental garden areas. His most significant contribution was the design and construction of the grounds for the nearby Olympic Village. Because the sports areas needed to be kept free of plantings, March observed that the most important aspect of the planting program was the placement of rows of trees, in order to define the spaces and reinforce the lines of the building masses, while connecting paths to the wooded areas on the fringe. (March appears to have determined the main planting lines before Wiepking’s involvement.) A rich assortment of f lowering perennials was planted along either side of the path leading from the main east gate to the Sport Forum, as well as along other walkways.55 With unintended irony, in the official report a photo of the newly planted trees and hedges in front of the Stadium was captioned: “The Olympic Stadium site lies in a location blessed by nature.”56 In his own writing on the Olympic Park, Wiepking stressed the technical achievements of his planting activities there.57 He observed that there were hardly any existing trees or shrubbery on the former race course site, which had been kept free of planting in order to keep views of the horses free of obstruction. Promoting his own technical and management skills, Wiepking claimed that: “Approximately 40,000 hornbeam, birches, larches, and other highly sensitive plants were set out in summer” with very little loss of plantings.58 In addition to linden allées, such as those on the north and south edges of the May Field, “enormous poplars from well over 20 meters [ca 66 ft] high,” and “60-70-year-old oaks” were also transplanted.59 New topsoil was brought in to enable turf to grow successfully on the poor sandy soil. Wiepking stressed the ecological correctness of his procedures, for no artificial fertilizer was used anywhere on the site. Whatever the underlying planting philosophies may have been, even in popular publications on the Olympics the contribution of the landscape work was highly praised: Functionality and beauty were brought together in rare harmony. Today one no longer sees anything of the vast earthmoving that was required. Between the sport fields, gymnasia, and administration buildings lie broad swathes of lawn; f lower beds, even allées were conjured up as well. Large trees were removed from frost-hardened soil in the winter, their root balls carefully protected, and replanted in topsoil in other locations, protected by large sun-shades. The whole is a masterwork of horticultural art.60 The site was understood by contemporaries as being as much a cohesive landscape design as an architectural ensemble, which could be appreciated merely as a high quality environment, or as a newly created piece of authentic cultural landscape.

The Olympic Torch Relay and Geopolitical Symbolism Of the two most significant Nazi additions to the 1936 Games, the Langemarck Hall war memorial has been almost entirely forgotten, while the Olympic torch

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relay has remained a key feature of the ceremonies until this day. Diem and others presented the torch relay as a symbol of peace and international cooperation, but as was typical of Nazi-era symbolic devices, this act could also be given a double-reading.61 The torch relay represented the conquest of space and historical time, which could be interpreted by Party insiders as a prelude to territorial conquest. In retrospect, the connection between this event and the geopolitical ambitions of the Nazi Regime is not so subtle. Diem was said to have first witnessed a small-scale torch relay race in the early 1920s.62 After the IOC accepted his proposal, he and other Nazi elite assured that the torch run would be one of the most memorable aspects of the entire 1936 Olympics.63 Because the Nazis believed that they were the heirs to Greek culture, following convoluted pseudo-academic logic, the original site at Olympia in Greece also took on great symbolic importance. The Reich Sport Leader (Reichssportführer), Hans von Tschammer und Osten, f lew to the ancient site and personally selected the exact location where the first torch would be ignited, the Temple of Hera. Hitler was so enthused over the connection to Olympia that he pledged a substantial amount of funding to the IOC towards the completion of excavations there.64 At the level of detail, special chemicals were selected to ensure that the torch f lame would not go out, even in adverse weather. The sculptor Walter Lemcke, who also designed the Olympic Bell, was commissioned to design the torch, manufactured in stainless steel by the Krupp Firm, then a major armaments manufacturer.65 Over 3,000 were made, to be kept by individual runners in commemoration of their contribution. To add to the drama, the rays of the Greek sun ignited the first torch on site in Olympia, through the use of a special mirror developed by the Zeiss firm of Jena.66 A group of young Greek women officiated at the lighting ceremony on July 20, 1936, handing the torch to the first of the male runners.67 German diplomats coordinated the passage of the torch across the numerous borders, as well as organized welcoming ceremonies in the capital cities of Greece, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Hungary, Austria, and Czechoslovakia.68 The roads to be utilized were carefully examined and improved where necessary, for this was also a feat of modern technology, even if the torch was being carried by humans on foot. Numerous publications and maps promoted the torch run, before and after the event. One such map showed the route with the regions passed through represented by figures in traditional dress, appropriate to an event celebrating the powerful ability of the human body to transcend geographical space (Figure 3.15). One of the more significant books produced after the event provided a series of photographs taken on location, intended to give the reader the feeling of having participated. Photos of Heimat scenes along the route created a sense of a series of cultural landscapes, with local scenes providing backdrops for the actual relay run. Unintentionally perhaps, the rhetoric and use of Heimat scenes in this book recalls that in books such as “German Folk – German Heimat,” but without obvious implications of German racial superiority or overt cultural claims to territory.

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FIGURE 3.15

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Illustrated map of the Olympic torch route.

The most dramatic representation of the torch run animated the opening sequences of Leni Riefenstahl’s 1938 “Olympia” film. Not only was her crew present at the Berlin site, they also followed the runners by auto across Europe. For the film, Riefenstahl clearly found the actual race too prosaic, so she restaged it using a photogenic male runner, who was much less modestly clad than the actual Greek runners. Using the dramatic setting of the Greek shore, rather than ordinary roads, the sublime beauty of the landscape was matched by that of the runner’s nearly nude body. A film montage giving the impression of f lying over the route map was interspersed with silhouettes of the cities the route passed through. During the actual torch run, once the German border had been crossed on July 31 all subsequent runners were allegedly “blue-eyed blonds,” for as one torchbearer claimed fifty years later: “Every one of us had to be a Super-Aryan.”69 The torch run finally concluded with a runner lighting the enormous brazier located in the “sacred” space of the Olympic Stadium’s Marathon Gate. Similar to the box of soil from the Langemarck battlefield, the brazier was connected to

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FIGURE 3.16

Aerial perspective of the Olympic Park including transportation connections.

Olympia in Greece across geographic space, but here more tangibly through the transfer of the energy of the Greek sun, rendering the connection between the countries palpably real. Within a few years, Nazi Germany would invade and conquer the entire geographical region through which the “torch of peace” had passed. Hitler was credited with coining the name “Olympic Stadium,” and the architecture clearly recalled that ancient symbol of empire, the Roman Coliseum. Although not specifically stated as such at the time, the phrase “all roads lead to Rome,” could have been invoked in this context. A particularly relevant artist’s aerial rendering of the Olympic site from the time shows the stadium as a great prominent object, immediately surrounded by green fields, followed by extensive green forests punctuated by water bodies, stretching far into the distant horizon (Figure 3.16). The view turned its back to the city but lines of traffic connections and railways were emphasized, suggesting that the connection of the Olympic Park to locations far beyond was critical to its importance as a national monument and international meeting point.70 Fritz Todt and his team were assigned the challenge of planning for the large volumes of auto traffic that the Games were expected to generate, even if for a short time. Todt identified a series of 33 border crossing points from which so-called “Olympic Roads” would emanate in star-like formation, ultimately leading to Berlin.71 He also pointed out that the drive to and from the Games need not be a mere means to an end: The freedom and independence of motorized travel will persuade many domestic and foreign guests to make the trip to the Olympic Games by automobile rather than railway. And the return trip…following the

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experience of peaceful competition among all nations, will definitely give all German and foreign guests a reason to seek out the beauties and historical sites of all German Gau regions.72 As always, travel was linked to the experience of the cultural landscape of the different Heimat regions, here as part of the experience of the Games, either to strengthen a sense of national identity in German observers, or to acquaint foreigners with authentic German culture. In addition, the National Socialist Motor Corps was also enlisted to assist motorists en route.73 More symbolically, an official continent-wide auto relay was held, where points could be collected en route at check-in stations.74 Certificates were awarded to those with sufficient points, and good parking spaces reserved for them at the main Olympic site. Again, this was seen as another means of promoting the experience of the German landscape through modern motorized transport, while at the same time placing Berlin at the geopolitical center of the European map. The allusion to ancient Rome was not limited to the Stadium, for a so-called “Via Triumphalis” (“Triumphal Way”) was set up utilizing existing streets running from the Berlin Royal Palace to the Olympic Park.75 This involved not only the hanging of swastika banners all along the route, but intense road construction work as well. Even the traffic lanes along the historic boulevard Unter den Linden were physically widened for the occasion. The resulting east-west processional route was one of the first major interventions in Berlin under the Nazi regime, and undoubtedly provided an initial impetus to Speer’s later grand planning schemes for the city. An additional grand approach in the west of the city was created by purchasing an amusement park site and building a road through it, as well as constructing new bridges. It was understood that the Olympic site and associated road-building would provide a lasting legacy beyond the few days when the actual Games took place. From as early as December 1933, the Olympic Park site was projected to become the athletic training facility for a new military college to be built adjacent.76 By 1937, Speer’s planning proposals for Berlin showed the new university as an extensive complex to the west and south of the Olympic Park site, linked by a new axis leading from the south side of the stadium77 (Figure 3.17). A mammoth new Langemarck Hall was also designed as a free-standing building within the proposed complex, located on the banks of the Havel River. In this later phase, sensitivity to the landscape and the soil had been replaced by an emphasis on massive scale as the primary signifier of state power. Now intent on making Berlin the greatest capital in Europe, the regime had other priorities beyond mere literal architectural translations of blood and soil rhetoric. As a tragic historical footnote, at the very end of World War Two in May 1945 Diem occupied the Olympic Stadium with ca 2,000 youths, urging them to defend it until death, which many of them did. The symbolism of Langemarck was realized in actual fighting and human sacrifice at a location dedicated a mere nine years earlier to international peace.78

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FIGURE 3.17

Photo-collage aerial view of the Olympic Park as incorporated within Speer’s new plan for Berlin.

The 1936 Olympic Village: “Heimat to the World” The 1936 Olympic Village, constructed about 11 miles (18 km) from the main Olympic Stadium site, was a paradox on several levels. Often referred to as the “village of peace,” it was planned from the beginning to be a permanent military installation: the athletes’ dormitories were to become barracks, and the “Dining Hall of the Nations” a lazaret. The overall planning concept was based on the simple village green paradigm, yet contemporaries referred to the whole as being “monumental.” Praised for the beautiful natural landscape scenery and the sensitive siting of buildings, in fact its construction involved massive earthmoving. In comparison to the Olympic Park, the buildings here were considerably smaller, and the landscape rather than the architecture set the dominant tone (Figure 3.18). Here, landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking was involved with the design and planning from the very beginning, and was responsible in large part for the overall character of the Village.79 This was Wiepking’s first major design project for the National Socialist government, an opportunity that probably opened his mind to the potentials of cultural landscape planning on much larger scales. As a pendant to the main site, the Village reveals the contrasting side of Nazi architecture and planning, that is, residential and rural planning. Before and during the games, the Village was part of the overall propaganda project. Yet as early as November 1936 the Infantry had already moved in, and

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FIGURE 3.18

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Aerial view of the Olympic Village.

the site was permanently closed to the public.80 However, during World War Two, the re-named “Olympic Lazaret” was lauded in the press as an example of the fine, up-to-date facilities provided for German servicemen, yet clearly it had lost the symbolic resonance it enjoyed during the Games.81 From the beginning, a separate “village” to house the Olympic athletes had been part of the overall event planning. Werner March’s brother Walter had studied the first 1932 Olympic Village in Los Angeles, and was able to report on its operation.82 The Los Angeles facility was functionalist in character, composed of small prefabricated huts around an ovoid running track, which despite the minimalistic landscape design provided stunning views from its hilltop site. One German writer defended the comparatively undramatic scenery of the Berlin site: It would be unfair to compare the first Olympic Village in Los Angeles with the second one in Berlin in this respect. The infinite horizon of an endlessly broad landscape hovers beyond the former. The southern California sun and the wind from the sea, with the silhouette of Los Angeles provided a completely different, but no less precious scenery. The woods, hills, and lakes of Brandenburg are German, yet the living breath of the Brandenburg landscape on this f leck of earth has become Heimat to the world.83 [My emphasis.] During the brief time period of the Games, international athletes would be made to feel at home, partly through the provision of their favorite national dishes, as

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well as modern services and conveniences. Athletic facilities on a smaller scale were to be available here as well. But the emphasis on feeling at home was evoked primarily through the German Heimat, here symbolized by a modernized, village-like landscape. The “village” aspect at Los Angeles had been almost incidental, whereas in the German version it became the literal leitmotiv guiding the whole design. Yet there was one important shared characteristic – both were planned exclusively for male athletes, and in both cases the females were housed less auspiciously elsewhere. In the context of Nazi blood and soil ideology, here as elsewhere the young male body became a symbol of the German race and its connection to land and nature, an additional theme that further informed planning and propaganda for the village. In light of the intended military use of the site, the village imagery in retrospect may be read as a kind of ideological camouf lage that lent the whole an innocent, rustic air. At the time, organizers presented the military’s financial support of the project as purely an act of magnanimity: It is particularly appropriate that the Armed Forces of the German Reich have taken responsibility for the construction of the Olympic Village. The peaceful mission of the German Armed Forces, so often emphasized by the Chancellor [Hitler], thus finds its unique expression.84 Reich Minister General Field Marshal von Blomberg had agreed in November 1933 that the village could be constructed on an undeveloped site belonging to the military, just to the north of the Hamburg Highway.85 In January 1934, the local organizing committee recorded that the Defense Ministry had pledged to cover the construction costs of the Olympic Village, and that the athletes would be treated as “their guests.”86 The following April, Werner March was officially awarded the contract for both the Olympic Park and the Olympic Village as the primary architect and planner, and thus was able to oversee both projects.87 Because the entire project needed to be completed within a two-year period, a design team was formed including Werner’s brother Walter and other architects. Wiepking was assisted by Emil Lemke for the landscape work,88 and Captains Pütz and Rost from North German Lloyd were responsible for technical issues related to the dining hall and overall infrastructure.89 The design and operation of the village was as much a technical and organizational feat as an architectural one. As with the Olympic Park, the most detailed description of the planning and design is found in another illustrated book written by Werner March, dedicated solely to the Olympic Village.90 The site had been chosen, March explained, not only because of its landscape beauty, but also because of its location next to a major highway. Through a tunnel, the village could be approached from the car parking area across the road.91 During the Olympics, the athletes would have entered from the tunnel, and then passed through the gate-like entrance building, emerging into the deceptively picturesque yet

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FIGURE 3.19

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The central green of the Olympic Village.

highly functional green village. The original landscape of the site as found was wholly undeveloped, and characteristic of the Brandenburg region, with pine, birch, and oak trees, hillocks, and a small valley that once held a water course since filled-in with sand. This valley was envisioned as a potential “village green,” a “natural space defined by wooded hills,” around which the entire complex would be organized92 (Figure 3.19). The elevation of the valley was considerably higher at the northerly end, leading the designers to conceptualize the creation of two “village greens,” one higher, one lower. In order to achieve the desired harmonious spatial effect, March noted that the banks of the upper water course had been lowered seven meters, which was imperceptible in the final effect. A high ridge to the northwest of the upper village green suggested that the Dining Hall of the Nations be built as its “crowning point.” The counterpoint to the Dining Hall was the curved reception building at the lower end of the site, the two buildings standing at either end of the central open space. At the transitional point between the upper and lower village greens, a round pavilion named the “bastion” was built, with a thatched conical roof lending it a rustic appearance.93 Below the bastion, between the two greens, a hollow was excavated to become the “birch ring,” defined by turf steps edged in stone, which for March recalled a thingstead. Areas that presented, “an especially varied and unusual stand of trees, were kept free of building as precious landscape elements,” including “the fairytale wood west of the athletic court and the wooded slopes by the pond.”

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The 140 accommodation buildings for ca. 3,500 athletes were nearly all kept to one story in height in order, “to complement the scale of the landscape, and at the same time achieve a close connection to it.”94 These small buildings “followed the contour lines, in gently curving, staggered rows,” their light-yellow stucco walls and bright red tile roofs forming, “colorful accents against the green walls of the old tree stand.” The site plan in this publication clearly shows how the buildings were organized in concentric rings around the two “village greens.” The pond to the east of the central green space provided a special landscape focus. In another article, March informed the reader that the Finns had requested a Sauna, which was constructed at the far end of this pond following traditional Finnish methods, carefully illustrated in the Olympic Village book through detailed drawings and photos95 (Figure 3.20). As a cultural symbol, the Sauna added to the international character of the place, while at the same time as a symbol of “northern” culture it was in keeping with the Germanic landscape. Other buildings on the site included a swimming hall with, “windows that could be lowered electrically, imparting an open and light atmosphere through the connection to landscape and sky.”96 In 1936, the landscape work for the main Olympic Park and the Olympic Village represented two of the largest government commissions granted to any

FIGURE 3.20

The sauna building of the Olympic Village.

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landscape architect, with the exception of the autobahn under Seifert. Wiepking’s own work for the Olympics considerably enhanced his public profile. In his 1938 survey of architecture and sculpture under the regime, art critic Werner Rittich praised the importance of landscape architects, citing Wiepking’s work as key example (while curiously not mentioning him by name): With larger projects, as was the case with the design of the Olympic Park and the Olympic Village, they [the landscape architects] go as far as forming the landscape itself; they move huge quantities of earth, to maintain and facilitate an organic composition of the site appropriate to the landscape, and transplant stands of large trees through painstaking efforts to obtain a connection between building and nature.97 For Rittich, Wiepking’s work was not just a matter of horticultural design, in effect he was creating new Heimat landscapes. The professional publication “Garden Design” (Die Gartenkunst), dedicated the August 1936 issue to the Olympics. The editor Michael Mappes lavished praise on Wiepking, and published three articles by him within. In Wiepking’s first article titled, “The German Ancestral Landscape on Rügen Island” (“Germanische Ahnenlandschaft auf Insel Rügen”), he ostensibly concentrated on ancient burial mounds there, while using this piece to establish more relevant associations: “With all Greek masterwork buildings, time and again I always found the most profound fusion with the landscape…as almost a legal requirement for these buildings.”98 In Greek temple architecture Wiepking read the same impulse to ground the building in the land that characterized ancient German building. In his article that followed on the Olympic Village, Wiepking made another pointed reference to German architectural history: It was clear that such close proximity of the Olympic Village to the works of Lenné in Potsdam instilled a great sense of duty to the landscape and horticultural design. As such, at the Olympic Village about 120,000 cubic meters [ca 157,000 cu yd] of earth was moved, to be able to achieve the impression of a harmoniously grown landscape.99 During the period there was a strong movement within the profession to revive the landscape park of the early nineteenth century with a few heroes mentioned repeatedly, particularly Peter Josef Lenné and Prince Hermann PücklerMuskau.100 The former was a gardener and designer employed primarily by the Prussian court in Berlin, the latter a wealthy Prince who devoted his life to improving his own estate, and writing garden treatises. Here Wiepking alluded to Romantic-era practices among garden designers such as these men, who reshaped existing landscapes through substantial earthmoving to create a more perfected but nevertheless “natural” appearance. Wiepking clearly wanted to present himself as the heir to this tradition, yet he also was thoroughly committed

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to blood and soil symbolism – the two paradigms readily fused together in his thinking. Not insignificantly, Wiepking cited the PhD dissertation of his former student Gerhard Hinz as the definitive source on Lenné, who was still to be seen as a model for the present day.101 (At this time, Hinz was already Speer’s landscape architect at the Nazi Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg.)102 Wiepking himself began his career during the era of garden and park reform in the early years of the century working with the progressive landscape architects Jakob Ochs and Leberecht Migge, and so would also have understood the importance of functional geometric spaces, especially for athletic use.103 At the Olympic Village, Wiepking tried to balance these different approaches to landscape design: “No area was designed formally, only the functional spaces of the athletic courts show a geometric form, and with the greatest care, the large gorse and moor areas were fenced off and made inaccessible, thereby protecting them from destruction.”104 As a designer, he apparently preferred the naturalistic landscape design work of the Olympic Village, which he considered a form of landscape restoration. The guiding principle was that only plants native to the Brandenburg landscape were found there, as both an esthetic and ecological factor. Wiepking claimed that only old trees were transplanted, “trees that had never stood in a nursery nor had years of root preparation, were removed from woods, grasslands, and moors.”105 Such trees would have been more “natural” in character, and hence have enhanced the illusion of an authentic landscape that had evolved over time. Wiepking later boasted about the success of his design methods: If today in the Olympic Village “there’s nothing there,” that was precisely the design intention. That was the best critique that we received, and it was the greatest pleasure to see how the broadest spectrum of the public recognized this fact, even if unconsciously.106 For Wiepking this meant that “Only the simple is good, and only the simple is of lasting beauty.”107 An inherent contradiction lay behind this seeming simplicity, for the most complex and extensive degree of labor and organization was necessary to achieve it. An elaborate geometric garden would have required no more effort to create. “Simplicity” was only an illusion. Minimalism here was not based on functionalism, but on a belief in the divinity and authenticity of “nature” embodied in the landscape. It is important to realize that Wiepking would have seen his version of the intensified natural landscape as being equally authentic, as if he were able to interpret what “nature” would have done under ideal circumstances. Wiepking’s observation that a wide spectrum of the public had appreciated the site was not an exaggeration. Open to the public from May 1 to June 15, 1936 for a moderate entry fee, there were 8,000 visitors on the first day, and a total of 379,000 overall.108 The Strength Through Joy (Kraft durch Freude) division of the German Labor Front had arranged for low-cost bus trips to the site from

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FIGURE 3.21

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Athletes at the Olympic Village sauna; still from Riefenstahl’s film “Olympia.”

central Berlin, as yet another means of educating the public about the new cultural landscape.109 However, perhaps the greatest popular paean to the Olympic Village landscape came from Leni Riefenstahl’s film “Olympia,” in the opening scenes to the second part titled, “Festival of Beauty.” There, the camera focused lovingly on such natural features as leaves in the wind, duckweed on the pond’s surface, a chirping bird, a dewy spider web, etc. These vignettes were followed by views of the male athletes in training suits running along the pond bank, culminating with others sitting naked on the railing outside the sauna, the image of their smooth bodies blending in with the misty landscape background (Figure 3.21). Riefenstahl’s imagery suggested that the rural setting of the village recalled a more innocent state of existence symbolized by the bodies of the naked youth, as “natural” men in a “natural” landscape. (That the natural landscape was obviously a painstakingly realized construction could perhaps also be said of the idealized Nazi male body.) Following the scenes in the village, the film depicted the pomp of the opening ceremonies in the monumental stadium representing the power of the state. This contrast was only superficial, for in both cases the young men would have been understood as the future soldiers who made the state possible. While the association of the “village” with the Brandenburg Heimat landscape was readily perceptible, other Heimat references were more subtle. The individual athletes’ houses, planned to become military barracks, were all named for specific German regions. But only through an image showing an outline of the map of Germany superimposed on the site plan could it be revealed that the locations of the house names on the site corresponded more or less to the

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FIGURE 3.22

Diagrammatic plan of the Olympic Village showing how accommodation building names were arranged to correspond with map of Germany.

actual geographic distribution of these places110 (Figure 3.22). Further, each of the houses contained a communal space, each featuring a mural of a Heimat scene corresponding to the house’s namesake region, painted by German fine arts students.111 During the Olympic Games, such scenes would have served to educate foreigners on German culture and territory, while afterwards German infantrymen could have compared their own Heimat regions among them. This kind of obscure cultural mapping exercise showed the degree to which it was necessary for the Berlin-Brandenburg facility to represent the collective whole of the German Heimat. And as one author noted, during the Games the village itself was projected as “Heimat to the world” – even if the apparent internationalist intentions of the Nazis were purely illusional. The question of whether the 1936 Summer Games were a propaganda success is open to conjecture. Certainly, it was an open secret that the Nazis wanted to downplay their racist and expansionist policies in connection with the Olympics, as a means of placating foreigners. In the United States, the Jewish Anti-Defamation League called for a boycott in September 1934, in recognition of the Nazi persecution of Jews; by mid-1935, an international boycott movement was underway in Canada, France, and Great Britain as well.112 The head of the American Olympic Committee, Avery Brundage, succeeded in averting a boycott, giving assurances that Jews would be allowed to participate and that the

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Nazis were in fact committed to following Olympic rules. (For this and other reasons, Brundage has frequently been charged with being an anti-Semite). It seems that those were deceived who wished to be, and those who did not, were not. In any case, the staging of the events, including of course the architectural and landscape settings, was regarded as a “successful” enterprise, even if in the negative sense. In the English language press, the New York Herald Tribune commented on how ironic it was that “the most brutal of the European dictatorships should be the one most skillfully to exploit the idealistic heritage of modern Olympism.”113 In a more damning judgment, the British Manchester Guardian referred to the Summer Games as a “Nazi party rally disguised as a sporting event.”114 The Nazis, on the other hand, might not have considered this latter pronouncement to be entirely negative. The fact that a number of important political figures from around the world were persuaded to attend the Party Rally in Nuremberg immediately after the Games was a major coup for the regime, for as Hess observed with pride in his 1936 Party Rally lecture this was “the firsttime that participants from foreign countries were present on a large scale at our demonstration of political will here in Nuremberg.”115 In his final comments Hess also reported that: “According to the will of the Führer, sporting matches among the Party, the Wehrmacht [armed forces], etc., will be held at future Reich Party Rallies, as a kind of annual German Olympia at Nuremberg.”116 This statement clearly establishes that the 1936 Olympics affected the overall conception of Party Rally Grounds. Hess appears to imply that the 1936 Olympics represented the international face of the Party, while the Rally revealed its true character and aspirations. Or as he expressed it, the Olympics had initially lured foreigners to Germany, while the Party Rally subsequently convinced them of the noble and righteous intentions of the Third Reich. Whether or not this was actually the case, this was how Hess and other Party elite assessed the final significance of the Nazi-era Olympics.

The Nazi Party Rally Grounds and the Gathering of the National Community As the name suggests, the Nazi Party Rally (Reichsparteitag) was the single most important Nazi political event of the year. It was first held in Munich in 1923, in Weimar in 1926, and then in Nuremberg in 1927 and 1929. It was not held again until 1933, also in Nuremberg, where it would be an annual event until it was abruptly canceled in 1939 due to the declaration of war. The Nazi Party Rally began as a comparatively modest event that expanded progressively in size and scope, initially scheduled for three days but ultimately extended to a full eight. Among the main goals of the rallies were strengthening the sense of Party comradery and purpose, as well as making public displays of strength. The actual congress was intended for Party members only, but the parades and other events were expressly open to the public, as a form of propaganda in action. As with the Olympics, Leni Riefenstahl produced the most important

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documentary film, shot on location at the 1934 rally. Titled Triumph of the Will (Triumph des Willens), her 1935 film gave viewers a sense of the vast organizational and logistical problem presented by the rally, and strove to show a sense of intimate connection among the masses of participants, especially the males, who in fact dominated the event. Two scenes are particularly relevant to the perceived need for the geopolitical consolidation of the country: in the first, Reich Labor Service (Reichsarbeitsdienst – RAD) men individually called out from where they hailed, and in the second, masses of men processed into the congress hall holding high standards, each labeled with the town or region they represented.117 In both cases, the men themselves became geopolitical symbols, as members of the national community coming together from across the Reich to join in unity at the Party Rally. Hitler’s decision in 1933 to construct permanent facilities for Party rallies at Nuremberg was also based in part on geopolitical motivations. The selection of a site on the edge of the city was not just a matter of convenience, for Nuremberg was revered by German nationalists for having been the de facto capital of the Holy Roman Empire in the late medieval period. If Berlin was significant as the future capital of the new Europe, then Nuremberg was geopolitically symbolic as the historic, medieval capital of the Germanspeaking world. This was one of the reasons why it was so important to Hitler and other Nazis that the sovereign jewels of the Holy Roman Empire be “returned” to Nuremberg from Vienna after the 1938 “annexation.”118 However, in 1933 it was not inevitable that the Nazi Party Rallies would be held in Nuremberg, for Hitler threatened that if his plans were not approved, then he would take the event to another city, such as Stuttgart.119 (Of course, this may have simply been an empty threat.) The Nuremberg Party Rally Grounds eventually grew to an enormous size: in 1937, the area occupied ca 7.3 sq miles (19 sq km); in 1938, it measured ca 4.66 miles (7.5 km) in length and ca 3.1 miles (5 km) in breadth, and covered ca 14.5 sq miles (37 sq km)120 (Figures 3.23 and 3.24). In fact the grounds were substantially larger in area than the actual city center. While the program of holding enormous military spectacles and housing visiting groups in what was effectively a “tent city” naturally demanded large land areas, in fact the whole could have been designed more compactly, in keeping with the layout of the 1936 Olympic site. Certainly, the vast scale was not incidental, for it was another manifestation of the Nazi desire to awe observers with their power through the mathematical sublime. Since the individual event structures were spread widely apart, a substantial amount of interstitial space remained between them. However, these were not neglected as mere leftover areas, but rather were treated as a whole to create the impression that the architecture was embedded within a “sacred grove,” as shall be seen. Despite its great size, the Party Rally Grounds were primarily designed for annual use, the site was not an actual seat of power for either the Party or the government. During the rallies, Hitler did not take up residence in the grounds, but rather continued to stay in the Nuremberg city

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FIGURE 3.23

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Autobahn map with connections to Nuremberg and the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.

center as he had at previous rallies, in a suite at the Hotel Deutscher Hof (replete with an added “Führer balcony”).121 The rally site was not to be experienced as an isolated area, however, for symbolically linking the medieval city center to the Party Rally Grounds was of critical importance. Parades and other special events were held in the city center, with Hitler and other elite leading the procession out to the grounds. Commemorative maps showed an idealized parade route from city center to the grounds – which typically glossed over the dreary late nineteenth-century working class district and railway located in between (Figure 3.25). The perfected world as a synthesis of the new Nazi and old Reich cultural landscapes could not be interrupted by the inconvenient realities of urban-industrial society. The vast scale, strict geometry, and central axis of the final site plan recall both the Baroque park, particularly Versailles, and the modern sports park, epitomized by the Olympics. All designers and indeed some politicians involved would have recognized these similarities, but neither was an appropriate symbol of Party ideology or geopolitical aims. Very early on, it was decided that the Party Rally Grounds would be conceived as a “sacred grove” of German oaks.122 Exactly who made this decision is unclear, but as usual it was attributed to Hitler.123 The concept here was somewhat of a cliché, but still recalls Schultze-Naumburg’s more analytical discussion of the clearing in a grove as an ancient type of gathering space.124 An important early nineteenth-century German example of the temple in a grove was Walhalla (even if oaks did not predominate there).125 Through the device of the sacred grove of German oaks,

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FIGURE 3.24

Speer’s oversize model of the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.

the neoclassical architecture of the Nazi Party Rally Grounds was embedded in the German landscape, at least notionally. Speer was often presented as the sole author of the Rally Grounds, in part because he himself cultivated this myth.126 However, other architects were involved, and more importantly, two landscape architects. The first of these landscape architects, Alfred Hensel, was active in the initial design phase in his role as the Director of the City Parks and Gardens Department; the second, Gerhard Hinz, was appointed by Speer to carry out the landscape design work after major planning decisions had been made; he basically supplanted Hensel. From the beginning, the site was conceived as a kind of landscape park, thus these landscape architects played critical roles in the realization of the whole.

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FIGURE 3.25

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Map of parade routes from the historic Nuremberg to the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.

The Creation of the Luitpold Arena and Alfred Hensel’s Early Involvement When Hitler announced that he wanted to hold the Party Rallies in Nuremberg on a permanent basis, he also requested that the City of Nuremberg completely redesign the “Luitpold Grove” (Luitpoldhain) public garden to accommodate formal memorial ceremonies with men in formation. Alfred Hensel as city landscape architect was among those to approve Hitler’s request.127 One of the reasons that Hitler wanted to use the Luitpold Grove site was that a memorial to fallen World War One soldiers had been erected there in 1930.128 During preparations for the 1929 Party Rally in Nuremberg, a report had already noted that Luitpold Grove in its existing configuration was not adequately designed for marching and reviews in formation.129 The new facility was renamed the “Luitpold Arena” (Luitpoldarena), for it was to be remodeled as a hard-paved space for reviewing the troops. Allegedly, Hitler himself sketched the main plan outlines of the new design, which called for the building of an apsidal-shaped bank of reviewing stands facing the existing war memorial on axis130 (Figure 3.26). But it was landscape architect Hensel working in collaboration with an architect employed by the city, Julius Schulte-Frohlinde, who actually designed and executed the project. (Schulte-Frohlinde noted that the project was overseen by both city architect Walter Brugmann and Speer as the architect representing the National Socialist Party.)131 In July 1933, Hensel personally presented his new plan for

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FIGURE 3.26

Plan of Luitpold Grove allegedly marked-up by Hitler.

the Luitpold Arena to Hitler in Bayreuth. In an article by Hensel published in December 1934, he noted without any sign of regret that numerous trees and other plantings had been removed, and the ground leveled to create the desired marching plaza in the center, the so-called “arena”132 (Figure 3.27). In fact, the Luitpold Grove had been a much-loved public garden that contained ornamental plantings and sculpture, as well as an impressive central fountain.133 All of this was totally destroyed to make way for the enormous hard-surfaced new Arena, which by contrast was primarily designed for use only once a year, and thus would have remained empty much of the time. A local Nuremberg newspaper reported that Hensel had officiated at the groundbreaking ceremony in April 1935, on behalf of the Mayor. Hensel’s dedicatory speech was replete with the usual laudatory comments on Hitler. The newspaper further recounted: “After three cheers of ‘Sieg Heil’ to our Führer, City Parks and Gardens Department

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FIGURE 3.27

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View of crowds at the Luitpold Arena.

Director Hensel pitched the first shovel of earth into the cart.”134 In his work on the Arena, Hensel was responsible more for the destruction of the landscape than its preservation, for the new design was predominantly urban in character, with residual vegetation merely visible in the background. Hensel may have begun his career as a modernist arguing for the importance of green space, but he appears to have carried out the wishes of the Führer with great enthusiasm. Another reason that the Nazis found Nuremberg to be a good location for the rallies was that a large nineteenth-century pleasure park and lake with an adjoining new sports park and stadium were located across the road from the Luitpold site, which would provide large-scale spaces for their outdoor events135 (Figure 3.28). At the same time that the Luitpold Arena remodeling was

FIGURE 3.28

Existing sports park and recreational landscapes at the future Nazi Party Rally Grounds site.

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FIGURE 3.29

Congress Hall under construction at the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.

proposed, a new Congress Hall to hold 50,000 participants was planned in the area across the road, next to the lake (Figure 3.29). This commission was given to the local architect Ludwig Ruff, and completed by his architect son Franz following his death; Speer was never directly involved in its design.136 Located on the other side of the lake beyond, the modernist sports park had been designed by Hensel. Born in 1880, Hensel belonged to the generation of reform-minded, modernist landscape architects such as Harry Maasz and Leberecht Migge. From 1923 to 1929 Hensel was in charge of the overall planning for the Sports Park, which was a classic example of modernist park design, conceived as a means of providing sunlight, air, and greenspace for “everyman.”137 The most monumental area in his design was the “Festival Ground” that terminated in a bathing area on the south bank of the lake. In addition, there were spaces for swimming, sunbathing, football, and outdoor gymnastics, as well as an alcohol-free bar. (Note that the Nazis later had no objections to mass quantities of beer being served.) The crowning feature of the sports park was a stadium designed by city architect Otto Ernst Schweizer, following modernist design principles.138 Another significant component was a substantial allotment garden colony to the southern side of the stadium, in accordance with contemporary arguments that allotment gardens offered another kind of outdoor physical exercise as a complement to active sports.139 The Nuremberg park was the most important project of Hensel’s career, and represented one of the most modern, progressive park designs anywhere in Weimar Germany. In February 1928, the director of the German Society for Garden Design (Deutschen Gesellschaft für Gartenkunst), Karl Heicke, invited

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Hensel to submit his Nuremberg sport park design to an art and architecture competition held by the organizers of the 1928 Olympic Games in Amsterdam.140 That August, the German Reich Art Commissioner (Reichskunstwart), Erwin Redslob, asked Hensel to attend the Games in order to personally receive the medal awarded to his park design, a great honor for German landscape design as a whole.141 Hensel’s personal papers contain numerous newspaper clippings related to the Olympics, including one local article from 1930 arguing that Nuremberg would be a more suitable location for the Games than Berlin.142 Hensel undoubtedly realized that he would have been a key figure in planning the facilities for the 1936 Games, had they taken place in Nuremberg instead. Hensel nevertheless collected article clippings on the Berlin 1936 Olympic site design, suggesting that he continued to take a great interest in the project. In his 1934 article on the Luitpold Arena, Hensel included two photographs of his models of the entire site, which showed the new Luitpold Arena, the planned Congress Hall, and his own sport park design in completed form, viewed from the south and north respectively (Figure 3.30). He had clearly spent considerable time developing his own site design for the project. No changes were proposed to the design of his own sports park, which he referred to collectively as the “stadium” site. His main planning contribution at this point was to establish an organizational axis that began approximately at the southeast corner of the Luitpold Arena, and continued onwards to the terminus of the axis of the Festival Ground on the south bank of the lake. The new Congress Hall was to be located in the middle of the axis. As the model photographs emphasized, there was to be a symbolic visual connection from the end of the Festival Ground axis in the sports park to

FIGURE 3.30

Hensel’s proposal for the Nazi Party Rally Grounds, with his sports park in the foreground.

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the Congress Hall, but no direct physical access route between them. For Hensel as landscape architect, this visual connection was sufficient. At that time the only direct access to the southern section was via a narrow, crooked causeway crossing the Dutzend lake, wholly unsuited for marching, which Hensel did not seem to have understood as a problem. In his model, the rectangular open space that was to become Speer’s Zeppelin Field was shown as being framed with seating, the only other major new addition. Hensel’s planning scheme only proposed minimal changes to the whole, without addressing the stark contrast between his geometric modernist sports park and the naturalistic nineteenth-century landscape park. He did not attempt to create an overall monumental impression, as would have been desired by the Nazi elite. Hensel may have politically embraced the Party, but he clearly didn’t entirely grasp the design implications of the new ideology.

Axial Strategizing: Speer’s Development of the Site Plan Despite the confidence that he displayed in his December 1934 article, Hensel must have sensed that he had already been out-maneuvered by Speer, who had just been entrusted with preparing plans for the entire site that October – at the age of 29.143 This was Speer’s most complex project up to that point. Aside from a few interior renovations, his main commissions had been the staging for the initial Nazi Labor Day celebrations in Berlin, the Zeppelin Field reviewing stands at the 1933 and 1934 Party Rallies, and the staging for the Nazi Harvest Festival at Bückeberg (see pp. 266–273). All of these essentially involved designing reviewing stands and props around large open spaces. These sites were regarded as a great success by the Party, for he consistently succeeded in achieving maximum effect with minimum means. A succession of Speer’s site plans for the Nuremberg Party Rally Grounds show that he gradually arrived at an approach that would satisfy the requirement to create an overall monumental effect, and to orient the complex towards the surrounding cultural landscape. In the earliest known site plan from October 1934, Speer approximately followed Hensel’s approach, the only difference being that he proposed doubling the Zeppelin Field in size, and thus removing some playing fields and the Festival Ground in the sports park (Figure 3.31). Soon thereafter, he appears to have realized that the need to march in procession from the Luitpold Arena to the Zeppelin Field demanded a more direct route, for in a subsequent scheme from the same month he included a grand axial road aligned with the Arena, which terminated in a new feature to the south, the March Field (Märzfeld) (Figure 3.32). The addition of the Great Road (Grosse Strasse) as a central axial spine immediately bestowed the site with a monumentality and sense of unity that it had previously lacked. It is quite possible that the central axis of the Olympic Park may have inf luenced Speer’s thinking here; he certainly was aware of March’s design, and would have undoubtedly wanted to surpass it in grandeur. In a later scheme dated December 1934, Speer made his last major planning change: he shifted the axis of the Great Road to align with the view of the old castle located on a hill in the city center (Figure 3.33). This

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FIGURE 3.31

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Speer’s site plan for the Rally Grounds dated October 1934, without axial road.

meant that the Great Road joined both the Luitpold Arena and the Zeppelin Field at conspicuously odd angles. Evidently, for Speer the focus on the castle view was more important than the purity of the plan geometry. Through this gesture, the cultural landscape of the old city skyline was brought into the Party Rally Grounds, and the geopolitical association with Nuremberg as the former capital of the Holy Roman Empire was further emphasized (Figure 3.34). Given that this was a design device taken from landscape park design, one may wonder if a landscape architect such as Wiepking (or Gerhard Hinz) may have played a background role in this decision. Despite the f laws in Speer’s planning at the level of detail, the overall symbolism of this site was enthusiastically praised by observers such as Trampler, who wrote in “Building in the New Reich”: The gigantic buildings are connected through the over-one-hundredmeter wide parade street that crosses through the entire grounds as the main axis. At the terminal viewpoints of this axis lie the memory-laden

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FIGURE 3.32

Speer’s site plan for the Rally Grounds also dated October 1934, with axial road aligned with Luitpold Arena.

image of old Nuremberg, the city that today has become the guardian of the German Reich Jewels once again, and the March Field, where the symbols of state stand against the background of a dark range of hills.144 Whether a conscious decision by Speer or not, the great axis, like that at March’s Olympic Park, began with the city, progressed onwards to the main park, and ended with the natural landscape, at Nuremberg represented by the wooded hills to the south.

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FIGURE 3.33

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Speer’s site plan for the Rally Grounds dated December 1934, with axial road aligned with view of Nuremberg Castle.

The individual elements within the Party Rally Grounds were all substantial in size, and served specific symbolic and logistical functions. As seen, the Luitpold Arena had the character of an urban plaza that served the solemn ceremonies honoring the war dead and the “martyrs” of the Munich Putsch. By contrast, the Zeppelin Field was used for military displays, and for presenting national groups such as the Reich Labor Service men, who stood at attention shirtless with spade in hand, as literal symbols of the innate blood and soil

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FIGURE 3.34

“the new line” cover illustration, with view of Nuremberg castle superimposed over aerial perspective of the Rally Grounds.

bond (Figures 3.35 and 3.36). At a much greater scale, the planned March Field would be able to accommodate large displays of heavy artillery equipment and even mock military maneuvers (Figure 3.37). Supposedly, Hitler named this space for the month of March 1933, when he announced German rearmament, but it was also a reference to Mars, the Roman god of war, for whom the month was named.145 The final major feature was the German Stadium added in 1935 at a right angle to the Great Road, and aligned with a viewing corridor that visually linked the tribune in the Stadium to that in the Zeppelin Field (Figure 3.38). (However, the much smaller existing stadium

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FIGURE 3.35

Aerial photo of the Zeppelin Field.

FIGURE 3.36

Labor Service men on review in the Zeppelin Field, new planting and hills in background.

was still to be retained.) With a capacity of 400,000, the German Stadium was planned to vastly overshadow the Olympic Stadium in Berlin, which could only hold 100,000.146 In his “memoirs,” Speer recalled Hitler’s vision that the future Olympics would be forever held in the German Stadium, following the next Games planned for Tokyo in 1940.147 (Apparently, this concept progressed even further after Hess’s announcement that an annual “German” Olympics

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FIGURE 3.37

Model view of entry to the March Field.

FIGURE 3.38

Model view of Speer’s “German Stadium.”

would be held on the site.) The area of the athletic field within the German Stadium by far exceeded the size then specified by the IOC, but according to Speer, Hitler saw this as no obstacle since from 1944 onwards Germany would dictate all Olympic standards. Although Speer’s memoirs often present rather specious details, the scale of the German Stadium itself suggests that there

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may be some veracity to this particular Hitler anecdote. (The vast quantities of natural stone needed for the stadium were to be provided by slave labor at quarries run by the SS under Himmler; thus the scale of the new stadium was truly inhuman on multiple levels.)148 The popular press soon picked up on the Olympic theme, for example a 1938 article in an architectural journal referred to the Nazi Party Rally Grounds as the new “German Olympia.”149 Whereas at the 1936 Olympics the connection between athletics and the military would be downplayed, here it was to be openly celebrated, with the “games” not only being for amateur athletic groups, but also for military men in uniform, as variations on training exercises.150 The sum total of evidence, including popular references to the “German Olympia,” Hess’s comments to the 1936 Party Congress, and even Speer’s own site plan, suggest that the 1936 Olympics played a significant role in the conception of the Party Rally Grounds, both in terms of the architecture and the staging of mass spectacles.

Gerhard Hinz and the Symbolism of the German Romantic-era Landscape Park Speer himself probably realized that he lacked the expertise to execute the landscape design at the level of detail. His 1934 plans and 1937 model merely indicated that all interstitial spaces were to be notionally planted as groves, without any articulation or secondary circulation. In reality, if planted in such a manner these vast spaces would have been largely inaccessible; the detailed design of these grove areas would in fact be critical to the overall functioning and symbolism of the site. Clearly, Speer did not want to entrust the landscape work to the older Hensel, who had been in competition with him in the early phases. In July 1936, Speer retained a landscape architect who was about his own age and also based in Berlin, Gerhard Hinz, to undertake the landscape design work and oversee all of the planting.151 As Wiepking mentioned in relation to his own work at the Olympic Village, as his PhD student Hinz had written his dissertation on the romantic-era Prussian landscape architect Peter Lenné.152 For Hinz, Lenné was not just an academic subject; rather, he saw Lenné’s early nineteenth-century landscape designs as precedents for his own modern day work at the Party Rally Grounds. In a letter to Speer dated September 1937, Hinz invited both he and the Führer to visit a park designed by Lenné at Boitzenburg, about 68 miles (110 km) north of Berlin, revealing the extent to which he identified with the Romantic-era landscape architect.153 That Hinz thought that Hitler might have had time for such an excursion indicates his level of enthusiasm, as well as a degree of naivete. As a further assurance, Hinz noted that Minister Göring knew the Boitzenburg park because “he had shot a bison there.”154 For Hinz, the Boitzenburg park represented an “ideal condition” that could be repeated in Nuremberg. At Boitzenburg, Lenné had reshaped an existing Baroque park following the principles of the landscape park, softening the lines and incorporating views of the surrounding landscape – an approach that Hinz would adapt

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at Nuremberg. Establishing a thematic connection with Lenné was also a way of asserting the authentic German character of the geometric planning of the Party Rally Grounds, further distancing it from any unwanted associations with the French Baroque. In March 1937, Hinz wrote a comprehensive report on planting work to be carried out and made select small and large scale landscape design proposals.155 On one level, his short report may be read as nothing more than a set of guidelines for “good” design. However, in the context of the Party Rally Grounds, all principles were intended to reinforce the identity of the cultural landscape of the Nuremberg area and the national importance of the site, as per his programmatic statement: The Party Rally Grounds are destined to bear witness to the greatness of the newly arisen German Reich under Adolf Hitler for centuries or even for millennia…It is self-evident that the landscape in the vicinity of the great buildings must be designed in the same spirit, so that the buildings and the landscape result in a grand unity.156 As a follower of Lenné, Hinz further emphasized that: “The landscape program for the Reich Party Rally Grounds would be incomplete, if the most beautiful points in the near and distant surroundings were also not incorporated within the visual field.”157 One of his most important design concepts was the creation of viewing corridors oriented towards distant and nearby hills, such as Moritzberg and Schmausenbuck, along with other high points in the surrounding topography. For Hinz, these viewing corridors extended the Party Rally Grounds out into the surrounding territory, not only as an enrichment of the esthetic experience, but also as a projection of power. The most important nearby landscape feature was the Hohe Bühl (High Hill), “because it terminates the main axis to the south.”158 While Speer had reoriented the main axis, the Great Road, so that it would align with a view of the Kaiser Castle to the north, to the south it also aligned with this major landscape feature (perhaps coincidentally). Hensel pointed out that the Hohe Bühl rises ca 230 feet (70 m) above the level of the Dutzend Lake, but that it, “is now disfigured by clearcutting, its reforestation is urgently required.”159 The continuation of the healthy German oak groves into the surrounding landscape was thus a critical factor. Hinz concluded his 1937 report by expressing his desire to see the landscape principles formulated for the Rally Grounds applied to the entire surrounding region (a comment similar to Wiepking’s observations after completing the Olympic Village).160 Hitler’s purported call for a gigantic sacred grove composed entirely of German oaks naturally dominated the planting and design program. Hinz accordingly denigrated the existing conifer woodlands on both cultural and economic grounds. These pine woods were “artificial” in character, a regrettable creation of the “age of materialism” of the past “100–150” years.161 Watercolor landscapes by the great Nuremberg artist Albrecht Dürer had shown that in the

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past local forests had been composed of deciduous trees, a situation that Hinz implied was more true to the local cultural landscape.162 Hinz also claimed that historically the Reich Forest that had surrounded Nuremberg during the Holy Roman Empire had been referred to as the “Bee Garden,” meaning that trees conducive to honey production, such as lindens, would have been in abundance. The Nuremberg tradition of gingerbread-making came about in part because of this abundance of honey, Hinz claimed, thus associating this symbol of the culinary Heimat with the lost cultural landscape.163 Another historic practice considered to be ecologically sound was allowing foraging pigs and grazing sheep to check unwanted forest undergrowth, although he didn’t appear to be suggesting that this be reintroduced.164 The current monoculture forests of fast-growing conifers were intrinsically unhealthy and attracted insect infestations. The “bird world” needed to be actively protected, as they were the “policemen of the forest,” since they consumed the insects.165 Hinz believed that appropriate biological “plant communities” also needed to be fostered and protected as a means of maintaining the health of the site. Six months after this report was written, in September 1937, the renowned “plant sociologist” (Pflanzensoziologe) Reinhold Tüxen wrote a report on the site at Hinz’s request, noting that: “The natural vegetation certainly exists almost nowhere anymore, for it has been altered through clearing, degradation, and subsequent re-forestation with conifers.”166 The fate of the pine forest was thus sealed, so that there was no need to defend the massive clear-cutting, such as for the new March Field site. At the same time, the planting of the symbolic oak grove was to be underpinned with sound ecological principles, which was also a scientific means of reinforcing the blood and soil connection. Although the end goal was to establish forests exclusively of oaks, Hinz explained that in the meantime other species such as birches would be planted to protect the new oaks, but these would eventually be removed. Within a few decades, he thought, the desired oak groves would be established.167 Along with a letter to a colleague in the city offices dated November 1936, Hinz included a drawing of the type of cart designed by Wiepking at the Olympic site to transport mature trees, suggesting that mass tree transplanting had not yet begun on the southern section of the Party Rally Grounds168 (Figure 3.39). In his 1937 report, Hinz boasted that over the past winter he had overseen the planting of 1,500 oak trees of three to five meters in height, taken from the local area. An additional 3,000 were available to be planted the following year. In a letter to Speer dated a few months later in September 1937, Hinz gave a more detailed list of the plants that had been set out during the previous year, a total of 73,237, he claimed, namely: 24,822 oaks, 21,350 white alders, 17,900 beeches, 8,425 hornbeam shrubs, 100 maples, and 100 rowans.169 These figures, for his first year’s involvement, show the extent to which planting was taken seriously within the execution of the entire project. At the level of construction detail, Hinz’s specifications recall the principles of Heimat style architecture. Where new drainage was to be constructed or existing

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FIGURE 3.39

Photos of planting activities at the Rally Grounds, under the direction of Hinz.

streams regulated, the embankments were to imitate soft, natural curves, in order to avoid a harsh “technical” appearance. The natural beauty of the streams was to be maintained, except where they interfered with functional requirements or building construction, in which case they were to be diverted through underground pipes. If metal drain grills were required, then these should be handmade of iron, following local Heimat craft traditions.170 Concrete was nowhere to be visible, but rather faced entirely in local sandstone. On the smaller paths cobblestones were to be used as paving, in order to blend in with the landscape. To insure the perfection of the park environment thus created, distracting elements such as a substantial area of existing working-class housing was to be demolished, and any private businesses along the lakes such as boat rental facilities and refreshment stands removed. In respect to the military spectacles to take place on the site, the existing Langwasser stream that ran through the March Field was to be reshaped as a shallow lake, which tanks could cross to add a note of drama. Existing heather plants were to be maintained within the March Field, as an earth-rooted species that was symbolically appropriate and resistant to damage from vehicles and artillery.171

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Hinz’s 1941 Site Plan and Future Visions Meanwhile, Hinz’s correspondence reveals that Hensel’s role as the city landscape architect had diminished to the point that he was only responsible for carrying out planting and other construction tasks as directed by Hinz. In a letter dated July 4th, 1939, Hinz tersely informed Hensel that he was not to prepare any design drawings himself, and that all technical drawings no matter how small must have Hinz’s name on them, even if Hensel and his team had made them.172 Hinz was also at odds with another landscape architect, Hermann Mattern, who was employed by the German Labor Front to carry out the landscape work for the Strength Through Joy Town (which had been transported from Berlin at the close of the Olympics).173 By contrast, on at least one occasion Hinz solicited advice from his former advisor Wiepking on the Rally Grounds design (for Turf Road II).174 In any case, Speer appears to have been satisfied with Hinz’s contributions, for he requested a substantial pay raise for him in 1938.175 That same year, Hinz reported to Speer in a letter that he had seen the celebrated large-scale model of the Reich Party Rally Grounds with its diagrammatic representation of the groves at the Architecture Exhibition in Munich in February.176 His comments reveal that he had no involvement in its execution. Possibly as a veiled critique, Hinz reminded Speer that he had told him that a detailed landscape plan for the site would be desirable. He also expressed his opinion that a model of the site showing the landscape design in detail would be useful for studying proposals before they were executed. There is no record of a model showing detailed landscape design ever having been constructed, but in April 1941 Hinz sent Brugmann and Speer his final landscape plan along with a written explanation.177 Construction work had stopped when the war began in 1939, but resumed brief ly after the successful invasion of France. As with so many other projects, planning continued until well into the war. Two months earlier in February 1941, Hinz had written to Speer noting that Brugmann had approved the sourcing of mature oak trees from Berlin’s Grunewald Forest, indicating that the landscape architect had every intention of finalizing the project, despite the ongoing war.178 This 1941 drawing by Hinz is the only version showing the landscape design in significant detail, and indeed is the last comprehensive site plan known to exist (Figure 3.40). To some degree, Hinz’s design acted as a corrective to the weaknesses in Speer’s site planning, while at the same time introducing a more human scale within the overall monumental structure. Hinz opened his report by describing the widening of the main road between the northern and southern sections of the site, and the planting of a dense grove of trees in order to conceal the awkward angle of the intersection where the central axis of the Luitpold Arena met that of the Great Road.179 Another awkward detail was addressed by the creation of a curved entry approach road to the Zeppelin Field. This road would begin at a right angle to the Great Road, at the point where it met the axis of the German Stadium, then curve towards a new preparatory staging area to the west of the Zeppelin Field itself. The existing approach route, “Turf Road I,”

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FIGURE 3.40

Hinz’s planting plan for the Rally Grounds, April, 1941.

would only be preserved as a viewing corridor allowing the Führer to view the entry to the German Stadium in a direct line from his tribune in the Zeppelin Field at a distance of over 3,281 feet (1,000 m).180 (This proposal highlighted Hinz’s concern for Hitler as the cult leader figure.) Other “corrective” measures included screening the existing (modernist) stadium with a dense ring of planting, and the removal of the prosaic allotment garden colony that surrounded it.

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The entire shoreline of the Dutzend Lake was to be regularized and lined with trees, in order to avoid the current odd combination of controlled architectural lines and free natural curves. By referring directly to the plan, Hinz was able to explain the greater degree of articulation that had been achieved at the level of detail. A system of smaller secondary pedestrian paths was indicated by dashed lines in plan, which Hinz explained led from the proposed Wodan Square to the north where the Luitpold Arena met the city, all the way down to the southern end across from Hohe Bühl (hill).181 The plan also showed in detail how naturalistic clearings would be created in each of the grove areas, which could also be used for circulation and as additional camping space. This meant that the grove areas would contain usable spaces which might offer some respite from the crowds in the event spaces. In this report, Hinz returned once again to the subject of viewing corridors, but in greater detail and with more of a focus on the interior of the site: Particular care was dedicated to the development of the more fortuitous elevated points in the landscape, such as the Maple Hill by Turf Road II, the tower, and Hohe Bühl. From the Maple Hill one has a broad view of the entire northern section of the Party Rally Grounds. It is suggested that a monopteros or another small classical temple be constructed there. From the water tower there is a significant [visual] landscape connection to the new Nuremberg Zoo, which has been years in planning. A broad, carefully calculated visual corridor from the tower passes over Camp Station Road [Lagerbahnhofstrasse] to the March Field.182 These interconnecting landscape features and viewing corridors were intended to add character and variety to the overall experience, by effectively creating a new cultural landscape integrated within the old. The water tower had been designed by Speer and faced in natural stone, and Hinz considered it to be an important visual focal point183 (Figure 3.41). The so-called Maple Hill was one of

FIGURE 3.41

Plantings by the water tower in the Rally Grounds.

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the elevated locations within the site where the logic of the site layout could be perceived. South of the March Field, the central axis and camp areas were to be incorporated more strongly within the landscape design. A ca 11,500 foot (3,500 m) long road lined with trees was to connect the camps of the Hitler Youth, the SS, the SA, and the National Socialist Motor Corps, effectively extending the main site axis even further towards the south.184 The army camp designed by architect Wissmüller had not yet been approved, Hinz remarked, suggesting some skepticism on his part. On the plan, the axis of the camp road terminates in what appears to be a grand gateway, preceded by an open space on axis at the center of the proposed army camp section, designed by Wissmüller. On this arrangement Hinz commented: If in recognition of its importance to the landscape Hohe Bühl has something built upon it, such as an impressive victory monument, then it is all the more necessary that the foreground consist of a field with tents, rather than a group of high buildings.185 Behind the scenes, Wismüller had proposed monumental structures in place of a temporary camp, which Hinz was reacting against in these remarks. (Hinz had already been supported in this matter in early 1939 by Speer and city architect Brugmann, but it appears to have remained unresolved.)186 The campground area by necessity terminated where the relocated autobahn formed the southern boundary of the Rally Grounds. Hinz concluded his written description of the 1941 plan by observing that non-native species could be used in the more urban areas of the Luitpold Arena and the Zeppelin Field to create a more “park-like” atmosphere, but at the southern end of the site where the campgrounds met the surrounding woodlands, only native plantings were to be employed.187 The theme of the grand axis moving from city to nature was maintained down to the level of planting selection, again following the established garden design paradigm. Had Hinz’s plans been realized, the Party Rally Grounds would have presented a perfected version of the natural world, in the tradition of the landscape park. At the same time, the overall planting design would have masked the functionalism of the underlying planning type based on the sports park, thus reinforcing the impression of historic and cultural continuity.

The Autobahn as Mass Pilgrimage Route As to be expected, the geopolitical significance of the Rally Grounds site was also to be reinforced by the autobahn, both logistically and symbolically. Since the Nuremberg site was located in a relatively open area outside of the city, new autobahn routes could be laid out to specifically connect with it, in contrast to Berlin, where that could not have been easily achieved. In his 1937 report, Hinz also highlighted the importance of the newly designed autobahn to the overall functioning and experience of the Reich Party Rally Grounds site.188 A newspaper

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FIGURE 3.42

187

Perspective view of the Rally Grounds from a planned autobahn rest stop.

article that year reported that openings would be cut through the woodlands so that key views could be had from the autobahn, including a vista of the towers surrounding the March Field.189 In fact, a lookout point on the Hohe Bühl was planned as part of the autobahn design. The projected view from this lookout over the completed Party Rally Grounds was deemed of sufficient importance to be depicted in a color rendering in Todt’s journal “The Road”190 (Figure 3.42). A 1938 article in “The Road” explained to readers just how important autobahn planning was to the entire Party Rally Grounds project: In the region of greater Nuremberg the Reich Autobahn network with its arteries and connections has been developed in perfect harmony with the design and scale of the Reich Party Rally Grounds; the Grounds are embedded in the auxiliary autobahn roads, which also act as the natural boundaries to the east and south.191 Accompanying plans of the autobahn surrounding the Reich Party Rally Grounds graphically supported these claims. The autobahn corresponded not merely to the scale of the urban area, nor to that of the site itself, but to the scale of the entire Reich. Glimpses of the Party Rally Grounds from the autobahn in many cases would have come as the culmination of a long auto trip consisting of a continuous sequence of vistas of differing cultural landscapes passed along the way. The ultimate goal of autobahn planners was to, “facilitate extraordinarily

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short travel times to Nuremberg and back from nearly every part of the Reich.”192 It was even speculated that visitors to the Party Rally could make a return day trip from far away locations, as a means of lightening the burden on local accommodation. The author of this article calculated that the autobahn could bring around 135,000 persons per hour to the site, from all over the Reich, even from as far away as Vienna. The great scale of the Nazi Party Rally Grounds was manifested not only through the monumental architecture and landscape of the site, but also through the movement of masses of people, at as great a speed and volume as possible, over as wide an area as possible. The social program of the annual Party Rally and the national motorization effort were seen as being interconnected: The motorization of Germany will take a great leap forwards in a few years, especially following the delivery of a vast number of Volkswagens [KdF.-Wagen]. Thus one may count on enormous traffic figures for German motorized travel, particularly for mass events such as those that will happen in Nuremberg on a regular basis.193 On the one hand, the pseudo-neoclassical monuments of the Reich Party Rally Grounds were intended to be seen as timeless symbols connecting the thousand year future of the Third Reich to imagined medieval and classical pasts. On the other, the events held within them were to be facilitated by modern technology in the service of speed and mass movement, at the level of individuals in their autos.

The Nazi Party Rally Grounds as Announcement of Nazi Expansionist Ambitions As mentioned, the fates of the Olympic Park and the Nazi Party Rally Grounds were intertwined, and are best understood together. According to the Nazi press, in 1935 Hitler ordered the construction of a new stadium at the Rally Grounds, and shortly after the conclusion of the 1936 Summer Games expressed his desire that the Nuremberg stadium be the “largest in the world.”194 It was to be named the “German Stadium,” and the new “German Olympics” would take place there. If Speer is to be believed, Hitler also envisioned that his own German Olympics would supersede the games currently run by the IOC.195 This would have been an aggressive act of cultural rather than territorial appropriation, providing further evidence of Hitler’s megalomaniacal ambitions. Clearly, the 1936 Olympics had a profound effect on Hitler and the Nazi elite, but the Berlin site was not originally designed specifically for Party events, and therefore lacked symbolic credibility. For this and other reasons, the Berlin Olympic Park was inevitably destined to become a second-tier site, particularly in comparison to the Nuremberg Rally Grounds. (The Berlin facility was also not Speer’s creation, providing a personal motivation for the architect to supplant

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it.) With its mimetic details and buildings carefully embedded in the ground, the Olympic Park belongs to the earlier phase of Nazi architectural production, as is clear from March’s own writing. The new Speer plan for Berlin made this even more apparent, by making the old Olympic site appear dwarfed – no small feat. From the beginning, the Rally Grounds were intended to be much larger, although it is reasonable to assert that the earliest plans were essentially based on the sports park type. For example, the Zeppelin Field was first laid out on the location a playing field in the existing sports park. One of the first moves made to transform the Rally Grounds into a monumental complex was to reconceptualize the vestigial wooded areas as a “sacred German grove,” which required no design changes other than replacing the existing pines with “German” oaks, thus easily establishing the desired blood and soil linkage. (Admittedly, this gesture appears to have been a remedial afterthought.) Once Speer included the axial Great Road, then the complex began to take on the character of a Baroque park, which fully exploited the sublimity of the great scale. Shortly thereafter, Hinz began to recompose the site along the lines of a Romantic-era park, citing Lenné as inf luence, perhaps in part as a means of disassociating the site with foreign (i.e. French) historic precedents. The Rally Grounds may thus be seen as an essential reference point for the overall evolution of landscape thinking during the pre-war years. A major turning point in the public identity of the project came when the enormous model of the Party Rally Grounds was displayed inside the German Pavilion (also designed by Speer) at the 1937 Paris Exhibition.196 Those viewing the model could have formed the impression of f lying over the site in an airplane, or even of viewing a high-relief map. Here it was clearly revealed that Speer conceived of the site planning for the Rally Grounds at a geographic scale, not merely at the level of detail. The implied geopolitical message could be read by anyone who had even the slightest suspicion of Nazi plans for future territorial expansion. Given the importance of the project, it may be inferred that Speer’s Party Rally Ground designs provided a major impetus for the shift towards the second, expansionist phase in architecture and site planning that occurred at about this time. The dominant architectural expression of Speer’s site planning was not only a ref lection of his own personal inclinations, but perhaps more importantly of his innate understanding of the ideological values and territorial ambitions of the Nazi Party.

Notes 1 Today, the site is called the “Olympic Park,” but in the Nazi era it was called the “Reichssportfeld”; for clarity in English, I use “Olympic Park” throughout. 2 The most relevant secondary literature on case studies: Olympic Park: Wolfgang Schäche, and Norbert Szymanski, Das Reichssportfeld, Architektur und Spannungsfeld von Sport und Macht (Berlin: be.bra-Verlag, 2001); on the 1936 Olympics: David Clay Large, Nazi Games: The Olympics of 1936 (New York: W. W. Norton, 2007); Richard D. Mandell, The Nazi Olympics (New York: The Macmillan Company,

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3 4 5 6 7 8

9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17

18 19

20

1971) note that Mandell also discusses the 1936 Winter Games. On general Olympic history: Allen Guttmann, The Olympics: A History of the Modern Games (Urbana and Chicago: The University of Illinois Press, 2002). On the 1936 Olympic Village: Sylvia Butenschön, “Zum Denkmalwert der Außenanlagen des ehemaligen Olympischeen Dorfer von 1936 in Berlin,” Brandenburgische Denkmalpflege 2 (2015): 16–49; Margrit Kühl, ed., Vergessener Ort: Olympisches Dorf 1936: ein historischer Exkurs von seiner Entstehung bis heute (Berlin: Strauss Ed., 2009); Emanuel Hübner, Das Olympische Dorf von 1936: Planung, Bau und Nutzungsgeschichte (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2015). Standard studies on the Reich Party Rally Grounds (Reichsparteitagsgelände): Eckart Dietzfelbinger, Nürnberg, Ort der Massen: das Reichsparteitagsgelände, Vorgeschichte und schwieriges Erbe (Berlin: Links, 2004); Yasmin Doosry, “Wohlauf, laßt uns eine Stadt und einen Turm bauen…” (Berlin: Ernst Wasmuth Verlag, 2002); Alexander Schmidt, Geländebegehung: Das Reichsparteitagsgelände in Nürnberg (Nürnberg: Sandberg Verlag, 2002). On the history of the Reich Party Rallies overall: Siegfried Zelnhefer, Die Reichsparteitage der NSDAP: Geschichte, Struktur und Bedeutung der größten Propagandafeste im nationalsozialistischen Feierjahr (Nuremberg: Stadtarchiv, 1991). Hans Joachim Teichler, East German sports historian (b. 1946) cited in: Guttmann, 68. Guttmann, 53. Ibid., 55. BARCH, NS25 445, Bl. 525. BARCH, NS25 445, Bl. 524. Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kulturarbeiten Vol. I, Hausbau (Munich: Callwey, 1906, third ed.), 29, 32; on neoclassicism in the Third Reich in general: Alex Scobie, Hitler’s State Architecture: The Impact of Classical Antiquity (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990). Schäche, Reichssportfeld, 53. Werner Hegemann, Werner March (Berlin: Hübsch Verlag, 1930); Gerhard Krause, Das Deutsche Stadion und Sportforum (Berlin: Weidmannische Buchhandlung, 1926). Carl Diem, ed., XI. Olympiade Berlin 1936 Amtlicher Bericht (Berlin: Wilhelm Limpert Verlag, 1937) (Drawing: Werner March). BARCH Berlin, R1501, 5608, Bl. 45, Bericht über die Sitzung des Bauausschusses des Organisationskomitees, July 15, 1933; Dr. Diem acted as chair, architect Werner March, and Professor Schultze-Naumburg recorded as among those present; partially cited in: Schäche, Reichssportfeld, 54. Hartmut Frank, Fritz Schumacher (Hamburg: Ellert & Richter, 2020), 87–119. Schumacher, Fritz, Ein Volkspark: dargestellt am Hamburger Stadtpark (Munich: Callwey, 1928). Schäche, Reichssportfeld, 78–80. Ibid., 58. Standard study on the Gau Fora: Christiane Wolf, Gauforen - Zentren der Macht: zur nationalsozialistischen Architektur und Stadtplanung (Berlin: Verl. Bauwesen, 1999). Wolf does not make a connection to the 1936 Olympic Park, but the dates she gives show that they all postdate it. Note that the term “Gauforum” did not come into common use until 1937–38: Wolf, note 3, p. 234. BARCH, R1501, 5613, Bl. 69, June 19, 1936. BARCH, R1501, 5608, Bl. 175, Vertraulich! Aufzeichnung. Der Herr Reichskanzler traf heute – [October 5, 1933] – begleitet von dem Reichminister des Innern. Es hatten sich zu seinem Empfang eingefunden: Staatsekretär Dr. Pfundtner, die gesamte Baukommission, Baumeister March mit Bruder und der Reichssportführer. The “Brandenburg March” is the correct translation for the “Mark Brandenburg,” but because the primary architect’s surname was “March,” I have instead referred to the “Brandenburg landscape” in this section, rather than the “March landscape,” to avoid confusion.

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21 Werner March, Bauwerk Reichssportfeld (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1936), 3. Note: Rohrbach’s photos not included due to copyright issues. 22 Ibid., 10. 23 Ibid., 14. 24 Ibid., 13. 25 Ibid., 13. 26 Diem claimed in 1936 that the idea for the central axis was his own, but there is no evidence to support this: Diem, 55–56. 27 March, Reichssportfeld, 20 28 Ibid., 20. 29 Ibid., 26. 30 See pp. 267–268. 31 The alleged figure of one million spectators was given by Reich Secretary Pfundtner in a radio address, see: Thomas Schmidt, Werner March: Architekt des OlympiaStadions, 1894–1976 (Basel: Birkhäuser, 1992), 39. 32 March, Reichssportfeld, 27–28. 33 Ibid., plate 20. 34 Diem, 379. 35 The idea of having a Hall of Honor is probably from the later planning phase of 1934/35. In the issues of the Völkischen Beobachter of 1933/34 there is no mention of it. It may be assumed that it was an idea of Diem, who took part in the battle at Langemarck himself. A mention is made in a letter from Diem to Werner March from 1961, in reference to the Langemarck Hall: “Gewiß stammte dieser Vorschlag seinerzeit von mir und ich bin auch selbst in Langemarck gewesen un habe Erde von den Gräbern meiner dort gefallenen Freunde geholt.” Carl-Diem-Institut Köln/ Archiv, Akte March: Schreiben am [August 4, 1961] von March an Carl Diem, Bl. 717/91 und Schreiben am [August 7, 1961] von Carl Diem an Prof. March, o. Bl. Nr., cited in Schmidt, March, 59. 36 Michael Grüttner, Studenten im Dritten Reich (Paderborn: Schönigh, 1995), 387; see also: Karl Unruh, Langemarck: Legende und Wirklichkeit (Koblenz: Bernard & Graefe, 1986), 189–190. 37 March, Reichssportfeld, 28. 38 Ibid., 29. 39 Curiously, today it is not possible to enter the Langemarck Hall without a separate entry ticket, for it is not accessible from the main area around the stadium. The Hall is a substantial distance from the main entry in front of the stadium. There is a contemporary museum in the Hall documenting the Nazi Olympics, but it is completely separated from the areas where the main sporting events take place. 40 March, Reichssportfeld, 32. 41 On the sound system see: Mainka. “Die Schallanlage der Dietrich-Eckart-Bühne,” Wasmuths Monatshefte für Baukunst (1936): 276n–276q. 42 Rainer Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft: die “Thing-Bewegung” im Dritten Reich (Marburg: Jonas Verlag, 1985), 31, 35, 132–142, 207. 43 Claus-Ekkehard Bärsch, Die politische Religion des Nationalsozialismus: die religöse Dimensionen der NS-Ideologie in den Schriften von Dietrich Eckart, Joseph Goebbels, Alfred Rosenberg und Adolf Hitler (Munich: Fink, 1998), 52–58. 44 March, Reichssportfeld, 19. 45 Werner March, “Die Dietrich-Eckhart-Freilichtbühne,” Wasmuths Monatshefte für Baukunst (1936): 276i-m (276i). 46 March, Reichssportfeld, 42. (However, low relief sculptures adorn the wall outside the entrance.) 47 Ibid., 33. 48 Ibid., 20. 49 Ibid., 26.

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50 51 52 53 54 55

56 57

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

76 77

Ibid., 24. Schäche, Reichssportfeld, 59. Ibid., 59. Ibid., 59. Institut für Gartengestaltung, Landwirtschaftlichen Hochschule Berlin. Werner March, “Die Olympiabauten auf dem Reichssportfeld in Berlin,” Zentralblatt für Bauverwaltung (1936): 689–716 (715–716); Wiepking Papers, NLAOS, Dep. 72b Nr 19 0001, Wiepking to Foerster October 27, 1934. Wiepking thanks him for info. on use of perennials (Stauden) at the Stadium, but notes that he is not in charge of procurement as he was directly under contract to Werner March, but encourages Foerster to place bid as plant supplier. Diem, 136. Heinrich Wiepking-Jürgensmann, “Die Gärtnerische Leistungen auf dem Reichssportfeld.” Die Gartenkunst 8 (1936): 149–152; Wiepking Papers, NLAOS, Dep. 72b Nr 84 0007, essay: “Über der gärtnerischen Voraussetzungen beim Bau des Reichsportfeldes.” [Pencil-dated: Feb. 1937; maintenance of turf, etc.]. Wiepking, “Leistungen,” 150. Ibid., 150. Walter Richter, Die Olympischen Spiele 1936 in Berlin und Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Vol. I (Hamburg: Cigaretten-Bilderdienst, 1936), 62. Carl-Diem Institut, ed., The Olympic Idea. Discourses and Essays (Cologne: Karl Hofmann, 1970), 164–165. Diethard Hensel, Erster olympischer Fackel-Staffel-Lauf (Cologne: Deutschen Sporthochschule Köln, 2007), 14. On the torch run: Large, Games, 3–9. Raymond Gafner, ed., The International Olympic Committee One Hundred Years, Vol. I. (Lausanne: International Olympic Committee, 1994), 291. Mandell, Olympics, 131. Ibid., 129. Kuron Viktor, Die Läufer des Friedens von Olympia nach Berlin (Berlin: Hobbing, 1936), 12. Mandell, Olympics, 131. Large, Games, 8–9. BARCH, R1501, 5611, Bl. 19. Fritz Todt, “Die Olympia-Straßen Deutschlands,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 430. Loc. cit. Ferdinand Ernst Nord, “Das Nationalsozialistische Kraftfahr-Korps im Dienst der Olympischen Spiele,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 430–448. Gerhard Krause, ed., Olympia 1936: Eine Nationale Aufgabe (Berlin: Reichssportverlag, 1935), 112; Karin Stöckel, Berlin im olympischen Rausch: Die Organisation der Olympischen Spiele 1936 (Hamburg: Diplomica Verlag, 2009), 149. Julius Lippert, “Die Zufahrtsstraßen zu den Olympischen Kampfstätten,” Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 450–453; Diem, 454–460; Walter Richter, Die Olympischen Spiele 1936 in Berlin und Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Vol. II (Hamburg: CigarettenBilderdienst, 1936), 6–7. See also: Rainer Schmitz, and Johanna Söhnigen, “Auf der Via Triumphalis nach Westen: Freiraumplanung für die Olympsiche Spiele 1936,” Harald Bodenschatz, and Dorothee Brantz, eds., Grünfrage und Stadtentwicklung (Berlin: Lukas Verlag, 2019), 122–135. Although these authors brief ly raise a number of the points that I discuss in detail here, I cannot credit this article as a source for my own work, since I already wrote the section on the 1936 Olympics for this book during my 2015–2016 Leverhulme Fellowship year in Berlin. Schmidt, March, 39. Die Straße January (1938): cover (Photo: Heinrich Hoffmann; collage image, probably produced by Speer’s office as General Building Inspector for Berlin); Hans

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78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

101 102 103

104 105 106 107 108

193

J. Reichhardt, and Wolfgang Schäche, Von Berlin nach Germania (Berlin: Transit, 1998): 1937 Hochschulstadt Wettbewerb, 40–46; Wehrtechnische Fakultät, 87–94. Schäche, Reichssportfeld, 123. Werner March, Olympisches Dorf 1936 (Berlin: Bauwelt-Verlag, 1936), 9. Margrit Kühl, ed.,Vergessener Ort: Olympisches Dorf 1936: ein historischer Exkurs von seiner Entstehung bis heute (Berlin: Strauss Ed., 2009), 33–34. Kühl, 35–36: BARCH Militärarchiv, RH 12-23/1196 and RH 12-23/1868. Kühl, 11. Hübner provides the most detailed study of the construction of the Olympic Village. On the historic preservation of the Olympic Village: Butenschön, “Denkmalwert.” Hans Saalbach, Dorf des Friedens (Leipzig: Phillip Reclam, 1936), 12–13. Krause, Olympia 1936, 106. March, Dorf, 11. Kühl, 14. Ibid., 15. Michael Mappes, “Klassisches Bauen auf dem Reichssportfeld, Klassisches Landschaften im Olympischen Dorf,” Die Gartenkunst 8 (1936): 142–146 (148). Kühl, Ort, 15. March, Dorf. Ibid., 2. Ibid., 3. Ibid., 9. Ibid., 3. Walter March, “Das Olympische Dorf bei Berlin,” Zentralblatt für Bauverwaltung, (1936): 721–733 (729); photos and plans: March, Dorf, 20. March, Dorf, 7–8. Werner Rittich, Architektur und Bauplastik der Gegenwart (Berlin: Rembrandt-Verlag, 1938), 96. Heinrich Wiepking, “Germanische Ahnenlandschaft auf Insel Rügen.” Die Gartenkunst 8 (1936): 136–142 (137). Heinrich Wiepking, “Über die Landschaft des Olympischen Dorfes,” Die Gartenkunst 8 (1936): 142–146 (144). See for example: Gerhard Hinz, Peter Josef Lenné und seine bedeutendsten Schöpfungen in Berlin und Postdam (Berlin: Dt. Kunstverlag, 1937). (Publication based on PhD dissertation.) On Pückler: Paul Ortwin Rave, ed. (im Auftrag der Pückler Gesellschaft), Fürst Hermann Pückler-Muskau (Breslau: Wilh. Gottl. Korn Verlag, 1935); includes a number of relevant articles, e.g.: Franz Hallbaum, “Pückler und der Muskauer Park,” 41–50, and, Gerhard Hinz, “Pückler und Peter Josef Lenné, 65–76. Edwin Redslob, ed., Andeutungen über Landschaftsgärtnerei (…) vom Fürsten Pückler Muskau (Berlin: Dt. Kunstverlag, 1933); here, see intro by Redslob. Heinrich Wiepking, “Die Landschaftliche Gestaltung des Geländes im Olympischen Dorf,” Zentralblatt für Bauverwaltung (1936): 734–736 (736); for Hinz on Lenné see note 100. See pp. 179–180. Standard Wiepking biography: Ursula Kellner, “Heinrich Friedrich Wiepking (1891–1973): Leben, Lehre und Werk,” (PhD diss., University of Hanover, 1998). On Wiepking’s time in Leberecht Migge’s office: David H. Haney, When Modern was Green: Life and Work of Landscape Architect Leberecht Migge 1881–1935 (Abingdon (UK): Routledge, 2010), 17, 232 note 21. Wiepking, “Landschaft,” 146. Ibid., 145. Ibid., 734. Ibid., 146. Kühl, 17.

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109 Strength Through Joy” (Kraft durch Freude – KdF), was a division of the German Labor Front; essentially it organized leisure activities for dues-paying members of the Labor Front, which was the Nazi labor union, see: Shelley Baranowski, Strength Through Joy: Consumerism and Mass Tourism in the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 110 Saalbach, Dorf, 15–24. 111 March, Dorf, 4. 112 Guttmann, Olympics, 58–61. 113 Large, Games, 247. (It is not clear in Large’s book if this is a citation or a paraphrase.) 114 Loc. cit. 115 BARCH, NS25 445, Bl. 524. 116 Ibid., Bl. 526. 117 The Reich Labor Service (Reich Arbeitsdienst – RAD) was a government makework program similar to the Civilian Conservation Corps in the USA, see: Kiran Klaus Patel, Soliders of Labor: Labor Service in Nazi Germany and New Deal America, 1933–1945, Thomas Dunlap, trans. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 118 The Reich Jewels (Reichskleinödien) were seen by many as a symbol of Nuremberg. They originated in Aachen, and were primarily held in Nuremberg from 1493–1796, after which they were removed to Vienna; following the “annexation” of Austria in 1938, they were taken back to Nuremberg, and displayed in the Katherinenkirche (Meistersingerkirche). After WWII, they were returned to Vienna on. Jan. 4, 1946. For an example of their use in Nazi propaganda, see photo of Hitler admiring the jewels in a glass case: Nürnberger Schau April (1939): 135. 119 Dietzfelbinger, 29. 120 Doosry, 108. 121 See photo of Hitler on balcony of the Deutschen Hof hotel: Hans Kerrl, ed., Reichstagung in Nürnberg 1938: Der Parteitag Großdeutschland (Berlin: Väterländische Verlag, 1939), 191. Doosry, 145. 122 Doosry, 124. 123 For example, this typical press clipping: “Rund um die Parteitagbauten: Riesige Waldungen,” Fränkische Tageszeitung, July 17, 1937. 124 See pp. 41. 125 Jörg Traeger, Die Walhalla: Idee, Architektur, Landschaft (Regensburg: Bosse, 1980). 126 Doosry, 361–362. 127 Dietzfelbinger, 29. 128 Schmidt, Geländebegehung, 17–25. 129 Doosry, 165, notes 221, 222. 130 Plan with Hitler’s sketched alterations reproduced in: Nurnberger Schau May (1939): 175; Die Straße (1936): 159. 131 Alfred Hensel, “Gestaltung und Bauausführung der Luitpoldarena in Nürnberg,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung (1934) 795–798. Julius Schulte-Frohlinde, “Die Ehrentribüne in der Luitpold-Arena Nürnberg,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 34 (1934): 473–474. Michael Flagmeyer, Die Architekturen der Deutschen Arbeitsfront (Braunschweig: Technical University Carolo-Wilhelmina, 2009), Vol. I, 275; Sebastian Tesch, Albert Speer (1905 – 1981) (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2016), 91. 132 Alfred Hensel, “Gestaltung,” 795. On removal of plants see also: Doosry, 166. 133 Schmidt, Geländebegehung, 161–162. 134 “Der erste Spatenstich ist getan! Beginn der Arbeiten für den Ausbau der Luitpoldarena,” Fränkische Tageszeitung, April 10, Nr. 85 (1935), SAN, _C32_I_22_12. 135 Helmut Beer, Südstadtgeschichte. Aus der Vergangenheit der Nürnberger Südstadt (Nuremberg: Hoffmann Druck, 2004), 93–100, 209–218. 136 Alfred Hensel, “Gestaltung,” 795–798 (798).

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137 Hensel was employed by the City Garden Office in Nuremberg from 1922–1945: Gert Gröning, and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, Grüne Biographien (Berlin: Patzer, 1997), 141. 138 Schmidt, Geländebegehung, 81. 139 Harry Maasz, Der deutsche Volkspark der Zukunft: Laubenkolonie und Grünfläche (Frankurt Oder: Trowitzsch, 1913); Haney, Migge, 112–114. 140 Letters from Karl Heicke on behalf of the Deutschen Gesellschaft für Gartenkunst to Herr Hensel, Feb. 21, 1928, March 3, 1928, SAN, E10_13_1. 141 Letter from Der Reichskunstwart [Edwin Redslob] to Hensel, August 11, 1928, SAN, E10_13_2. 142 Newspaper Clippings from Hensel’s papers in SAN: Hanns Schödel, “Olympia 1936 in Nürnberg? Nur eine Lösung: Nürnberg oder Berlin,” Nürnberger Zeitung Nr. 118, April 21, 1920, E10_13_21_1; “Berlin wird Olympiastadt,” NürnbergFürther Abendzeitung May 22, 1931, and “So soll das Berliner Stadion zur Olympia 1936 aussehen,” 8 Uhr-Abendblatt, E10_13_21_3; “Plan der deutschen OlympiaKampfstätte,” Völkische Beobachter, Sonntag, Dec. 17, 1933, E10_13_21_5. 143 Speer’s first known site plans are dated October 1934, but he was not officially named the chief planner for the project until December 5, 1936: Doosry, Wohlauf, 367. Comprehensive English language biography on Speer: Martin Kitchen, Speer: Hitler’s Architect (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015). 144 Troost, Bauen, Vol. II (1943), 26. 145 Schmidt, Geländebegehung, 73; until 1937 this space was only labeled as “Großes Aufmarschfeld” in plan: Tesch, Speer, 250. (Note that the French term “Champs de Mars” also means “Mars Field,” and comes from the Roman “Campus Martius.”) 146 Doosry, 206–350; Dietzfelbinger, 58–60. 147 Schmidt, Geländebegehung, 66. (Note that Tokyo withdrew in 1938: Guttmann, Olympics, 74.) 148 Paul B. Jaskot, The Architecture of Oppression: The SS, Forced Labor and the Nazi Monumental Building Economy (London: Routledge, 2000), 61–72. 149 A. Gut, “Das Forum der Bewegung,” Deutsche Bauzeitung Sept. (1938): 989–999 (989). 150 Schmidt, Geländebegehung, 67. 151 Gerhard Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung im Reichsparteitaggelände,” Die Gartenkunst July (1938): 167. 152 Hinz, Lenné, 1937. 153 Letter from Hinz to Speer, Sept. 16, 1937, SAN, E10_79_67_2. 154 Loc. cit. 155 Gerhard Hinz, “Über die Landschaftsgestaltung im Reichsparteitaggelände,” unpub. report, pencil dated March, 1937, SAN, E10_79_50_2 [pages 1, 2], E10_79_50_4 [pp. 3,4], E10_79_50_6 [pp. 5, 6], E10_79_50_7 [p. 7]. 156 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” p. 2, SAN, E10_79_50_2. 157 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” p. 6, Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, E10_79_50_6. 158 Loc. cit. 159 Loc. cit. 160 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, E10_79_50_7. 161 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” pp. 1–2, Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, E10_79_50_2. 162 Loc. cit. 163 Loc. cit. 164 Loc. cit. 165 Loc. cit. 166 Reinhold Tüxen, “Pf lanzensoziologisches Gutachten über die bodenständige Bepf lanzung des Reichsparteitaggeländes,” Sept. 2, 1937, p. 1, SAN, E10_79_261. 167 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” p. 2, Stadtarchiv Nürnberg, E10_79_50_2.

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168 Letter from Hinz to Herr Schönbohm [member of Hensel’s team], November 29, 1936, SAN, E10_79_291_2. 169 Letter from Hinz to Speer with table of plantings with costs, Sept. 16, 1937, SAN, E10_79_67_2. 170 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” p. 3, SAN, E10_79_50_4. 171 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” p. 5, SAN, E10_79_50_6. 172 Hinz to Hensel, July 4, 1939, SAN, E10_79_122, pp. 1–3. 173 Letter from Hinz to Speer, Sept. 16, 1937, SAN, E10_79_67_2; Letter from Julius Schulte-Frohlinde (DAF) to Hinz, July 1, 1937, SAN, E10_79_156_1. 174 Letter from Hinz to Herr Pollmann, Reichskammer der bildenden Künste, July 14, 1938, SAN, E_10_79_180_3. 175 Letter from Speer to Brugmann, November 11, 1938, SAN, C 32/258. 176 Letter from Hinz to Speer, February 10, 1938, SAN, E10_79_160_3. 177 Hinz’s written description of his 1941 plan: “Planerklärung” April 1941, SAN, E_10_79_143_1 Note: report is 5 pages long, last digit of file number same as page number; Hinz’s site plan: “Nürnberg. Reichparteitaggelände, Gesamtplanung Generalbauinspektor Prof. Speer, Vorschlag für die Landschaftsgestaltung,” April 1941. (Scan from original drawing from collection of Hinz family; scan kindly provided to the author by Alexander Schmidt, Documentation Center, Reichsparteitagsgelände, Nuremberg.) 178 Letter from Hinz to Speer, Feb. 22, 1941, SAN, E10_79_131. 179 Gerhard Hinz “Planerklärung” April 1941, SAN, E_10_79_143_1, E_10_79_143_2. 180 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E_10_79_143_2. 181 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E_10_79_143_5. 182 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E_10_79_143_4. 183 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E_10_79_143_4. 184 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E_10_79_143_4. 185 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E_10_79_143_4. 186 Letter from Brugmann to Wismüller, Feb. 16, 1939, SAN, C32_I_654_01 187 Hinz “Planerklärung,” E10_79_143_5. 188 Hinz, “Landschaftsgestaltung,” p. 5, SAN, E10_79_50_6. 189 “Die Landschaftsgestaltung im Reichsparteitaggelände,” Nordbayerischen Zeitung, Dec. 30, 1937, SAN, E10_79_3_07. 190 Die Straße September 1 (1937), color plate, no number (Artist: Robert Zinner). 191 Rudolf Hoffmann, “Die Verkehrsbedienung des Reichsparteitaggeländes durch Reichsautobahnen und Kraftverkehr,” Die Straße Vol. II (1938): 548–553 (548). 192 Ibid., 548. 193 Ibid., 553. 194 Doosry, 206 195 See note 147. 196 Karen Fiss, Grand Illusion: The Third Reich, the Paris Exhibition, and the Cultural Seduction of France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 69–70.

4 “SECRET SOCIETIES ESTABLISHED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT” Symbolic Fortifications as Nazi Institutional Sites

While the 1936 Olympic Park and the Nazi Party Rally Grounds were designed for occasional mass public events, the five sites considered here were occupied by the facilities of elite (or at least members-only) institutions: Wewelsburg Castle (SS), the three Order Castles (German Labor Front – Deutsche Arbeitsfront), and the Seaside Resort for 20,000 at Prora (Strength Through Joy – Kraft durch Freude).1 Among these the degree of accessibility varied, for their identities depended upon being separated from the public, while also maintaining a limited presence within the larger national community, in accordance with their perceived mission. Hannah Arendt identifies this kind of apparent contradiction as a deliberate political strategy, citing the words of a contemporary: “The totalitarian movements have been called ‘secret societies established in broad daylight.’”2 In other words, National Socialism as a movement demanded unquestioning loyalty to the cult-like Party, along with its fictitious claims and its “mysterious leader,” while at the same time intentionally keeping itself in the public consciousness. Although Arendt uses this cite to refer to the Nazi movement as a whole, this observation is equally applicable to individual Party institutions. This apparently contradictory dynamic of insular, cultish elitism versus mass media representation was concretely expressed through the conception, design, and management of these five institutional sites. Another critical aspect of these architectural complexes was their reliance upon the imagery and forms of the castle or fortification, which perfectly suited the character of these secret societies in broad daylight. Historically, castles had acted as symbols of the elite and powerful whom they sheltered, while at the same time functioning as landmarks visible from afar, thus contributing to the identity of the local area. Castles have always been de facto geopolitical symbols, even though in the past they represented territories of a much smaller scale than the later nation states. As part of the overall Nazi geopolitical strategy, most of DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-5

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FIGURE 4.1

Sketch by Schultze-Naumburg of generic castle and mountain as unity.

these sites were located in border areas as a means of intensifying the political and cultural presence. These facilities may not have played any real defensive role, but the illusory symbolism was nevertheless held to be of great propagandistic significance. On a more esthetic level, in keeping with Heimat-oriented architectural thinking castles were valued as tectonic structures that appeared to be fused with the landscape, as the ultimate form of rooted architecture. Paul Schultze-Naumburg succinctly illustrates this perception in a 1909 line drawing of a castle on a hill, with one continuous line used for both the profile of the hill and the castle, in order to graphically emphasize this perceived tectonic synthesis3 (Figure 4.1). Decades later, this perceived unity of architecture and landscape would be emphasized over and over in descriptions of these Nazi-era sites. As might be expected, in Trampler’s discussion of the German cultural landscape in “Building in the New Reich,” he praises the special significance of castles as multivalent symbols defining the Heimat: Numerous castles across all of the German Gau districts have become characteristic features of our landscape. The term used to describe them, “land crown” (Landeskrone), points to their destiny as not only fortified refuges, but also the proud crowning achievement of the local community4 For Trampler, German castles represented the highest form of landmark, the so-called “land crown,” a visual, cultural, and political focal point.5 He made these observations in reference to a castle in one of the Seven Castle towns (Siebenbürgen) of Transylvania (in Romania), as yet another allusion to the historic Germanic presence in the East. Once again he implicitly used the cultural landscape to refer to Nazi geopolitical aims, in this case the culturally justified “reconquest” of eastern territory. While the castle had been appealed to as a universal symbol for centuries, in the Nazi era both the historic and new pseudo-castles were understood to specifically stand for their mythologized world of German racial superiority and military glory. Despite the fact that these institutional sites were relatively removed from the everyday world, all were

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located in significant landscapes, most of which were already established tourist destinations. And with the exception of Wewelsburg, the monumental buildings within them were all conceived as attractions in themselves. This may seem like an aberration at first, but following Arendt’s observations, these “secret” places could be viewed by tourists from a discrete distance, as aspirational symbols for the uninitiated public. As previously discussed, viewing significant cultural landscapes was practically a requirement for the good Nazi citizen as per Hitler’s touristic imperative, and these monumental sites were designed to play a prominent role in this process.

Himmler’s SS Camelot: The Nazi Appropriation of Wewelsburg Castle One of the possible reasons that Heinrich Himmler chose to renovate a historic castle rather than build a new edifice to serve as the symbolic center of the SS, was his personal obsession with history, particularly the archaic, pre-Christian “Germanic” era. In 1935, he founded the “Ancestral Heritage” (Ahnenerbe) research institute, which preserved ancient Germanic culture through archaeological excavations and the collection of artifacts.6 Known to be “professorfriendly,” Himmler supported some projects that are still considered scientifically legitimate, in particular the Viking-era Haithabu excavation site near Schleswig. However, others have been thought to be highly dubious even during the period.7 In connection with his heritage work, he supported the preservation of supposed ancient Germanic historic cultural landscapes, such as the restoration and reinterpretation of the Externsteine stone formations, and more significantly, the monumentalization of the Saxon Grove (Sachsenhain) landscape, the apocryphal location of an early medieval massacre (see pp. 273–282). The development of Wewelsburg Castle and its surrounding landscape was seen as a related endeavor, even though the site belonged to a much later era. Although officially Wewelsburg Castle functioned as an elite training center for the SS secret police under Heinrich Himmler, in effect the compound served as Himmler’s symbolic personal seat of power. He only visited it twenty-five times between 1934 and 1945, but he was concerned with every detail of its design and operation. Not incidentally, from the beginning the architectural plans included a private apartment for him, but not for his family.8 As a sign of its personal significance for him, Himmler commissioned paintings of Wewelsburg Castle and the surrounding landscape, one of which hung in the Führer Building in Munich; he was photographed in November 1939 sitting with Reinhard Heydrich and other SS elites at a table situated in front of it.9 Another photo from January, 1937 shows Himmler and Robert Ley standing next to a large automobile with Wewelsburg Castle in the background10 (Figure 4.2). Apparently, Himmler had given Ley a private tour, another example of how he used this site to represent himself among his peers. (The fact that Ley had provided significant funding for the Wewelsburg renovation was probably connected with this

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FIGURE 4.2

Ley visiting Himmler at Wewelsburg with the castle in background.

visit.)11 On the other hand, Himmler did not want Wewelsburg to become a tourist site, and kept it out of the public eye as much as possible. Yet within the SS and among Party elite, it would have been well known as a center of power. For example, in June 1941 immediately preceding the attack on the Soviet Union, a group of high-ranking SS officials met at Wewelsburg, and although most strategic decisions already had been made, the meeting is thought to have served as a means of strengthening their sense of purpose.12 While Wewelsburg was Himmler’s symbolic seat of power, his actual country home for his family, “Lyndenfycht,” was located by Tegernsee lake, a touristic area frequented by Munich residents, including other Nazi-era elite.13 He purchased this house in summer 1934, shortly before Wewelsburg Castle was officially transferred to him. Wewelsburg was located in northwest Germany, at the complete opposite corner of the country, approximately 600 miles distant. His private family life at Lindenfycht was totally separate from the pomp of his official life as head of the SS at Wewelsburg. Thus, within Himmler’s own “personal” cultural landscape, Wewelsburg and Lindenfycht played quite different but complementary roles; the physical distance and separation between them was perhaps not incidental.14 This particular example suggests that there were other, personal or elite cultural landscapes as such, which were not included in public propaganda like the 1939 autobahn map, a parallel reality worth bearing in mind. Unlike other Nazi elites, Himmler chose not to build a new building as a symbol of his power, but rather to acquire and renovate Wewelsburg, which was a baroque-era castellated palace in the Lippe district in the west of the Old Reich.15 In geopolitical terms, Wewelsburg was not located near an international border, but rather within a region perceived by Himmler and others as the authentic,

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historic German heartland, and thus was of national significance. Nearby, the enormous monument erected in the mid-nineteenth century to Hermann the Cherusker, a Germanic hero believed to have defeated the occupying Roman army, was still revered by the Nazis. Another important site within the region was the weird natural rock formation known as the Externsteine.16 As noted, Himmler was obsessed with ancient Germanic culture, and the excavations he sponsored here were meant to prove that the Externsteine had been an important pre-Christian, Germanic cult site (to no avail). Himmler’s decision to purchase Wewelsburg Castle as a training center for his SS men was a means of associating his own acts with the history of German greatness, while also contributing his own monumental project to the cultural landscape of the Lippe district, even if only for the benefit of the SS. Architecturally, Wewelsburg Castle is significant for having a triangularly configured base plan and central court. The castle is located on a hill, with the village on the approach side, and a steep slope on the opposite side facing a valley. When Himmler purchased it in 1934, the castle was in relatively poor condition, although the local Heimat museum was housed in the basement (and soon evicted). Himmler retained the young architect Hermann Bartels for the project, who was a committed Party member and an enthusiastic proponent of restoring old castles for new purposes; he remained on the project until the end of World War Two.17 Initial improvements to the exterior and surroundings of Wewelsburg Castle were necessary to immediately elevate the site to the level of an important SS power center. The existing castle garden was redesigned, resulting in the forced removal of the local pastor’s adjacent vegetable garden. Over the centuries the moat on the village side of the castle had been filled in. Under Bartels’ direction, the moat was excavated and a new bridge built over it, consisting of a reinforced concrete structure designed to carry the weight of large autos, which was faced in rough stonework and ornamented with a pseudo-medieval stone head18 (Figure 4.3). The facades of the castle, actually a Baroque-era palace, were originally rendered in light colored stucco, but these were stripped down to the underlying rough stone, imparting a more rugged, medieval appearance, and further emphasizing the connection to the ground.19 Despite having evicted the local Heimat museum, as patron of the castle Himmler supported the appreciation of the regional Heimat landscape, primarily by commissioning regional artists, and even funding a nearby artists’ colony.20 Among the more significant commissioned projects were two triptychs for which he stipulated the subjects as follows: “a) an attack by an SS troop in war b) acreage in new territory, plowed by a soldier-farmer, an SS man.”21 Two color gouache studies resembling altar pieces were painted by Hans Lohbeck between 1939 and 1941, but the final works were never realized. In one triptych, Wewelsburg is more or less accurately depicted upon a hill in the background, presiding over a scene of modern-day toiling peasants, themselves under the watchful eyes of two SS men, with German soldiers fighting in the background (Figure 4.4). In the other, Wewelsburg is shown to the side, with the hill in the

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FIGURE 4.3

Views of Wewelsburg from “the new line:” a lesson on runes, and the new bridge over the castle moat.

FIGURE 4.4

Rendering showing new German peasants with Wewelsburg Castle in the background.

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background capped with what appears to be an imitative version of the Zeppelin Field reviewing stands by Speer, the whole in front of a medieval city skyline resembling that of Nurnberg, apparently a weird inversion of the topography there. It is impossible to overlook the implied social hierarchy represented in these cultural landscape scenes, with the SS castle at the highest level, and the farmers at the lowest. The farmers, however, were the most closely connected to the soil, and therefore acted as the “foundation” of society; the Nazi Party in fact claimed to oppose class divisions. The iconographic program is so blatant as to be comical from today’s perspective. Yet these paintings may indeed be read as some of the clearest paradigmatic images of the new Nazi cultural landscape, unintentionally revealing that it was ultimately an absurd fiction. Himmler was also personally involved in the physical redesign of the landscape around the castle, including the valley on the far side. In fact, he was a university-educated agronomist and took an interest in both productive and ornamental landscapes.22 Inspired by a walnut grove he had seen in southern Germany, at one point Himmler decided to plant the steep slope below the castle with walnut trees, and a gardener’s report was duly submitted to him in September 1942.23 (He possibly preferred walnuts because they produced edible nuts.) The report recommended that local plantings be selected, rather than walnut trees.24 Undeterred, Himmler sent the head gardener at the Dachau concentration camp plantation, Franz Lippert, to the original grove to investigate.25 Lippert reported that there in fact never had been a walnut forest there, and the matter was dropped. Although a minor detail, this correspondence shows just how important the landscape was for Himmler, as well as how closely his activities were interconnected. All of the site plans by his architect Bartels proposed new farms and horticultural facilities at the perimeter of the compound. In 1941, the SS took control of the neighboring Böddeken agricultural estate, cultivating the farm areas and managing the forests.26 Prisoners set up a horticultural nursery behind the local train station in 1942/1943, where they toiled as slave labor.27 As late as April 1944, there were additional plans for an experimental farm specializing in vegetable production, for which practical gardening books were ordered for the castle library.28 In late 1942/early 1943, Bartels used the prisoners to set up a tree nursery on the Böddeken estate, in part to provide plantings for the castle hill.29 Finally, in June 1944 enormous quantities of plantings were ordered to stock the tree nursery. One letter to a supplier complained that only 8,000 of 10,000 mountain pines had been delivered to date. An accompanying order list included additional tree species totaling 26,000 specimens, along with thousands of decorative shrubs, including 1,000 lilacs of different varieties.30 While construction work had been stopped due to the war, ornamental planting was continued on a massive scale. As always during the era, plantings were not seen as a trivial matter, but an essential element in the physical realization of blood and soil symbolism. Bartels also continued architectural planning during the war, creating ever larger plans for the future SS school, to the point that it began to resemble a

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FIGURE 4.5

Model of the new SS campus with the castle in the center.

university campus.31 Himmler allegedly referred to the north castle tower as the “center point of the world,” for in the new political order, the SS would be the international police force, and this their main seat of power.32 In a 1941 planning report, Bartels predictably called for the construction of an autobahn approach road, so that it could be connected to what was to be a trans-continental road system following the “final victory” – as another means of further emphasizing the geopolitical significance of the new Wewelsburg SS complex.33 In these wartime design proposals, the castle itself was reduced to a relatively small element within the overall scheme, as revealed by site plans and models34 (Figure 4.5). The original emphasis on the local Heimat landscape was overwhelmed by the new scale of the site as a national and even imperial center, typical of the shifting priorities in the totalitarian phase of the regime. Although Himmler never intended Wewelsburg to be a tourist attraction, it was not an absolute secret either, again revealing the inherent tension surrounding this “secret society established in broad daylight.” In November 1935, Himmler issued an order expressly forbidding public visits to the castle, and in January 1939 went so far as to block any mention of Wewelsburg in the “hyena” press.35 However, prior to this edict, a small photo of Wewelsburg Castle had appeared in a general discussion of the SS in a 1936 article titled, “The New Order,” published in the high-end ladies’ fashion magazine, “the new line” (die neue linie)36 (Figure 4.3). The author, Hanns Johst, President of the Reich Chamber of Writers and an SS-Oberführer, attempted to de-mystify the SS by presenting them as a new knightly “order,” as well as the “guard” of the Third Reich; that is, a “revolutionary elite,” who “stood man for man for the life of the Führer,” and ultimately for the German nation.37 Accompanying photos and captions showcased the physical training of young men in an SS “training castle” (Schulungsburg), illustrated by a small photo of Wewelsburg. Perhaps Himmler’s most significant public relations act was the cladding of the SS men in elegant black suits designed by Hugo Boss; this article concluded with full page photo of

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an SS man in the manner of a fashion plate.38 Johst’s text reveals the inherent public relations problem for the SS as a whole: on the one hand, a degree of secrecy reinforced their mystique of power, on the other, some public clarification was needed to explain their “cultural” value to the new Reich. Himmler surely had approved the publication of this article and photo of Wewelsburg, showing that even he recognized the need for some publicity, albeit within an elitist women’s magazine. Yet in the end, Himmler succeeded in keeping his renovated castle from the public eye. On March 31, 1945, on Himmler’s orders two SS men partially detonated the castle, and the day after a spontaneous fire consumed the remaining interiors, leaving only the exterior stone walls.39 Among the sites in this study, Wewelsburg was the most intimately connected to the personal will of its benefactor.

Nazi Order Castles and Modern Knights: Ley’s PseudoMilitary Training Centers as Popular Propaganda The so-called Order Castles (Ordensburgen) were conceived as training centers for future Party elite by Robert Ley, who was Reich Organization Director (Reichsorganisationsleiter) as well as the head of the German Labor Front (Deutsche Arbeitsfront – DAF), the solitary state-sanctioned labor union.40 Ley initially proposed three of these schools in summer 1933, which were all dedicated approximately three years later on the same day in April 1936: Vogelsang, Sonthofen, and Crössinsee.41 An additional three were conceived over the coming years, but only the initial group was actually realized. As head of the Labor Front, Ley was in charge of a vast range of construction projects, with the three Order Castles being among the most important monumental projects within his overall portfolio.42 While this may not seem logical at first, the division within the Labor Front titled, “Strength Through Joy” (Kraft durch Freude – KdF), which was dedicated to providing leisure activities exclusively for union members, also played an important role in the development of the Order Castle concept (as will be seen).43 The depth of Ley’s pedagogical program for the castles is revealed by his own emphatic, if rather banal statements, such as: “Race must be a fundamental principle in training! It does not matter what topic! Race and space: again and again! Every day!”44 Here, “space” (Raum) was a reference to territory, and the need for the German race to have more living space (Lebensraum). At the core of this project was the call for military preparedness, in order to conquer new territory for the race, even if this was thinly disguised in the beginning. However, there was apparently little more to the so-called training program than Party ideology and propaganda. Hannah Arendt gives some insight as to how these castles actually functioned within the Party: This mentality of the elite is no mere mass phenomenon, no mere consequence of social rootlessness, economic disaster, and political anarchy; it needs careful preparation and cultivation and forms a more important,

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though less easily recognizable, part of the curriculum of totalitarian leadership schools, the Nazi Ordensburgen for the SS troops, and the Bolshevik training centers for Comintern agents, than race indoctrination or the techniques of civil war. Without the elite and its artificially induced inability to understand facts as facts, to distinguish between truth and falsehood, the movement could never move in the direction of realizing its fiction.45 While Arendt was incorrect on one factual point, the Ordensburgen were not “SS” training centers, her analysis clearly explains why Party elite regarded them as a great success, even in the face of contemporary criticism. In 1936, an SS journalist denounced the castle project as “mass-manufactured” National Socialism, and as a result was promptly ejected from the SS and the Party.46 A few years later in 1939, an external report was sharply critical of the pedagogical program, finding it vaguely defined and not fit for purpose.47 This lack of substance was of no concern to Ley and other leaders, for the castles and landscapes at each site were carefully conceived theatrical set pieces: medievalized yet modern fantasy worlds, symbolizing the pinnacle of Nazi society. Castles and other medieval allusions were not only esthetic, but also overtly political, as is clear from the writings of the Nazi cultural propagandist Alfred Rosenberg. In 1934, he described the new Nazi Germany as the “State of the Order” (Ordensstaat), not in reference to law and order, but to the medieval Teutonic Order (Deutscher Orden) of knights.48 In his speeches, Rosenberg conjured up noble images of the Teutonic Order at their historic seat, Marienburg Castle, then located in East Prussia very near the Polish border. He believed that in contrast to “the old concepts of monarchy and republic, Germany is growing into a completely new form, which at the same time feels ancient, the form of a German religious state.” This “religious state” would be the Nazi reincarnation of the religious Teutonic Order of knights who built Marienburg Castle. Implicitly, this new state form was linked to claims of an historic German presence in the east. (Rosenberg’s “religious state” also recalls Kjellén’s vision of the “racial state.”) While it is not clear whether it was Rosenberg or Ley who first proposed naming these new schools “Order Castles,” this literal allusion to medieval knighthood was intended as a means of bestowing historical legitimacy upon this new class of Nazi elite.49 At the time that the Order Castles were first conceived, Germany was still obliged to follow the dictates of the Versailles Treaty, which forbade German remilitarization. Ley attempted to counter any suspicions of covert militarization through his statement at the cornerstone-laying ceremony for the first Order Castle in 1934: “Indeed, a fortress is being built here, but not a military one, rather a fortress of faith”50 In effect the Order Castles were pseudo-military academies, where the participants wore military uniforms and stood in formation, but were not allowed to carry out any real military exercises due to the Versailles Treaty.51 Armed SS men were stationed as guards at each site, but since such protection wasn’t really needed, their main function was to add to the overall symbolism.52 The young male trainees were called “Junker,” an allusion to the

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knightly class of farmers who were traditionally large landowners east of the Elbe River, as yet another eastern reference.53 The feeling that forced demilitarization had emasculated the country was compensated through an overt display of masculinity at the castles, summarized by Ley’s rhetorical question to applicants: “Are you a real man, and want to prove it?”54 Here, Ley implied that manliness was perhaps the most important selection criterium. At each site, artistic representations of heroic, often semi-nude or nude male figures intensified the masculine atmosphere.55 As part of the indoctrination process, the young men were both participants and spectators within this militaristic, hyper-masculine, constructed world. In the early planning stages, it was decided that the Junker would spend one full year at each of the three sites in succession. For Ley, this annual rotation was a critical aspect of the overall training experience: through this varied sequence we provide our men not only with knowledge of the land and people of three provinces with very different characteristics – Rhineland, Bavaria, Pomerania – because we also have the opportunity to exploit these contrasts in landscape and changes in geographical conditions for our sports program, and for carrying out our bravery tests. To mention one example, the wonderful alpine world of Sonthofen, naturally we know how to intensively utilize it for skiing and alpine bravery tests.56 These regional landscapes were not just to be viewed, they were also to be physically engaged with, as yet another means of interacting with the Heimat. While the Alpine landscape at Sonthofen was used for skiing and climbing, in the lakes around Crössinsee the young men learned to sail, and in the fields near Vogelsang to ride horses. This bodily engagement was another affirmation of blood and soil philosophy, similar to the adulation of the young German athletes at the Berlin Olympic games, and the shirtless young labor men at the Party Rallies in Nuremberg. However, here the connection of specific athletic activities with the different regions introduced a geopolitical dimension. Despite the lack of educational content, the order castle indoctrination program somehow managed to combine medievalized imagery with the cultivation of cultural landscape and geopolitical symbolism, while making the young inductees believe that they were in the process of becoming heroic figures themselves.

From Factory to Castle: An Odd Architectural Lineage Ley’s original concept for training centers for Party elite derived from a surprising source: the General League of German Trade Unions (Allgemeine Deutsche Gewerksschaftsbund – ADGB) school in Bernau near Berlin, designed by the modernist architect Hannes Meyer while he was director of the Bauhaus in the late 1920s57 (Figure 4.6). This episode shows that the Nazis shared some underlying values with modernists, particularly the belief in the importance of landscape,

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FIGURE 4.6

Aerial photo of Meyer’s ADGB school near Bernau.

although their respective ideological associations were radically different. After the traditional labor day celebrations on May 1, 1933, the Nazi state brutally seized all trade union assets across Germany, sometimes violently.58 Soon thereafter, the new Nazi state trade union, the German Labor Front, took control of everything related to the former unions, including their dues-paying members, and Robert Ley immediately assumed leadership. Among these seized assets was the new ADGB school, which had just opened in 1930. Hannes Meyer was a well-known left-wing architect, and his ADGB School was highly celebrated in the architectural press at the time. Most notably, the established art critic Adolf Behne pointedly praised the relationship of the buildings to the landscape: We recognize most clearly from the aerial photos, how all of the building segments within the casually playful, f luid movement of this complex, which without any fortifications, harmonizes with every movement of the ground and every movement of the senses. The dictatorship of form is abolished, life is victorious and finds its own expression.59 Behne appears to be contrasting this visually light modernist building with the historicist monumental architecture of the early years of the twentieth century, with its “fortifications” of heavy masonry, which dominated the landforms upon which such structures sat. In less metaphorical terms, Behne further noted that at Bernau, “The attractive terrain remains almost completely untouched,” while the architect had achieved, “the most intimate connection between nature and building, free from all formality and rigidity.”60 The school complex was located

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in the Brandenburg March near Berlin, a landscape of rolling hills and pine trees, much like the 1936 Olympic sites. Shortly after the ADGB School was seized, it was placed under Ley’s control, and was repurposed as a school for future Party leaders – the organizational prototype for the future Order Castles. When the school reopened in June 1933, many high-ranking Nazis attended, including Hitler. The first director, Otto Gohdes, actually defended Meyer’s design, remarking that it had a certain “factory-like charm.”61 During his personal tour, Hitler positively described the school as a “house in the middle of the heather and woods of the Brandenburg March.” In Ley’s dedication speech, he triumphantly proclaimed that the former trade union school, this “fortress of Marxism,” previously implicated in the “spiritual collapse of Germany,” would now be a “symbol for the revitalization of Germany.”62 At a dedication speech for the Order Castles three years later, Ley claimed to recall that on the day that the Bernau school reopened, Hitler had rhetorically asked if “this Marxist building by the Jew May [sic],” could be “preserved for all time,” so that, “the future world could see what this period was like.” Further, Ley continued, Hitler had said that he wanted, “a building of our kind to be built, in order to show the contrasts of the two worlds,” meaning those of the “Marxists” and Nazis, for “eternity.”63 Whether Hitler actually said these exact words or not, Ley certainly seized the opportunity to formulate a plan for a new kind of school to train Party leaders. Ley and his architect Klotz appear to have adopted Meyer’s spatial program for the ADGB school, as well as Meyer’s architectural design concept of articulating each function within separate building masses. At the ADGB school, the administration block, dining room, auditorium, gymnasium, and library were all discernable from the interior as separate building forms. Meyer further divided the ADGB student accommodation into a series of articulated blocks, in order to foster more intimate social groupings. All of these concepts were adopted by Klotz, with the idea of separating the trainees into smaller blocks becoming a key organizational principle for the Order Castles. And as at Bernau, athletic activities in the surrounding landscape were a major planning focus. Clearly, though, the architectural expression at the ADGB School was not considered appropriate, even if Meyer’s planning strategies did exert a background inf luence.64

Ley’s Blood and Soil Vision: The Order Castles as both Architecture and Landscape Soon after Ley decided to build new training centers, he engaged Clemens Klotz as the project architect. Klotz was a moderately successful architect with an eclectic stylistic approach, who most importantly was based in the city of Cologne, where he came into contact with his patron Ley.65 A second architect, Hermann Giesler, first became aware of Ley’s plans for elite training centers through Party connections in December 1933.66 Giesler was an interior architect based in the Bavarian town of Sonthofen, and also a Party educator. He prepared a wooden

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architectural model of his design for what would become the Sonthofen Order Castle, which he presented to Ley at a 1934 meeting in the ADGB school.67 Ley was immediately convinced and directed Giesler to begin the work. However, this was the only Order Castle to be designed by Giesler, the remainder of the projects were under Klotz’s control. As noted, Klotz articulated the different functions through distinct building masses. By contrast, Giesler initially took a different approach with his first design, housing all of activities in one building complex. However, the design strategies of both architects further evolved over time, moving from the more intimate to the overwhelmingly grandiose. Ley clearly had his own architectural ambitions and concepts, even if only on a superficial level. His idea of appropriate architectural expression differed entirely from Himmler’s, and may even have been an implicit critique: We built the three Order Castles, Vogelsang, Crössinsee, and Sonthofen as completely new structures, not as something like old, renovated knightly castles. Our world order cannot be preached within old walls, our worldview does not thrive in the Reich of bats, it requires the brilliant light of a beautiful world.68 Like many other official buildings during the period, Ley wanted the Order Castles to embrace tradition and historic imagery, yet still be technically modern, necessitating some architectural compromises. At Sonthofen, for example, the rustic stone walls on some buildings were merely a veneer over a reinforced concrete structure.69 Klotz’s first two Order Castles only vaguely recalled historic castle forms, and even some stylistic traces of 1920s German expressionist architecture may be discerned in his designs. Of greatest importance to Ley was the relationship of the buildings to the landscape, not just in terms of design detailing, but more importantly in relation to the overall propagandistic message: They are landscape, these walls, these halls, this proud tower, because it was purposely decided not to suppress nature, but rather to make it serve this great work. In spite of the powerful dimensions of the Castle, the essence and biological principles of the landscape scenery were preserved, its natural elements not only remain visible, but elevate the overall image into the gigantic.70 [My emphasis.] Of the countless contemporary commentaries on the relation of building to landscape in the Nazi era, this is surely one of the most emphatic and unambiguous. Ley wanted the viewer to see a one-to-one equivalence of architecture and landscape, that is, not just that the buildings were sensitively located, but that they had actually been transformed into landscape forms, in a sublime or even mystical manner. This was the ultimate goal of building design based on blood and soil belief that the building would become one with the fatherland itself, in a way that was immediately perceptible. If the castle building and its site were

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the medium, then this was a primary propagandistic message: Nazi architecture existed in perfect harmony with nature and the terrain that supported it.

The Order Castles as Curated Set: A Calculated Geopolitical and Touristic Strategy As to be expected, the selection of sites for the Order Castles was critical to the overall project, not just in terms of the immediate landscape, but also the relative geopolitical significance. While it appears that a geopolitical strategy as such spontaneously evolved over time, in 1942 Otto Gohdes, then the Commandant of the Crössinsee Order Castle, claimed in retrospect that: We began with the idea of locating the Castles in border areas, so that they should be at the same time sites of the national German struggle. Krössinsee was then 48 kilometers [ca 30 mi] distant from the Polish border, Vogelsang 12 kilometers [ca 7.5 mi] from the Belgian, and from Sonthofen it was only a few kilometers [ca 11 mi] to the Reich border [with Austria].71 After the selection of the initial sites, a clear pattern soon emerged. Nevertheless it should not be forgotten that the selection of two of these sites was directly related to the biographies of two parties involved: Gohdes was from the town of Falkenburg near the Crössinsee site, and Giesler proposed the third location near the town of Sonthofen, where he lived at the time. Regardless of the circumstances, the proximity to borders was later emphasized for propaganda purposes, while the selection of the subsequent three sites was motivated by geopolitical concerns from the beginning. After the first three sites had been selected, it became clear that the Order Castles had even more significance as a set than they did individually. As demonstrated by the 1939 autobahn map, such new Partysanctioned buildings in the landscape were presented as a means of establishing a territorial presence. The Order Castles functioned similarly as sub-group representing the future Party elite, as well as the Labor Front under Ley’s direction. As a form of propaganda, the Order Castles were not intended just for the benefit of the young men being indoctrinated, they were also designed to be viewed by outsiders from the immediate surroundings. It may seem odd that these “elite” training centers were financed through union members’ dues, but in fact workers and their families were among the primary intended audiences. To reinforce this connection, Ley stressed that he was not solely looking for recruits from professional backgrounds, for many of those already accepted had already been trained in a trade. The castle training program was designed in part to introduce less-cultivated young men to bourgeois refinements such as horseback riding, and even formal dining etiquette. As propagandistic symbols, the castles offered working-class union members the opportunity to aspire to a higher position in society. Photographic essays illustrating life in the Order

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Castles were published in the official magazine of the Labor Front and other Party publications.72 However, union members were not the only targeted audience, for in 1937 Ley announced that: “every German should have the opportunity once in their lifetime to get a close up view of life in the Order Castles, and get some idea of this demanding school.” 73 To this end, that year he proposed a 2,000-bed Strength Through Joy hotel for each of the four Order Castles, which at that time included a projected site by Marienburg Castle.74 (None of these hotels were actually built.) To the contemporary mind the attachment of a massive tourist hotel to what were in effect secluded pseudo-military academies may appear rather peculiar, but here again, the imperative for Germans to become acquainted with as much of their Heimat as possible was a serious civic duty. At the Order Castles, tourists could observe not only the landscape, but also the legions of young men engaged in outdoor sports and pseudo-military drills, within an architectural setting based upon blood and soil ideals. Ley understood the Order Castles as another kind of spectacle within his overall program of educating and entertaining the masses through his Strength Through Joy organization, with the dramatic castle sites playing a key role. An examination of all six Order Castles reveals how the concept could be adapted to different locales, following a common set of site selection criteria. Two of the order castles were also constructed in relatively impoverished districts, namely Vogelsang in the Eifel region, and Crössinsee in eastern Pomerania; thus some castles were also intended to economically strengthen those border areas. All of the sites were located in touristic areas, so that the new Order Castles would naturally augment the existing cultural landscape, and by extension regional tourism. The architects’ rendered perspective drawings and photographs of models were intended to convey the spirit of each place to a broad audience, and even if some of these were never published, they still reveal much about the architectural thinking relative to each site. The site selection process for Vogelsang was particularly significant since it set the tone for all of the other sites to come. Klotz began by inspecting a proposed location on Nonnenwerth Island in the Rhine River south of Bonn, in a mountainous section held to be among the most scenic; the faux nineteenth-century Drachenfels Castle would have been visible in the background as an appropriate architectural pendant. He later recalled that he had rejected this site because he feared that the adjacent nunnery would be disturbed.75 The next site that Klotz considered was located in the mountainous Eifel region to the west of Cologne and not far from the Belgian border. Originally intended for a Labor Front summer camp, this site overlooked the Urft Reservoir. Klotz rejected it as too small, deciding upon another location on the Urft, but keeping the name of the first, Vogelsang.76 The region around the Urft Reservoir had long been established as a tourist destination. A local hiking club had been publishing trail maps and guidebooks since the late nineteenth century; their 1899 guidebook specifically recommended the area around the future Order Castle site for its views of the river and landscape.77

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This river became the Urft Reservoir when a dam was constructed in 1905, one of the largest in Germany and a tourist attraction in itself, which according to a 1928 guidebook was, “of the highest value in respect to landscape.” 78 Klotz probably recognized the immediate potential for postcard views from both sides of the reservoir, as a means of exploiting the propagandistic potential79 (Figure 4.7). Klotz’s site planning strategy indeed helped make Vogelsang a touristic success, which was promoted as a destination together with the entire region throughout the 1930s. In a 1936 article titled, “An Unknown Land Makes a Name for itself,” a local reporter expressed his conviction that, “The castle in the beautiful landscape on the Urft Reservoir belongs to the most important sights of National Socialist design, and it goes without saying, that it provides a center of attraction for a significant number of tourists.”80 He implied (misleadingly) that the region was relatively undiscovered; but hope was on the horizon, for he also informed readers that the Nazi government had funded the construction of good roads throughout the district, a critical factor for tourists driving from nearby cities such as Aachen, Bonn, and Cologne. Indeed, the 1939 “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” praised “Vogelsang Castle” as a sight that created a, “monumental impression,” giving specific directions to where it could be viewed from across the reservoir.”81 A Labor Front publication reported that “Countless ‘Strength Through Joy’ vacationers have been impressed by the austere beauty of the Eifel,” suggesting that they may have also viewed Vogelsang.82 In 1936 and 1938 the Eifel Society produced hiking trail maps of the area that showed the location of Vogelsang Order Castle, so presumably hikers would have also seen Vogelsang.83 The wide variety of postcard motifs showing the grand view of the castle from across the reservoir, many of them produced by the local Mertens studio, provides more evidence of the relative popularity of Vogelsang and environs. Even within a relatively short space of time, the propaganda value of Vogelsang was extensively exploited through a range of touristic media and regional activities. The second of the Klotz designed sites was named for an adjoining lake, Crössinsee, located in a relatively f lat landscape near the small town of Falkenburg, then near the Polish border. This region was typical of the glaciated landscape interspersed with lakes along the Baltic coast, and was arguably the least dramatic of all the sites. This further suggests that it was selected because it was the hometown of Otto Gohdes, who was head of the Nazi school in Bernau at the time. Klotz’s initial perspective rendering of the Crössinsee Order Castle dated early 1934 and labeled simply “Training Camp in a Flat Landscape,” was taken from an imagined viewpoint, since there was no significant elevation there84 (Figure 4.8). In his perspective, Klotz emphasized the f latness of this lake landscape in a poetic manner, suggesting a sublime quality of endless space extending towards a distant horizon. Although photographic views would later be published of Crössinsee, these were much more subdued in character than those depicting Vogelsang. Yet the touristic and recreational potential of this lake and woodland area was later recognized, and ambitious plans were made to further exploit this, as shall be seen.

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As mentioned, for the third castle Giesler proposed a site near Sonthofen because he lived there. However, it was indeed a fortunate choice because it was located on an elevation immediately above the town, with towering Alpine peaks in the background (Figure 4.9). As a further bonus, the Austrian Alps were visible in the distance. Although there was no waterbody at Sonthofen as with the Klotz project sites, the mountainous setting there was even more dramatic than at Vogelsang, for, at an elevation of over 7,000 feet, the peaks were about three times as high. The town of Sonthofen and the area around it were already major Alpine tourist destinations before the Order Castle had even been conceived, and the increased emphasis on automobile tourism was felt there as well. A popular 1936 guidebook recommended the view of, “The imposing building of the new Allgäu Reich Training Castle on Calvary Hill,” presumably from the road.85 The more authoritative “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook,” published in 1939 after the complex had been considerably enlarged, also noted the presence of the Order Castle, informing drivers that after viewing it, they should turn onto the spur route leading to the Alpine Road.86 As to be expected, Ley’s Strength Through Joy organization conducted hiking tours in the region, with one report from 1938 mentioning Sonthofen Order Castle as one of the key sites visited.87 Indeed, the Castle itself was connected through an extensive network of mountain roads and trails to a number of ski chalets belonging to it.88 Not merely an isolated object, Sonthofen was one of the most important Party-related sites linked by the Alpine Road, including Hitler’s retreat at Obersalzberg, lending the Sonthofen Order Castle even more geographic importance within the overall Nazi touristic program. In contrast to the first three sites, none of the subsequently planned three castles were constructed, and their designs are only known through Klotz’s drawings and model photographs. The first of this latter group was proposed in 1935 after the people of the Saarland in the southwest had voted to become a German territory following post-World War One French occupation. The Nazis naturally regarded this as a great triumph, and as a gesture of thanks presented the people of the Saarland with an additional Order Castle on the Saarschleife, a hairpin curve in the Saar River set within a mountainous landscape89 (Figure 4.10). The character of this site was very similar to that of Vogelsang, and as an unusual land formation the Saarschleife itself was already a tourist attraction at the time. As at Vogelsang, the Order Castle was planned for a location that was a viewing point, which in turn could be viewed from across the river. Klotz’s perspective rendering of the proposed Order Castle was taken from across the river, showing it as an integral addition to the river valley scenery.90 This project ceased to be mentioned after 1936, suggesting that it may have been abandoned because it would have been too close to the planned Westwall defense project along the French border. Since the Saarschleife castle idea was unfeasible, it was announced that the fourth Order Castle would be built directly adjacent to the historic Marienburg Castle on the Nogat River.91 This site was just within the territory of East Prussia,

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which had been separated from the Old Reich by the Treaty of Versailles, and was thus highly significant in geopolitical terms. The selection of this site was logical, perhaps even inevitable, since Marienburg was seen as the original Order Castle, and its august presence would have more than made up for the relative lack of natural scenery. Klotz emphasized the relationship to the old castle in his perspective dated “late 1938,” but his buildings were more neoclassical in character at this point 92 (Figure 4.11). Marienburg Castle had been a tourist destination since the late nineteenth century as well, and the new Order Castle would have further strengthened the importance of this site and region. Finally, Klotz’s drawings for the sixth and final Order Castle were dated March 1941, well into the war period.93 Named the “Vistula Castle” (“Weichselburg”), this proposed facility was located near the small town of Kazimierz (Dolny) on the Vistula River, a popular spa and tourist destination near Lublin, which was mentioned as a worthwhile destination in the Baedeker “Guide to the General Government” (Das Generalgouvernement: Reisehandbuch).94 Another wartime description noted that the Kazimierz town center was to be improved by “relocating” Jewish residents to other areas in the district, and that a new riverside promenade was to be constructed at the edge of the city.95 The author only briefly referred to this new Order Castle, but since it was located directly on the banks of the Vistula, it was probably integrated within this Nazi urban planning project. In this case, Klotz’s rendering did not indicate anything about the local landscape character, but simply showed the complex within a generic park-like setting96 (Figure 4.12). (Klotz’s design bears striking similarities to Giesler’s proposed campus buildings for the Nazi Party College (Hohe Schule der NSDAP) on Chiemsee.)97 A ruined late medieval castle upon a hill was located in Kazimierz town, and whether or not this could have been seen from the planned Order Castle it would have reinforced the medieval theme, even if Klotz’s own designs did not. If all of these projects had been completed, they would have been perceived as a set that would have defined a cultural landscape defined by military allusions, but which had no actual defensive purpose. However, the Order Castles were not just symbolic gestures, for in Ley’s mind it was critical that the young men experience and live in the entire castle group. As mentioned, when the three Order Castles were in the planning stages, Ley decided that the Junker would spend one full year at each site in succession.98 The fact that another half year was added to the program after Ley decided to build a fourth order castle adjacent to the historic Marienburg Order Castle provides further evidence that the actual substance of the educational program was of secondary importance.99 Even if the castles had not had any practical use at all, they still would have served as persuasive Party propaganda.

A Militaristic Spectacle of Men and Mountains: Vogelsang Order Castle If the primary function of the Order Castles was to serve as theatrical stage sets, then Vogelsang was certainly the most dramatic and spatially complex among

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FIGURE 4.7

Klotz’s perspective of his early scheme for Vogelsang Order Castle.

FIGURE 4.8

Klotz’s perspective of his early scheme for Crössinsee Order Castle.

FIGURE 4.9

Giesler’s model of the first phase of Sonthofen Order Castle.

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FIGURE 4.10

Klotz’s perspective of an Order Castle to be located at a bend in the Saar River.

FIGURE 4.11

Klotz’s perspective of a new Order Castle to be located by Marienburg Castle.

FIGURE 4.12

Klotz’s perspective of an Order Castle to be located near Kazimierz (Dolny).

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FIGURE 4.13

Dedication ceremony of the Vogelsang Order Castle site.

them. A photo of the initial groundbreaking ceremony at Vogelsang taken in March 1934, shows the uniformed Party participants all turned intently towards the landscape scene, almost as though in an actual theater (Figure 4.13). This attitude was further ref lected in a reporter’s somewhat purple account of the foundation stone-laying ceremony the following September: for the thousands who marched to this beautiful spot on a Saturday afternoon, the beauty of the landscape in resplendent autumn dress reveals itself. Our eyes wander over to the opposite bank, where the forest is beginning to change color. Then our eyes rest upon the silver ribbon of the Urft, and we can hardly imagine that there could be a more beautiful place for the Vogelsang Castle academy.100 Clearly, the act of site selection and building orientation alone had already facilitated the desired effect. The Cologne Gau leader, Josef Grohé, accompanied his symbolic hammer blow with the words: “A bulwark of the German spirit in the German borderland,” thus reinforcing the geopolitical significance of the site’s proximity to the Belgian border, as established by the hated Versailles Treaty.101 The project architect Clemens Klotz published an article in July of that year titled, “We’re not Building Tanks, but a Spiritual Fortress,” where he explained his overall site planning strategy: The landscape of Vogelsang Castle (Urft Reservoir) has extraordinarily dynamic forms, and its character is imbued with the deepest German

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monumental romantic sensibility. The building site lies on a mountainside and thus demands special forms for the building masses, which are laid out in terrace-like fashion. With respect to the dominate view of the entire complex from the distance on the one hand, and clarity of function on the other, the communal building with its broad, spacious forms needed to be of the highest quality.102 Much of the site consisted of relatively f lat farmland atop the mountain, meaning that the entire complex could have been constructed there at great economic savings. Yet Klotz deliberately chose to perch the main buildings on the edge of the mountainside, and designed the complex arrangement of barracks buildings and terraces to boldly cascade down the slope. As he pointed out, this was done to maximize the view from afar, at the same time setting up a hierarchical vertical order ref lecting the power structure within the academy (Figure 4.14). A great deal of effort and expense was made for the primary purpose of representing the power of the Party and the German nation to the public gaze, and at the same time, to constantly remind the Order Castle inmates of their own significance within the powerfully sublime scene. In this theatrical world, the line between participant and spectator was obscured, in large part through the site planning. In his description, Klotz constantly emphasized the importance of landscape to the architecture. He emphasized that the main building mass atop the slope

FIGURE 4.14

Vogelsang Order Castle seen from across the Urft reservoir.

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FIGURE 4.15

Rooftop view of the first phase of Vogelsang with the courtyard and terrace.

was, “comparable in character to a cloister layout that here, however, doesn’t follow a tendency to enclose, but in contrast opens itself up freely to the landscape scene, thus bringing the beauty of the surroundings closer to the occupant”103 (Figure 4.15). From the hilltop approach side, the complex was entered through a paved courtyard enclosed by wings on three sides containing the commandant’s offices, the instructors’ apartments, and other services. However, Klotz made an important change to the typical cloister layout, for the fourth side of the courtyard facing the valley contained: “A grand covered promenade hall [Wandelhalle] opening onto the landscape, allowing one to experience the impressive scenery.”104 This ca 262-foot (80 m) long open-air hall was covered by an exposed heavy-timber roof structure, and enclosed by a low perimeter of stone punctuated by wooden posts, providing a continuous horizontal opening framing the grand view of the Urft valley (Figure 4.16). Even during inclement weather this hall could be used for events such as boxing matches, so that the men would in effect still be outdoors.105 The wings f lanking the hall contained enclosed rooms of a more conventional nature, with the great dining hall featuring a long horizontal bay window that projected out towards the valley, as yet another viewing opportunity. This wing ended with a tall tower, which according to Klotz was provided for “practical, monumental, and architectonic reasons.” It was actually a water tower that visually terminated the long horizontal mass of the communal building, while providing a vertical accent within the overall landscape scene (Figure 4.17).

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FIGURE 4.16

Photo of Vogelsang looking towards valley below, titled “Sea of Clouds” by photographer Hugo Schmölz.

FIGURE 4.17

Vogelsang barrack blocks on terraced hillside.

Klotz exploited the sloping site using classic garden design features, such as terraces and a central axis, but here these were intended to serve the hierarchical Nazi worldview. As at the Bernau school, students were organized in groups housed in separate blocks, but Klotz designed these as individual barrack buildings located on a series of terraces, between the communal building above and the sport fields below. A “thingstead” (Thingplatz), an apsidal terrace space

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similar to a Greek theater, occupied the strategic center point of the complex on the slope between the barrack blocks, and also terminated the main central axis. The ever-present, changing views of the valley landscape would have been inescapable; only the entry court lacked such views, but even there the landscape was soon revealed. Klotz’s design meant that all castle occupants would be living outdoors much of the time, imparting a kind of camp-like quality to the place, even if in a monumental atmosphere. The Junker would have constantly traversed the steps and terraces to get from their quarters up to the main building, and down to the athletic training areas. Because the dormitory blocks were divided into two groups by the axis, the young men could also view their counterparts on the other side. At the same time, the castle officers and staff could look down upon the Junker from terraces above, and indeed, tourists could watch the whole from across the Urft valley. Everything and everyone were on constant display, despite the fortress-like architectural allusions. In respect to military symbolism, the most symbolically charged exterior spaces were the reviewing platform at the level of the promenade hall, and the muster roll-call terrace below it, which Klotz strategically placed in the middle ground between the communal spaces above, and the barrack blocks below. From the upper platform, officers and Party elite could view the young men on the roll-call terrace below, standing in ranks at full attention, fully uniformed but without arms. Photographs published in Party journals showed visiting uniformed dignitaries, including Ley and Hitler, inspecting the men on this terrace. One particularly revealing observation was made by a Junker who claimed that a visiting Italian officer, “was surprised to be standing immediately before a magnificent landscape, in which the incoming castle corps must have appeared like a living wall”106 (Figure 4.18). From the perspective of this castle trainee,

FIGURE 4.18

Men on review with Urft reservoir and hills in background.

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FIGURE 4.19

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Aerial view of solstice circle with sculpture of nude male torch bearer, Urft reservoir in background.

not only were the architectural structures part of the landscape, they were also augmented by the formations of men as tectonic structures themselves, completing the enactment of the blood and soil metaphor. The dramatic presence of this “wall” of militarized bodies was further reinforced by larger than life, heroic nude males in stone by the Cologne-based sculptor Willy Meller, placed at key points in the landscape. Relief sculptures on twin pylons near the entry gates featured an armored knight on horseback clutching a sword on one side, and a nude horseback rider holding a torch on the other. Adjacent to the circular solstice plaza located in an adjacent clearing, a high-relief muscular nude with shoulderdrape held an enormous f laming-torch, as a symbol of the sun (Figure 4.19). The only sculptural depiction of contemporary figures was a larger-than-life group of nude male athletes on a wall facing the sports field, even though actual sporting events did not take place in the nude. Meller’s sculptures contributed to the sense that Vogelsang was a Gesamtkunstwerk of Wagnerian intensity, and genuinely masculine as well. In this vein, one contemporary commentator on Vogelsang informed readers that those, “who know the pictures,” of the nineteenth-century German painters Caspar David Friedrich and Carl Gustav Carus, “would be able to visualize this nature most clearly, in which the castles arise as celebratory sites of masculinity, strengthening the heroic seriousness of the landscape”107 (Figure 4.20). Despite the constant focus on the existing woodland landscape, the planting design scheme for the site itself was rather simplistic, consisting primarily of dwarf pines scattered in dense groupings of no particular configuration. Little

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FIGURE 4.20

Imagined view of medieval knight and modern Junker on horseback in front of Vogelsang Order Castle.

attempt seems to have been made to design the landscape beyond the immediate area of the buildings, especially in the first building phase; perhaps it was decided not to try to compete with the grandeur of the larger surroundings. Although the planting design was minimal, the earth-excavation and detailed technical execution of the terraces would have required considerable effort and expertise.108 In the usual hyperbolic terms, the Cologne-based art historian Ewald Bender highlighted the technological challenges posed by the earthwork: Over a frontage of 280 meters [ca 920 ft] and on an area of 62 morgen [ca 40 ac], 270,000 m³ [ca 350,000 cu yd] of soil and rock had to be removed through constant blasting operations, to overcome an elevation difference of 95 meters [ca 312 ft]. There were endless difficulties…with the delivery of the building materials, particularly of the 8,000 cubic meters [ca 10,450 cu yd] of greywacke from the quarry at Monschau, because the available stone on site proved to be unsuitable.109 As with the autobahn, the embedding of structures in the soil was not only a matter of blood and soil symbolism, but also of technological prowess. Bender further noted that even though the stone used for building did not come from the site, it was nevertheless sourced in the Eifel region, adding another layer of authenticity to the project. As with many other important Nazi building projects, planning continued well into the war years, with the scale of the complex continually increasing,

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FIGURE 4.21

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Klotz’s perspective of his expanded 1937 Vogelsang scheme, with the tower of the House of Knowledge as centerpiece.

supplanting the earlier focus on the immediate connection of blood and soil. Planning for the second building phase at Vogelsang was already underway when the complex was dedicated on May 2, 1936.110 The largest and most important element in this scheme was the so-called “House of Knowledge” (Haus des Wissens) which was more or less a library that incorporated an auditorium. After Hitler’s visit in September 1936, Ley and Klotz were apparently given approval to begin planning even more substantial extensions to the south.111 In the March 1937 scheme, the House of Knowledge had become a building of vast proportions, with a high tower and a vast plaza before it, recalling the essential elements of the urban Gau fora being designed at the time112 (Figure 4.21). The House of Knowledge was elevated on an artificial platform overlooking the original buildings which by comparison appeared dwarfed. The rendering by Klotz’s office shows that the view from across the valley was again of critical importance, with the House of Knowledge carefully sited to complete the composition of the vertical tiered masses, recalling Trampler’s comment that castle structures effectively acted as “land-crowns.” In March 1937, at the same time that the scheme shown here was published, an article titled, “Castles – like Cities” (“Burgen – wie Städte”), commented upon the enormous scale of the new planning: “The long axis at Vogelsang Castle will stretch eight kilometers [ca five mi]. That is the same distance as from Brandenburg Gate to Adolf Hitler Square [TheodorHeuss-Platz, Berlin].”113 At this juncture in time, major extensions were planned for all three Order Castles, which had indeed already been expanded to the point that the author concluded: “All three castles are like cities with a couple of thousand people, with an intensity of life that one doesn’t find anywhere else in the countryside.”114 While in the beginning the emphasis had been on the landscape itself, this later shifted to the creation of a vast complex intended to represent

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FIGURE 4.22

Hotel and swimming pool complex proposed for Vogelsang.

rising Nazi power and future territorial ambitions. In the winter of 1941/42, the last planned extension was an enormous Strength Through Joy hotel complex with a gigantic swimming pool surrounded by the massive hotel buildings on three sides. (Figure 4.22) In Klotz’s perspective a memorial tumulus in the landscape is shown on the fourth side, possibly as a means of reminding bathers of their moral obligation to the state.115 The changing political and territorial ambitions of the Nazis, who were then fantasizing about final victory and conquest of the entire continent of Europe, meant that the focus of the complex had largely shifted inwards, towards the institution itself, as part of a chain of power centers across the new empire.

From Alpine Hostel to Medieval Donjon: Sonthofen Order Castle Although the Sonthofen area in Bavaria was selected as the location for the third Order Castle because that was the town where the architect Hermann Giesler lived, it was in any case perfectly suited to the Order Castle program. Giesler chose a plateau above the small town for the building site, so that it was easily accessible and potentially visible from the town and surrounding valley. As mentioned, this site was located near an entry point to the Alpine Road then under construction. In geopolitical terms, the site looked out towards the Reich border and the Austrian Alps to the south. While Austria was a Germanic nation, the Nazis had an uneasy relationship with the Austro-fascists then in power. On the positive side for German Nazis, Austria was known as the birthplace of Adolf Hitler, bestowing additional symbolism to this view. In contrast to Vogelsang, it was not until the second phase of construction that the Sonthofen Order Castle could be seen from a distance, and thus contribute to the local cultural landscape, a fact that Alwin Seifert highlighted in a small illustrated book. In late July

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FIGURE 4.23

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Nazi officials admiring the future site of Sonthofen Order Castle.

1934 Ley visited the site for the first time, appearing at an event carefully organized by Giesler, where local Nazi youth were ordered to stand in rows outlining the overall footprint of the proposed building.116 Photos of Party officials joyfully traipsing about the meadow demonstrate how important being in “nature” and fresh air was for their program (Figure 4.23). When Giesler first prepared his design, the facility was still termed a “Reich Training Camp” (Reichsschulungslager), and as an architectural type Giesler’s initial building design shared more in common with the youth hostels then being built under the Nazis, even if much larger than most of them.117 Given that the initial idea was to provide only a few weeks training in a summer-camp-like atmosphere, the architectural allusion to forts or rustic lodges rather than castles was not inappropriate. Giesler’s initial project may have been conceived in part in reaction to Klotz’s schemes. Taking a different approach to Klotz, in the beginning Giesler designed the facility as one building with a three-sided courtyard opening onto the view of the mountains to the south towards the Austrian border. As the patron, Ley praised Giesler’s strategy of housing all of the Junker inside of these buildings: all building wings were brought together under one roof, so that they form a horseshoe-shaped castle. However, one does not pass from one end of the building to the other through dark passages and corridors, but through wood-paneled, wide open sunny passages, and stone arcades adorned with artworks, which connect the rooms and make the castle light, bright, and cheerful.118

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The dormitories for the 400 Junker were situated on the upper f loor, with similar Spartan layouts as at the other two schools. Because the students and everyone else were housed within the same building, arguably the degree of social control here was even greater than at the other two sites. The architectural detailing was more “medieval” in character, especially on the interiors, as to be expected since Giesler was trained as an interior architect. While no sculptural program was planned for the exterior, the interior design included numerous wall sculptures and murals featuring emblems such as the ubiquitous Nazi eagle, as well as knights in amour (for example “iron hand” Götz von Berlichingen), and other suitably Germanic symbolism.119 The building was organized around the courtyard that acted as an outdoor theater for staging the symbolic events associated with life in the “castle,” while offering excellent photo opportunities for propaganda (Figures 4.24–4.26). In a similar manner to Vogelsang, the building was entered on axis from the side that faced away from the dramatic view, and was embedded in the hillside, so that the primary axial circulation path descended towards the courtyard, which was a full story lower. This allowed the north side of the courtyard to be lined with stone steps that could double as outdoor theater seating looking out towards the view of the Austrian Alps to the south. The spatial powerrelationship could be set up either way: those being reviewed could sit on the

FIGURE 4.24

View from Sonthofen courtyard looking towards the Alps and Austria.

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FIGURE 4.25

Planting and seating in Sonthofen courtyard, probably by Seifert.

FIGURE 4.26

Planting detail in courtyard.

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steps and view their superiors with the landscape backdrop behind them, or their superiors could stand on the steps and platform and review the men at the lower courtyard level. As at Vogelsang the mountain view was the primary focal point, but it was much more precisely framed here; because the young men were housed within the building, they did not circulate outdoors regularly, and thus did not constantly experience shifting landscape perspectives. At Sonthofen, not only the interior but also the courtyard was highly detailed, including the planting scheme. The evidence suggests that Alwin Seifert probably collaborated with Giesler on the courtyard design.120 In 1934 a local newspaper enthusiastically reported that “The courtyard is ornamented with yew trees, mugo pines, Alpine plants, and water features.”121 By filling the substantial terraced stone planters at either side of the banks of seating with native Alpine plants, the mountainside landscape was symbolically represented on a smaller scale. To the south of the building lay an open meadow, which Seifert did not articulate with planting, but rather allowed to extend up to the stone foundations of the Castle. In spring 1936, Ley visited the Sonthofen site and instructed Giesler to prepare a new design to house a total of 1,000 men, which might also have been a strategy for elevating the whole to the status of a “castle.”122 At this point, Giesler adopted an entirely different tactic. The character of the complex was altered significantly at this point, with a much stronger internal focus and less emphasis on views out of the site. Because the original building was relatively low and located atop a gentle wooded slope, it was not readily visible from below. By contrast, the new tower and arcade sat atop the steep slope at the other side of the site, such that they could be easily seen from the town and even the valley beyond. While the first building relied upon rustic building techniques and textures as sources of imagery, the new tower appealed to overtly medieval forms and was symbolically named the “donjon” (Palas)123 (Figures 4.27, 4.28, and 4.29). The large scale of the towerlike donjon and its heavy stone facade necessarily imparted a more massive and monumental impression. Once this second phase was completed, Sonthofen could then compete in scale with the original buildings at Vogelsang, while exuding a demonstrably more castle-like character, thus reinforcing Nazi militaristic symbolism much more strongly than had the original lodge-like structure. Like most other important Nazi sites, the subsequent building expansion scheme published in 1939 on the eve of war proposed an even more massive increase in the scale of the complex, effectively dwarfing the original building, while minimizing the connection to the landscape at the level of detail. The east-west axis between the original building and the first dormitory block was extended to the east to a length of ca 2,500 feet (750 m), culminating in a gigantic courtyard block with a central pavilion and towers at all four corners, greatly surpassing the height of the existing donjon (Figure 4.30). At the northwest corner of the site, farther along the western slope by the town, one of the enormous Strength Through Joy Hotels was to provide beds for 2,000 tourists. None of these final proposals were ever realized due to the war. In order to maximize the

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FIGURE 4.27

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The donjon at Sonthofen.

use of the site, the new sections of the complex were almost entirely inwardly focused, and located as far to the edges of the surrounding slopes as possible. The construction of the 2,500 foot monumental axis would have required massive earth-leveling, in complete contrast to the subtle insertion of the original building into the sloping terrain.

FIGURE 4.28

View of Sonthofen courtyard with the donjon in background.

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FIGURE 4.29

View of Sonthofen Order Castle with donjon.

FIGURE 4.30

Model of Sonthofen with the proposed great hall.

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The Illusion of Timelessness: Seifert’s Paean to the Sonthofen Cultural Landscape A small illustrated 1937 book on Sonthofen by Alwin Seifert suggests that he may have been inf luential in Giesler’s decision to design the second building phase to visually enrich the local cultural landscape.124 As a man of his Party and era, Seifert understood the cultural and political importance of the relationship between the town of Sonthofen and the new Order Castle: The heavy masses of the large buildings are dramatically sited upon a lightly curving ridge, from which the powerful donjon rises up as the crown of the landscape over the petty noise of the people’s houses and the everyday life of the farmer.125 Giesler’s decision to locate the donjon in a highly visible location was grasped immediately by Seifert (who conceivably had suggested such a strategy). The spatial relationship of donjon, town, and farm was hierarchical but complementary, symbolic of the social continuity of the new German national community. Seifert revealed his sincere belief in the Order Castle project as an important factor in the production of the new Nazi state through his moralistic reading of the Alpine environment of Sonthofen: The heroic face of the powerful walls of this valley with its meadows and forests, with snow and rock, which is free from any blot of selfish exploitation, has more meaning for the sense and purpose of the castle, than for its form. It speaks of a greatness, which impresses itself upon every young person that enters within it, surely making it easier for them to overcome all that is small and petty, in order to strive for such greatness.126 Seifert, a Party member and close colleague of Hitler’s deputy Rudolf Hess, would have been convinced of the “greatness” inherent in the project of producing elite leaders in the Order Castle environment. The beautiful landscape scenery was not simply to be enjoyed as an esthetic object, it was to be understood as a moral imperative aimed at the strengthening of Nazi Germany. Since Seifert wrote the text for this commemorative edition himself, presumably he also selected the photographs, and possibly the photographers as well. Five photographs in particular reinforce Seifert’s description of the Order Castle as an integral part of the cultural landscape. These were taken by Fritz Hege, the first three showing the castle as a small block on the horizon, seen from distant fields.127 The castle appears to be almost incidental within the farm landscape, for it impels the reader to search for it within these compositions, emphasizing its subtle integration in the Heimat scenery (Figure 4.31). Hege’s more prolific brother Walter was a close junior colleague of Paul Schultze-Naumburg, who convinced him to join the Party.128 Walter taught his brother Fritz photography

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FIGURE 4.31

Distant view of Sonthofen Order Castle as element in the cultural landscape.

at Weimar while Schultze-Naumburg was director there, and the possible inf luence of the latter is discernable here in Fritz’s photos of Sonthofen.129 Of all the literature published on the Order Castles at the time, this book most emphatically celebrated the importance of these new additions to the cultural landscape. For Seifert, the deep relationship of humans to their land evoked the sublimity of timelessness: “Already through its effect on the entire area around Sonthofen…it shows an inner connection of the castle with the landscape, which over the course of time will take on a meaning that undoubtedly we can scarcely imagine today.”130 Judging by the photographs of Sonthofen Order Castle alone, Seifert’s belief in the timeless character of the architecture and landscape may seem understandable. However, in light of the specious training program based primarily on vicious racism and dreams of brutal territorial conquest, the vision of this so-called castle was ultimately constructed upon the philosophically weak foundations of Nazi ideology.

Heimat-Style Training Camp in a Landscape of Lakes: Crössinsee Order Castle While this site on Crössinsee lake in East Pomerania was probably chosen because the nearby small town of Falkenburg was the birthplace of the future commandant, Otto Gohdes, its location near the post-World War One border

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FIGURE 4.32

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Aerial photo of Crössinsee Order Castle still under construction.

with Poland was obviously of geopolitical significance at the time. While the other Order Castles were located in popular tourist areas and relatively easy to reach, Crössinsee was truly isolated, for when constructed it was not located on any major transportation route and the closest major city, Stettin (Szczecin), was 80 miles distant. As noted, the region consisted of a f lat glaciated landscape dotted with lakes, which was the complete opposite of the kind of dramatic mountainous scenery preferred by many Nazis (Figure 4.32). Yet an unpublished planning scheme proposed during the war by local Party leaders was to solve this problem by creating a regional landscape park around the Order Castle, the whole connected to a major new autobahn route. Although previously unknown, this scheme shows that Crössinsee would have taken on much more architectural significance had this scheme been realized, as shall be discussed. A commentator writing in 1936 in a regional Heimat journal appropriately titled, “The Bulwark,” lamented the commonly held misperceptions of the area among other Germans: Why do people still react to East Pomerania with a dismissive shrug of the shoulders? Today, since Pomerania has become a border area, an almost aggressive gaze is being directed at our province, and it is to be hoped that because of this, the quiet charms of East Pomerania will be impressed upon every German by necessity – so that a sarcastic shoulder shrug can be countered with better knowledge.131 These casual remarks reveal the powerful effect of Nazi geopolitical strategy on the popular consciousness, several years before the war began; Crössinsee was clearly part of this strategy. Yet in most of the writing of the time, there seems to

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be a need to justify the selection of a relatively mundane site for the new Order Castle, and Klotz’s low-key architectural response to it. With his usual rhetorical bombast, Ley attempted to appeal to a different kind of medieval military imagery: Whoever wants to compare the Crössinsee Castle with any historical building work, will be immediately reminded of the great army camps of the noble farmers [Bauernherzöge] of Lower Saxony. Duke Widukind would have built his country seat in the newly conquered eastern territory in the same manner. While Vogelsang represents a powerful defensive castle in the Eifel Mountains, Crössinsee is wholly suited to the eastern or northern German landscape of f latlands. Deep in the middle of a dense forest, built on a peninsula in a Pomeranian lake, this castle expresses itself through its incredible beauty and the overall composition of its building masses. It is completely different from Vogelsang, and yet whoever knows the two castles has the distinct impression that they have grown from one and the same National Socialist spirit and feeling.132 Ley wished to conjure up images of enormous medieval tents with an almost architectural presence, as a historic parallel to the group of barrack blocks at Crössinsee. Ley also appealed to memory of the Germanic hero Widukind, another medieval figure misappropriated by the Nazis. The allusion to Widukind’s country house was purely fanciful, but the buildings at Crössinsee did in fact resemble contemporary Heimat-oriented country houses. Despite Ley’s positive appraisal, Alfred Rosenberg, writing in his Nuremberg prison cell after the war, claimed to recall that on his first visit to Crössinsee Hitler had referred to it privately as an “African village” (“Aschanti-Dorf ”), adding that it should be demolished and rebuilt.133 There is, however, no evidence to substantiate this, but this further suggests that Klotz’s design was thought by some to not properly symbolize Party values. The Cologne-based art historian Ewald Bender wrote one of the most detailed descriptions of the Crössinsee Order Castle, where he defended Klotz’s basic approach by recalling the principles of the Heimat style. Whereas at Vogelsang Klotz had succeeded in transcending the barracks-like character of the facility, Bender argued that at Crössinsee he had instead designed these in a more refined form134 (Figure 4.33). Bender noted that because Klotz came from the Rhine Valley, he would have been challenged by the f latland site, but in the end had made the correct response: Nothing could induce the architect to dominate this landscape…What was to be built here had to look as if it had grown naturally, and of course in an especially powerful manner.135 According to Bender, Klotz wanted the buildings to sympathetically represent the region where they were located, which meant using local materials, such

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FIGURE 4.33

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The Crössinsee barracks courtyard viewed from water tower.

as timber from the woodlands and reeds from the lakeshore. The predominant material was brick, in keeping with local building tradition. A sense of monumentality was achieved through the use of hewn glacial erratic stones for details such as columns. Monumental gestures were generally avoided, however, such as when, “The architect avoided a dominant axial composition for the site plan” out of respect for the subtle character of the landscape.136 Bender concluded that Klotz had shown that the Order Castle idea need not be dependent on any given architectural form, but rather that it should express a “devout, knightly spirit.”137 Klotz’s initial perspective rendering of the preliminary design does suggest a comparative lack of enthusiasm, for the complex appeared more like a frontier military outpost than a pseudo-castle of Wagnerian pretensions. The organizational diagram was very simple, with a courtyard surrounded by barracks and sanitation blocks, enclosed on one side by the main administration and communal building on axis; a plain modernist water tower beside it was the only vertical element. Later in the design phase, a more monumental character was created by adding a Court and Hall of Honor to the left of the communal building (in relation to the original perspective), along with a gateway that set up a ceremonial approach route (Figures 4.34–4.37). But as a result, the approach axis was not aligned with the central axis of the courtyard, so that no grand view or single axial route was possible. Diagrammatically, the main route was similar to Vogelsang, beginning with the forecourt and communal building, leading to the barracks area, then to the sports field, and ending with the water body, here Crössinsee lake. Also as at Vogelsang, in essence this sequence moved from the most formal area, the Court of Honor, to the most “natural”

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FIGURE 4.34

Men on review in the Crössinsee Court of Honor, viewed from water tower.

FIGURE 4.35

The main gateway to Crössinsee with the Court of Honor to the left.

– a classic landscape design trope. Yet in comparison to the elaborate sculptural program at Vogelsang, here only a sculpture of a nude male warrior at a relatively modest scale was to terminate the axis through the barracks courtyard. The most monumental gesture was the Hall of Honor, which was actually a comparatively small, rustic structure containing a free-standing stone Swastika

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FIGURE 4.36

Detail of an arcade at Crössinsee.

FIGURE 4.37

Steps leading to the Crössinsee Court of Honor.

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sculpture, with each of its columns representing one of the “martyrs” of the 1923 Munich Putsch.138 The constantly changing perspectives at the Vogelsang site were made possible by the sloping topography, which was clearly absent here. Instead, low earthen platforms were created for the buildings, with the Hall of Honor occupying the highest level, accessed by long, low stone steps. Although the water tower

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acted as a vertical accent, the viewing platform atop it was only designed as a guard lookout. (The tower was eventually demolished, probably because it was perceived to be out of character.) There were few architectural features designed for viewing, other than the outdoor seating area of the cantina that overlooked the lake. Also missing was any grand panorama, for the landscape was primarily glimpsed through coulisses between buildings. The same views of the slightly elevated complex from the landscape beyond were also filtered through the surrounding vegetation, imparting the whole with more of a picturesque than a sublime character. Since the barracks courtyard was almost entirely enclosed, the young men could neither be seen from a reviewing platform, nor by tourists from afar. The small thingstead within the courtyard could be used for performances, but there was no dramatic landscape background. On the other hand, contemporary photos show that the lake, which lay just beyond the sports field, was the center of much activity. As Ley had pointed out, the athletic program deliberately exploited the local Heimat landscape, here for water sports such as rowing, sailing, and swimming. In this respect, Crössinsee served the internal indoctrination process by encouraging the men to bond with the German Heimat through physical activity. Yet on the whole, the subtlety of the landscape and Klotz’s understated architectural design did not support the Party’s self-image of greatness and power. Thus, Crössinsee fell short of Nazi propagandistic demands, especially in comparison with the other two Order Castle sites, even if Klotz’s design in fact perfectly suited the functional requirements of a training camp in the country. New site plans made by Klotz in 1937 appear to have been intended as a means of addressing the perceived lack of monumentality, for a gigantic House of Knowledge, similar in size to the one planned for Vogelsang, was to be located in the courtyards between the communal and administration buildings.139 The Crössinsee House of Knowledge featured four tall, imposing brick towers at each corner, which would give the complex a much stronger presence when viewed from afar, contributing to the perception of a new cultural landscape140 (Figure 4.38). This new monumental building would also have visually strengthened the axis that led through the center of the barracks courtyard. Yet there still would have been no special viewing area in the landscape from where the new House of Knowledge could be seen in its entirety along with the rest of the complex. Further architectural additions were planned, including a large Strength Through Joy hotel with two wings to be located on either side of the drive, outside of the entry gate.141 However, none of these architectural additions really succeeded in imparting a truly monumental character to the site as a whole.

The Postponed Grand Plan: Crössinsee as Nazi Party Landscape Park While at Vogelsang the monumental character of the architectural complex was to be intensified by adding new buildings at a gargantuan scale, at Crössinsee,

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FIGURE 4.38

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View of Crössinsee Order Castle from surrounding landscape, with the House of Knowledge towers.

the aforementioned unpublished plan of 1941 would have solved the perceived lack of monumentality by establishing an entire landscape of Nazi Party educational facilities.142 This was an entirely different approach, which essentially meant creating a new cultural landscape, with Crössinsee Order Castle at its symbolic heart. Such an ambitious scheme was feasible because a new autobahn interchange where the section from Danzig to Berlin crossed the one from Kolberg (on the Baltic) to Breslau was to be constructed between the nearby town of Falkenburg and the Order Castle. This plan was promoted by the Gau Leader of Pomerania, Franz Schwede-Coburg, and the District President Paul Eckhardt. Schwede-Coburg first wrote to the central government in July 1941, claiming that “The Reich Organization Director [Ley] emphatically urged me to organize and implement the new administrative organization for the expansion and construction of the ‘Falkenburg’ Order Castle as quickly as possible.”143 (There was a move to change the name of the castle at this time.) The proposal was to establish a number of educational centers in the area, and to create a single administrative unit encompassing the town of Falkenburg and surrounding districts, in order to facilitate the overall planning.144 Whether any professional designers were involved at this point is not clear, but Eckhardt already had served as the Castle Commandant during the initial construction work at Crössinsee,

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FIGURE 4.39

Map of proposed regional complex surrounding Crössinsee Order Castle, including autobahn interchange.

so he would have had contact with Klotz, and probably had gained some knowledge in building and planning in the process.145 A month later in August 1941, Schwede-Coburg and Eckhardt sent the Reich Minister of the Interior, Wilhelm Frick, a detailed report describing their project along with a marked-up plan of the area showing new building locations along with the new autobahn interchange (Figure 4.39). In an authoritative tone, they informed the higher-ranking Frick that “The expansion of the Order Castle ‘Falkenburg on Crössinsee’ will be continued during the war.”146 The main point of the plan was to locate all regional Party educational facilities in the vicinity of Crössinsee Order Castle, to ensure that: teaching facilities can be shared; but these facilities should not be concentrated within the limited space of the Town of Falkenburg; rather, these should be organically integrated within the village landscape of the surrounding area. The majority of the above-mentioned facilities are to be built between the Order Castle and Dratzigsee [lake]147 The claim that teaching facilities could be shared was a minor point, for they were actually arguing for the creation of a large-scale cultural landscape and symbolic Nazi power center. Most of the new facilities would be built on a series of three peninsulas along Dratzigsee lake: a Gau Party Educational Castle, a Gau High School for the League of German Girls, a Gau Adolf Hitler School, a District Leaders School for Hitler Youth, and a tent camping site for the Hitler Youth themselves.148 A sailboat marina would be constructed on the opposite

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shore of Dratzigsee, and a rowboat marina on Crössinsee, just beyond the Order Castle. Clearly, motorized water and land transport would be necessary for this scheme to function; a system of canals connecting the lakes was planned, in order to facilitate waterborne transport between official sites. The District President, Eckhardt, was also the Gau Director of Education, meaning that all of these institutions fell under his purview, with Ley directly above him at the highest level in this chain of command. Bringing all of these institutions together was intended to foster a communal atmosphere and indeed allow for shared facilities, but this consolidation also would make them easier to control. In keeping with the rural atmosphere, complementary facilities were to be included, such as “a Pomeranian Artists’ Home as well as a rural Women’s School with training farm.”149 The comment that the new schools should be “organically integrated within the village landscape” is key, for it suggests that they had envisioned buildings that would suit the countryside scenery, probably not dissimilar to the initial buildings at the Order Castle. In the Falkenburg area, the usual pseudomedieval paradigm of villages surrounding the castle would have been played out in relation to the Order Castle, with the associated nationalistic and racist undertones, but without the requisite castle hill. Given the presence of so many Party educational facilities, the architectural symbolism in this new cultural landscape would have been at a higher level than in the typical model village landscapes later designed for the General Plan East. The plan’s two promoters recognized the touristic potential, and the central role of the autobahn. Motorized traffic between the cities of Danzig, Berlin, Posen, and Breslau would have been significant. The northern route running from the Falkenburg interchange would terminate at the city of Kolberg on the Baltic, where the second Strength Through Joy Seaside Resort for 20,000 had first been proposed in 1938.150 The authors elaborated: The Reich Autobahn will have an important intersection in the immediate vicinity of Falkenburg, and though not yet complete, the east-west section will continue to be built during the war. As soon as this section is completed, it will bring in great numbers of outside visitors not associated with the Order Castle who are attracted to the special beauty of the Falkenburg area. At the intersection on Zetzinsee lake, a large autobahn rest area will be built151 This rest area undoubtedly was intended to rival or exceed the celebrated one on Chiemsee in Bavaria, but facilities for motor tourists were not limited to this. The accompanying district plan indicated three Strength Through Joy Tourist Homes [KdF-Fremdenheime] to be located southeast of Falkenburg, and six smaller tourist guest houses to be built in surrounding villages.152 Apparently non-Strength Through Joy tourists from the general public were also to be accommodated as part of the overall scheme. The authors envisioned elite visitors as well: “In future, the area around the Order Castle will attract a particularly large number of leading

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men from home and abroad who have an interest in questions of public management, in addition to countless tourists.”153 Through the autobahn and the overall development of the area, the Crössinsee Order Castle was to become a center of attraction with a much stronger symbolic presence in the regional landscape. If this plan had been implemented, it would have established a compound of educational facilities integrated within a recreational landscape of lakes and woodlands for sailing and hiking. This type of planning concept for a collection of iconic buildings sited along a series of lakes recalls the cultural landscape created by the early nineteenth-century landscape architect Peter Lenné at Potsdam near Berlin (where Klotz had planned to insert a new Reich Leaders School complex).154 But it should not be forgotten that this was the Nazi version of a recreational and cultural landscape. The plan’s promoter, Gau Leader Franz Schwede-Coburg, was a notorious anti-Semite who oversaw the deportation of the entire Jewish population of Pomerania, as well as the systematic murder of most of the inmates of nursing homes and asylums there.155 Schwede-Coburg would have seen his project of creating a new Nazi cultural landscape as a related effort in the project of “cleansing” and beautifying the Gau. Their development plan was taken seriously enough to be under consideration by Reich Minister of the Interior Frick as well as Reich Treasurer Franz Xaver Schwarz for about six months. Frick finally responded in January 1942, and unsurprisingly rejected their application for financial support since the project was not necessary to the war effort.156 As usual, Frick believed that the project could be taken up again after the final victory. Although not realized, this plan shows the importance placed on creating a new cultural landscape as a way of intensifying the local Party presence, while connecting the district via the autobahn to other important national sites. This scheme would have increased the symbolic importance of Crössinsee Order Castle, yet retrospectively it reveals that the new cultural landscape would probably have served as an even more powerful propaganda device than the original building complex alone. Collectively, the three Order Castles were among the most successful architectural propaganda exercises of the Nazi era. As “fictitious worlds” they projected the modernized Nazi version of the medieval, with its fantasy castles at the top of the social order, where the new breed of knights devoted to the cult of National Socialism were to be produced. However, as the example of Crössinsee shows, spectacular architecture and landscapes were not necessary to create this fantasy world, a controlled recreational landscape could also be seen as a kind of cultish theme park where Party members could partake in the vision of an idealized German state.

The Prora Seaside Resort for 20,000: Hotel-Wall as Geopolitical Symbol As the name suggests, this seaside resort (Seebad) was designed to simultaneously accommodate 20,000 people, consisting of Labor Front members and their

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families, as a means of ensuring that as many workers as possible would have access to a high-quality seaside vacation experience once a year.157 This was by far Ley’s largest single building project as head of the Labor Front, which managed the resort through its Strength Through Joy division. First conceived in 1934, the complex was still under construction when the war started in 1939, although then near completion. The fact that the Prora resort was located on the seashore may be taken at face value, for this aspect is significant in itself. Yet within the overall context of Nazi cultural production, it is not illogical to see it as part of their comprehensive geopolitical project, at least symbolically. Rügen, where the complex is located, is Germany’s largest island, and continues to occupy a strategic position in contemporary geopolitics. Situated in the Baltic immediately off the German mainland, Rügen is just 80 air miles from Sweden, and lies even closer to Denmark. Ferries still connect it to other Baltic ports via the busy port of Sassnitz, located near the seaside resort site. In recognition of the island’s strategic importance, in 1938 the Nazis began construction of a massive military naval base not far from the resort, and the island would play an important role in World War Two.158 This complex may have been designed as a resort, but it was a clear statement of the power of the Nazi state, in an important geopolitical location. The most striking aspect of this resort is the gargantuan, ca three-mile-long, wall-like structure composed of a chain of six-story hotel blocks. Of course these hotel blocks had no real defensive significance, nor were they intended to. Yet in effect, they formed a symbolic wall along the seafront border, which could even be clearly seen from the air (Figure 4.40). Due to its massive size, the resort created a kind of cultural landscape in itself and in this sense as well it exerted a strong geopolitical presence in the Baltic region. On the central crossaxis bisecting the seafront an enormous pier was constructed for the Strength Through Joy steamships that would bring masses of Labor Front tourists to the resort. Ultimately, Ley planned for four additional such seaside resorts to be built over the course of twenty years, two more on the Baltic and two on the North Sea, while at the same time he intended to increase the Strength Through Joy tourist ships to thirty in number, “so that we can then set up a seaside resort service.”159 (One of these sites, Kolberg on the Baltic, was the one to be linked to Crössinsee Order Castle by the autobahn.) As with the Order Castles, Ley conceived of the Prora Seaside Resort as part of a collection of sites that would set up a kind of territorial consciousness. Here he implied that Strength Through Joy tourists could travel from one of these Labor Front seaside resorts to the other, but he did not elaborate further; again, the rhetoric was probably more important than the logic of the actual program. Ever the devoted follower, Ley credited Hitler with having the original idea for “a special ‘Strength Through Joy’ seaside resort, which must be the largest and most impressive of any up to now.”160 Hitler allegedly stated that he wanted to provide facilities where workers could relax and revive themselves, thus ensuring that they would be a “strong-nerved people,” a phrase often cited in Labor Front publications.161 Implicitly, relaxed workers would be more productive in the service of

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FIGURE 4.40

Rendered aerial perspective of the Prora resort complex for 20,000.

military buildup and less likely to complain. This Strength Through Joy project was ostensibly benevolent, yet in fact was to serve Nazi militarization goals, even if indirectly. In an official architectural brief for the project, Ley casually noted that the Führer had specified that: “Everything should be arranged so that in case of war the whole could be used as a lazaret.”162 This was not the primary intended purpose but as always thoughts of military action lay in the background. Despite Ley’s claims to be concerned with the health and well-being of the worker, this was ultimately another exercise in social control. For example, Ley claimed that one week plus two travel days would suffice for an annual vacation, for as he argued: If the vacation is intensified, then one can have the same success as with three or four weeks. That this is the case has already been demonstrated on the [Strength Through Joy] ships.163 This “intensification” would be achieved through the creation of a completely controlled, isolated environment. For Ley this even appears to have been a kind of brainwashing exercise: “When people arrive in the seaside resort, then they must

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immediately forget their past.”164 The rational architectural planning served this project of intensifying the holiday experience through total control, while the location within the woodland assured isolation from outside inf luences. Despite its vast size, the Rügen resort was intended solely for Strength Through Joy guests, that is, working-class union members. In one of the odder developments within Ley’s architectural repertoire, he planned an additional two hotels for non-Labor Front tourists (Fremdenhotels) at the northern and southern ends of the site.165 This would have given non-union tourists the prospect of not only having a seaside holiday, but also the opportunity to observe the Strength Through Joy resort, including the working-class people within it. This meant that tourists would be viewing other tourists, as the ultimate voyeuristic act within Ley’s grandiose vision of a massive seaside spectacle. As peculiar as this may seem now, within the overall touristic program of the Third Reich this arrangement made perfect sense. The human body was again at the center of this experience, but here not specifically that of young males, but rather of the family as the basic reproductive unit of society.

Naval Allusions and Functional Planning: The Modernistic Architecture of the Resort for 20,000 The Seaside Resort project was first announced as a Labor Front project in July 1935, and in September, Clemens Klotz was named as the architect; his design was exhibited at the Reich Party Rally in Nuremberg that month.166 As mentioned, Klotz had a stylistically eclectic approach to architecture, and his first proposal for this resort was overtly modernist in character. There may have been some dissatisfaction with his approach, possibly coming from Hitler, for a closed competition was announced in early 1936. Both established and younger architects were invited, including his rival Hermann Giesler, and the official Labor Front chief architect, Julius Schulte-Frohlinde.167 To what extent the competition was primarily a publicity stunt, or merely a ploy to appease Hitler is unclear, for Klotz was still awarded the main contract (although Erich zu Putlitz’s scheme for a festival hall to be located in the central plaza was personally chosen by Hitler over Klotz’s). Putlitz’s design was typical of the stripped-down neoclassicism favored by Speer and others, so was more in keeping with the typical monumental urban architecture commissioned by the Party. The overall character of the resort project was largely determined by the massive number of guests specified by Ley: 20,000 people total at any given time. The architect overseeing construction on site, Willi Heidrich (previously at Vogelsang), explained that: One of the most important demands of the program was to build the seaside resort in such a way that every vacationer would have his room situated facing the sea, a requirement that has its parallel in the construction of the KdF [Strength Through Joy] ships, where all cabins are located outboard. This requirement in itself determined the extensive front parallel to the beach, and one of the most difficult tasks for the architect was mastering the long facade that resulted.168

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Ley alluded to the similarity of the “intensified” shipboard holiday, while journal articles on the Prora resort were accompanied by photos of the Strength Through Joy cruise ships that would dock at the resort’s pier.169 Nazi propagandists thus could rationalize these nautical allusions as being appropriate to purpose, despite the obvious parallels with modern architecture. Klotz designed the blocks with plain facades and grids of small windows, punctuated at intervals with glass-fronted sun lounges. These references to ship design and shipboard discipline could also be seen as allusions to German naval power and the strategic importance of the German coastline, critical geopolitical themes since Ratzel’s day. The Nazi obsession with rational organization on a mass scale clearly dominated the character of the resort, both through the architectural expression and the mass-scale activities. As is immediately perceptible from Klotz’s drawings and models, the overall planning concept was based on repetitive modules, intended to accommodate the kind of regimented holiday routines envisioned. The accommodation blocks were divided into two continuous tracts, one to the north and the other to the south of the central Plaza and Festival Hall. Klotz planned each building block as a ca 1,700-foot-long (one-half km) module, with four of each of these to the north and south of the Festival Plaza, respectively.170 Each building block had ten stair towers at the rear, and each included a streamlined, bastion-like wing projecting towards the sea, which contained communal facilities such as dining halls. There were nine modules in all, with a total length of ca 2.8 miles (4.5 km). The entire building composition fronting the shore followed a slight curve on an 8 mile (13 km) radius, truly a geographic scale. The addition of a few architectural details such as cornices and window frames would have had only a minor effect on the whole, since the overall impression was of a vast facade stretching out to the horizon in either direction. Whether or not Klotz had any conscious theoretical intentions, he knew how to satisfy the power fantasies of his masters, here again by appealing to the mathematical sublime. Confirming the importance of this project, Trampler selected three of Klotz’s perspective renderings of the Prora Seaside Resort for inclusion in the first of the Troost architectural survey volumes.171 One of these perspectives shows a view along the length of the beach with the sea on one side, and on the other, the northern accommodation tract seemingly disappearing on the horizon (Figure 4.41). This imaginary perspective view was taken from the Festival Plaza where it jutted out into the sea, suggesting that this was an ideal vantage point for appreciating the beach and hotel blocks. Located at the center of the complex between the two accommodation tracts, the Festival Plaza and Hall were intended to represent the national community, with rows of Swastika f lags overtly reinforcing this political message (Figure 4.42). The ceremonial east-west cross-axis running through the Hall and the Plaza offered very different experiences at the seaward and landward terminal points. In the latter case, tourists coming from the train station would have entered the plaza obliquely from the rear, with the

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FIGURE 4.41

Klotz’s perspective view of Prora beach looking towards accommodation blocks.

FIGURE 4.42

Perspective view of fountains in front of the proposed Festival Hall.

sea only gradually revealed (oddly, this was a kind of “backdoor” approach). By contrast on the seaside, the main ceremonial point of arrival was by ship via the pier on the central plaza axis. One unpublished nighttime perspective by Klotz shows how the complex might have looked from the sea, with the gigantic wall of buildings hovering above the waterline, punctuated by the high tower by the Festival Plaza that doubled as a lighthouse (Figure 4.43). Whereas the other sites in this study were primarily accessed via roads, the symbolic emphasis here was on the marine approach, evoking the nautical sublimity associated with ships and the sea.

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FIGURE 4.43

Klotz’s nighttime perspective of the Prora resort with lighthouse, from the sea approach.

Theodor Nussbaum’s Landscape Planning Scheme: Planting as Buffer and Balm Rügen was and is not only known for its beaches, since there is in fact a wide variety of different landscapes on the island. While the Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich never actually visited the area around Vogelsang, he did depict the white chalk cliffs of Rügen, the most outstanding geological features in this part of Germany. The Nazis were aware of the cultural and historic significance of the island as well, and attempted to augment the existing cultural landscape through new monumental structures such as the Labor Front Training Castle at Sassnitz, and the macabre mausoleum of Party martyr Hans Mallon near Bergen.172 These buildings were much more in keeping with Heimat style principles, and the primitive blood and soil symbolism of the mausoleum was blatantly obvious. Despite the apparently modernist character of the Klotz accommodation blocks, from the beginning the idea was to carefully embed these in the soil and the existing woodland landscape, both as a means of deemphasizing the environmental destruction, and of observing the usual blood and soil precepts. Klotz’s perspective renderings show only a few small trees in the lawn area between the beach and the accommodation tracts, but this was probably done to graphically emphasize the buildings. These perspectives were not intended to convey the sense of the planting plan as executed, as revealed by historic construction documents and photographs173 (Figure 4.44). In fact, a detailed landscape plan was discussed in great detail by Bender in a 1936 article accordingly titled, “The Rügen Seaside Resort: Architecture Grows Out of the Landscape” (“Das Rügenbad: Architektur wächst aus der Landschaft”).174 Bender informed the reader that Klotz, “was determined to maintain unique natural characteristics and beauty where possible,” and to this end had hired the landscape architect Theodor Nussbaum in autumn 1936. In his article, Bender did not mention that Nussbaum was head of the Cologne City Building Department, and had already designed long strips of parks within the former Cologne defensive ramparts, which were proportionally similar to the Prora site – not insignificant details.175

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FIGURE 4.44

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Prora accommodation blocks under construction.

Nussbaum’s landscape planning was based on two major strategies: first, that the buildings were to be set in sunken areas with local plantings, and second, that the existing woodland on the landward side would be carefully maintained as a kind of buffer area. Overall, his planning for the resort was conceived as a series of zones, beginning with the beach, followed by the promenade, the green lawn in front of the accommodation tracts, the wooded area behind the blocks, and finally, the more extensive woodland and heath areas beyond.176 The official design brief for the 1936 competition specifically stated that the tree stand was to be preserved and as much of the landscape protected as possible, suggesting that these objectives had already been established before Nussbaum commenced work.177 However, Bender reported that, “the shore vegetation of sea buckthorn, sea oats, various weeds, isolated willows and alders,” was to be removed for these introduced “a certain uncleanliness in the bathing areas.” The beach area was to be contained by an elevated, ca. 100 foot (30 m) wide stone-paved promenade edged with a guard rail, which contained the vegetation on one side and protected against storm surges on the other. The zone between the promenade and the accommodation tracts, misleadingly shown in the Klotz renderings with almost no trees, was in fact critical to the overall landscape planning concept: in the sunken green strip between it [the promenade] and the accommodation buildings we again find the wild woodland soil with its unique plants, interspersed with juniper shrubs and particularly stately specimen pines, their dark silhouettes standing out against the bright building surfaces. This represents the transition to the wooded area of the hinterland, so that the seaside resort will appear as if it were an organic component within the surrounding greater natural area.178 This is Bender’s own description, but undoubtedly captures the designers’ main intentions. This was not just mere ornamental green, for it was to represent the woodland itself, and act as a vegetal screen that would make the buildings look as

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though “organically” connected to the ground. In this way, the harshness of the plain facades would have been reduced, and the architecture would have been “earth-rooted.” The best indication of what the seafront landscape would have looked like is given by aerial photos taken during construction, for there are no known perspective views showing the final landscape design. Bender informed readers that the existing pine forest had been planted as recently as the early nineteenth century, as a means of producing lumber for revenue. As at the Nazi Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg, this was used as justification for partial reforestation and new “underplanting with native deciduous woody plants” in the zone behind the tracts, which would thus become a mixed woodland. Functionally, this area was to be treated like a park where “even those who don’t wish to hike may find relaxation and amusement in the woods; meadows for games and sunbathing, sport areas, bowling, shooting ranges, and more have been created for them.”179 The next zone spanned from this woodland park area to the bay on the opposite side, for the resort site was situated on an isthmus. The competition design brief from early 1936 had specifically stated that: “In the area outside of the building site, on the Bodden [bay] side, the woodlands along the length of the isthmus should not be interfered with, in order to preserve the necessary green strip for wildlife movement.”180 Here, even wildlife ecology was considered, albeit within the pseudo-biological blood and soil worldview. In this, the farthest zone, new hiking trails were laid out and connected to existing networks, so that in “a quarter hour” hikers could reach the outstanding landscape features of the f lintstone fields and the small heath near the bay on the opposite side of the peninsula. Bender points out that this hinterland landscape “awaits the sea bather, who wants to get away from the hubbub of beach life for a couple of hours, in carefully protected wild beauty; here they can also be alone, when it moves them.”181 This may seem surprising considering the controlled atmosphere along the seaside, but the provision of this network of trails was another means of integrating the complex into the natural landscape. On the other hand, the woodland zone acted as a boundary to this carefully controlled fictitious environment, without the unsettling effect of a fence or protective wall. Bender reports that by November 1938, much of the preliminary landscape work in the forest had already begun. Historians have identified the on-site landscape architect as Wilhelm Tschörtner, and the horticultural director as Frau Johanna Gätke of Greifswald (but little is known about either).182 Evidence of the truly massive amount of planting specified by Nussbaum comes from a construction costing report prepared by site architect Heidrich in October, one month before Bender’s article was published.183 Where trees were cut, ca 105 acres (423,000 sq m) of forest topsoil squares were to be saved and reused. Additional trees were to be brought in: over 4,000 saplings ca 13–26 ft (4–8 m) high, and 514 mature trees at ca 26–46 ft (8–14 m) high. (By comparison the existing pines were ca 33 ft (10 m) high.)184 Ground cover in the form of six million heather plants was planned, as were 150,000 cranberries, and 22,500 underwood shrubs. Given that the site was at least ca 2.8 miles (4.5 km) in length, the massive

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numbers are not entirely surprising, but the choice of plants indicates a desire for “earth-rooted” plants such as heather and cranberry en masse. More refined f lower beds were also costed: ca 270,000 square feet (25,000 sq m) of larger beds, and ca 32,800 running feet (10,000 m) of path border beds. To this would have been added ca 21 acres (86,000 sq m) of sown lawn, and “decorative planting” of an unspecified type and amount. Finally, a large plant nursery was to have been created elsewhere on the site, for restocking and caring for all of these plantings. As the most formal space, the central Festival Plaza would have received many of the planting beds and other features. The single most extravagant of the landscape features were the plaza water displays, with an estimated cost of 2,410,000 Reich Marks, a substantial sum even without inf lation.185 Captain Pütz of Hapag Lloyd (previously at the Olympic Village) was responsible for the accompanying electrical equipment, suggesting that the water displays would have been a technical feat in themselves. The scale and cost of the plantings and decorative water features demonstrate the seriousness given to landscape design, which would reinforce the staggering sense of the vast scale of the place. Astonishingly, a major change to the overall site design was made as late as 1939. An article of that year includes a rendered perspective drawing of geometric gardens where the Festival Hall was to have been constructed186 (Figure 4.45). Almost no reference to the Party appears in this rendering, suggesting that for some reason it was decided to tone down the political symbolism of the site. Possibly, it was realized that the imposing, sublime character of the hotel blocks sufficed to express the power of the Party, without the usual neoclassical architectural trappings, and that the vacationers themselves would have perfectly expressed the cohesion of the national community.

FIGURE 4.45

Perspective view of redesigned central plaza without the Festival Hall, 1939.

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One of the most conceptual, and colorful, presentations of the Rügen resort was published in 1938 in the fashion magazine, “the new line.” The artist, Gerda Rotermund, clearly used different shades of green to emphasize the different types of landscape spaces: the more untouched woodlands were rendered dark green, and the groomed planting areas in front of the blocks in light green. She also succeeded in clearly representing the overall topographic features, even if the colors were not necessarily naturalistic (Figure 4.40). The author of the article, Wilhelm Lotz, was the former editor of the Werkbund journal, Form, who had collaborated with modernist architects such as Ernst May of “New Frankfurt” fame. Lotz was among the figures previously immersed in Weimar-era modernism who had successfully made the transition to Nazi-era cultural critic.187 Although he was not exactly an outsider, nevertheless, he brought a different sensibility to the subject. He opened his discussion of the significance of the resort by setting up the background context, beginning with the identification of a new landscape type: “We maintain the forms of the landscape in respect to the historical evolution of their gradual reshaping through humans, categorized as natural landscape, cultural landscape, and the landscape of the machine age”188 [My emphasis]. Through the last category he appears to be suggesting that the traditional cultural landscape shaped by pre-industrial practices and tools differed substantially in character from newer landscapes shaped by the more intensive, larger scale, and more rationalized processes of machines and industry, which was not necessarily a negative development for him. While the machine reference dominated in Weimar-era modernist discourse on architectural expression, under the Nazis it was typically more subdued. Lotz also believed that in general, Nazi-era architecture and landscape design was historically unique for having a particular landscape approach: Whoever later writes the history of landscape design will probably have to introduce a new period beginning with our time. Giving this period a name will not be entirely easy, if the terms for the older eras are retained. The types of landscape design now being defined through the Reich Party Meeting Grounds, the Reich Autobahn, the camps, the Order Castles, or the military facilities, have never been previously realized at such great size, nor with such a complete and intrinsic connection to the landscape. None of these constructions are single building masses, rather they are interconnected through open space and landscape design on a grand scale.189 Lotz’s statement is a very clear summary of the themes being explored in this study, but this kind of observation was not entirely original; many other critics identified a similar design logic in these Nazi-era sites. Despite the completely different mode of architectural expression at the Prora site, Lotz wanted to place it firmly within the aforementioned category: The KdF [Strength Through Joy] Rügen Seaside Resort belongs to this group of buildings, which not only carefully protect and honor the

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landscape but also lead towards new landscape design through form and siting. This resort serves recreation. People who stand at their machines in the cities should be brought into nature, thus woodland and sea are made available to them, providing them joyful and healthy experiences. To be sure, all over Germany there are entire locations and landscapes that lend their own unique character to vacationing and tourism, even if these are often not truly beautiful. But this is the first facility at this scale in the world to be determined by the hand of the artist from the beginning.190 This Strength Through Joy resort was not only a new kind of cultural landscape, it was also a new kind of tourist landscape, he argued. The extreme level of control over the resort as exerted through the design is praised by Lotz as an expression of artistic cohesion, rather than obvious evidence of the control of the Nazi state. Similar rhetoric had been used by modernists to promote their vision of the mechanization and rationalization of architectural design in service of the needs of the masses. However, here an additional ideological layer lurks under the surface of this paean to a new kind of approach to the resort landscape. In essence, Lotz wanted to see a reconciliation of the objectivity (Sachlichkeit) of the machine age with the need to embed the building in the landscape, as demanded by Nazi-era blood and soil philosophy. Both of these impulses would also reinforce the geopolitical symbolism of the site, although Lotz did not explicitly make this connection. In a similar manner to the way propagandists referred to the Order Castles as “fortresses of peace,” as a way of playing down their obvious militaristic symbolism, the presentation of the massive Prora resort as merely a leisure facility disguised the fact that it was designed to serve the very workers who were frantically fabricating the machinery for the coming war, typically under duress. Despite the lack of obvious blood and soil imagery here, this “machine-age landscape,” to paraphrase Lotz, may be read as the most appropriate architectural expression of the ambitions of the mechanized Nazi totalitarian state on the eve of war.

Cultural Landscape as Institutional Identity In contrast to the 1936 Olympic Park and the Party Rally Grounds, the sites in this group were chosen by Nazi-era elites and designers for their outstanding landscapes, which the buildings were designed to harmonize with and enhance. Here, the cultural component of the cultural landscape was generally lacking, which presented an opportunity to claim these as genuine Nazi locations through the construction of new architectural complexes. (Wewelsburg Castle is the exception here, but the renovation and site work there was in any case meant to strengthen the connection to the surrounding landscape.) The cultural landscapes created from the fusion of these castle or fortress-like forms with the land not only provided a particular kind of landscape-oriented experience for occupants and visitors, for in fact the identity of the institutions themselves

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was strongly reinforced or even defined by the site imagery. In the case of the Order Castles particularly, their buildings and landscapes were virtually inseparable from the identity of the institution itself. Not only were these sites selected because of their outstanding scenery, they were also valued for being located far away from metropolitan areas. This was not just a matter of anti-urbanism, but of establishing an institutional presence across the country, even in areas that had been relatively neglected by previous governments. In this way, these institutions could be seen by the national community to be actively participating in the cultural and political consolidation of the country through their actual siting, not merely through abstract rhetoric. (Again, Wewelsburg Castle did not exactly follow this formula, yet the geopolitical symbolism there was intentionally aimed at the SS as an internal audience, for whom it also acted as a kind of consolidating device.) Despite the cultivation of elitist exclusivity and even secrecy, from the beginning these complexes were designed as propaganda devices. Not only the respective site planning and design details, but also the associated cultural landscapes and geographic locations ensured that these institutions would realize the blood and soil, or people and land, bond in the most concrete, physical manner possible. At the same time, this ideological commitment was communicated via mass media to the nation and beyond.

Notes 1 Important secondary literature on the case studies: Wewelsburg Castle: Karl Hüser, Wewelsburg 1933 bis 1945: Kult- und Terrorstätte der SS (Paderborn: Verlag BonifatiusDrückerei, 1982); Karl Hüser and Wulff E. Brebeck, Wewelsburg 1933–45 Kultstätte des SS-Ordens (Münster: Landschaftsverband Westfalen-Lippe, 1988); Jan Erik Schulte, ed., Die SS, Himmler, und die Wewelsburg (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2009); Kirsten John-Stucke and Daniela Siepe, eds., Wewelsburg: Fakten und Legenden (Paderborn: Schöningh Verlag, 2015); Wulff E. Brebeck, et al., eds., Endtime Warriors: Ideology and Terror of the SS (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2015). The Order Castles in general: Paul Ciupke, Weltanschauliche Erziehung in Ordensburgen des Nationalsozialismus: zur Geschichte und Zukunft der Ordensburg Vogelsang (Essen: Klartext, 2006), 22–52; Franz Albert Heinen, NS-Ordensburgen: Vogelsang, Sonthofen, Krössinsee (Berlin: Ch. Links, 2011). Vogelsang Order Castle: Hans-Dieter Arntz, Ordensburg Vogelsang 1934–1945: Erziehung zur politischen Führung im Dritten Reich (Euskirchen: Kümpel, 1986); Ruth Schmitz-Ehmke, and Monika Herzog, Die ehemalige Ordensburg Vogelsang (Worms: Wernersche Verlagsgesellschaft, 2010). Sonthofen Order Castle: Hartmut Happel, Die Allgäuer Ordensburg in Sonthofen (Immenstadt: Verlag J. Eberl, 1996); Michael Früchtel, Der Architekt Hermann Giesler: Leben und Werk (1898 – 1987) (Tübingen: Edition Altavilla, 2008), 44–73. Crössinsee Order Castle: Rolf Sawinski, Die Ordensburg Krössinsee in Pommern (Aachen: Helios Verlag, 2008). The Seaside Resort for 20,000 at Prora: Jürgen von Rostock and Franz Zadniček, Paradiesruinen: Das KdF-Seebad der Zwanzigtausend (Berlin: Links, 2001); Bernfried Lichtnau, Prora: Das erste KdF – Bad Deutschlands (Peenemünde: Axel Dietrich, 1995); Hasso Spode, “Ein Seebad für zwanzigtausend Volksgenossen: Zur Grammatik und Geschichte des fordistischen Urlaubs,” in: Peter J. Brenner, ed. Reisekultur in Deutschland (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1997), 7–48; Rainer Wilkens, “Gebaute Utopie der Macht. Das Beispiel Prora,” in: Romana Schneider and Wilfried Wang, eds. Moderne Architektur in Deutschland 1900 bis 2000: Macht und

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Monument (Ostfildern-Ruit: Gerd Hatje, 1998), 117–130; Rainer Stommer, “Prora auf Rügen: Architektur für den Massentourismus der 1930er Jahre,” in: Bundesamt für Bauwesen und Raumordnung, ed., Bau und Raum, Building and Regions Annual (2005): n.p. (Article published separately as excerpt/Sonderdruck; in German and English.); Joachim Wernicke, and Uwe Schwartz, Der Koloss von Prora auf Rügen (Prora: Verlag Museum Prora, 2006). Hannah Arendt, On the Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1976), 376. Arendt credits citation to: Alexandre Koyré, “The Political Function of Modern Life,” in: Contemporary Jewish Record June (1945). Arendt also references: Hitler, Mein Kampf, Vol. II, Chapter IX; Heinz Holldack, Was wirklich geschah (1949), 378; Georg Simmel, “Sociology of Secret Societies” The American Journal of Sociology Vol. XI, Nr. 4, Jan. (1906). Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Die Entstellung unseres Landes (Munich: Kastner & Callwey, 1909), 7. Gerdy Troost, ed., Das Bauen im Neuen Reich, Vol. 1 (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayreuth, 1938), 7. I have been unable to determine the origins of the German term “Landeskrone,” but it predates the Nazi era. For example, one castle has borne the name “Landskron” since the middle ages: Joachim Gerhardt, and Heinrich Neu, Kunstdenkmäler des Kreises Ahrweiler, Vol. 2 (Düsseldorf: L. Schwann, 1938), 394–404. It is also possible that the architect Bruno Taut was reacting to this older term when he introduced the term “city crown” (Stadtkrone): Bruno Taut, Die Stadtkrone ( Jena: Diederichs, 1919). In any case, the term Landeskrone was also used by numerous Nazi-era writers. Michael H. Kater, Das “Ahnenerbe” der SS 1935–1945 (Stuttgart: Deutsche VerlagsAnstalt, 1974), 27. Ibid., 81, 131. John-Stucke, Legenden, 34. Schulte, Himmler, 249. Hüser and Brebeck, Wewelsburg, 9. See: www.lwl.org/westfaelische-geschichte/portal/Internet/finde/langDatensatz .php?urlID=469&url_tabelle=tab_medien Brebeck, Warriors, 35. Katrin Himmler, “Der private Heinrich Himmler,” in: Markus Moors, and Moritz Pfeiffer, eds. Heinrich Himmlers Taschenkalendar 1940 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2013), 39–53 (40). This author claims that Himmler’s wife visited Wewelsburg for several months in the final war years, but provides no sources nor explanation: Heiner Lichtenstein, “Wo Himmler Residieren Wollte,” in: Walter Först, ed., Menschen, Landschaft und Geschichte (Berlin: Grote, 1965), 127. Hüser, Terrorstätte, 20. Uta Halle, “Die Externsteine sind bis auf weiteres germansich!” Prähistorische Archäologie im Dritten Reich (Bielefeld: Verlag für Regionalgeschichte, 2002). Hüser, Terrorstätte, 16. John-Stucke, Legenden, 21. Brebeck, Warriors, 190. Dina van Faassen, “Himmlers Wewelsburger Gemäldesammlung,” in: Schulte, Himmler, 242–272 (On the colony: 252–253.); Maja Gujer, “Aspekte der Ausstattung der Wewelsburg während der NS-Zeit” in: Juliane Kerzel, ed., Gedenkstättenarbeit und Erringerungskultur in Ostwestfalen-Lippe (Paderborn: Bonifatius Druckerei, 2002), 221–235. Brebeck, Warriors, 38–39, 200–201. Peter Longerich, Heinrich Himmler, trans. Jeremy Noakes and Lesley Sharpe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 27–45.

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23 Letter, Oswald Pohl to Himmler, Berlin Sept. 5, 1942, BARCH, NS19 685, Bl. 2; Gutachen über die Möglichkeit der Bepf lanzung der Hänge des Wewelsburg mit Walnussbäumen, Dr. Erwin Sharf, Schriesheim a.d.Bergstraße, Donnerstag, August 27, 1942, BARCH, NS19 685, Bl. 3–6. 24 Letter from Pohl to Brandt (Himmler’s office), Berlin, March 10, 1943, NS19 685, Bl. 9. 25 Letter to Brandt (Himmler’s office), Betrifft: Daggendorfer Nusswald, Bezug: Dort, Schreiben vom March 16, 1943, Feldberg April 12, 1944, BARCH, NS 19 685, Bl. 11; report by Franz Lippert, BARCH, NS 19 685, Bl. 12. 26 Hüser, Terrorstätte, 272. (Note that the SS was unable to actually purchase Böddeken). 27 Ibid., 57, 83, 90; On the concentration camp at Wewelsburg: Brebeck, Warriors, 290–363. 28 Letter, Wewelsburg management to the book dealer Karl Krämer, April 25, 1944, KMW, S-a16. 29 Letter, Pohl to Brandt, Berlin, March 10, 1943, BARCH, NS19 685, Bl. 9; Hüser gives an earlier date of autumn 1942: Hüser, Terrorstätte, 71. 30 Letter with plant list, Wewelsburg management to the Johannes Arens firm, Heinsberg i.W., July 10, 1944, KMW, S-6. 31 Brebeck, Warriors, 269. 32 Hüser, Terrorstätte, 59. 33 Ibid., 63. 34 Brebeck, Warriors, 266–271. 35 Hüser, Terrorstätte, 32, note 14. See also: Josef Ackermann, Heinrich Himmler als Ideologue (Göttingen: Musterschmidt, 1970), 105, note 47. 36 Hanns Johst, “Der neue Orden,” die neue linie Sept. (1936): 14–19. 37 Ibid., 16. 38 Roman Köster, Hugo Boss, 1924–1945: die Geschichte einer Kleiderfabrik zwischen Weimarer Republik und “Dritten Reich” (Munich: Beck, 2011). 39 Hüser, Terrorstätte, 105–110. (At a post-World War Two trial, it was alleged that the castle commandant has ordered an SS man to shoot twenty prisoners who had walled-up the castle treasures just before their departure, but Hüser claims that there was no hard proof of this found.) 40 The two standard biographies on Ley, which take very different positions: Ronald Smelser. Robert Ley: Hitlers Labor Front Leader (Oxford: Berg, 1988); Karl Schröder, Aufstieg und Fall des Robert Ley (Siegburg: Verlag Franz Schmitt, 2008). On Ley as Reichsorganisationsleiter: Reichsorganisationsleiter der NSDAP., ed. Organisationsbuch der NSDAP (Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP., 1938), XXIX; Robert Ley, Der Weg zur Ordensburg (Berlin, Verlag der Deutschen Arbeitsfront [1936]), n.p. [9]. 41 Schmitz-Ehmke, 9. 42 The definitive study on Ley and his building projects: Michael Flagmeyer, Die Architekturen der Deutschen Arbeitsfront, Vols. I, II (Braunschweig: Technical University Carolo-Wilhelmina), 2009. 43 See note 109, Chapter 3. 44 Franz Albert Heinen, NS-Ordensburgen: Vogelsang, Sonthofen, Krössinsee (Berlin: Ch. Links, 2011), 88. 45 Arendt, 385. 46 Das Schwarze Korps, June 25, 1936, 1. 47 Arntz, 180–191. 48 Alfred Rosenberg, “Der Deutsche Ordensstaat” [Publication name illegible, Sept. 1934], BARCH, NS5/VI 344, [DAF Zeitschrift Auschnitte], Bl. 81. 49 Manfred Heinemann, Erziehung und Schulung im Dritten Reich, Vol. II, Hochschule, Erwachsenenbildung (Suttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1980), 133.

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50 Anon, “Burg Vogelsang, Bollwerk deutschen Wesens!,” Westdeutscher Beobachter, Sept. 24, 1934. 51 The Party and the military tried to stem the tide of younger officers applying for entry to the Order Castles as Junker, which the young men saw as an attractive alternative to military service: Arntz, 174–175. 52 Heinen, Ordensburgen, 73. 53 Arntz, 15. On the history of the actual Prussian Junkers: Francis Ludwig Carsten, A History of Prussian Junkers (Aldershot (UK): Scolar Press, 1989). 54 Ley, Ordensburg, [8]. 55 On the Nazi obsession with masculinity: Gerd Kühn, ed., Masculinity in the Third Reich (special issue) Central European History Sept. (2018). On gender and the body in general: Paula Diehl, Körper im Nationalsozialismus: Bilder und Praxen (Munich: Fink, 2006). 56 Ley, Ordensburg, n.p. 57 Claude Schnaidt, Hannes Meyer: Bauten, Projekte und Schriften (Teufen AR (CH): Verlag Arthur Niggli, 1965). Werner Kleinerüschkamp, Hannes Meyer 1889–1954: Architekt, Urbanist, Lehrer (Berlin: Ernst & Sohn, 1989); Wolfgang Benz, ed., Das Schicksal der ADGB-Bundesschule im Dritten Reich (Bernau: Verein Baudenkmal Bundesschule Bernau, 2007). 58 Flagmeyer, Vol. I, 66–67. 59 Adolf Behne, “Bundesschule in Bernau bei Berlin, Architekt Hannes Meyer,” in: Kleinerüschkamp, 189. 60 Behne, “Bundesschule,” 190. 61 Benz, Bundesschule, 85. 62 Der Angriff, June 17, 1933, cited in: Benz, Bundesschule, 70–71. 63 “Dr. Ley übergibt dem Führer die Ordensburgen,” in: Robert Ley, Wir alle helfen den Führer (Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, 1937), 173. Ley clearly confused the actual architect of the school, Hannes Meyer, with Ernst May, the chief architect of the New Frankfurt – another favorite Nazi target. 64 On the Nazi adaptation of modernist approaches towards technology and modernity see: Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). On the relationship between fascist and modernist architecture see: Hartmut Frank, Faschistische Architekturen: Planen und Bauen in Europa 1930 bis 1945 (Hamburg: Christians, 1985). 65 Petra Leser, “Der Kölner Architekt Clemens Klotz,” (PhD diss., Abteilung Architekturgeschichte des Kunsthistorischen Insituts der Universität Köln, 1991). 66 Früchtel, 45–46. 67 Giesler later claimed that he persuaded Ley to build permanent structures for the training centers, not just portable barracks, which he implied is what Klotz had first proposed. However, there is no concrete evidence to support this, and Klotz’s own memoirs suggest that he had monumental buildings in mind from the beginning, see: Früchtel, 45–46. 68 Ley, Wir, 158. 69 Früchtel, 56. 70 Ley, Ordensburg, n.p. 71 Otto Gohdes, “Sinn und Aufgabe der Ordensburgen. Vortrag beim Reichslehrgang für volksdeutsche Umsiedler in der Ordensburg Krössinsee,” Sept. 26, 1942 (Collection of H. Happel). cited in: Heinen, Ordensburgen, 23, Note 4. 72 For example: Gerhard Starcke, “Eziehung zu Leistung un Gesinnung,” Arbeitertum 6 (1936–37): 4–9. 73 “Die Erziehung auf den Ordensburgen,” Frankfurter Zeitung, August 28, 193, 436– 437, cited in: Arntz, 50. 74 Heinen, Ordensburgen, 38.

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75 Radio interview with Klotz, May 29, 1965: “[ich] wollte nun den Schwestern die Nachbarschaft [Nonnenwerth] mit einer nationalsozialistischen Ordensburg ersparen. Ich fuhr also in die Eifel und suchte nach einem passenden Gelände” WDR Broadcast [Manuscript Heiner Lichtenstein], cited in: Arntz, 42. 76 Schmitz-Ehmke, 22. 77 Eifelverein, ed., Eifelführer (Trier: Verlag von Heinrich Stephanus, 1899) [8th ed.], 105–106. 78 Otto Follmann, Die Eifel, Monographien zur Erdkunde 26 (Bielefeld and Leipzig: Verlag von Velhagen & Klasing, 1928), 90; David Blackbourn, Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape, and the Making of Modern Germany (New York: W. W. Norton, 2006), 191–192, 196, 213, 216, 223, 237. 79 See: Stefan Wunsch, “Ansichten eines ‘Taterortes’ in der Eifel,” Eifelverein, ed., Eifeljahrbuch 2019 (Düren: Eifelverein Verlag, 2018), 130–136. 80 Anon., “Unbekanntes Land macht sich einen Namen,” Westdeutscher Beobachter, March 17, 1936. 81 Karl Baedeker, Baedekers Autoführer: Deutsches Reich (Grossdeutschland). Offizieller Führer des Deutschen Automobil-Clubs (Leipzig: Karl Baedeker, 1939), XIV, 521. 82 Anon., Mit Kdf in den Urlaub (Bochum: Die Deutsche Arbeitsfront, Gau WestfalenSüd, NSG Kraft durch Freude, 1939). 83 Karte des Eifelvereines (Verlag des Eifelvereins, 1914), British Library, Maps, Y.167 (Including maps dated 1932, 1936, 1938, the latter two indicating Vogelsang.). 84 Clemens Klotz, Zeichnung Schulungslager im Flachland, Crössinsee, Anfang 1934, COX, Nr. 287. 85 [Anon.] Allgäu Reiseführer (Berlin: Grieben Verlag, 1936), 110. 86 Baedeker, Autoführer, 211. 87 “Oberstaufen, Immenstadt, Aach, Thalkirchdorf u. U.,” in: Dein Urlaub [KdF] (1938), 34–35 (35), HAT, Box Nr. *D06/33–45 KdF. 88 Happel, Sonthofen, 24. 89 Gisela Tascher, “Das erste Geschenk des Führers,” Saar-Geschichten 1 (2012): 4–9. 90 Clemens Klotz, n.d., AVIP, VIP001221 91 The architect Erich zu Putlitz also published a design for the Marienburg Order Castle, but the surrounding circumstances are unclear: Petra Bojahr, Erich zu Putlitz: Leben und Werk 1892–1945 (Hamburg: Dölling und Gallitz, 1997), 37, 108–109. 92 Clemens Klotz, Entwurfzeichnung Ordensburg Marienburg, Ansicht von Westen mit der Marienburg der Deutschordensritter im Vordergrund, Ende 1938, COX, Nr. 14-1271. 93 Schmitz-Emcke, 161 (she notes that site was located near Lublin); Rolf Sawinski, Die Ordensburg Krössinsee in Pommern (Aachen: Helios Verlag, 2008), 7; Flagmeyer, 706–707. NB: there are two locations in Poland with this name: the first is the more well-known former Jewish ghetto in Kraków, which is not the planned Order Castle site; the actual planned location is now called “Kazimierz Dolny,” and is in fact located near Lublin, as stated in the historic sources. “Dolny” means “lower” in Polish, since it is downstream on the Vistula river from the ghetto in Kraków. Nevertheless, some contemporary scholars continue to confuse these two locations, for example these two geographers: Joshua Hagen, and Robert Ostergren, Building Nazi Germany: Place, Space, Architecture, and Ideology (Lanham (MD): Rowman & Littlefield, 2020), 227. 94 Karl Baedeker, Das Generalgouvernement: Reisehandbuch (Leipzig: Karl Baedeker, 1943), 112–113. 95 Dr. Max Freiherr du Prel, ed., Das Generalgouvernement (Würzburg: 1942), 308, 322. 96 Clemens Klotz, Entwurfszeichnung, Weichselburg, Ansicht von Ufer, March 1941, COX, Nr. 14-1528. (It is not clear who decided to call it “Weichselburg” which simply means “Vistula Castle,” a rather generic name.)

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97 Troost, Bauen, 39–39. Klotz tried to get this commission, and even though he was supported by Troost, it was awarded to Giesler: Schmitz-Ehmke, 57. 98 Heinen, Ordensburgen, 15. 99 Arntz, 91. 100 Anon., “Burg Vogelsang, Bollwerk deutschen Wesens!,” Westdeutscher Beobachter, Sept. 24, 1934. 101 Ibid. 102 Clemens Klotz, “Wir Bauen keine Tanks aber Festungen des Geistes,” Westdeutscher Beobachter, July 15, 1934. 103 Loc. cit. 104 Loc. cit. 105 Gerhard Starcke, “Eziehung zu Leistung und Gesinnung,” Arbeitertum 6 (1936– 37): 7, 9. 106 “Excellenz! Ich melde Ihnen die Burgschaft angetreten,” Der Orden. Kameradschaftsblätter der Ordensburg Vogelsang 1, 8 (1938): 2–5, cited in: Kiran Klaus Patel, “Sinnbild der nationalsozialistischen Weltanschauung,” in: Paul Ciupke, Weltanschauliche Erziehung in Ordensburgen des Nationalsozialismus: zur Geschichte und Zukunft der Ordensburg Vogelsang (Essen: Klartext, 2006), 22–52 (46). (I have based my observations relative to this citation on Patel’s essay.) 107 Anon., “Burgen – wie Städte,” March (1937) [No newspaper name given.]: BARCH Berlin, NS22 / 559 [Press clippings]. 108 From at least 1937, the Cologne earthmoving and garden design firm of Theodor Elsche was responsible for landscape improvement works at Vogelsang. The firm was a landscape construction firm, rather than a landscape architecture design office, which could explain the crudeness of the planting layouts. A firm specializing in earthworks would have been appropriate, considering the complex site; whether the firm was involved in the initial excavations is unclear; the Elsche firm later worked on the construction of bunkers on the Channel Islands during WWII. Source: Auf listung der Firma Elsche zu Außenstände DAF, Berlin, “Ordensburg Vogelsang,” August 4, 1937. Fragment in AVIP, vorl. Karton Bauwerk/Architektur. 109 Ewald Bender, “Die Ordensburgen Vogelsang und Crössinsee,” Wasmuths Monatshefte für Baukunst (1936), 293–312 (296). 110 Schmitz-Ehmke, 23. 111 Ibid., 23–24. 112 Ibid., 23–25. 113 Anon., “Burgen.” 114 Loc. cit. 115 Schmitz-Ehmke, 23. 116 Happel, 11. 117 Troost, 49–54. 118 “Die drei Ordensburgen der NSDAP,” NS-Monatshefte (1936): 546–567, cited in: Heinen, Ordensburgen, 53. 119 See for example: Früchtel, 55–59. 120 Seifert published this small book on Sonthofen, where he noted that he had been involved in the stonework for the first phase; it seems unlikely that he would have published a book on a landscape design that he was not involved with: Alwin Seifert, N. S. Ordensburg Sonthofen (Kempten im Allgäu: Allgäuer Dr. u. Verl. Anst., 1937), n.p. 121 Oberallgäuer Nationalzeitung July 24 (1934) cited in: Happel, 13. 122 Oberallgäuer Nationalzeitung April 8 (1936) cited in: Happel, 18–19. 123 In English, the “donjon” is the innermost keep or central tower in a castle; the correct translation of “donjon” is “Burg frieden,” but “Palas” translates as “great hall,” which does not evoke the same imagery in English. 124 Seifert, Sonthofen, n.p.

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125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139

140 141 142 143 144 145 146

147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154

Loc. cit. Loc. cit. Loc. cit. Angelika Beckmann, and Bodo von Dewitz, eds. Dom, Tempel, Skulptur: Architekturphotographien von Walter Hege (Cologne: Verlagshaus Wienand, 1993), 53, 62–63. Beckmann, 269–270. Seifert, Sonthofen, n.p. Odo Ritter, “Das schöne Land Ostpommern,” in: Das Bollwerk: Zeitschrift für ide Pommersche Heimat July (1936): 221. Ley, Ordensburg, n.p. Rosenberg, Letzte Aufzeichungen, (1955), 176, cited in: Schmitz-Ehmke, 9. Ewald Bender, “Die Ordensburgen Vogelsang und Crössinsee,” Wasmuths Monatshefte für Baukunst (1936): 293–312 (307). Ibid., 303. Ibid., 304. Ibid., 307. Sawinski, 23. Historic photographs of Klotz’s model and the demolition and construction work published by Sawinski suggest that the House of Knowledge was to be located on axis with the Hall of Honor, but this is difficult to substantiate. Sawinski’s own plan (p. 22) appears to give a slightly incorrect location for the House of Knowledge, for photos of the two towers as built (pp. 118–119) show that they were battered on the side facing towards the direction of the main gate, meaning that the rest of the building would have extended in the direction of the barracks, judging by photographs of the model (p. 59). See: Sawinski, Krössinsee. While the House of Knowledge was never completed, corner towers were constructed at full height, as shown in fig. 4.38. Sawinski, 30. Folded site plan, markup of 1934 government survey map, no other dates, BARCH Berlin, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 81; to the author’s knowledge, this plan has not been published previously. Der Ober-Präsident der Provinz Pommern, Stettin I, July 15, 1941, gez. SchwedeCoburg, BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 80. BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 80, 83. Heinen, Ordensburgen, 68. Der Regierungs-Präsident des Regierungsbezirks Grenzmark Posen-Westpreußen [Paul Eckhardt], Schneidemühl August 15, 1941, An den Herrn Reichsminister des Innern in Berlin [Wilhelm Frick] durch die Hand des Herrn Oberpräsidenten [Franz Schwede-Coburg] in Stettin Landeshaus, BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 83. Schneidemühl, August 15, 1941. Loc. cit. [See also site plan register, Bl. 81.] Loc. cit. Wilhelm Lotz, “Das Seebad der Zwanzigtausend,” die neue linie June (1938): 19–22, 72. BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 84. By contrast, the written report calls for “a large KdF home” (“ein großes KdFHeim”) as well as “KdF Tourist Homes” (“KdF-Fremdenheime”) in every village, BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 83–84. BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 85. The work of the early nineteenth-century Prussian landscape architect Peter Lenné enjoyed a renaissance at this time, see for example the aforementioned study by the landscape architect of the Reich Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg: Gerhard

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155 156

157 158 159

160 161 162 163 164 165 166

167 168 169 170 171 172 173

174

175 176 177

263

Hinz, Peter Lenné, und seine bedeutendsten Schöpfungen in Berlin und Potsdam (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1937). (See also Chapter 3 note 100.) Kyra T. Inachin, Der Aufstieg der Nationalsozialisten in Pommern (Schwerin: Helms, 2002). Der Reichsminister des Innern Berlin, January 27, 1942, An den Herrn Reg.-Pres. in Schneidemühl [Paul Eckhardt] – d. d. Hd. des Oberpräsidenten in Stettin, Betr.: Ordensburg “Die Falkenburg am Krössinsee.” Zum dortigen Bericht, Oct. 25, 1941, BARCH, R1501 / 1292, Bl. 104. Secondary studies on the Seaside Resort at Prora: see note 1 above. Jak P. Mallmann Showell, Hitler’s Naval Bases (Stroud (UK): Fonthill, 2013), n.p. “Niederschrift über die am 18. Februar 1936 in Berlin, Potsdammerstr. 75 abgehaltene Arbeitstagung der an der Entwurfsarbeitung für das Kraft-durch-Freude Seebad auf Rügen beteiligten Architekten,” p. IV: Arbeitstagung zum Wettbewerb Prora [Feb. 18] 1936, mit Robert Ley, BA Berlin NS22/808 (copy in Prora Documentation Center, Berlin). Cited in: Rostock, Paradiesruinen, 52–53. “Niederschrift über,” II. Robert Ley, Durchbruch der sozialen Ehre (Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, 1939), 167. See also: Mit Kdf in den Urlaub (1938) Frontispiece. “Niederschrift über,” II. Ibid., V. Loc. cit. Ewald Bender, “Wettbewerb für ein K.d.F. Seebad auf Rügen,” Baugilde (1936): 819–827 (824). Rostock, 52–53. However, there is evidence that another architect may also have been working on the design of the resort. A perspective drawing of the resort by the architect Sergius Ruegenberg was published in the professional journal Bauwelt in October, 1935. Ruegenberg had worked for Mies van der Rohe, and his perspective showed a more modernist steel and glass facade than that by Klotz. However, Ruegenberg was not associated with the design competition held in early 1936, nor does it appear that he had any further involvement. The connection remains somewhat of a mystery. See: Eva-Maria Amberger, Sergius Ruegenberg: Architekt zwischen Mies van der Rohe und Hans Scharoun (Berlin: Berlinische Gallerie, 2000), 16–18, 23, 42, 110–111. See also: Magrit Kühl, “Prora/Rügen. Zum Aktuellen Stand der Entwicklung,” in: Bauwelt 90, 12 (1999): 580–582. Rostock, 56. Willi Heidrich, “Organisation der Grossbaustelle des KDF.- Seebades Rügen,” Der Deutsche Baumeister 7 (1939): 31–36 (31). W. Pingel, “Modelschau der DAF. in Berlin,” Arbeitertum 8 (1938–39): 15–16. Rostock, Paradiesruinen, 55–58. Troost, 100. On Sassnitz: Troost, 50. The Klotz perspectives have been wrongly interpreted by some historians as evidence that the trees in front of the buildings were to be clear cut, which was not the case; omitting or minimizing trees in a facade rendering is a common architectural graphic device. To the author’s knowledge, the involvement of Nussbaum as landscape architect has never been discussed in previous historical studies. See: Ewald Bender, “Das Rügenbad: Architektur wächst aus der Landschaft,” Westdeutscher Beobachter, Nov. 2, 1938. Loc. cit. Loc. cit. (It is possible that Nussbaum was involved in writing the competition brief, but this is not known.) Abschrift: Programmübersicht für das Projekt eines “Kraft durch

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178 179 180 181 182

183

184 185 186 187 188 189 190

Freude” Seebades auf Rügen: Gutschow papers in Staatsarchiv Hamburg 621-2/11, A 203-1, Gutschow N, -322-3. Bender, “Rügenbad.” Ibid. Abschrift, Programmübersicht, n.p. Bender, “Rügenbad.” Leser, 486 (from the private papers of Willi Heidrich); Lichtnau, 27, note 35: “Den Namen des Gartenbaudirektors nannte Frau Johanna Gätke, Greifswald. Frau Elisabeth Tappeser, geb. Intemann informierte in einem Schreiben vom 27. August 1992 über die Tätigkeit ihres Vaters, Herrn Baurat Ludwig Intemann in Prora.” Kostenanschlag der Gärtnersichen Arbeiten im KDF-Seebad Rügen, pp. 58–62, Anlage 15 zur Gesamtkostenzusammenstellung, Baudirektor [Heidrich] October 29, 1938, pp. 58–62: Landesarchiv Greifswald, Sig. Rep. 66 Nr. 6 Rügen (copy in Prora Documentation Center, Berlin). Abschrift, Programmübersicht, n.p. “Kostenanschlag.” Hamburger Tageblatt, August 6, 1939, cited in: Wilkens, 125, note 36. Karen Fiss, Grand Illusion: The Third Reich, the Paris Exhibition, and the Cultural Seduction of France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 77. Wilhelm Lotz, “Das Seebad der Zwanzigtausend,” die neue linie June (1938): 19–22, 72. Ibid. Lotz was not referring to the concentration camps here, but rather recreational camps such as those for the Hitler Youth. Ibid., 72.

5 VENERATING THE BLOOD-SOAKED SOIL Monumentalized Landscapes as Memorials

The following five sites all commemorated specific historic events or celebrations tied to particular locations deemed of national importance by the Nazis: Annaberg, Bückeberg, the Saxon Grove (Sachsenhain), the Schlageter Cross (Schlageterkreuz), and Tannenberg.1 At these memorials the blood and soil ideology was evoked through the usual rhetoric connecting race to the land, and even more so through the fetishization of the “blood-soaked soil” where heroic figures gave their lives in defense of the national territory, as per official Nazi narratives. (Bückeberg was the one exception, but this deficiency was addressed through the event itself.) In contrast to the Order Castles where blood and soil references were designed into the architecture, here the sites themselves were selected precisely because they manifestly represented this connection – even without any further additions.2 The ground and the immediate landscape were the primary focus of attention in all of these locations, not just as the surface underfoot, nor simply as inspiring background scenery, but as the primary substance of the monument itself. At these sites the landscape was in effect monumentalized, which was certainly not incidental to the intended propaganda message. Furthermore, here the geopolitical significance was essential, since the reason that these patches of ground were fought for in the first place was that most were located in contested areas, which they came to stand for. A defining shared characteristic was that all were variations on two archetypal landscape spaces – either the clearing in the grove or the depression in the ground. Recall that Schultze-Naumburg had celebrated the clearing in the grove as the archetypal Germanic worship and gathering space. Nazi designers would have been aware of this association, and capitalized on these ancient, primeval associations through their designs. These were not large building complexes as in the previous cases, but rather minimal structures that primarily served to define one dominant landscape space. Since these memorials served the aims DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-6

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of strengthening the sense of national community and preparing the populace for further military action, naturally these spaces were designed to hold large groups, and some included actual theaters. This theatrical aspect was not merely metaphorical, it was critical to the functioning of each site. One important background inf luence was of particular significance in this respect: the “thingstead” (Thingplatz) movement.3 In the 1920s this movement arose as a kind of people’s theater with all performances to be held outdoors in Greek-theater-like spaces, even though the term “thingstead” referred to the place where an assembly called a “Thing” had allegedly been held among ancient Germans. However, the actual history was vague and romanticized; it was not really clear, for example, how the actual spaces had been designed, with different Nazi-era protagonists making competing conjectural claims. As open-air theaters, thingsteads were typically located in dramatic landscapes representing the local Heimat, which quite literally acted as backdrops. In a complementary development, at each of the memorial sites here, even those not designed as thingsteads or that lacked a stage, the movement of masses of people contributed to the event experience; the sense of a boundary between the figures enacting the ritual and the audience was often blurred. And like the many thingsteads erected in this period, these were also intended as local landmarks and even pilgrimage destinations. In a similar manner to the Order Castles, this group of memorials also evolved to become part of an overall ensemble, with all but one (Sachsenhain) represented on the 1939 autobahn map. The Nazis took full advantage of the fact that each was associated with a specific date, as well as with a particular hero or heroic group. As part of their efforts to dominate the annual calendar the Nazis established a series of new holidays, with most dates being linked to these specific memorial locations.4 Ceremonies marking these holidays could thus be held at different sites throughout the year, and the actual events broadcast nationally by radio. Since most sites were located in contested areas, in this way the geopolitical and the temporal merged, as yet another means of using actual places to saturate the public consciousness and spread propaganda messages. Because all of these memorials except one (Bückeberg) commemorated military or pseudomilitary sacrifice, militaristic imagery was inherently appropriate and required no justification. However, in comparison to interwar memorials in other countries that were associated with calls for peace, these sites highlighted the continuing need for Germany to actively defend itself from foreign aggression, in no uncertain terms.

Bückeberg: Traditional Rural Festival as Mass Media Event The Bückeberg site was essentially an open field on a slope where the Nazi national harvest festival (Erntedankfest) was to take place every year starting in October 1933.5 As a spatial archetype, the open field was considered to be one of the original ancient gathering spaces, comparable to the grove, and in this respect belongs to this grouping. While the Bückeberg site was the only one where

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no blood had been shed, nevertheless it was a monumentalized landscape with strong blood and soil symbolism. Bückeberg was inspired in part by a project that immediately proceeded it, Albert Speer’s event design for the Nazi Labor Day celebration at Tempelhof Field in Berlin, first held on May 1, 1933 (therefore this earlier project will be considered first).6 Traditionally, May First had been the socialist worker’s day, or “Labor Day” (Tag der Arbeit) in Germany and elsewhere, so it was only logical that the National Socialist regime would seize control of these celebrations from the labor unions, as their first move towards establishing their own Party labor union. (All labor unions were dissolved and their assets violently seized on the next day, May 2.)7 Tempelhof Field on the southern edge of central Berlin was an enormous open space previously used as a Prussian military exercise ground as well as for public events; as such it offered an ideal location for a massive Labor Day celebration. As head of the Propaganda Ministry, Goebbels conceived of this event himself, as another means of establishing a sense of national community. He declared his ambitions in the usual hyperbolic tone: “May First will be a mass event such as the world has never seen before.”8 Goebbels’ intended audience was not only national but also international, for he envisioned a media spectacle demonstrating the new regime’s success to the entire world. Speer had recently renovated Goebbels’ office, and was subsequently rewarded with the commission to design the staging, his first major project for the regime.9 However, Goebbels also entrusted the overall organization to a younger colleague in the Ministry, Leopold Gutterer, who not insignificantly had a background in theater studies.10 Most likely, Gutterer inf luenced the theatrical staging concept, although Speer never credited him. The final design for the staging was extremely minimalistic, which appears to have had more in common with Soviet-era agitprop than the neoclassical piles that Speer would later envision. In contrast to the other projects considered here, the emphasis at Tempelhof Field was solely on the space itself and the crowd of one-million people that it was to accommodate, with any references to blood and soil in terms of the ground or landscape conspicuously absent11 (Figure 5.1). Geopolitically, Berlin was the capital of the Reich, and thus the power center for the labor unions as well as the national government. Speer’s major tasks were to focus people’s attention and to create a sense of enclosure through the most minimalistic means possible, for as he later claimed: “The material with which the mass event is to be created must always be the crowd itself.”12 He solved the problem of establishing an optical center on a f lat site by creating a “f lag hill,” as a kind of metaphorical landscape feature.13 This artificial “hill” was essentially a bank of wooden reviewing stands, rising up to a height of ca 33 ft (10 m). Visual impact was further intensified through “three enormous groups of banners that rose behind the f lags and standards up to a height of eight meters [ca 26 ft]…with a width of over three meters [ca 10 ft].”14 As the finishing touch, rows of f lags were installed around the perimeter to strengthen the feeling of enclosure and thus of community as well. Through the latest media technology the experience would be

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FIGURE 5.1

Aerial view of the Berlin Nazi Labor Day festival with Speer’s staging design, 1933.

heightened for the crowd on location, and the event could be broadcast nationally and internationally: underground cable for loudspeakers was laid across the site, radio broadcasting facilities were provided, and towers erected for movie cameras.15 What Speer learned from this exercise was the importance of procuring a large, unobstructed space with good viewing lines to accommodate massive crowds, and the need for simple, strong symbols as focal points, as well as the effective use of the latest media technology. The Nazi Labor Day event took place without any major mishaps or inconveniences, and was generally regarded by the Party as an enormous success. However, the Party elite must have realized that a labor union event held in the metropolis of Berlin did not represent a complete cross-section of working people across the country. While the May First event represented factory workers and tradesmen, a different kind of celebration was needed to focus upon the German farmer and the agricultural sector, as a means of including more of the actual national community. Walther Darré, the Reich Food and Agriculture Minister (Reichsminister für Ernährung und Landwirtschaft) and socalled Reich Farmers Leader (Reichsbauernführer), was the first to propagate blood and soil concepts within the Party, and in the late 1920s had already identified the German farmer as the pillar of society.16 For Darré and his adherents, the farmer stood in closest relationship to the soil, as the very embodiment of the blood and soil ideal. However, it was apparently Goebbels who conceived of a national harvest day festival, which would be held as a mass event for the first time.17 Historically, small harvest festivals had been held in local communities

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for centuries, with farmers processing with offerings to the local church, where thanks would be given. As part of their coordinated effort to take over the annual calendar, the Nazis declared that the national harvest festival was to be an official Party celebration. Since the Labor Day celebration had been held at an urban site in Berlin, it was also logical that a rural site should be found for the new Nazi harvest festival. A later mission statement by Darré summed up the intended symbolism: “we want to express the rejection of liberalism and show that the asphalt wasteland of the metropolis no longer determines the fate of our farmers.”18 Goebbels again appointed Gutterer to be in charge of finding a site and realizing the project.19 Gutterer was instrumental in the site selection process, and appears to have planned the event, even if Speer was in charge of site design and construction. As Gutterer implied in an article that he later wrote for the ladies’ magazine, “the new line,” from the beginning the main concern was to find an ideal cultural landscape: At Bückeberg we followed the old Germanic custom of creating a celebration space in the open air, in a place favored by nature for this purpose. On my many journeys throughout the Reich, I have not yet found a place that seems more desirable to me than Bückeberg. It rises steeply from the fertile Weser plain, and at its foot this German river shines like silver. The eye wanders over the wide expansive fields, lingers on bright tidy villages, and scans the high slopes of the Weser hill country. In the distance, the towers and chimney smoke of the city of Hamelin herald the common destiny of all working people. It is German landscape, soil from which bread grows year after year for the German people, truly the most suitable place for this celebration, where every year hundreds of thousands of people experience this contemplative but joyful festival, Thanksgiving Day20 As Gutterer’s reference to the landscape suggests, at Bückeberg a different aspect of blood and soil symbolism was to be appreciated here, for the harvest festival was ultimately an acknowledgment that the German race was sustained by the fruits of the soil, thanks to the efforts of German farmers. The Bückeberg landscape was to provide a theatrical setting for the festival, but it did not function merely as a static background, for spectators were completely surrounded by the scenery of the valley before them. Not only was the topography eminently suited to the purpose, the region was also thought to be authentic German heartland, and the Weser River revered as a truly “German” watercourse since it f lowed entirely within the Old Reich boundaries. The nearby town of Hamelin, famous for the Pied Piper legend, further contributed to the charmed ambiance. Yet already in 1933 it was decided to add a more direct symbol of the Nazi Party to the cultural landscape by constructing a monument to Horst Wessel on nearby Süntel mountain, which would have been visible from Bückeberg.21 Wessel was a Nazi “martyr” allegedly murdered by a communist in Berlin in 1930, but his

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grandparents owned a farm close to Süntel mountain; thus this monument would link the urban martyr to his authentic rural roots, while also strengthening the Nazi presence in the immediate cultural landscape. Logistically, Bückeberg was also an ideal location because several train stations were located nearby, and the Weser was a navigable river.22 Furthermore, the land belonged to the Prussian state and thus could be easily obtained.23 Touristic promotion of the Bückeberg festival site was so successful that it became a major attraction in the region alongside the legendary town of Hamelin.24 “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” mentioned the Bückeberg site, and as noted, on the 1939 autobahn map it was indicated by an icon of a farmwoman in traditional garb.25 Speer immediately recognized that the topography of the sloping site was shaped almost like a natural amphitheater, and thus inherently suitable for a mass event with 500,000 attendees.26 Again, he took a minimalistic approach towards site design, obviously applying the lessons he had learned at Tempelhof Field, not merely for economic reasons but more importantly to preserve the rural character and to avoid detracting from the landscape itself. Here the field was not just an abstract open space, for it was also a symbolically charged piece of German earth. Essentially, Speer only included four major design elements.27 At the top of the hill Speer placed a wooden reviewing stand with the symbolic altar, and at the base of the site a wooden pyramidal speakers’ stand reminiscent of the “f lag hill” at Tempelhof (Figures 5.2 and 5.3). These were connected by the elevated “Führer’s Path” on the central site axis, intended specifically for Hitler and his entourage. Finally, the whole site was surrounded by a ring of swastika f lags, just as the Tempelhof site had been. Here this was ring was further accentuated by the new anti-aircraft searchlights that shined into the sky above forming a

FIGURE 5.2

Collage of crowd at Bückeberg with attendees in traditional dress in foreground, with reviewing stands in background.

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FIGURE 5.3

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Aerial view of crowd at Bückeberg looking down towards the river valley.

kind of light canopy, an effect that Speer would later perfect at Nuremberg as the “cathedral of light.”28 Because Speer and his crew only had about a month to prepare for the first festival in October 1933, the original site preparations were somewhat crude. For example, there was no time to plant grass, so the ground was strewn with straw. In 1934, the site was elevated to the status of “Reich Thingstead,” and new plans were prepared by Speer with a projected completion date of 1940 (not realized due to the war)29 (Figure 5.4). The wooden reviewing stands and the speakers’ platform were to be replaced with permanent stone structures, and a masonry retaining wall with monumental access stairs would surround the field, which was to be substantially enlarged. Massive earth-moving would be required to achieve this, not to simulate a naturalistic landscape, but rather to create a smooth earthen platform pitched to ensure ideal viewing conditions for all spectators. In 1937 a local reported that: when the project is completed in about two years, it will harmonize with the lines of the landscape so that the overall impression is not disturbed in any way. This is also the wish and will of the Führer.30 To give some idea of the scale involved, ca 392,000 cubic yards (300,000 cu m) of earth was needed to fill behind ca 3,900 feet (1,200 m) of retaining wall, upon which ca 2,500 f lags were to be installed.31 The minimalistic end effect in fact required massive effort and expense to achieve. Paradoxically, the contours of the field itself could only be appreciated by tourists and others when it was empty, for during the festival days it was completely covered with people.

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FIGURE 5.4

Speer’s final scheme for Bückeberg.

At the traditional harvest festival, farmers would bring an offering such as a wreath to the village church as a symbol of thanks. This had typically been a local celebration with clear religious significance. The Nazis completely transformed the ceremony for their own propaganda aims, in a sense modernizing it for mass-culture. In the new Nazi version, the most significant figure was not the village priest, but Adolf Hitler himself, who represented the entire German state. The ceremony was designed so that Hitler would first ascend the slope on the path dedicated to him, with admirers on either side. (Apparently this ritualized procession was conceived by Gutterer.)32 Once at the top, The Führer would lay a wreath on the ceremonial altar, which had only the vaguest religious symbolism. He then would precede back along the same path down to the bottom of the slope, where he would start the series of official speeches. Any traditional symbolism was supplanted by that of the Party: the farmers and their families were feted as members of the national community, as defined by Nazi ideology. While this celebration may not seem to have any obvious connection to militarization and bloodshed, as usual one of the main reasons for reinforcing the farmers’ sense of belonging to the Nazi national community was to prepare them for war. Thus, as an appropriate complement to the harvest festival, military exercises were staged in the f lat area between the speakers’ platform and the river, thus compensating for the lack of military history at the site. In one such demonstration, a mock village was destroyed to give German farm people a taste of the excitement of warfare.33 This was not simply an idle distraction, but rather a critical component within the overall propagandistic exercise.

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Despite the vacuousness of the actual ritual, great efforts were made by organizers and participants to give the event a traditional appearance, primarily through the display of handcrafted ornaments and the wearing of traditional costumes representing each Heimat region. It was claimed that 8,000 farm men and women from across the Reich attended in their traditional Heimat clothing, with the farmwomen arguably receiving more media attention, for this was one of the few events where women actually played a central role. 34 This represented another attempt by the organizers to culturally consolidate the country, yet the traditional handmade clothing and ornaments were completely divorced from their original contexts, and simply absorbed within this Nazi Party mass theatrical spectacle, as seen in innumerable period images. As to be expected, this celebration was not solely a matter of social inclusion: Jews were specifically excluded, and local undesirables were temporarily incarcerated in Hamelin during the festival, so as to avoid any potential unpleasant distractions.35 The event itself was a kind of grand media illusion, an ostensibly traditional festival supported by an extensive technical infrastructure. Just as at the Labor Day celebration site in Berlin, underground cables were laid across the Bückeberg site for loudspeakers and lighting, and the vast crowd could not have come together from across the Reich so rapidly without the extensive national railway network, as well as modern automobiles and aircraft.36 In reality, the harvest festival actually had more in common with modern industrialized farming, than with Darré’s plans to preserve traditional farm living as a racial construct. The mass scale of the Bückeberg festival ensured the geopolitical significance of the site as the national monument to the German farmer, but precisely because of this great scale, the original significance of the intimate village ceremony was entirely lost. Arguably, the most substantive element at Bückeberg was the historic cultural landscape setting itself, which transcended the superficial Nazi symbolism thrust upon it.

The Saxon Grove: The National Community and Soldiers of Stone As the name “Saxon Grove” (Sachsenhain) suggests, this site was a picturesque landscape of groves and meadows, to be experienced at the level of detail rather than the grand panoramic view; the implied reference to the archetypal grove as ancient meeting place was not incidental. Like Bückeberg, the Saxon Grove was not located near a border, but in the symbolic German heartland of Lower Saxony. Through minimal design interventions, the mythical history of this pastoral setting was brought to life in a new Nazi cultural landscape. According to local legends, this was the site of the cold-blooded massacre of 4,500 Saxon men at the hands of the King of the Franks, Charlemagne, and his soldiers in 782 CE. One of the main reasons for Saxon resistance was Charlemagne’s demand that they convert to Christianity. About 1,150 years later, the Saxon Grove memorial was dedicated by the Nazi elite Heinrich Himmler and Alfred Rosenberg

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on the day of the summer solstice, June 22, 1935.37 They made it clear that this memorial should inspire Germans to identify with these ancient Saxons, and like them be prepared to defend their culture and land against foreign aggressors, in the historical case, Charlemagne and his men. The fact that Charlemagne was a Frank was often misinterpreted to mean that he was aligned with the French, when in fact the Franks were a Germanic tribe at the time of the massacre. Although the site, known locally as the “meadow of the dead” (Totenwiese) was traditionally associated with this event, Himmler and the other Nazis involved accepted from the beginning that this was an apocryphal attribution. The only certainty was that the event took place near the town of Verden on the Aller. Only notionally was the soil at the Saxon Grove “blood-soaked.” Furthermore, there was an ongoing debate as to whether the event was a cold-blooded massacre or a battle, or even whether the Saxons had only been captured and exiled.38 Himmler, Rosenberg, and their followers believed that a massacre had in fact occurred, but other Nazis including Hitler were not convinced, arguing instead that Charlemagne was a true Germanic hero. Thus, from the beginning the propagandistic focus was somewhat confused, and the association with the chosen site an obvious fiction. For Himmler personally this was inconsequential, since the basic message supported the Nazi goal of military readiness, and the project satisfied his own passionate interest in “ancient” Germanic culture and religion, in keeping with his Ancestral Heritage institute.39 Because the leader of the Saxons massacred by Charlemagne, Duke Widukind, was a popular Nazi hero, the quest to build a memorial to him and this event intensified in the early years of the regime. The conservative publisher Julius Lehmann, a confidant of Hitler, proposed a massive monument to Widukind near the center of Verden, at a considerable distance from the legendary site of the massacre.40 His proposal was rejected, and instead a power play ensued between Goebbels and the Reich League for Open-Air and People’s Theater (Reichsbund für deutsche Freilicht- und Volksschauspiele) on the one hand, and Himmler and Rosenberg on the other, with both parties wanting to build a memorial thingstead.41 Their desire to build a thingstead indicates that both parties wanted to emphasize the actual landscape traditionally associated with the massacre. The exact order of events is unclear, but the Reich League for Open-Air and People’s Theater commissioned the architect Fritz Schaller, whose drawings dated March 1934 show a thingstead of the circular, Greek theater type.42 His drawings made little reference to the surrounding landscape, and the theater seating was not embedded in the soil, but rather supported by an architectural superstructure. For whatever reasons this design was not executed, and Himmler and Rosenberg succeeded in taking control of the project. In general, both of these men thought that the circular type was inappropriate, arguing that the original German type had been rectangular.43 Even before Schaller presented his design, the landscape architect Wilhelm Hübotter had already prepared drawings of his own design in January of that year, which showed a rectangular thingstead as a discrete object within the

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FIGURE 5.5

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Hübotter’s initial thingstead scheme for the Saxon Grove, dated January 1934.

“meadow of the dead” site44 (Figure 5.5). While this unpublished version was not the final design, as a diagram it clearly reveals how the ritual performance would have played out in this rectangular thingstead. A high earthen dam with a path atop surrounded the central space; on either side of the path were placed rows of trees and erratic boulders. In the exact center of the main space was a high earthen mound, which was perhaps to be the speaker’s, or Führer’s platform. The site was located in a f lood plain, so this dam was a practical feature; but more significantly it provided the audience in the central space with a dramatic view of the performers processing above, following the thingstead principle of staging mass processions along the perimeter. Because the central space was in effect sunken within the earthen dam structure, the feeling of engaging with the ground would have been intensified, making up for the lack of topographic variation at the site. At this point, there was in fact almost no design relationship between the form of the thingstead and the actual site, and once participants were inside the main space they would have had no awareness of their wider surroundings. Subsequent plan and perspective drawings by Hübotter dated August 1934 labeled “version two,” showed that the grove was to be developed with paths and three open spaces along its edge, with one labeled a “thingstead”45 (Figure 5.6). The most important existing topographic feature of the site was the slightly elevated layer of geest with the grove upon it, a typical characteristic of the northwest German landscape, which this second scheme took full advantage of. Here the circumferential path was also lined with the boulders standing

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FIGURE 5.6

Hübotter’s perspective of the Saxon Grove site, including thingstead in Figure 5.5.

for the slaughtered men, and labeled the “Saxon Way” (Sachsenweg) for the first time. In this version the discreet rectangular form remained, but was surrounded with low plantings and labeled a “graveyard” (Totenacker), with graphics suggesting various imitation “ancient” tombs. (This feature was not retained in the final design.) The inclusion of these spurious ancient elements demonstrates the degree to which Himmler and others wanted to imbue the site with the aura of history. In a subsequent plan dated January, 1935, the rectangular form was eliminated altogether, indicating a radical change in approach46 (Figure 5.7). By this time Himmler was in full control of the project, but the subtlety of this design project suggests that the landscape architects probably made this decision on their own; in any case, Himmler accepted this scheme as the final design.47 In this version, an earthen causeway at the level of the geest was added on the open side of the meadow to complete the circuit of the Saxon way and enclose the space, effectively transforming it into a thingstead. While the design was completely different from the first rectangular thingstead scheme, on a diagrammatic level the central space was still surrounded by an elevated path where the ritual participants would gradually process on their way to the thingstead. In this way, the grove and meadow landscape became the actual performance spaces, meaning that there was no separation at all between the setting and the ritual performance (Figure 5.8). Once those processing had descended into the central space, then the audience and performers would have joined together as one, in

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FIGURE 5.7

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Hübotter’s final scheme for the Saxon Grove, dated January 1935.

yet another manifestation of the national community, but with the main focus here on the SS. Hübotter’s assistant on the project, landscape architect Reinhard Berkelmann, published an essay in 1937 in the professional journal “Garden Design” (Die Gartenkunst), explaining their design concepts in detail.48 Berkelmann began by praising the thingstead as an authentic German cultural phenomenon of great relevance to the present. However, he believed that most thingsteads were misinterpretations of the original concept, which were generally realized in inappropriate “Roman” forms, and randomly inserted within urban sports parks along with other facilities. By contrast, the true thingstead was: always connected to history and the landscape, and as a result cannot be conceived and planned as an urban green space. Such a place in a certain sense grows out of the historic landscape.49

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FIGURE 5.8

View of the main field at the Saxon Grove with stones representing slain Saxons in foreground, with fire circle and speaker’s platform in background.

After lamenting the scarcity of thingsteads designed in an organic relationship with the land, Berkelmann then presented his and Hübotter’s design as an ideal solution: From the very beginning, the correct site choice for a cultural project such as this was crucial to the overall effect of the layout. Following various other proposals, the design shown here was chosen for execution, for it fused the existing landscape with the leitmotif of the commemoration of the dead in a perfectly harmonious manner.50 Berkelmann emphasized that only limited interventions were made: the path through the woods required minimal leveling and clearing, and where the grove was too thin, more trees were planted; the two speaker’s platforms were actually natural protrusions along the edge of the elevated land that had simply been enclosed with retaining walls of erratic stones. Only the new causeway required a significant amount of earthmoving, and it too was minimalistic in form. Although plantings typical for the region would lend the woodland a naturalistic effect, Berkelmann indicated that this was to be perceived as a predominately pastoral landscape, where animals would be pastured in the meadow.51 He also described in detail the historic half-timbered farmhouses that had been re-erected on the edge of the site to create a kind of village. The most prominent of these, a communal hall on the edge of the grove, was located on axis with the “Führer’s platform,” he noted in a caption. This axis continued as a view

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corridor aligned with Verden cathedral ca two-and-a-half miles (4 km) distant.52 Considering that the Saxon Grove was dedicated to the memory of Widukind and the Saxons who resisted Christianization, and that Himmler was committed to the revival of German paganism, this seems an odd design gesture. Perhaps the landscape architects wanted to connect the site to its surroundings in the tradition of Lenné’s picturesque parks and the cathedral was the only prominent vertical feature in the vicinity; in any case, Berkelmann provided no justification. He praised the preservation of the historic farmhouses, which were not to be seen as merely a “Heimat museum,” for they were “filled with living spirit, forming a bridge between our ancestors and the current generation,” which essentially summarized how he perceived the entire site.53 Thus several cultural landscape allusions were operating at once: the blood-soaked soil of the massacre, the grove and meadow as ancient meeting place, and traditional German farm scenery. The most unusual features of the site, the 4,500 erratic boulders lining both sides of the Saxon Way, were erected at great effort and expense (Figure 5.9). Exactly who originally had the idea that each boulder would represent one of the slaughtered Saxons is unclear, but quite possibly it was not the landscape architects.54 The use of erratic boulders in memorials had long been fetishized, for different reasons, one being that they had been brought by glacial action from the Nordic countries, the perceived home of Germanic culture.55 Or as Berkelmann expressed it, such boulders were “witnesses to a powerful natural event in the ice age.”56 Himmler was in any case highly supportive of the idea, and obsessed about them at the level of detail, although the landscape architects were initially in charge of setting the design standards for the boulders.57 Shortly after construction began in 1935, a f lyer was sent out to farming communities across Lower Saxony soliciting donations of erratic boulders.58 These were to range in

FIGURE 5.9

The Saxon Way lined with glacial erratics.

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height from four feet (1.2 m) to six and a half feet (2 m), in order to approximate the size of a man; the guideline sketch showed them arranged artistically in various heights. Landscapes across Lower Saxony would be represented by the different stones; where erratic boulders could not be found, stones could be taken from local quarries. Each stone would have the name of the village carved on it once it reached the site, further strengthening the sense of geographic representation. Although in the beginning quarried stones were accepted, in summer 1938 Himmler requested that all of these be replaced by true erratics, such was the fetishistic significance that he attached to them.59 As another layer of historic association, many conservatives during the period, including the landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking, saw the stone age dolmens scattered across the northern German landscape as evidence of the deeply rooted German creative spirit; hence it was appropriate to reproduce similar massive stone configurations in homage to their ancestors.60 (Incidentally, Wiepking and Hübotter were close colleagues.)61 But here at the Saxon Grove, each boulder represented a dead man, in an almost animistic sense. The editor of “Garden Design,” where Berkelmann published his article, referred to them as, “accusers turned to stone.”62 Since they were not literal, figurative representations, the connection to the earth was even more direct and primordial. The entire group of 4,500 boulders stood for the community of slaughtered Saxons, and it would not have been difficult to make the connection with contemporary discussions of the national community. Writing fifty years later, a folkish writer who was one of the instigators behind the project commented that the boulders served, “as witnesses to the incomparable willingness to sacrifice in the past.” He believed that contemporary visitors to the site could not “escape the demonic magic of the installation,” and in the meantime the stones had taken on such a deep green patina that it appeared as if, “these stones had always held vigil here for the dead.”63 Although written a half-century later, these comments by a period protagonist give an idea of the intense symbolic power invested in these stones during the Nazi era. The Saxon Grove site was dedicated in a summer solstice celebration held on June 22, 1935, for Himmler and others believed that the solstice was one of the most important festival dates for pagan Germans. Himmler and Rosenberg proceeded together down the Saxon Way to the communal house, with Wagnerian music being played in the background, all amidst an appropriately atmospheric mist rising from the meadow. SS men bearing torches also processed along the Saxon Way, and after they had joined the spectators in the thingstead meadow a bonfire was lit. Allegedly, about 10,000 people were gathered there that evening, including a group of Hitler Youth.64 A contemporary local newspaper account suggests that the landscape architects and the festival organizers succeeded in creating an experience which appeared to be rooted in the German past, even if that past was rather vaguely defined. Unlike at Bückeberg, there was no traditional festival associated with this site, the ritual as such was determined by the site design. This in turn indirectly derived from contemporary thingstead

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dramaturgy, itself a fantasy interpretation of ancient German festivals. As often the case with Nazi propaganda, the form of the presentation was more important than the content. While this was a celebration of the historic event, in his speech Himmler alluded to its relevance to the present day: There will be years when times are bad, as they were 1150 years ago. Times of struggle, perhaps, or sometimes defeat. But we believe in the unconquerable power of Nordic blood and spirit.65 Himmler’s comments appear to be a forewarning, most probably as yet another effort to prepare the population for war. However, Himmler had his own personal agenda as well. In large part Himmler conceived of the Saxon Grove as part of his project of creating a cultural context for the SS. One of his top priorities was to ensure that, “as far as possible each Standarte [SS regiment] shall have a cultural focus for German greatness and the German past, and that it should be put in order again and restored to a state worthy of a nation of culture.”66 From the time that Himmler assumed control of the Saxon Grove project, it had been assigned for the use of the local SS regiment as a center for meetings and varied events. Although the Saxon Grove site was generally open to the public as well, this was of secondary importance for Himmler. (Note that this was the only memorial within this group that was not included on the 1939 autobahn map, possibly due to Himmler’s characteristic distaste for publicity.) As with his Wewelsburg Castle, the Saxon Grove could also be thought of as an important element in Himmler’s own personal cultural landscape. The Externsteine natural rock formation near Wewelsburg was thematically related to the Saxon Grove in his mind because he associated both with ancient German pagan religion and culture. Despite the fact that there were ancient carvings of Christian symbols on the Externsteine stones, Himmler insisted that it was in fact a pagan ritual site, and ordered archeologists to find evidence to support his thesis, but to no avail.67 After having received a painting of the Externsteine by the Heimat artist Ernst Rötteken as a gift, Himmler commissioned paintings of Wewelsburg Castle and the Saxon Grove by this artist to be hung in Wewelsburg Castle, providing further evidence that he thought of these sites as a collection ref lecting his own cultural values.68 While Wewelsburg was closed to the public, collectively the three sites could nevertheless be thought of as part of a smaller cultural landscape grouping created specifically for the benefit of Himmler and his SS. Despite his enthusiasm for the Saxon Grove project, apparently Himmler was ultimately discontented with the fact that he did not know the exact location of the actual site of the alleged slaughter of the Saxons, for he ordered an archeological investigation to definitively locate it in summer 1938.69 This attempt appears to have been inconclusive, but suggests that he envisioned a new memorial at the actual site, perhaps at an even grander scale. Himmler was much less interested in mass events than his colleague Goebbels, as suggested by the fact that there were

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about 10,000 people at the 1935 Saxon Grove dedication ceremony, and 500,000 at the first Bückeberg festival in 1933. The situation at the Saxon Grove was almost the opposite to that at Bückeberg: the scale of the Saxon Grove did not allow for a large enough gathering for it to be considered of national importance, yet because it was relatively small the atmosphere was comparatively intimate, with full-immersion blood and soil symbolism. In contrast most of the other sites, the Saxon Grove was not located in a politically sensitive region, and it was associated with a somewhat obscure event in the distant past. The narrative here was even more problematic since not all Nazis would have identified with the anti-Christian symbolism, and after Hitler’s 1935 speech when he declared Charlemagne a Germanic hero, Himmler’s Saxon Grove could no longer be promoted as a site of national significance.70 Since the SS was a more secretive organization, their gatherings at Saxon Grove were not intended to be viewed by the public, although the place was generally accessible as a kind of park, and “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” made reference to it.71 Despite the relative lack of attention that the project received at the time, it remains an important example of how the Nazis monumentalized cultural landscapes. Here this was achieved primarily through the representation of the national community via the slaughtered Saxons, using unworked stones taken directly from the ground. A more literal manifestation of blood and soil symbolism is hard to imagine.

Annaberg in Silesia: From Christian Pilgrimage Site to Nazi-era Geopolitical Memorial This Nazi memorial site was named after its location, Annaberg (St. Anne Mountain), the highest topographic feature in Upper Silesia, topped by a church that had been a pilgrimage site for centuries; the area was de facto a significant cultural landscape long before the Nazis erected their memorial there in the years 1934–1938.72 Initially, in 1934 a thingstead was planned for the small valley, which was also a disused lime quarry, and soon thereafter a heavy stone mausoleum was designed for the hilltop immediately above. (The eponymous mountaintop was located farther in the background.) In complete contrast to the Saxon Grove, the historic event commemorated here was very recent: a German victory in a 1921 paramilitary conf lict over the post-World War One border with Poland. For German conservatives this was an extremely important geopolitical moment. As mandated by the Treaty of Versailles, a plebiscite was held on March 20, 1921, to determine the border between Germany and the new state of Poland, for the population in the area was a mix of people claiming either German and or Polish nationality. Aside from general nationalistic interests, this border area was prized by both groups as an economically valuable industrial district. The result of the plebiscite was that ca 60% of the population voted to stay in Germany, and 40% to join the new state of Poland, with neither side being fully satisfied with the outcome.73 Shortly thereafter, a group of Polish insurgents stormed Germanheld Annaberg, claiming it for Poland. This naturally caused great alarm across

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the old Reich, especially among conservative nationalists. Following the end of the war, private non-governmental paramilitary troops known collectively as the Free Corps (Freikorps) were set up to engage in skirmishes around the Reich, wherever national interests were thought to be under threat.74 Free Corps troops from around Germany went to Upper Silesia to retake Annaberg, and on May 21, 1921, they successfully established their position, driving the Poles away from the area. Following Treaty of Versailles mechanisms, the border was eventually set along the line that ran between German and Polish paramilitary forces when the conf lict ceased. Thus, Annaberg remained in the Old Reich, which many Poles saw as unjust. For them, Annaberg was also a symbolic location, but for the opposite reasons. On one level this was a fight for local territory, on another, it was a significant international incident. From that point on, formerly peaceful Annaberg became a major symbol of geopolitical conf lict in post-World War One Europe. Given the overt geopolitical significance of Annaberg to conservative Germans as the site where they had enjoyed their first military victory after November 1918, it was almost inevitable that the Nazis would decide to build a monument to the Free Corps troops who fell there. A memorial event was held at Annaberg on the tenth anniversary of the battle, in 1931, with members of the Nazi Party in attendance.75 Three years later in summer 1934, the League for Open-Air and People’s Theater, under Goebbels’ purview, commissioned architectural plans for a thingstead at Annaberg specifically to commemorate the men who had fallen there, and the Free Corps in general. The importance of the Annaberg memorial as a geopolitical landmark was not lost on nationalists such as the local Heimat chronicler Alfons Hayduk: “Our Annaberg thus stands in the middle between Tannenberg and Munich, as the monument to the Free Corps, the Border Defense and Self-Defense fighters, that is, midway between the Hindenburg Memorial and the Eternal Watch in front of the Field Marshals’ Hall.” 76 In other words, Annaberg occupied a symbolically strategic position between the 1914 “Tannenberg” battle site in East Prussia, where Hindenburg had decisively defeated invading Russian troops, and the nineteenth-century Field Marshals’ Hall in Munich, where the Nazis had erected a new memorial to the “martyrs” of the failed 1923 putsch led by Hitler. Following Hayduk’s logic, Annaberg completed the eastern front of a cultural landscape that began in Bavaria to the south, and ended far to the north in East Prussia (today northeast Poland and Kaliningrad). Before the conquest of Poland in 1939, most of the territory between Annaberg and Tannenberg was Polish, meaning that this was a pointedly provocative statement. Coincidentally perhaps, a line drawn from Annaberg to Tannenberg would have nearly described the eastern border of the future Wartheland Gau established in 1939, the first region to be redesigned according to Himmler’s General Plan East. Two architects in partnership received the commission to design the Annaberg Thingstead in 1934, Franz Böhmer and Georg Petrich, who had both studied architecture at the predecessor of the Technical University in Berlin, the former

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with Hans Poelzig.77 Böhmer and Petrich designed their first outdoor theater in Berlin in 1933, and more commissions for thingsteads soon followed – Annaberg was not their first.78 In most of their designs they followed a similar strategy of incorporating the theater space into the landscape, and employed a similar set of formal elements at each site, most notably a round f lag platform.79 Their choice of the exact site near Annaberg, a disused quarry in the small Kuhtal (“Cow Valley”), was obvious for it offered sloping topography for seating as well as protection from wind and off-site noise. Within the depths of the old quarry, the theater and its occupants would be completely surrounded by landforms, further intensifying the connection to the German earth. Considerable effort was made to reshape the irregular cliff face into a planar wall-like surface that would act as an appropriately rugged theatrical backdrop.80 The architects positioned the theater seating at an angle to the cliff in plan, such that distant background views were offered of the Annaberg mountain and church above on one side, and of the larger Oder River valley below on the other (Figures 5.10 and 5.11). As mentioned, Böhmer had studied with the architect Hans Poelzig who was himself a modernist, so it is perhaps not surprising that the composition of the theater forms showed an almost constructivist sensitivity (Figure 5.12). Wide, curving banks of steps, and different levels for performance including the round f lag platform were designed to accommodate the en masse movement of performers typical of the thingstead program; the seating and standing terraces were designed for an audience of 50,000.81 As with other thingstead designs, the stage forms here acted as an armature for the theatrical performances, as well as Party events. A photo from the 1938 dedication ceremony shows the f lag platform covered with men bearing swastika f lags, wholly obscuring the underlying architectural

FIGURE 5.10

The thingstead at Annaberg with the Nazi mausoleum and village atop Annaberg hill farther in the background.

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FIGURE 5.11

Oblique view of the cliff at Annaberg with the new youth hostel on hilltop to the right.

FIGURE 5.12

The flag platform at Annaberg, when not in use.

forms; in the end, the bold design was primarily intended to literally support Nazi symbols and messages82 (Figure 5.13). There appears to have been a sense that the abstract thingstead alone did not sufficiently represent the fallen, for as mentioned, a few months after construction began in October 1934, it was decided to add a mausoleum on the hilltop

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FIGURE 5.13

Dedication of the mausoleum in 1938, with flag platform covered with participants.

above the cliff, where the actual fighting took place. The mausoleum project was sponsored by the German War Graves Commission (Volksbund deutscher Kriegsgräberfürsorge), and designed by Robert Tischler, the Commission’s chief architect who was actually trained as a landscape architect.83 Through this move, the concrete symbolism and the institutional symbolism were strengthened on the site, for both the League and the Commission were important cultural and political organizations on a national level. This was also a clever compositional move, with the massive monument above acting as the positive formal counterpoint to the negative space of the theater below. Together, the thingstead and the mausoleum in the landscape resulted in a kind of Gesamtkunstwerk, as described by the district architect for Upper Silesia: Although the monument is a relatively small structure resembling a fortress with powerful buttresses growing out of the limestone, it captivates the contemplative visitor with its interior and the purity of its unique architectural design, while the immense surfaces and depths of the ceremony site give the whole an expressive character.84 Another writer commented that the mausoleum resembled a “defensive turret,” further underscoring the militaristic symbolism.85 Attracting people to this site where they would be educated about recent border struggles was of course central to the design program. To this end, Böhmer and Petrich were commissioned to design a third structure to complete

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the ensemble, a youth hostel atop the hill, which was dedicated by the Reich Youth Leader, Baldur von Schirach in 1937.86 Because the men fighting in the 1921 battle were relatively young, Annaberg was referred to by some contemporaries as the “Langemarck of Upper Silesia,” another gesture intended to inspire the youth.87 The writer Hayduk extolled the view from the youth hostel terrace: Young men and women look far into the distance from the large stone terrace beyond the memorial and celebration space, into the Upper Silesian borderland. Down below to the southwest glimmers the silver ribbon of the Oder, which passes through all of Silesia. The factories of the Oder Valley herald the symphony of Upper Silesian labor, while on the horizon the endless Heimat forests extend over the hills, the silence of the east German plains ref lected in the tranquil pine treetops.88 Viewing the surrounding territory reinforced the message that the borderlands were worth fighting for, not only for their natural beauty, but also for the power of their industries. Incorporating the site into the surrounding area was important for increasing visitor awareness of the surrounding territory, achieved in the immediate vicinity through careful plantings that harmonized with the surroundings.89 Facilitating movement around the site and to the surrounding landscape and beyond was an integral part of the landscape design. Paths were laid out that led up and down the slopes, allowing visitors to appreciate the thingstead and mausoleum from the immediate surroundings.90 The site, located in a nature protection area, was the terminus for a walking trail that began as far away as the Saarland, not insignificantly on another contested border, that with France.91 As to be expected, a new autobahn was constructed that would provide access to a car parking area that was only a ten-minute walk from the memorial complex.92 A somewhat awkward icon for the Annaberg memorial was included on the 1939 autobahn map, and “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” provided the requisite precis.93 The entire ensemble was dedicated in a formal ceremony to mark the seventeenth anniversary of the battle on May 22, 1938, with the thingstead at full capacity. No major Nazi elite attended other than the leader of the Gau; the director of the German War Graves Commission, Dr. Siegfried Eulen, officiated on behalf of Hitler.94 Six weeks prior, the caskets of the fallen had been laid out on the terrace of the youth hostel for the night, and carried to the mausoleum the following evening in a torch light procession.95 That the Nazi leaders would think it appropriate not only to build a youth hostel there, but also to ceremonially lay out the caskets in front of it once again demonstrates the importance of indoctrinating the youth with a sense of duty to defend the country, even if this required mortal sacrifice. Franz Hallbaum, the Commission landscape architect responsible for the site, gave his account of the intended symbolism of the new monument: This site is dedicated to all those who gave their lives for the existence of Germany in the Baltic States and Carinthia, in the Rhineland and Ruhr

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area, in Central Germany, Bavaria and Upper Silesia. Today, a few weeks and months after its consecration, it has already become a place of pilgrimage for Germany and in particular for Silesia. On the night of April 2 and 3, 1938, the SA solemnly interred within the mausoleum fifty-one of those who died in the storming of Annaberg in 1921, who until then had been resting in surrounding cemeteries. They keep watch at the border and give the borderlands and their people the courage and strength to preserve the German way of life and German faith.96 In essence, the Nazis replaced St. Anne’s reliquary as the pilgrimage goal of the faithful with a national memorial to the Free Corps, and the battles that they fought around the Reich.97 However, no major memorial events were held at Annaberg after 1938, because following the annexation of Austria in 1938 and the subsequent conquest of Poland in 1939, the former border fought for in 1921 was no longer of great contemporary significance.98 The geopolitical dynamics had shifted. One of the most important figures who fought at Annaberg, Leo Schlageter, had become the heroic symbol of the entire Free Corps in the meantime. Assassinated by the French, he was a revered national martyr among conservatives, and his memorial on the edge of Düsseldorf effectively stood for the Free Corps as well. Yet despite this loss of geopolitical relevance, among all of the dozens of thingsteads constructed across Germany in the Nazi era, arguably Annaberg was the one given the most attention in the media. Together with the mausoleum atop the rugged cliff, this thingstead site was an unmistakable symbol of heroic blood sacrifice.

The Schlageter Cross: From Martyr’s Sandpit to Triumphal Grand Allée The Schlageter Cross (Schlageterkreuz) was constructed to commemorate the execution in May 1923 of the German Free Corps fighter, and terrorist, Albert Leo Schlageter, by the French occupying forces in Düsseldorf in western Germany.99 Although the cross itself was the dominant element when viewed from afar, the main memorial space was quite literally a hole in the ground, as a poetic gesture recalling the former sandpit nearby where Schlageter had been executed. In this sense, it was almost a kind of anti-monument, and in fact the Nazis had no involvement in its original construction. Yet by total coincidence, the fact that Schlageter was executed in a sandpit intensified the blood and soil symbolism, on a site where blood had actually been shed. The geographic location was also fortuitous for propaganda purposes, since Schlageter could be seen as having defended the western borderland against foreign occupation; also by chance, the execution site was located close to the Rhine, one of the most fabled rivers in Germany. For the French, Schlageter was nothing more than a radical right-wing, nationalist terrorist, whom they executed for blowing up a nearby railway bridge to disrupt French freight transport. As mentioned, Schlageter

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had been a fighter in the Free Corps in the east, and was instrumental at the Annaberg skirmish in 1921.100 He had also seen considerable action in World War One. In recognition of all of his nationalistic heroism, he was an instant martyr among conservatives, including the early Nazis. Hitler even mentioned him in Mein Kampf.101 Arguably, he was the most important single rightwing martyr figure in Germany during the entire interwar period. His closest competitor in this role was Horst Wessel, who was expeditiously turned into a martyr by propaganda guru Josef Goebbels, solely for having been a young Nazi male murdered by a communist in Berlin under murky circumstances. Only one minor monument was erected in his memory, near Bückeberg as noted, and the song that he allegedly wrote was merely an adaptation of an older military tune.102 By contrast, Schlageter stood for the heroic (or terroristic) act of one individual, the Free Corps as a whole, and the entire Rhineland region. Since Schlageter was born to Catholic parents, he was also a hero to conservatives of that religion. Already in the mid-1920s there was a movement to erect a major monument to him in Düsseldorf, and other smaller monuments around the Reich would follow. Schlageter’s death and heroism were intimately bound-up in the problematic geopolitical situation of post-World War One Germany, and he could even be said to personify it – yet another reason for his popularity as a cult figure. While other memorials, such as Annaberg, were beautiful sites situated in highly valued cultural landscapes, the location where Schlageter was executed represented the antithesis of these. The area where the sand pit was located, Golzheimer Heath, was located along the Rhine River and at that time was on the northern edge of the city of Düsseldorf. The site was at once a desolate urban fringe wasteland and a prime area for new development. A new art academy had been planned for the area before World War One, but was not completed until the early 1920s. The next most important nearby feature was an important cemetery located to the southern edge of the site. The French probably executed Schlageter in the sand pit to avoid public attention, and because their barracks were located nearby at the time (1921–1925).103 Conveniently, the cemetery was adjacent to the pit, and they first buried Schlageter there.104 The area was an unpromising location for a monument esthetically, yet at the same time easily accessible via public transport, and could potentially be incorporated within new urban planning proposals. Of course none of this was planned, and due to the French occupation in the beginning only a small cross of birch limbs could be erected in the pit. Once the French troops withdrew in 1926, a more formal oak cross was erected, along with a young oak tree, as a symbol of German strength, and of course the connection to the soil.105 The miserable character of the sand pit both enhanced the sense of the tragedy of the execution, and intensified the sense of the connection to the earth; it resembled an enormous open grave (Figure 5.14). Reportedly, nationalists started visiting the execution site immediately after his death, along with his temporary grave in the adjacent cemetery.106 He quickly became a popular

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FIGURE 5.14

Nazis honoring Schlageter at edge of sandpit where he was executed.

German hero, and a committee to facilitate the creation of a Schlageter monument was formed in 1926 soon after the French withdrawal.107 The Düsseldorf municipal parks and gardens department under the direction of the notable landscape architect Walter Freiherr von Engelhardt had already started the masterplan for the area around the memorial site in 1926.108 It was decided that the Schlageter monument would be shifted ca 164 feet (50 m) from the actual execution location, so that the memorial would align on axis with the art academy in keeping with neoclassical planning principles, while also f lanking the entrance of the cemetery.109 The evolution of the memorial project suggests that the design of the final monument may have been inf luenced by earlier proposals; the focus upon a depression in the earth had already been established long before the architect Clemens Holzmeister was retained.110 Düsseldorf ’s mayor, Dr. Robert Lehr, had initially wanted a monumental figure atop a rise, but this was rejected.111 So that the actual monument would have a “worthy” setting, the team of local architect Eduard Wehner and local painter Oskar Detering were tasked with designing the earthwork around the monument, with Wehner soley responsible for the obelisk to stand within it.112 Their design was incorporated within an overall municipal development plan in 1928, and Wehner presented two proposals for the obelisk to the city government in March 1929.113 In complete contrast to conventional monuments featuring a figure on an elevated mound, the Wehner-Detering scheme was composed of two curving ramps going down into the ground, leading on to a sunken round plaza with even higher embankments, where the obelisk would be located on center (Figure 5.15). Apparently, their design concept was intended to recall the sandpit execution site, without being literal.114 Both ramps would have first led to a view

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FIGURE 5.15

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The Wehner and Detering scheme for the Schlageter Memorial ca 1929.

of an oak tree planted to the side, probably in honor of the one formerly growing in the sandpit. The primary sculptural material was the earth itself. Blood and soil symbolism was undoubtedly intended, but the formal expression was entirely dissimilar from anything that would be constructed under the Nazis, and indeed was unusual for the entire period.115 The city later decided to construct a public park and leisure complex on the site, and engaged the well-known modernist landscape architect Leberecht Migge to prepare a proposal for the entire area in 1928.116 A Schlageter memorial in the designated location was a prescribed program requirement. Judging from his published articles, Migge was obviously more interested in promoting his concept of the “profitable park” than he was in the Schlageter monument. His design for the memorial was similar to the Wehner-Detering scheme, in that a sunken ovoid plaza reached by a f light of steps was the main focus. In his typical “garden-architectonic” style, Migge bordered the plaza with pyramidal poplars, and incorporated a relatively modest forecourt with pergolas separating it from the main drive117 (Figure 5.16). Migge’s design was much more conventional then the Wehner-Detering scheme, but it also consciously alluded to the historic sandpit. The two proposals were relatively modest, and appear to

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FIGURE 5.16

Migge’s scheme for the Schlageter Memorial ca 1929.

have been conceived as areas for quiet contemplation, at most by small groups. Neither design was executed, and the Wehner-Detering version not even published. Both were regarded as being too modest by that point, and not suitable for large-scale commemorative ceremonies.118 Yet these two prior schemes reveal the importance that Weimar-era designers with very different esthetic sensibilities attached to the sandpit as a blood and soil symbol. In 1929 the monument committee officially commissioned the Viennese architect Clemens Holzmeister, then a professor at the nearby art academy, to design the memorial that would actually be constructed and dedicated two years later in 1931.119 Schlageter was Catholic, as were some of the main agitators for the monument, and this may have been one reason why the Austrian Catholic architect Holzmeister was engaged. His design was comparatively simple and abstract, almost modernist in character, yet substantially larger and more prominent than the previous two proposals. A large circular depression acted as a forecourt to a symbolic crypt, while above it rose a ca 70 foot (23 m) high steel cross on a plinth resembling an altar, the two forms acting in a strong positive-negative relationship120 (Figure 5.17). At official commemorations, those carrying out the ceremony would have processed down into the pit, with the audience standing in a great ring around the void, echoing the dynamic of rituals in the Catholic church. No figural sculpture was incorporated, and the retaining walls surrounding the sunken plaza were faced in brick, not natural stone. The cross was made of stainless steel produced in a nearby mill, but there were no specific references to local materials and building practices otherwise.121 (The region was and remains the most important steel production center in Germany.) Nevertheless, blood and soil symbolism lay at the heart of the project, for according to Holzmeister himself: The sense of strength that is deeply connected to the soil, which was symbolic of the struggle of the Ruhr population, finds its best expression at a

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FIGURE 5.17

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View of crowd at Holzmeister’s Schlageter Memorial.

modest scale, through the dominant downward orientation of the design. The high cross here stands for overcoming grief, for salvation following the difficult path of the cross, and is also a symbol of the oath of faith that shall always be enacted at this place.122 Whatever the architectural expression may have been, modernist, expressionist, or otherwise, in the architect’s own words the underlying concept exactly aligned with the general understanding of blood and soil among conservatives. Not only was the monument associated with a specific piece of hallowed ground, it also stood for the sacrifice of the entire Ruhr Valley region, bestowing further geopolitical significance upon the site. Holzmeister claimed sole credit for the idea of the sunken plaza as a symbol of the sandpit, even though the two previous schemes by others had already proposed this in principle. What Holzmeister succeeded in accomplishing was to substantially expand the scale of the plaza without losing the sense of intimacy. Further, Holzmeister retained the location on axis with the art academy, while again presenting this as his own original idea; the cross would thus provide the visual terminus to an axial allée. The scale of the cross also meant that it could be seen as part of the larger landscape, and could even have led to associations with Mount Calvary, another landscape reference. But there was no overt expression of a local cultural landscape, and Holzmeister’s own perspective drawing indicates only a vague open space framed by trimmed trees beyond the cross. The monument location at this point was still relatively isolated; yet in a

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curious way, photos from the 1931 dedication ceremony show how the desolate landscape in the background actually added to the sublime character of the monument, and further evoked the feeling of the historic sandpit. Holzmeister’s monument, named the Schlageter Cross, was highly important for Düsseldorf as a tourist destination; “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” gave it special attention as a site of national significance.123 The cross was incorporated within graphic designs representing the city skyline, and Düsseldorf became popularly known as “Schlageter City,” ref lecting the importance of this association.124 Although the Nazis were in no way involved with the design of the monument, at the 1930 memorial ceremony held the year before Holzmeister’s monument was constructed, a large group of uniformed Nazis with lowered swastika f lags stood at the edge of the sand pit.125 After the seizure of power in 1933, the Party could then claim the Schlageter Cross memorial as their own. As part of their efforts to fill up the calendar with Nazi-sanctioned events, the anniversary of Schlageter’s death was made an official holiday. A large-scale, tenth anniversary commemoration was held on May 23, 1933, a few weeks after the Labor Day event in Berlin, although by comparison much more modest in scope and ambition. Hitler did not attend, but Hermann Göring delivered a speech in person, referring to Schlageter as, “the last soldier of the world war, and the first soldier of the Third Reich”126 Ominously, Göring believed that the monument symbolized the fact that the hero was, “to be entombed within the foundation of the new Reich.” The Nazis obviously had no difficulty claiming the man himself, and the relative modesty and simplicity of the monument meant that it didn’t overtly clash with their esthetic aims. However, the dominant symbolism of the cross and Christianity would have been somewhat at odds with prevailing Nazi ideology. On the other hand, the idea of a hero standing for national suffering and sacrifice would have suited their purposes. Perhaps fearing repercussions, the Nazi elite never made any proposals to alter the actual monument itself. The iconic character of the memorial also served Nazi propaganda purposes well: a symbol of the Schlageter Cross appears on the 1939 autobahn map, graphically just to the north of Vogelsang Order Castle, with the two sites representing the westernmost presence of the new Nazi cultural landscape. It was soon decided that the memorial needed an appropriate landscape setting, as part of the new urban planning for the vicinity. The municipal parks and gardens department prepared a plan for a new park to occupy the space running from the Schlageter Cross to the Art Academy.127 Their design would have resulted in a pleasant urban green space, but admittedly it lacked in inspiration and symbolism. As might be expected, a competition for a more grandiose scheme referred to as the “Schlageter Forum” was announced in May 1934, with the Hitler Youth organization headed by Baldur von Schirach as the client.128 The competition brief called for a “Schlageter Grove” (Schlageterhain) adjacent to the Cross to hold 300,000 people, a Party leader’s school and community house, a thingstead for 100,000 people, a ca 185-acre (75 ha) exhibition park, and a ca 155-acre (63 ha) sports park. The axis beginning at the Cross was to be extended

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beyond the art academy, to the banks of the Rhine, for a total length of ca 1 mile (1.5 km) – although no explicit instructions were given regarding the fate of the art academy building.129 According to the brief, a “heroic design for the overall site” was desired.130 In addition, the design was to respond to the local context: “particular attention is to be given to the landscape imagery, to the wide-open lower Rhine landscape with its characteristic poplar clusters”131 While this may seem an innocuous requirement, in the spirit of the new regime, Düsseldorf Gau Leader Karl Florian explained the deeper significance of the Schlageter Grove plantings: “Its trees will be rooted in soil soaked with German blood, and its treetops shall whisper of the German spirit of sacrifice and silent heroism.”132 The entire complex was to be dedicated to German youth, in recognition of the fact that Schlageter had carried out his acts of resistance while in his twenties. During this time, the Nazi Party Rally Grounds and the Olympic Stadium grounds in Berlin were still in early planning stages. But had the Schlageter Forum for the Hitler Youth been constructed, it would have been another large-scale site for training youth in athletics as well as politics, and thus could have been considered part of a national network of such monumental facilities. The competition judging panel was composed of leading figures such as Albert Speer and Alwin Seifert.133 The panel reviewed 160 proposals, and awarded first place to the architect Erich zu Putlitz (who later received the commission for the Festival Hall at the Rügen sea resort).134 Quite possibly for political reasons, in the end the project was assigned to the architect who was then the art academy director, Peter Grund. In all of the proposed schemes, the grandiose scale completely dwarfed the original design by Holzmeister, the thin steel cross barely making an impression at the end of the long axis. Clearly, the Schlageter Cross design was far too modest for the new regime. Grund proposed an enormous circular grove directly with the memorial located in an apsidal space at its perimeter, terminating the main axis (Figure 5.18). In this space 300,000 people

FIGURE 5.18

Grund’s scheme for the new Schlageter Grove, 1936.

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were to witness the annual commemoration of Schlageter’s execution. In order to strengthen the visual impression of the cross, Grund created a monumental gateway to frame the view of it from the opposite side of the circular space. The idea of terminating the axis at the art academy did not really suit the Nazi-era concept of orienting major monuments to the surrounding landscape. Grund and some of the other entrants solved this problem by proposing to demolish the art academy building, so that the Schlageter Cross site would be visually connected to the Rhine River, the “German river of fate.”135 With the exception of the Schlageter Grove, his scheme was heavily criticized for not preserving any of the existing landscape character, as well as for the fact that this major activity hub was located far from the city center.136 Indeed, Grund appears to have been primarily motivated by his desire for a grand urban axis generated by the Schlageter Cross, in keeping with the later imperialistic phase of Nazi planning. In the meantime, plans for a large Nazi-era Werkbund exhibition were launched in 1934.137 The exhibition grounds were to temporarily occupy most of the area intended for the Schlageter Forum, with the exception of the Schlageter Grove and Cross area. This exhibition titled, “The Productive Nation” (Schaffendes Volk), opened in 1937, and was well attended. The axis proposed by Grund was constructed and dubbed the “Flag Allée” for the exhibition, but the grand archway planned to visually frame the Schlageter Cross was not realized. A photograph taken during the exhibition shows that from the opposite end of the axis in front of the old art academy building the Cross was barely discernable138 (Figure 5.19). Following the closure of the exhibition, in 1937 it was announced that the exhibition grounds would be refashioned into a new “North Park,” in

FIGURE 5.19

The Flag Allée at the “Productive Nation” exhibition, 1937, with the Schlageter Cross in the background.

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accordance with previous proposals.139 The grand axis from the exhibition was retained within the new park design, with the Schlageter Cross integrated into the whole as originally planned before the Forum competition. Paradoxically perhaps, the original sandpit in the urban fringe wasteland where Schlageter was executed was itself a kind of cultural landscape that more appropriately represented the propaganda image of Germany as an oppressed country, than the usual mountainous landscape scenery so favored among the Nazis. The figure of the sandpit was exploited as the central theme in the two preliminary schemes and the final monument design, although without the grim brutality of the original site. The subsequent grandiose expansion of the site minimized the original blood and soil imagery, but increased its geopolitical importance as a location for mass events. In the end, triumphalism replaced resistance to oppression as the dominant theme, and Schlageter was nearly reduced to a slogan or brand name, with the original execution site becoming yet another superficial Nazi propaganda symbol.

Tannenberg: Pseudo-Castle Memorial in a Fictional Landscape The Tannenberg Memorial in East Prussia commemorated a crucial World War One battle fought near there in 1914, where German army divisions led by General Paul von Hindenburg decisively defeated Tsarist Russian troops in a major tactical victory.140 Following World War One, German conservatives and veterans organized a private committee to facilitate the construction of the monument which was dedicated in 1927. Eight years later in 1935, it was rededicated by the Nazis with a new crypt for Hindenburg constructed within the existing edifice. Of all the monumental sites in this group, the Tannenberg Memorial was the most architectural, for it consisted of a large castle-like structure that initially had little relationship to the surrounding landscape. As part of the remodeling of the structure to accommodate the Hindenburg crypt, and as a means of rendering the entire site more representative of Nazi blood and soil symbolism, the surrounding landscape was also radically reshaped in the mid-1930s. Through this landscape redesign, the Tannenberg monument was thematically aligned with other Nazi memorials embedded within the blood-soaked soil. The 1914 battle of course predated the formation of the Nazi Party, and the monument was conceived and constructed well before they seized power in 1933, yet it was like a gift to their propaganda machine. Hindenburg was an enormously popular national hero, almost at the level of a cult icon, and has been referred to by historians as a bridge-figure between the two powerful German leaders Bismarck and Hitler.141 As a symbol of German nationalism, Hindenburg completely eclipsed any of the so-called Nazi martyrs, and the Tannenberg Memorial was by far the most prominent among the group being considered here. Hindenburg’s success in leading the German army against the Russians in 1914 led to one of the most significant German victories of the

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entire war, making the site doubly symbolic.142 However, the name of the battle, Tannenberg, actually referred to another historic battle that took place in the vicinity centuries before. The naming of the 1914 conf lict for the much older event was a highly symbolic gesture, as part of Prussian propaganda efforts to assert historic German territorial claims to the region. In the early twentieth century, the historic Tannenberg battle and the events surrounding it were tactically reinterpreted to suit both German and Polish nationalists in their struggles over the fate of the region. In order to understand how both sides exploited Tannenberg for propaganda purposes, some general background knowledge of actual historic events is necessary. The original Tannenberg battle was fought in 1410 between the Teutonic Knights and the Polish and Lithuanian armies, under the command of the kings of those two respective countries. The Order of the Teutonic Knights had been invited in 1225 by Polish Duke Konrad I of Mazovia to Christianize the pagan “old” Prussians, an act subsequently approved by the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor, Friedrich II.143 To establish their power, the Knights built a number of castles in the region, with Marienburg becoming their seat of power in 1309.144 The old Prussians occupied lands along the Baltic coast, stretching from the area west of Danzig to Lithuania, including the region that would become the Russian exclave Kaliningrad centuries later. They were a Baltic, not a Germanic tribe, and even spoke a different language. But after they were Christianized by the knights they also assimilated to German culture, willfully or otherwise, and ethnic Germans from the west began to settle in the area. In the 1410 battle, the Polish and Lithuanian armies soundly defeated the knights, and although the latter lost comparatively little territory, they were burdened with heavy payments demanded by the victors. The Germanic gentry that had developed during the interim was not necessarily on the side of the knights, who were then levying high taxes on the populace in order to pay their own tributes to the Polish and Lithuanian kings. In 1456, bishops, estate owners, and the cities declared fealty to the Polish King, instigating attacks on the knights, and destroying many of their castles.145 However, by the early twentieth century the narrative of the 1410 battle had been grossly oversimplified, and recast as an existential struggle between the Germans from the west on the one side, and the eastern peoples on the other, a conf lict that had simply continued unabated across the centuries. The Poles referred to the battle as “Grunwald,” which became an important symbol in the movement for the reestablishment of the Polish state in the early twentieth century. The internationally celebrated Polish composer, Ignacy Jan Paderewski, funded the construction of a large Grunwald monument in Cracow in 1910.146 A few years earlier in 1902, rightwing German nationalists had erected a smaller monument at the actual battle site, consisting of an erratic boulder with an inscription honoring the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, Ulrich von Jungingen.147 Since the knights under his command had lost the battle, in the early twentieth century he was presented as a martyr to a lost cause – which was of course a distortion of historical reality in the service of contemporary propaganda. Twelve years

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after this monument was erected, the 1914 battle won by Hindenburg and the German army was proclaimed as revenge for the loss inf licted upon their ancestors 500 years earlier. Merely the act of naming the 1914 battle after Tannenberg was a form of political provocation, and a defiant geopolitical statement. After the Germans lost World War One, the need to keep the Tannenberg myth alive became even more critical for conservative forces in the new Weimar Republic. Although the Nazi Party did not play a role in the creation of this monument, the project was born out of a related conservative, rightwing mindset. On August 31, 1919, on the fifth anniversary of the battle a commemoration ceremony was held in a field near the town of Hohenstein (Olsztynek), which would later be the actual monument site.148 The idea of constructing a monument where future large-scale ceremonies could be held was then proposed, and later that year a steering committee was formed for that purpose. This same piece of ground was subsequently donated to the committee, and a foundation-stone-laying ceremony held there on August 31, 1924.149 While no architectural design concept existed at that point, the conservative, nationalistic agenda behind the monument was blatantly obvious. Within a few months the committee announced a design competition, which was judged in April 1925. The design proposal by the brothers Walter and Johannes Krüger from Berlin was awarded first place, over hundreds of others, including an entry by Wilhelm Kreis, one of the most important monument designers in the country150 (Figure 5.20). The jury explained the main reasons for their selection: The design is a unique, new idea for a monument of striking form, with a good relationship to the landscape. It is also distinguished by its outstanding

FIGURE 5.20

Rendering by the Krüger brothers of the Tannenberg Memorial, ca 1925.

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long-distance effect, [and] the creation of a brilliantly conceived, spacious enclosed ceremonial area for several thousand people151 Foreshadowing later Nazi-era design strategies, the jurors’ two main priorities were clear: a strong relationship to the landscape and a space for large ceremonies. The Krügers proposed a monument built of brick, consisting of eight towers interconnected by a continuous ring-wall containing internal corridors. This ring described an octagon in plan, enclosing a large central space featuring a free-standing cross in the center. The main entry was on axis through one of the towers, accessed from the nearby highway. The militaristic, castle-like symbolism was immediately perceptible, and some compared it to Castel del Monte in Italy, built in 1240 by the Holy Roman Emperor, Friedrich the Second, of the Hohenstaufen dynasty.152 This was an appropriate association, since it also dated from the period of the first Tannenberg battle, and was linked to medieval German imperialist ambitions. Of the Krügers’ design one contemporary commentator wrote that: “Its fortified walls embody the spirit with which the Teutonic Order built its castles, and evoke something of the proud strength with which the German knights once established their rule in Prussia.”153 However, the Krügers’ Tannenberg Memorial did not precisely resemble any particular historic precedent, even if the Castel del Monte did have an octagonal plan layout with a tower at placed at each corner. The new memorial was not intended to be perceived as an historicist medieval recreation, but rather to be understood as an impassioned appeal to the old order under the Kaiser. The most detailed discussion that the Krügers provided of their design was published retrospectively in a 1939 book dedicated to the monument titled, “Tannenberg: German Destiny.” They expressly denied that they had based their design on any type of castle, offering this explanation instead: While searching for a simple form for this problem – because greatness can only be found in simplicity – we returned to the “Stonehenge” idea. In the end, the towers arranged in a circle are nothing other than towering stone pillars.154 Their claim that they were searching for “simplicity” is telling, for it suggests the inf luence of expressionist and even modernist sensibilities. The Krüger brothers explained that they had wanted to create a dominant image in the landscape, thus eight towers would make a much stronger impression that only one. They also provided a sketch of the original design concept showing the towers at twice the height at which they were built, again, highlighting the alleged similarity to Stonehenge, and the strong profile in the landscape.155 They conceded, however, that the ring-wall could be read as a gesture towards the “original” castle form, although they primarily introduced it to enclose the central space. Although they didn’t acknowledge it, the Krügers would surely have been aware that the most important castle in the region both symbolically and politically was Marienburg. Since the new Order Castle training center at Marienburg planned by Clemens

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Klotz in the mid-1930s was never built, the Tannenberg Monument would continue to play the role of a contemporary pendant to the medieval Marienburg Castle, enhancing the geopolitical presence of both. The Tannenberg Memorial structure was officially dedicated on September 10, 1927, although it was not fully complete at the time.156 In that same year, the local Heimat writer Ewald Freundt published a guidebook, not only to the monument, but also to the surrounding battlefields; in effect it was a guide to a militarized cultural landscape. In his description of the new monument, Freundt emphasized its geopolitical significance: Eight massive towers rise up to the sky, announcing to all, in a way that is comforting to some and menacing to others: “This country is and remains German!” In the same powerful, proud, and steadfast manner that this building grows from the earth, the East Prussian stands here on his ancestral soil, like a German rock within the surging wave of Slavic peoples. Take this image back home with you, our German brothers in the Reich, and let it be a lesson to you.157 Notably, he referred to the “Reich” when Germany was in fact then a republic, an obviously reactionary comment. To the conservative mind, the Tannenberg monument was nothing other than a defiant gesture to the Slavs. Freundt also pointed to the importance of the view of the immediate landscape from one of the towers: “Turning our gaze southwards, we overlook a large part of the 1914 battlefield, magnificent green fields, f loodplains and forests, whose protection was indeed worth the massive struggle.”158 As seen throughout this study, here landscape was both estheticized and equated to political territory. Freundt’s description of the immediate area made clear to the visitor that the whole landscape was blood-soaked, for the graves of many Russian soldiers were scattered throughout. Although the location of the 1410 battle of Grunwald/Tannenberg was located over twelve miles (ca 20 km) from the new Tannenberg Memorial, Freundt urged visitors to see the older memorial erected at the 1410 site before the war. He perpetuated the nationalistic rhetoric of the pre-World War One period: “Along with their Grand Master, here in the dust sank the bloom of the Teutonic Order, who created our East Prussia through great struggles!”159 Through the landscape tour he described, the visitor could reinforce the sense of the historic connection between the two battles through their own personal experience. Here again the touristic imperative to become acquainted with the landscape and its political message is evident – even before the Nazis took power. As to be expected, tourism continued to play a role here during the Nazi era. One brightly colored illustrated 1936 map shows an icon for the Tannenberg Memorial along with other historic sites such as Marienburg Castle, along with jolly graphics promoting beach holidays on the Baltic.160 The Nazi-era tourist would have been bombarded with this kind of promotional material, here depicting the joyous aspects of a holiday in old Prussia, juxtaposed with the militaristic symbolism of the Tannenberg Memorial.

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Like the other sites, Tannenberg appeared in 1939 on the autobahn map as one of the easternmost landmarks, as well as in “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook,” which referred to it as one of the most important pilgrimage sites in the entire Reich.161 While the narrative of German victories in both the 1410 and 1914 battles had already been formulated during the Kaiser era, the Nazis were of course able to appropriate these for their own propagandistic purposes. Hitler took considerable interest in the Tannenberg monument, and personally made the decision to turn it into a monument to Hindenburg himself. While he lived, Hindenburg was complicit in Hitler’s rise to power, providing the younger politician with a background image of conservative stability. Hindenburg’s death in 1934 served Hitler’s aims, for at that point the war hero was of more use to him dead than alive. Hindenburg’s final wish was that he be interred along with his wife on the family estate. Hitler completely ignored this, and ordered that the war hero and his wife instead be buried in the Tannenberg Memorial, at the site of his famous victory.162 The symbolism of the monument obviously suited Nazi ideological aims perfectly. Nazi functionaries had already held an unofficial wreath-laying ceremony there in 1932, and Hitler and Hindenburg both appeared at the monument in August 1933 to commemorate the nineteenth anniversary of the battle.163 On Hitler’s orders a new crypt for Hindenburg and his wife was constructed, and other physical alterations were made to accommodate Nazi-era needs and sensibilities. Albert Speer attempted to take over control of the architectural changes, but the Krügers were able to out-maneuver him and realize their own designs.164 The new crypt was constructed in the base of the tower that stood on axis opposite the main entry. An enormous erratic block was hewn into a lintel for the crypt entrance, once again showing how much the Nazis valued these geological oddities as symbols of the sublime power of nature. The other major change was the paving of the entire courtyard area in a similar manner to Luitpoldarena in Nuremberg, along with the removal of the free-standing cross in the center, in order to facilitate movement in the central space (Figure 5.21). In this way, the monument was primarily focused on the personality cult around Hindenburg, and the whole could accommodate the kind of mass events critical to the Nazi emphasis on national community. The crypt was formally dedicated on October 2, 1935, with the usual Nazi pomp and ostentatious military presence accompanying the placement of Hindenburg’s coffin in the new crypt.165 While not stated as such, Hindenburg and his tomb could be seen as a geopolitical marker at the micro scale, such was the weight of his presence even in death. There had been ongoing discussions of the need for a comprehensive landscape design for the site since construction began, although before 1933 the surrounding landscape featured a running track and had more of the character of a sports park.166 Writing in 1939, the Krügers retrospectively complained about the lack of landscape character on the site, defending themselves by claiming that they had tried to persuade the committee to build the monument adjacent to a local lake instead. They recalled that their proposal had been rejected because the foundation stone laying ceremony had already taken place.167 A sketch of the

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FIGURE 5.21

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The Tannenberg Memorial courtyard with landscape in background.

original design produced in the 1920s showed crowds of people headed towards the monument, with the perspective graphically distorted to make the forecourt in front of the building appear much larger than it actually would be, and to give the illusion that the monument would stand on a rise168 (Figure 5.20). This view suggests the ideal topographical effect that the Krügers were aiming for, but were unable to achieve. In 1931, a proposal was made to reforest the entire site, which the Krügers understandably rejected, for this would have obscured the long-distance view of the monument intended from the beginning.169 A closed competition for a new landscape design was held in 1934, but the results were considered unsatisfactory.170 Landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking was engaged for the project in 1935, at the same time that he was involved in the earthmoving work for the Olympic Village, which was itself a very high profile project.171 Wiepking’s most detailed explanation of his work at Tannenberg is also found in the 1939 publication on the monument.172 With his experience in molding site topography and his conservative political and cultural views, Wiepking was an ideal choice for the project. In an effort to place the monument in the broader context of German history, he opened his discussion of the landscape design for Tannenberg with observations on ancient burial mounds, concluding with this passage: In ancient Germanic regions we find hundreds of tombs, often in the form of very large burial mounds. These burial mounds are landscape masterpieces of our people and our spirit. They are evidence that our people were deeply connected with the act of creation. In those early times we were members of a great natural unity. The myth was reality.173

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Here, Wiepking implied that the Tannenberg monument and surrounding battlefields were also a type of Germanic burial site, in this case for war heroes. At the same time, he argued that Germanic tribes in particular had a deep feeling for nature, and that these ancient monuments represented a kind of landscape design. (By extension, his own role as a German landscape architect was thus rooted in an ancient, mythical German past.) Wiepking also remarked that these ancient mounds were usually located in beautiful landscapes, and often on elevated ground. Moving forward in time to another era of Germanic greatness, he made a similar observation about medieval castles: “It is significant that the castles of our national leaders looked far out into the country and landscape, like eagle’s nests on rugged cliffs.”174 Wiepking appears to have been alluding to the Tannenberg monument’s function of acting as a lookout point over the battlefields, and to its castle-like forms. He links the castle to burial mounds through the shared German sensitivity for landscape beauty that they evinced, and by implication with blood and soil symbolism. In light of this narrative, it is not surprising that his main tactic was to create the illusion that the monument was situated atop a natural elevation, and always had been. In order to realize this fictional cultural landscape setting no expense was spared. Of course the monument could not be elevated, so Wiepking cleverly proposed the excavation of a large moat around the monument to create the illusion that it sat on a rise. To achieve this, he employed the same kind of careful earth contouring techniques as at the Olympic Village site, devised to disguise the human hand. This was a massive project, requiring the movement of over 450,000 cubic yards (350,000 cu m) of earth, to create a mound that was ca 1,000 feet (300 m) wide, which appeared to be about 23 feet (7 m) high.175 As a means of promoting his concept, in two 1937 site section drawings Wiepking illustrated how the f lat site would be excavated to achieve this effect176 (Figure 5.22). A period photo of the monument with the new lake created by Wiepking in the foreground highlights the simple, bold character of the

FIGURE 5.22

Wiepking’s section drawings of landscape modifications at Tannenberg.

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FIGURE 5.23

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Photo of the Tannenberg Memorial with new lake, following Wiepking’s design.

both the monument and the new minimalistic landscape, in keeping with the Krügers’ original design intentions177 (Figure 5.23). The sparse planting around the monument itself heightened this sense of abstract sublimity, while keeping the views to and from the monument open. Wiepking’s topographic model gives a sense of his overall planting strategy, including some more common strategies178 (Figure 5.24). Firstly, Wiepking shifted the existing road substantially to the north, allowing for the creation of a large forecourt area, reminiscent of the Krügers’ earlier sketch. This forecourt was defined and screened from the

FIGURE 5.24

Wiepking’s model showing new landscape for the Tannenberg Memorial.

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road area by masses of tree plantings, and at ground level was edged with low fieldstone walls. Although these aspects of the design were more conventional, they would accommodate the mass crowds envisioned while providing a more monumental foreground. A seemingly small detail reveals much about the increasing ideological importance bestowed upon landscape during the interwar period. Wiepking’s 1936 site plan indicated that the central axis for the monument lay 30 degrees west of true south, but the Krügers’ plan in the 1939 publication indicated a true north-south central axis.179 A comprehensive plan of the battlefield showing the monument location proves that Wiepking was correct.180 Apparently the Krügers had originally aligned the monument at a right angle to the road that then existed in the 1920s. In 1939 they noted that the Kernsdorfer Heights (Dylewska Góra), an elevated moraine area, could be seen to the south.181 (This was the highest elevation in the immediate area.) However, the Kernsdorfer Heights lay to the southwest of the Tannenberg monument. In fact, the monument’s central axis only aligned with two small villages, but this appears to have been merely coincidental. The casualness with which the Krügers initially treated the central axis in relation to the site, and their desire to obscure this in 1939, shows that while landscape as territory may have been notionally important in the 1920s, by the mid-1930s it had become a crucial factor. The increased importance imparted to the landscape justified the great expense of moving massive quantities of earth to rectify the previous lack of concern for the site design. Wiepking’s efforts to create what he referred to as a “total work” (Gesamtwerk) of architecture and landscape brought the monument into harmony with the Nazi worldview.182 An aerial perspective drawing by Wiepking also dated 1936 provides some insight as to how he conceived of his redesign of the monument landscape within the larger area183 (Figure 5.25). Wiepking referred to the entire area as a cultural landscape where, “Race, farmer, and landscape form firmly entrenched unities.”184 His own design was not only intended as an appropriate setting for the new monument, but also as an idealized rendering of the East Prussian landscape. In his text, Wiepking makes a vague reference to Christian symbolism, calling

FIGURE 5.25

Wiepking’s panoramic view of his landscape planning for the Tannenberg area.

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for shepherds to tend sheep on the battlefields, as a symbol of peace. He pointed out that the entire landscape would be fully utilized: the fields for animal grazing and the woodlands for managed forestry.185 In this way, his design would not only provide an appropriate setting, but also be managed as a productive, working landscape. Finally, Wiepking claimed that his planting designs were based on the Reich Nature Protection Law (Reichsnaturschutzgesetz), meaning that his plans were also ecologically conceived. The Tannenberg site was particularly significant for Wiepking’s career, since it was his first large-scale landscape planning project with implications for a larger area. As mentioned, after the Nazis had conquered Poland, Wiepking became the main landscape planning consultant to Heinrich Himmler, as part of the overall project of “consolidating” the east by colonizing it, and creating appropriately “Germanic” landscapes within this formerly Slavic area. This earlier project of monumentalizing the cultural landscape to create a “total work” of art would later feed into visions of the total political control of people and territory.

Summary On one level, as sites commemorating bloodshed in war or other violent political events these are the most conventional projects in this study. War memorial sites and monuments are of course not unique to this period, nor to the farright, and examples continue to be constructed around the world as symbols of national identity and purpose. Under the Nazis, however, additional layers of ideological symbolism were necessary to satisfy their propaganda aims, most conspicuously in relation to blood and soil. On another level, among the projects in this study this final group was the most overtly symbolic, with no functional purpose other than to commemorate the events associated with each particular site. For this reason, these illustrate with particular clarity the criticality of blood and soil concepts to the architecture and landscape design during this era, with the monumentalization of the landscape itself standing for the most unmediated version of this bond. Despite the extraordinarily horrible events of the Nazi era, to what extent these memorials are historically unique is nevertheless worth exploring further.

Notes 1 Important relevant secondary literature on case studies: Annaberg: Erich Mende, Der Annaberg und das deutsch-polnische Verhältnis (Bonn: Bund der Vertriebenen, 1991); Juliane Haubold-Stolle, “Der heilige Berg Oberschlesiens – der Sankt Annaberg als Erinnerungsort,” in: Marek Czapliński, Hans-Joachim Hahn, and Tobias Wagner, eds., Schlesisches Errinerungsorte: Gedächtnis und Identität einer mitteleuropäischen Region (Görlitz: Neisse Verlag, 2005), 201–220. Korbinian Böck, “‘Bollwerk des Deutschtums im Osten’: Das Freikorpsehrenmal auf dem Annaberg Oberschlesien,” RIHA Journal June 27 (2017). Bückeberg: Bernhard Gelderblom, Die Reichserntedankfeste auf dem Bückeberg 1933–1937 (Hamelin: CW Niemeyer, 1998); Gerd Biegel, and Wulf Otte, eds. Ein Volk dankt seinem

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2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

(Ver)führer. Die Reichserntedankfeste auf dem Bückeberg 1933–1937 (Braunschweig: Braunschweigisches Landesmuseum, 2002); Bernhard Gelderblom, Die NS-Reichserntedankfeste 1933–1937 auf dem Bückeberg (Holzminden: Verlag Jörg Mitzkat, 2018). The Saxon Grove (Sachsenhain): Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, “The Nationalization of Nature and the Naturalization of the German Nation: ‘Teutonic Trends’ in Early Twentieth-Century Landscape Design,” in: Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, ed., Nature and Ideology: Natural Garden Design in the Twentieth Century (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1997), 187–219; there is also a small monograph on the Saxon Grove, but because the author is a far-right ideologue I do not care to cite it, and I have not used it in my own study. The Schlageter Cross: Christian Fuhrmeister, Beton, Klinker, Granit: Material, Macht, Politik (Berlin: Verlag Bauwesen, 2001), 196–231; Stefanie Schäfers, Vom Werkbund zum Vierjahresplan: Die Ausstellung “Schaffendes Volk,” Düsseldorf 1937 (Düsseldorf: Droste Verlag, 2001), 116–124. Tannenberg: Jürgen Tietz, Das TannenbergNationaldenkmal (Berlin: Verlag Bauwesen, 1999). Two of these site locations, Tannenberg and the Schlageter Cross, were selected in the 1920s before the Nazis came to power, but the symbolism was comparable, and both were coopted by the Nazis. The definitive study on the thingstead/Thingplatz movement: Rainer Stommer, Die inszenierte Volksgemeinschaft: die “Thing-Bewegung” im Dritten Reich (Marburg: Jonas Verlag, 1985). On the general theme of theatricality in Nazi architecture see: Dieter Bartezko, Illusionen in Stein (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 2012); however, Bartezko only discusses the thingstead movement brief ly. Jörg Koch, Dass Du nicht vergesst der Geschichte: Staatliche Gedenk- und Feiertage in Deutschland von 1871 bis heute (Darmstadt: wbg Academic, 2018), 101–176. The primary authority on Bückeberg is Bernhard Gelderblom, see note 1 above. I am not aware of a definitive study on Speer’s work at Tempelhof. See: Sebastian Tesch, Albert Speer (1905 – 1981) (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2016), 48–50. Michael Flagmeyer, Die Architekturen der Deutschen Arbeitsfront, Vol. I, (Braunschweig: Technical University Carolo-Wilhelmina, 2009), 59–67. Koch, Feiertage, 116. Tesch, 48–49. Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 8. Estimated attendance figures: Magistrats-Oberbaurat Rendschmidt, “Der Tag der Deutschen Arbeit in Berlin,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 21 (1933): 241–250 (243). Albert Speer, “Die bauliche Ausgestaltung von Großkundgebungen, in Unser Wille und Weg,” in: Monatsblätter der Reichspropagandaleitung der NSDAP 11 (1933): 299– 302, cited in: Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 139. Speer, “Großkundgebungen,” cited in: Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 139. Ibid. Magistrats-Oberbaurat Rendschmidt, “Der Tag der Deutschen Arbeit in Berlin,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 21 (1933): 241–250. Anna Bramwell, Blood and Soil: Walther Darré and Hitler’s ‘Green Party’ (Abbotsbrook (UK): The Kensal Press, 1985). Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 8. Anonymous, Nürnberg und Bückeberg 1933 (Dresden: Völkischer Verlag M. O. Groh, 1934), 84. Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 8. Leopold Gutterer, “Festgestaltung des Dritten Reiches,” die neue linie September (1937): 17–23. (Note: I translated “Essen” as “chimney smoke,” as I assume this refers to smoke from cooking.) Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 18. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 10.

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24 See for example: Herbert Eddelbüttel, “50 Km Rund um die Bückeberg,” die neue linie Oct. (1938): 47–50; Landesfremdenverkehrsverband Weserbergland, ed., Das schöne Weserbergland / Land um den Bückeberg (Hildesheim: Backeberg & Löhner, 1937); Landesverkehrsverband, Weserbergland, eds., Hameln am Fuße des Bückeberges im schönen Weserbergland, (Hildesheim: n.d. [1930s]). 25 Karl Baedeker, Baedekers Autoführer: Deutsches Reich (Grossdeutschland). Offizieller Führer des Deutschen Automobil-Clubs (Leipzig: Karl Baedeker, 1939), 668. 26 Speer, “Großkundgebungen.” 27 Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 12–13. 28 On the Lichtdom at Nuremberg: “From ‘Jewish’ Commerce to Nazi Politics: Speer’s Lichtdom,” in: Kathleen James-Chakraborty, German Architecture for a Mass Audience (London: Routledge, 2000), 87–94. 29 Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 15; Stommer, Thing-Bewegung, 233–234. 30 Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 142. 31 Bernhard Gelderblom, Die NS-Reichserntedankfeste 1933–1937 auf dem Bückeberg (Holzminden: Verlag Jörg Mitzkat, 2018), 142. 32 Ibid., 122. 33 Ibid., 45–47. 34 Ibid., 103. 35 Ibid., 72–73. 36 Gelderblom, Reichserntedankfeste, 20. 37 Stommer, Thing-Bewegung, 239; Wolschke-Bulmahn, “Nationalization,” 187–219. 38 Today, historians generally agree that Charlemagne did order a massacre, but the actual figure of 4,500 Saxons is still debated. See: Alessandro Barbero, Charlemagne. Father of a Continent (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 2004): 46–47. 39 Peter Longerich, Heinrich Himmler. trans. Jeremy Noakes and Lesley Sharpe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 294, 297–298. On the Ahnenerbe: Michael H. Kater, Das “Ahnenerbe” der SS 1935–1945 (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1974); see also Chapter 4, p. 199. 40 Ernst Precht, “Der Sachsenhain zu Verden: Erinnerungsstätte an den Sachsenmord 782; Idee und Gestaltung.” Unpublished Typescript, Summer 1986, p. 39, Stadtarchiv Verden, Sachsenhain, Rep III, Nr. 26A. 41 Stommer, Thing-Bewegung, 239. 42 Theaterwissenschaftliche Sammlung, University of Cologne: Verden_Thingplatz _X_X_X_X_12,5x15_X_Vorentwurf, Fritz Schaller Archiv_001 43 Rainer, Thing-Bewegung, 185. 44 NLAH, Dep. Hübotter, Mappe Nr. 1481/0616, Bl. 9. (To my knowledge, I am the first to discuss Hübotter’s initial designs.) 45 NLAH, Dep. Hübotter, Mappe Nr. 1481/0616, Bl. 3. 46 NLAH Dep. Hübotter, Mappe Nr. 1481/0616, Bl. 6. In a letter from Hübotter to Alwin Seifert dated Dec. 2, 1934, Hübotter reports having difficulty negotiating the purchase of the land from “the last of Charlemagne’s Saxons,” but had just found some common ground, suggesting that his role went beyond being solely the site designer: Deutsches Museum, Munich, Seifert Papers, DM NL 133/065. 47 In a letter to his colleague landscape architect Heinrich Wiepking dated March 5, 1935, Hübotter notes that Himmler had agreed to buy his plans, to avoid having pay for construction oversight, Lower Saxony State Archive Osnabrück Dep 72, no 18, cited in: Wolschke-Bulmahn “Nationalization,” 212. (In comparison to WolschkeBulmahn's essay, I have tried to place more emphasis here on the cultural landscape and geopolitical aspects; further, he does not discuss the earlier design phases and background as I do here.) 48 Reinhard Berkelmann, “Der Sachsenhain bei Verden a. d. Aller,” in: Die Gartenkunst 5 (1937): 123–128. 49 Ibid., 126.

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50 51 52 53 54 55

56 57 58 59 60

61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

81

Ibid., 127. Ibid., 128. Ibid., 125. Ibid., 128. Precht, 12. Wolschke-Bulmahn, “Nationalization,” 187–219. The use of erratic boulders for monuments is not limited to Germany, nor is the concept of lining a drive with rough stones, see: David H. Haney, “The Legacy of the Picturesque at Mount Desert Island,” The Journal of Garden History, 16:4 (1996): 275–297. Berkelmann, 126. NLAH, Dep. Hübotter, Mappe Nr. 1481/0616, Bl. 2. Precht, 12. Betr.: Besuch des Reichsfürhers-SS im Sachsenhain bei Verden/Aller [ June 17] 1938, BARCH Berlin, NS10 / 3666, Fiche 4, Bl. 153. See for example note 174 below, and: Heinrich Wiepking-Jürgensmann, “Raumforschung und Landschaftsgestaltung, Um die Erhaltung der schöpferischen Kräfte des deutschen Volkes,” Raumforschung und Raumordnung 5 (1941): 17–22 (esp. plates 3, 4). There is an extensive collection of correspondence between Hübotter and Wiepking in the latter’s papers held in NLAO. Michael Mappes, “Dasselbe und doch nicht Dasselbe,” in: Die Gartenkunst 5 (1937), 122–134. Precht, 31. Anon., “Sonnenwendefeier im Sachsenhain,” Verdener Anzeigeblatt ( June 22), 1935, Stadtarchiv Verden, Sachsenhain, Rep III, Nr. 26A. Loc. cit. Doc. PS-1992 (A), International Military Tribunal, Vol. 29, 206 ff., cited in: Longerich, 294. (Translation taken from this publication, not my own.) Uta Halle, “Die Externsteine sind bis auf weiteres germansich!” Prähistorische Archäologie im Dritten Reich (Bielefeld: Verlag für Regionalgeschichte, 2002). Vera Scheff, and Imke Tappe-Pollmann, Ernst Rötteken 1882 – 1945: Leben und Werk des lippeschen Künstlers (Detmold: topp + möller, 1995), 20–21, 29. BARCH, NS 21 / 76, Berlin am [ July 13] 1938, An Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler, Betr.: Forschungsauftrag Sachsenhain, Bezug: Anordnung vom [ June 24, 1938]. Longerich, 298. Baedeker, Autoführer, 333. Stommer, Thing-Bewegung, 205–206. For a (biased) German version of the 1921 Annaberg events see: Mende, 5–9. Ernst von Salomon, “Die Freikorps im Nachkrieg,” Kriegsgräberfürsorge May (1938): 72–75. Haubold-Stolle, 210. Alfons Hayduk, Annabergwacht (Gleiwitz: Neumann, 1938), 32. Details on the working drawing for the Alte Wasserkunst Merseburg, bottom right: “cand.arch.” Franz Böhmer, countersignature/signature of Poelzig, city expansion project, summer semester 1932, Architecture Museum TU Berlin, Inv. Nr. FB 001,0078. See the index entry for Franz Böhmer in: Stommer, Thing-Bewegung. See for example: Böhmer & Petrich, Thingplatz, Halberstadt, perspective view; diazo on paper, Architecture Museum TU Berlin. Inv. Nr. FB 019,0001. (Note that there are no drawings of Annaberg in their collection index.) See site photo before earthwork: Heinz Rogmann, Schlesiens Ostgrenze im Bild (Breslau: Landesgruppe Schlesien des Bundes Deutscher Osten [n.d. ca 1936]), 39; on the construction work: Landesbaurat Hiersemann, Breslau, “Die Feierstätte der Schlesier am Annaberg,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung (1938): 472–475 (474). Hiersemann, “Annaberg,” 472.

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82 Kriegsgräberfürsorge June/July (1938): 106. 83 Stommer, Thing-Bewegung, 205; Information provided by German War Graves Commission (Volksbund für deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge); see also: Hans Soltau, “Zum 100. Geburtstag von Robert Tischler,” Krieggräberfürsorge 4 (1985): 20–21. On the mausoleum building itself: Böck, “Bollwerk.” 84 Hiersemann, 472. 85 Franz Hallbaum, “Das deutsche Freikorpsehrenmal auf dem Annaberg,” Kriegsgräberfürsorge, August (1938), 116–125 (124). 86 Stommer, Thing-Bewegung, 206. 87 Haubold-Stolle, 210. 88 Hayduk, 16. 89 Hiersemann, 475. 90 Loc. cit. 91 Ibid., 472. 92 Robert Meffert, “Reichsautobahn über den Annaberg,” Die Strasse Vol. I (1938): 305–306. 93 Baedeker, Autoführer, 125. 94 Anon., “Weiherrede des Bundesführers des Volksbundes Dr. Eulen,” Kriegsgräberfürsorge June/July (1938): 103–104. 95 Wilhelm Haff ke, “Letzter Appell der toten Freikorpskämpfer auf dem Annaberg in Oberschlesien,” Kriegsgräberfürsorge May (1938): 76–77. (Reprint of speech.) 96 Hallbaum, “Annaberg,” 116. 97 Haubold-Stolle, 214–215. 98 Ibid., 218. 99 Christian Fuhrmeister, “Sakral- und Memorialbauten um 1930 in Deutschland,” in: Georg Rigele, and Georg Loewit, Clemens Holzmeister (Innsbruck: Haymon, 2000), 92–115. 100 Manfred Franke, Albert Leo Schlageter, Der erste Soldate des 3. Reiches (Cologne: Prometh Verlag, 1980), 26-27. 101 Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, Vol. I (Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, 1938), 13–14. (Note that these are the opening pages to his narrative, such was Schlageter’s importance.) 102 See p. 269. An even larger Wessel monument with a thingstead was proposed by the architect brothers Walther and Johannes Krüger: Tietz, 182. 103 Schäfers, 116. 104 Hubert Delvos, Geschichte der Düsseldorfer Denkmäler, Gedenktafeln und Brunnen (Düsseldorf: Schwann, 1938), 226–237. I have relied on Delvos for the basic details of events, which appear to be soundly documented, but not on his interpretations, particularly not his specious claims for early Nazi involvement. 105 Delvos, 226–231. 106 Ibid., 226–227. 107 Wilfried Posch, Clemens Holzmeister: Architekt zwischen Kunst und Politik (Vienna: Salzburg: Müry Salzmann, 2010), 177. 108 Delvos, 230. 109 Schäfers, 117–118. 110 To my knowledge, these earlier projects have not been previously discussed. 111 Delvos, 227. 112 ibid., Geschichte, 230. It is not clear if Detering and Wehner designed the earthwork together, or only Detering. Delvos states clearly that Wehner was responsible for the obelisk. On Wehner: Fritz Markus, Eduard Lyonel Wehner: 1879–1952 (Worms: Werner, 2006). On Detering: Allgemeines Künstlerlexikon. Die bildenden Künstler aller Zeiten und Völker Vol. 26 (Munich: K. G. Saur, 2000), 470. 113 Bebauungsplan Stockum-Golzheim, Anlage 12, Volkspark Golzheimer Heide. Erlaüterungsbericht, July 15, 1928, Hochbauamt und Stadterweiterungsamt, Düsseldorf. SAD: iii 22863, Bebauungsplan 1928; Delvos, Geschichte, 230.

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114 The clearest evidence of the Wehner-Detering scheme is a partial site plan dated 1929, SAD: 5-1-15-429.0000. However, the idea for going below grade could have originated somewhere else; in any case, the idea precedes Clemens Holzmeister’s involvement. 115 One may be vaguely reminded of the work of Isamu Noguchi about a decade later (as proto “earth art”); perhaps this is because of the painter Detering’s involvement. 116 On Migge’s park design: Leberecht Migge, “Rentable Parks,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 4 (1929): 93–97; Leberecht Migge, “Weltstadt-Grün. Ein Aufruf zur rentablen Parkpolitik,” in: Wasmuths Monatshefte für Baukunst 5 (1930): 93–97. On Migge see: David H. Haney, When Modern was Green: Life and Work of Landscape Architect Leberecht Migge (Abingdon: London: Routledge, 2010). (This park project is not included in this Migge biography, however.) 117 On Migge’s architectonic garden design approach, see: Haney, Migge, Chapter 1. 118 Delvos, 231. 119 Ibid., 232. 120 Hermann Hagen, Albert Leo Schlageter: Gesammelte Aufsätze aus der Monatschrift des CV (Munich: Academia, 1932), 81. 121 Fuhrmeister, Material, 205; P. Derichsweiler, “Das Schlageter-Ehrenmal in Düsseldorf kommt!,” in: Hagen, Schlageter, 70–73 (71) [Reprint from: Academia 7, November 18 (1929): 222]. 122 Clemens Holzmeister, Beschriebung der Anlage des Schlageter-Denkmales, SAD, in: Franke, 94–95. 123 Baedeker, Autoführer, XIV, 639. 124 See 1934 promotional tourist graphic, reproduced in: Fuhrmeister, Material, 194. 125 Friedrich Heiss, Deutschland zwischen Nacht und Tag (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1934), 23. 126 Theodor Sommer, Bildwerk über Leben und Sterben Albert Leo Schlageters (Düsseldorf: Self-published, 1933), Foreword by Göring, n.p. 127 Anon., “Ideen-Wettbewerb Schlageter-Forum, Düsseldorf,” Deutsche Bauzeitung 33 (1934): 625–627 (625). 128 Delvos, 235. 129 Anon., “Ideen-Wettbewerb Schlageter-Forum, Düsseldorf,” in: Deutsche Bauzeitung 33 (1934): 625–627 (626). 130 Loc. cit. 131 Loc. cit. 132 Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 621–622 Konstanty Gutschow, Architekt, A 153, cited in: Fuhrmeister, Material, 229–230. 133 Karl Ackermann, “Das Schlageter-Forum am Niederrhein,” Baugilde 24 (1934): 860–870. 134 Loc. cit. 135 Fuhrmeister, Material, 226. 136 E. Sch., “Düsseldorfer Brief. Von der Ausstellung und dem, was nach ihr kommt,” RWZ 330, July (1937), cited in: Schäfers, 316. 137 Schäfers, 83–84. 138 Ingo Beucker, “Ausstellung ‘Schaffendes Volk,’ Düsseldorf 1937,” Baugilde 17 (1937): 589–592 (592). 139 Schäfers, 316. 140 Monograph on Tannenberg: Tietz, Nationaldenkmal. On the international context: Stefan Goebel, The Great War and Medieval Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 127–145, 184–185, 289. 141 Wolfram Pyta, Hindenburg: Herrschaft zwischen Hohenzollern und Hitler (Berlin: Siedler Verlag, 2007). 142 John Sweetman, Tannenberg 1914 (London: Cassell, 2004).

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143 Hartmut Boockmann, Ostpreußen und Westpreußen (Berlin: Siedler Verlag, 1992), 94–95. 144 Ibid., 116. 145 Ibid., 191, 211. 146 Ibid., 378; Goebel, War, 135–136; Sven Ekdahl, “The Battle of TannenbergGrunwald-Zalgiris (1410) as ref lected in Twentieth-Century Monuments,” in: Victor Mallia-Milanes (ed.), The Military Orders: History and Heritage. Vol. 3 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 179. 147 Boockmann, 136; Kuratorium für das Reichsehrenmal Tannenberg, eds. Tannenberg: Deutsches Schicksal – Deutsche Aufgabe (Berlin, Oldenburg: Gerhard Stalling Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1939), 185. 148 Tietz, 29–30. 149 Ibid., 29. 150 Ibid., 33–37. 151 Kuratorium, 229. 152 Tietz, 75. 153 Kuratorium, 167. 154 Ibid., 228. 155 Kuratorium, 229. 156 Tietzt, 29, 51. 157 Ewald Freundt, Tannenberg 1914: Führer durch das Schlachtfeld und die Ehrenfriedhöfe (Hohenstein (Ostpr.): Emil Grüneberger, 1927), 26. 158 Ibid., 26. 159 Ibid., 33. 160 Deutschland 8 (1936): 28, HAT. 161 Baedeker, Autoführer, X, 449. 162 Tietz, Nationaldenkmal, 85. 163 Ibid., 89–90. 164 Ibid., 91. 165 Ibid., 123. 166 Ibid., 147. 167 Kuratorium, 231–232. 168 Freundt, final plate. 169 Tietz, 147. 170 Ibid., 148. 171 Loc. cit. 172 Kuratorium, 244–247. 173 Ibid., 244. 174 Kuratorium, 245. 175 Tietz, 150. 176 NLAO, Wiepking Papers, Dep72bNr144,054. 177 NLAO, Wiepking, Dep72bNr144,055. 178 NLAO, Wiepking, Dep72bNr144,051. 179 NLAO, Wiepking, Dep72bNr144,051; Kuratorium,Tannenberg, 233. 180 Freundt, foldout map in back of book. 181 Kuratorium, 231. 182 Ibid., 246. 183 NLAO, Wiepking Papers, Dep72bNr144,053. 184 Kuratorium, 245. 185 Ibid., 247.

CONCLUSION

Nazi Concepts of Race, National Community, and Cultural Landscape in Contemporary Contexts Clearly, the exact constellation of events that led to the seizure of power by the Nazi regime, the outbreak of World War Two, and the perpetration of the Holocaust will never be exactly repeated. Yet some of the underlying operative concepts embraced by Nazi ideology still persist in some form today. The worst atrocity committed by the Nazis, the Holocaust, was predicated on the belief in a racially determined national community, which had to be purged of impure racial elements in order to be healthy and functional. Unfortunately, the concept of racially or ethnically determined national communities still persists, even if in less extreme form. In some countries, the collective concept of national community is manifested in a relatively benign manner, in others it does in fact fuel genocidal acts. As a representation of political territory as well as racially based national community, cultural landscape continues to be a powerful tool across the range of political systems, for it is concrete, tangible, and can be directly experienced. Cultural landscape becomes even more politically potent as a symbol when explicitly linked to race, as it often is. This study has repeatedly shown how monumentalized landscapes in the Nazi era became geopolitical focal points that stood for the territory and community of the entire nation. These types of cultural landscape sites continue to exist today and play important political roles, even though the particular circumstances among them may differ in the extreme. Placing such discussions of contemporary sites in the context of National Socialism casts them in a different light, thus raising awareness of the potential dangers of cultural landscapes and alleged national communities as propagandistic devices. What may seem innocuous at first may then appear otherwise, while conversely, sites that are obviously linked to extreme ideologies may be newly perceived within a broader historical perspective. DOI: 10.4324/9781003293743-7

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Here a group of three contemporary sites situated within very different social and political circumstances will be brief ly examined through the thematic lens of this study. The physical characteristics and design features of these sites are all rather simple; it is the act of monumentalizing the landscape that is significant – or in one case, of de-monumentalizing it. The first of these, Grunwald, was chosen for the obvious reason that it relates directly to the last historic case study considered here, but also because it is a site where the events of the past are simplistically (perhaps misleadingly) projected onto the present, via the landscape. The second, Djulfa, is an internationally significant example of the intentional destruction of a historic cultural landscape as a means of consolidating political territory, and is, marginally at least, also located in Europe. The third, Stone Mountain in the state of Georgia (US), was selected in part because it is on another continent, as a means of showing that these are not specifically European problems. More importantly, the American example highlights the absurdity of the “blood and soil” mantra, for the claim to ancient racial roots in the soil simply makes no sense in the context of the “New World.” All three of these sites have been covered extensively in the news media in recent years, another reason for their selection.

Polish Grunwald/German Tannenberg: Medieval Battlefeld as Contemporary Geopolitical Symbol The first of the three contemporary case studies, the post-World War Two Grunwald Battlefield memorial in Poland, is directly related to the last site discussed in the previous chapter, Tannenberg, and thus provides a clear historical connection.1 As mentioned, the 1410 battle that Germans refer to as “Tannenberg” and the Poles as “Grunwald” became an important symbol in the late nineteenth century for both German and Polish nationalists. They fundamentally manipulated the actual historical facts to construct a new narrative, reduced to a fateful battle between Germans on the one side and Poles (and Lithuanians) on the other. Since the end of World War Two, Germans have relegated the Tannenberg battle and former memorial site to the dark and distant past. In Germany today, only neo-Nazis and others on the far-right still honor the Tannenberg narrative. In Poland by contrast, Grunwald remains a highly important symbol of national identity for much of the population. While the interwar German Tannenberg monument was located on the site of the more recent 1914 battle, the Grunwald Battlefield memorial constructed by the Poles after World War Two in fact incorporates the actual 1410 battlefield landscape. Constructed in the 1960s, the physical memorial is composed of only a few simple features that are remarkably similar to those of some of the Nazi-era sites in the previous chapter (particularly Annaberg): a main processional path through the battlefield, an open-air amphitheater, and a grouping of f lags on standards (in this case of metal, standing for the armies in the 1410 battle).2 This comparison is not to suggest in any way whatsoever that the Polish design is an imitation of Nazi precedents, but rather that both were inf luenced by the twentieth-century

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modernist insistence on reducing symbolic elements to the absolute minimum. In addition, the architectural intervention at Grunwald was probably deliberately limited in scope to avoid detracting from the surrounding pastoral landscape, venerated as hallowed, blood-soaked ground. As an indication of the importance attached to the landscape itself, the contemporary Grunwald site is comprised of ca 988 acres (400 hectares).3 Today, the Grunwald Battlefield memorial allows visitors to directly experience the historic landscape, with the curation actively encouraging them to imagine the actual battle in situ. The sense of authenticity is further intensified through annual battle reenactments that seemingly bring the remote historic event to life. Media also plays an important role in spreading the message of the site, today augmented by internet videos of both the historic landscape and contemporary battle reenactments.4 In July 2010, possibly the largest ever reenactment of the battle was held on location to commemorate the 600th anniversary, with 2,200 “knights” and ca 100,000 spectators said to be in attendance.5 That September, then Polish prime minister Donald Tusk signed a proclamation declaring the battlefield a national historic monument.6 (Tusk, a member of a Polish center-right party, was President of the European Council from 2014 to 2019.) The Grunwald Battlefield site is consequently one of the most important historic memorials in the entire country. Today, not only is the oversimplified narrative of the 1410 battle as an existential fight between Poles and Germans perpetuated, the medieval battle is also linked, and to some degree conf lated, with the violence perpetrated by Germans upon Poland in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. To give some idea of the popular rhetoric surrounding the 1410 battle, a Baltic Times report on the 2010 event claimed that the historic 1410 victory, “blocked the German ‘Drang nach Osten’ [‘drive to the East’] policy for a long time.” 7 This comment by a Lithuanian reporter is not isolated, but rather is representative of how prevalent this distorted version of the historic facts of the battle remains in the popular consciousness of the two nations.8 (The Kingdom of Lithuania also participated in the 1410 battle, hence the connection.) In reality, Germany was not a nation in 1410, and there was no coordinated policy during that period to settle Germans in territories to the east of their heartland; the Teutonic Knights were operating in their own self-interests at that point.9 “Grunwald” for many in Poland today has even become a kind of rallying cry, as a recent political incident demonstrates. On August 30, 2020, two days following the 116th anniversary of the 1914 battle of Tannenberg, an article titled “Poland doesn’t allow German Ambassador into the Country” appeared in a leading Berlin newspaper.10 The German journalist referred to the nominated ambassador, Baron Arndt Freytag von Loringhoven, as a “top diplomat.” However, they also reported that the Polish rightwing press had attacked von Loringhoven for being a conservative German and an enemy of Poland, which was offered as explanation for the Polish government’s rejection of him. Among the charges leveled at the Baron were that his father had been an adjutant of Hitler, that he himself was a German spy, and that an ancestor had belonged to the Teutonic Knights who fought at the battle

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of Grunwald in 1410.11 The first two charges aside, in addition the Baron was effectively being denounced for something an ancestor did over 600 years ago. This anecdote illustrates that even though the official narrative of the Grunwald Battlefield memorial does not project any overt negativity towards contemporary Germans as such, among the rightwing, at least, they are still regarded as an inimical nation. The German press report hints that Poles should move forward beyond the past, while the Polish (and Lithuanian) press appear to be openly arguing that the past is in fact not yet over.12 A collective understanding of national community remains important here: both in the pre-World War Two German and the post-World War Two Polish narratives the battle is cast as a fight between a nation of ethnic Germans versus one of ethnic Poles. The historic conf lict is thus interpreted as being racial rather than ideological; the actual dates and facts surrounding the battle are of secondary importance to this existential struggle between two nations defined by race. In the more recent past, during the Nazi era the German nation unquestionably committed racially motivated atrocities against the Poles on a vast scale. After the war, however, masses of Germans were forcefully persuaded to leave the territory of the new nation of Poland, as a means of ensuring dominant Polish ethnicity in the new Poland. These national communities are thus associated with specific territories that by virtue of history and heritage can be seen as “naturally” belonging to one or the other of these nations, even if the actual boundaries between them has been historically contested for centuries. In the contemporary situation, the Grunwald Battlefield site represents the entire nation of Poland geopolitically, and has been symbolically linked with the post-World War Two Oder-Neisse boundary between the two nations, associated with the return of historically Polish territory.13 (This boundary was not formally agreed upon by Germany until 1990.14) On the actual battlefield site, the physical memorial and live reenactments create much more emotionally resonate imagery in the popular mind than a mere textual narrative, further reinforcing the sense of “national community.” While the battlefield memorial is dedicated to an event centuries past, the implication that the Polish nation should remain ever vigilant against aggression from their hereditary enemy still features in rightwing consciousness.

“Cultural Genocide”: The Armenian-Azerbaijani Confict and the Destruction of Cultural Landscape The second case study concerns the role played by cultural landscape in the deeply rooted conf lict between Armenia and Azerbaijan, particularly the destruction of the ancient Armenian necropolis of Djulfa. Both countries are situated in the Caucasus, the border zone between the extreme southeastern corner of Europe and western Asia, a geopolitical hotspot for millennia. The two countries have historically represented the clash between the Christian culture of Europe and the Moslem culture of western Asia. In late 2020, Armenia and Azerbaijan fought over the autonomous Nagorno-Karabakh region, with the result that Azerbaijan

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regained much of the territory that it had previously lost in 1994. (Although it should be noted that historically much of this had been Armenian territory in the distant past.) International reporting on this war utilized photographic coverage focused on cultural landscape imagery, in order to illustrate the conf licting cultural claims to the area.15 Centuries-old Armenian churches in rugged mountain landscapes were visually juxtaposed with the ruins of Azerbaijani cities abandoned in 1994, and subsequently vandalized by Armenians. Following the ceasefire monitored by Russia, Armenians left the area and displaced Azerbaijanis returned; extremely violent atrocities were subsequently reported on both sides.16 The ongoing conf lict between the two nations has not only resulted in open warfare, but also in either the preservation or destruction of historic sites associated with one or the other, depending on which side was in power in which area. During the years 1997–2009, Azerbaijan systematically eliminated Armenian cultural landscapes and monumental buildings within their territory. Djulfa, the most significant of these, was formerly the largest Armenian cemetery in the world. In 2005 at Djulfa, Azerbaijan demolished all remaining ancient Armenian tombstones, known as khachkars, breaking them into rubble and dumping them in the adjacent Aras River, an action that was filmed from the opposite bank in Iran.17 Already in 2001, the 2,000 extant khachkars had been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site as a means of protecting what then remained of the once vast cemetery. Even this did not prevent their destruction; ironically it may have exacerbated it. Some Azerbaijani officials have since denied that this cemetery was destroyed, for according to them, there were never any Armenians in the area to begin with. Djulfa is believed to be the single most important of the destroyed Armenian sites in Azerbaijan, but less significant examples have been attacked across the entire region; this was an effort to reshape the cultural landscape on a national scale. Such actions continue to occur against the historic background of the Armenian Genocide perpetrated by the Ottoman Turks in 1915–1917.18 This example shows that while some cultural landscapes are carefully preserved or newly created in order to support a nationalist narrative, here the opposite occurred: an ancient cultural landscape created by a perceived inimical race was annihilated in order to strengthen the government’s own cultural and political claims to the territory – in effect a physical falsification of history. The destruction of the Djulfa site has been referred to as “cultural genocide,” alluding to the fact that racially motivated violence may also be directed at heritage in addition to humans themselves. This act of vandalism also illustrates once again just how important cultural landscape continues to be as a means of strengthening cultural and political presence in disputed territory – even in its absence.

The Blood and Soil Fiction Exposed: Georgia’s Stone Mountain Memorial as Symbol of a Non-Existent Nation The third and final of these contemporary examples, the Stone Mountain memorial near Atlanta, Georgia, quite literally represents a non-existent nation: the

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former “Confederate States of America.”19 This rebel entity was founded when it seceded from the United States in 1861. The Confederacy only existed for about four years until 1865, when it was totally defeated by the United States Army. Ostensibly fought to defend “states’ rights,” the confederate states in fact declared war upon the Union in order to defend the institution of slavery, ultimately a capitalist enterprise of great value. The Stone Mountain memorial, the largest of all monuments to the Confederacy still in existence, consists of an enormous relief sculpture carved in the sheer face of a monadnock rising 825 feet (ca 251 m) from a relatively level plain. The high-relief sculpture depicts three Confederate “heroes”: the President of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis, the leader of the Confederate Army, Robert E. Lee, and the celebrated Confederate general, Stonewall Jackson, all mounted on horseback, hats in hand. Because of its vast scale and high elevation, the sculpture can be seen for miles away. While the majority of Confederate memorials were constructed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Stone Mountain sculpture was only completed in 1972 (although first conceived in 1915). Surrounded by a landscape park that includes amusements and a cable car, the Stone Mountain site is said to be the most popular tourist attraction in the entire state of Georgia. Today, the historic narrative is downplayed somewhat, in favor of an amusement park atmosphere; sound and light shows are held in the warm months, using the rock cliff face as a projection screen. The underlying concept of national community at Stone Mountain is more f luid and vaguely defined than the European examples, but is nevertheless critical to the overall symbolism. During the Civil War, the Confederacy defined itself in general ideological and political opposition to the Union of the United States. This included the emphatic assertation that all men were not created equal, as a further justification of slavery. Historically, the Confederacy was a clearly demarcated geographical area, most famously separated from the “North” by the legendary Mason-Dixon line. On one level, as the largest Confederate memorial in existence, Stone Mountain represents the territory of this past nation. But it should not be forgotten that in 1915, fifty years after the civil war, the creation of the Stone Mountain site was initiated by the white supremacist group the Ku Klux Klan (KKK). This means that from the beginning the monument itself was not-so-secretly dedicated to a whites-only national community associated with the geographic area of the former Confederacy. Once the KKK and other white supremacist groups took root across the United States, then the fictitious national community of the Confederacy began to be adopted by those who had no historic associations with it. Even though this white racist “national community” is no longer specifically defined by the geographic area of the South, the Stone Mountain site has become a national pilgrimage destination and rallying ground for hordes of them. Fortunately, Confederate memorials are now seen by many as contentious symbols of slavery, racism, and white supremacy, and as a result many have been removed over the past few years (the process is ongoing). The first catastrophic

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incident to set this movement against Confederate symbols in motion was the massacre of African Americans in a church in Charleston, South Carolina in 2015. This was followed by another disturbing event, a far-right counter-demonstration in Charlottesville, Virginia in 2017, protesting the proposed removal of a monument to Robert E. Lee. While marching, the far-right demonstrators in Charlottesville repeatedly chanted “blood and soil,” in conscious reference to the Nazi-era term.20 As discussed, the term blood and soil originally alluded to the alleged biological bond between the German race and their land, thought to be legitimated by ancient historical roots. This exact narrative simply doesn’t transfer to the New World, where the ancestors of some African Americans may have arrived earlier than those of white supremacists, and all were preceded by Native Americans. In this context, the blood and soil myth is clearly revealed as the absurd fiction that it always has been. Whether or not the memorial at Stone Mountain was conceived in the blood and soil spirit, the relief sculpture is in fact carved into living rock, and thus is part of the mountain. No battle or important event ever took place at Stone Mountain during the Confederacy. The primary significance of this memorial sculpture is not just that it is gigantic, but more importantly that it is intrinsically part of the landscape, the hallowed Southern earth. Since at least 2015 a debate on the future of the sculpture has been ongoing: should it be preserved but contextualized, completely destroyed, or allowed to become a ruin?21 The quandary at the core of this debate reveals that among all of the Confederate monuments, this one is the most difficult to eradicate both physically and psychologically, because the landform that supported it will always remain; the cultural landscape here cannot be so easily obliterated. All three of these contemporary sites are completely isolated from one another historically, culturally, and geographically, yet they share some common factors. All have been affected by a historical background of violence and racial conf lict, and in all cases the national communities represented were conceived in opposition to another national community perceived as inimical. Further, all concern territorial boundaries in some way. Even if none of them are located near the boundary in question, their respective geopolitical symbolism has nonetheless been commonly understood. While there is no exact equivalence here to any aspect of National Socialism itself, when these sites are considered in that historical context, then the potential for conservative concepts of national community to become repressive, distorting, or racist propaganda devices expressed through the landscape clearly emerges.

From Consolidation, to Expansion, to Totalitarian Control: The Evolution of the Nazi State and Its Cultural Landscape Strategies The contemporary sites discussed above are informed by beliefs that equate race and cultural landscape with political territory, a dynamic revealed in the Naziera case studies within this book. Although these are perpetually reoccurring

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themes, during the actual Nazi period concepts of race, state, and culture were certainly not static and unchanging. As mentioned in the introduction, it has become clear over the course of this study that there were two phases of geopolitical strategy in the prewar dictatorship years that affected the conception of architecture and cultural landscape. The first phase was focused on the consolidation of internal territory within the old Reich borders, and the second on territorial expansion beyond. The expansion and intensification of political and police power in this phase shift also correspond to Hannah Arendt’s observation that the Nazi regime steadily progressed from being a dictatorship to a truly totalitarian state during its years in power. This evolutionary development itself is not incidental, for it highlights the critical importance of continuous motion to the existence of Nazism as a political “movement” together with its ideology, a phenomenon of potential significance beyond the era. During its relatively short existence between the years 1920–1945, the Nazi Party’s political and cultural policies developed quite rapidly. In its earliest years, the physical expression of culture within the Party was limited to f lags, symbols, and the organization of parades, for they did not have the means to secure any permanent sites at that point. However, this did not mean that they had no greater cultural ambitions. For example, Hitler argued in the second volume of Mein Kampf in 1926 that the culture of a nation directly ref lected the degree of political freedom and independence enjoyed by the state. Therefore, cultural enterprises were to be given the highest level of priority following victory in the massive war that he was already envisioning even then.22 The earliest manifestations of the Nazi policy of staging events within culturally significant public spaces were the third and fourth annual Party Rallies, held in 1927 and 1929 respectively in the historic city of Nuremberg, which they venerated as the de facto historic capital of the Holy Roman Empire.23 After they seized power, the Nazis first constructed the Bückeberg festival site and the Luitpold Arena in Nuremberg, which were essentially open spaces for holding rallies and parades, as the next logical stage in their cultural evolution. As seen, the Nazi elite wasted no time in constructing monumental sites that asserted their claim over the German cultural landscape, and thus also over the national territory. Although the Nazi Party began as a relatively small-scale grassroots organization, over a relatively short time span beginning with the 1933 seizure of power they were able to realize a comprehensive cultural program, with new cultural landscapes and monumental buildings acting as territorial markers. While the Nazi period may be unique in itself, this evolution suggests that under favorable circumstances, any political regime can move relatively rapidly from mere party signs and symbols to a fully developed cultural program with expansive geopolitical ambitions. To recapitulate, within the context of this study the most important aspect of this evolution is the effect of these consolidation and expansionary phases on the conception and realization of the group of monumental sites included here. In the first phase, the main political emphasis was on building a sense of national

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community, partly through the creation of monumental sites designed to ref lect local identity within the national whole. Existing Heimat-oriented architectural design and site planning principles were adopted, such as using local materials and building techniques, as well as carefully embedding buildings in the ground. In the Nazi version of Heimat design, indigenous materials and the soil in particular were essentially fetishized as another means of intensifying mystical connections to immediate and regional landscapes. In the second phase, the national community was to be prepared for war, implicitly or explicitly, through the cultivation of a sense of national greatness and collective purpose. As a means of achieving this, monumental sites were vastly increased in scale, as was the extent and massing of the buildings themselves. Architecturally, this increasing ambition was expressed through a modernized, abstract neoclassicism not exclusively associated with local regions, but more importantly with the nation as whole, in its role as an important international player. And of course, racialized fantasies about the imperial grandeur of ancient Rome stood in the background. Site design also reflected such imperialistic ambitions, for great axes were to be incorporated that stretched out to the horizon, further reinforcing the message of expansionism. In respect to landscape design, these two phases could also be compared to the older paradigms of the picturesque and the geometric garden, respectively. On a basic level, the former was oriented towards creating landscape scenes to be contemplated in the immediate vicinity, and the latter towards creating distant axial views, to invoke feelings of sublime power. Yet in terms of both architecture and landscape, these two paradigms were present from the beginning; the change was primarily a shift in emphasis. And even though the design details relating to blood and soil practically disappeared in the second design phase, cultural landscape continued to be a critical factor in all of these monumental sites, with each projecting the image of territorial power. Most importantly, in the second phase the expression of the power of the centralized state was much stronger and less ambiguous, with the local being of diminished importance. At the same time, the various regional identities were also deemphasized, with the national community becoming a generic unit of massive scale, while war loomed on the horizon. Clearly, all of the sites in this book were primarily conceived as propaganda exercises during both phases, but the messages were a means towards an end. In the first phase, the real goal of consolidating the national community through culture was the solidification of the power of the Party elite. The architectural obsession with local culture, materials, and detailing, as well as the immediate cultural landscape to some degree obscured the project of strengthening the power of the centralized fascist state, on its way to totalitarianism. In the second phase, the power of the state was more emphatically expressed through building and site design, yet this was arguably a more honest representation of actual Party ambitions than had been the case in the first phase. The careful design detailing of the first phase may be more esthetically appealing in the contemporary context, but at the time it gave a charming, folkish face to a more sinister underlying political agenda.

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The regional landscape plans for the newly conquered territories to the east drawn up by Heinrich Wiepking may appear to have more in common on a superficial level with the blood and soil symbolism of the first phase. However as mentioned in the introduction, his planning for the General Plan East is representative of the truly totalitarian stage of the regime that emerged during the war, as per Arendt. Wiepking’s landscape planning based on agricultural villages was to be implemented after the war was over, once the next phase of territorial expansion had been achieved. If carried out, the complete redesign of existing agricultural landscapes would have continued the cycle, by beginning the consolidation phase anew in the new eastern territories. In respect to the 1939 Autobahn map, the realization of these new cultural landscapes at the scale of entire regions would have been equivalent to filling-in the gaps between the lines of the Autobahn highways and the corresponding architectural icons. Although the design expression of Wiepking’s rustic villages did not express sheer power in the way that the neoclassical monumental buildings did, reshaping entire landscapes nevertheless would have involved massive amounts of labor and other investment on a scale hitherto unknown in Europe.24 Furthermore, the project would have also necessitated mass data recording, not just on the physical design, but also in relation to the families officially assigned to each village landscape unit. Despite the traditional folkish symbolism and ecological concepts informing Wiepking’s landscape planning for the General Plan East, his work would have ultimately served the Nazi totalitarian state. What emerges in this brief outline of these overall phases, is how changes in the political system and its geopolitical goals may be read retrospectively through design strategies and stylistic references, even if this was not always consciously articulated at the time. Admittedly, we will never know what kind of world might have followed a Nazi German victory. However, we do know how the horrors of the Holocaust were perpetrated and at what scale, and that the power of the Nazi Party and state was perpetuated through progressively intensified mass terror. For Arendt, state terror was the defining feature of totalitarianism, for it made possible the complete destruction of individuals as juridical and moral entities; for her, the concentration camps were the ultimate symbol of this dehumanizing violent system.25 Perhaps the most radical implication of her theoretical position is that even if the “final solution” of eradicating all European Jews had been achieved, the dynamics of the advanced totalitarian state would have demanded the identification and persecution of new internal enemies, even within the so-called Aryan national community: The inhabitants of a totalitarian country are thrown into and caught in the process of nature or history for the sake of accelerating its movement; as such, they can only be executioners or victims of its inherent law. The process may decide that those who today eliminate races and individuals or the members of dying classes and decadent peoples are tomorrow those who must be sacrificed. What totalitarian rule needs to guide the behavior

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of its subjects is a preparation to fit each of them equally well for the role of executioner and the role of victim. This two-sided preparation, the substitute for a principle of action, is the ideology.26 If one provisionally accepts Arendt’s analyses and returns to Wiepking’s esthetically pleasing perspective drawings of well-designed rural landscapes, then it could be concluded that life in such a nightmarish post-war world would not have been at all like that of the old German agricultural landscapes that informed this planning paradigm.27 Just as optimized human breeding was intended to produce a new, superior German race, Wiepking’s modern planning techniques would have resulted in a rationalized, totally controlled rural environment resembling the historic model in formal appearance, but which could possibly have facilitated entirely different, deeply menacing political and social realities. While there is absolutely nothing inherently misdirected or sinister about regional landscape planning itself, in a totalitarian police state such professional methods could become not only instruments of space and resource management, but also of total state control over all aspects of life, and even of systematic terror. With the rise of authoritarian governments around the world, the exact equivalent of the kind of totalitarian state that Arendt describes may no longer (or not yet) exist, but it is abundantly clear that cultural landscapes as either propaganda or planning tools can easily be exploited by negative ideologies in future, as witnessed in this study of Nazi-era sites.28 As is becoming increasingly evident today, violent conquest and subjugation are well served by the political manipulation of cultural space, whether real or virtual.

Notes 1 Not to be confused with the older Grunwald monument in Cracow. 2 https://zabytek.pl/en/obiekty/grunwald-grunwald-pole-bitwy 3 Roykas M. Tracevskis, “Re-enactment of the Grunwald Battle,” The Baltic Times, April 1, 2010, www.baltictimes.com/news/articles/25453/ 4 https://zabytek.pl/en/obiekty/grunwald-grunwald-pole-bitwy 5 www.poland .travel /en /tourist -event /staging -of-the -battle -of-grunwald -in -grunwald 6 https://zabytek.pl/public/upload/objects_media/5679b4800bdd2.pdf 7 Tracevskis, www.baltictimes.com/news/articles/25453/ 8 The Lithuanian Kingdom fought with the Poles in the 1410 battle against the Teutonic Knights. While the Poles are western Slavs, ethnically Lithuanians belong to the Baltic tribes, as did the former old Prussians; thus the question of racial representation here is not simply about Slavs versus Germans. 9 See pp. 298–299. 10 “Historischer Affront unter EU- und Nato-Partnern: Polen lässt deutschen Botschafter nicht ins Land,” Der Tagesspiegel, August 30, 2020, www.tagesspiegel.de /politik/historischer-affront-unter-eu-und-nato-partnern-polen-laesst-deutschen -botschafter-nicht-ins-land/26134562.html; see also: Jaroslaw Kczynski, “Polen lässt deutschen Botschafter nicht einreisen,” Der Spiegel, August 25, 2020, www.spiegel .de/politik/ausland/polen-einreisestopp-fuer-deutschen-botschafter-in-warschau-a -980ae29f-4257-4b7e-9022-ef0ca921c085

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11 A journalist writing on related themes in a German newspaper: Matthäus Wehowski, “Wie Polens Politiker die Geschichte instrumentalisiern,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, March 4, 2018, www.faz.net/aktuell/politik/ausland/wie-polens-politiker -die-geschichte-instrumentalisieren-15474888-p3.html 12 Of course there are many people in both countries who would not agree with the press accounts cited, nor with the over-simplification of these historic events. 13 Sven Ekdahl, “The Battle of Tannenberg-Grunwald-Zalgiris (1410) as ref lected in Twentieth-Century Monuments,” in: Victor Mallia-Milanes, ed., The Military Orders: History and Heritage, Vol. 3 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 175–194. 14 Ekdahl; Debra J. Allen, The Oder–Neisse line: the United States, Poland, and Germany in the Cold War (Westport CT: Praeger, 2003). 15 Carlotta Gall and Anton Troianovski, “After Nagorno-Karabakh War, Trauma, Tragedy, and Devastation,” The New York Times, Dec. 11, 2020, www.nytimes.com /2020/12/11/world/europe/nagorno-karabakh-armenia-azerbaijan.html searchResultPosition=1; Agence-France Presse in Charektar, “Nagorno-Karabakh: Villagers burn their homes ahead of peace deal,” The Guardian, November 14, 2020, www.theguardian.com/world/2020/nov/14/nagorno-karabakh-villagers-burn-their-homes -ahead-of-peace-deal 16 www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2020/12/armenia-azerbaijan-decapitation-and -war-crimes-in-gruesome-videos-must-be-urgently-investigated/ 17 Dale Berning Sawa, “The Ceasefire Agreement with Azerbaijan Comes with Great Risks for Armenia,” The Guardian, November 19, 2020, www.theguardian.com/ commentisfree/2020/nov/19/ceasef ire-agreement-azerbaijan-great-risks-armenia; Dale Berning Sawa, “Monumental Loss: Azerbaijan and ‘The Worst Cultural Genocide of the 21st Century,’” The Guardian, March 1, 2019, www.theguardian .com/artanddesign/2019/mar/01/monumental-loss-azerbaijan-cultural-genocide -khachkars 18 The only countries that currently do not acknowledge the massacre of Armenians as an act of genocide are Azerbaijan, Pakistan, and Turkey. 19 See for example: Matthew Teague, “Stone Mountain Monument at Center of Racial Tension over Confederate Tributes,” The Guardian, November 28, 2015, www .theguardian.com/us-news/2015/nov/28/stone-mountain-confederate-monument -racial-tension; Khushbu Shah, “The KKK’s Mount Rushmore: The Problem with Stone Mountain,” The Guardian, October 24, 2018, www.theguardian.com/cities /ng-interactive/2018/oct/24/stone-mountain-is-it-time-to-remove-americas-biggest-confederate-memorial; Ryan Gravel and Scott Morris, “What Can We Do Now About Stone Mountain’s 150 ft. Confederate Carving?,” The Guardian, June 30, 2020, www.theguardian.com/us-news/commentisfree/2020/jun/30/what-we-can -do-now-about-stone-mountains-150ft-confederate-carving. 20 Meg Wagner, “‘Blood and Soil’: Protestors Chant Nazi Slogan in Charlottesville,” CNN, August 12, 2017, https://edition.cnn.com/2017/08/12/us/charlottesville -unite-the-right-rally/index.html 21 In early 2021, a bill was introduced in the Georgia State Legislature to facilitate the gradual decay of the sculptural work, and encourage vegetation to grow over it: www.wsbtv.com/news/local/new-bills-proposed-removal-confederate-monuments -georgia-public-property/SCO4JIASW5BA7OTGTDU2WXLO74/ 22 Christian Hartmann, Thomas Vordermayer, Othmar Plöckinger, and Roman Töppel, eds., Mein Kampf: Eine kritische Edition, Vols. I and II (Munich: Berlin: Insitut für Zeitgeschichte, 2016), Vol. I, 68, Vol. II, 1552–1553. 23 Eckart Dietzfelbinger, Nürnberg, Ort der Massen: das Reichsparteitagsgelände, Vorgeschichte und schwieriges Erbe (Berlin: Links, 2004), 26. 24 Note that Wiepking also designed so-called “defensive landscapes” (Wehrlandschaften) in connection, which were intended to hinder military attacks, thus he himself was conscious of the military significance of his landscape planning for the East, even

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25 26 27

28

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when there was no suggestion of military presence in many of his drawings. See: Gert Gröning and Joachim Wolschke-Bulmahn, “The Concept of “Defense Landscape” (Wehrlandschaft) in National Socialist Landscape Planning,” in: Anatole Tchikine and John Dean David, eds., Military Landscapes (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2021), 201–222. See for example: Arendt, 468; Anthony Court, Hannah Arendt’s Response to the Crisis of her Times (Amsterdam: Pretoria: UNISA Press, 2008), 150–155. On significance of camps for Arendt see: Court, 150, 156, 163. Arendt, 468. Court argues that Arendt did not think of Nazi Germany or Stalinist Russia as “ideal types” of totalitarianism, but rather as “its most nearly ideal historical examples.” She was concerned with totalitarianism as a phenomenon, and her understanding was informed by these two case studies, but her main purpose was not to reconstruct the histories of these regimes, nor to predict what might have been, for example if Nazi Germany had won the war. Arendt saw totalitarianism as being “anti-utilitarian;” for her, totalitarian regimes were ultimately self-destructive because of their inherent dynamics, not their historical specificities. Court makes the point that despite this tendency, totalitarianism could be understood as a potentially recurring phenomenon. Court, 135, 159–160. When I wrote this in 2021 Russia had not yet invaded Ukraine. Since then, many observers have commented that Russia has once again become a totalitarian, even fascist state. On the current situation (2022) see for example: https://www.nytimes. com/2022/05/17/podcasts/anne-applebaum-ezra-klein-interviews.html; https:// www.nytimes.com/2022/05/19/opinion/russia-fascism-ukraine-putin.html.

ABBREVIATIONS

AVIP BHSA BARCH COX HAT IOC KMW LWL NLAH NLAO SAN SAD SAV VDK

Archiv Vogelsang IP Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich Bundesarchiv, Berlin Coxfoto, Cologne Historisches Archiv für Tourismus, TU Berlin International Olympic Committee, Lausanne Kreismuseum Wewelsburg Landschaftsverband Westfalen-Lippe – Denkmalpf lege, Landschaftsund Baukultur in Westfalen. Niedersächsische Landesarchiv Hannover Niedersächsische Landesarchiv Osnabrück Stadtarchiv Nürnberg Stadtarchiv Düsseldorf Stadtarchiv Verden Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge / German War Graves Commission

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

Every effort has been made to contact copyright-holders. Please advise the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will be corrected in subsequent editions. Note: Any artists/photographers not named here were not identified in the original. Figure 0.1 “Die Reichsautobahnen in Grossdeutschland,” Berlin: Volk und Reich Karte, 1939, in: Die Straße May (1939): foldout, inside back cover. Historic Collection of the Humboldt University Library, Berlin. New icon numbering and legend design: Oliver Kleinschmidt, Berlin. Figure 0.2 NLAOS, Wiepking Papers, Dep 72 b, Nr. 149, 005. Village landscape perspective, 1942. Figure 1.1 Friedrich Ratzel, Deutschland: Einführung in die Heimatkunde, Leipzig: Grunow, 1898, front and back covers, and spine (continuous). (Artist not identified.) Figure 1.2 Paul Schultze-Naumburg, “Die Komposition in der moderne Malerei,” Die Kunst für Alle (1899) XIV March, pp. 161–166 (p. 165). (Note: all photos and compositions by Schultze-Naumburg.) Figure 1.3 Loc. cit. Figure 1.4 Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kulturarbeiten, Vol. II, Gärten (Munich: Georg Callwey, 1912), plate 32. Figure 1.5 Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Die Gestaltung der Landschaft durch den Menschen (Munich: Georg Callwey, 1928), 136. Figure 1.6 Ibid., 94, below. Figure 1.7 Ibid., 94, above. Figure 1.8 Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Kunst und Rasse (Munich: J. F. Lehmanns, 1938), 114.

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Figure 1.9 Ibid., 115. Figure 1.10 Ibid., 134. Figure 1.11 Ibid., 142. Figure 1.12 Die Gartenkunst (1930): 164. Figure 1.13 Karl Haushofer, and Kurt Trampler, eds. Deutschlands Weg an der Zeitenwende (Munich: H. Hugendubel Verlag, 1931), 39. Figure 1.14 Gauleitung Bayerischer Ostmark der N.S.D.A.P., eds., Grenzland im Aufbau (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayerische Ostmark, 1936), n.p. Artist: Gustav Lüttgens. Figure 1.15 Ibid. Artist: Gustav Lüttgens. Figure 1.16 Fritz Wächtler, Deutsches Volk Deutsche Heimat, Vol. I (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1937/8 (2nd ed.)), jacket front. (Taken from photo p. 131.) Photo: Albert Leon. Figure 1.17 Ibid., 186. Photo: Hans Retzlaff. Figure 1.18 Wächtler, Fritz, ed. Deutsche fern der Heimat (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1938), cover. (Collage: man, p. 116, photo: Ilse Steinhoff; landscape in background, p. 103, photo: Deutschlandsinstitut, Volksdeutscher Bilderdienst, no photographer.) Figure 1.19 Fritz Wächtler, ed., Reichsaufbau im Osten (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1941), 137, above. Photo: Mauritius Verlag; photographer: Friedrich Bauer. Figure 1.20 Fritz Wächtler, ed., Die neue Heimat (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1940), 173. Photo: Heinrich Hoffmann. Figure 1.21 Ibid., 172. Photo: Atlantic Verlag. Figure 1.22 Gerdy Troost, Das Bauen im Neuen Reich, Vol. I (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayerische Ostmark, 1938), jacket front. Photo: Kurt Grimm. Figure 1.23 Ibid., 23. Photo: Jaeger & Goergen. Figure 1.24 Troost, Vol. II (1943), 167. Photo: Zeymer. Figure 1.25 Ibid., 13. Figure 2.1 Troost, Vol. II, 91. Photo: Fritz Schurig. Figure 2.2 Fritz Wächtler, Deutsches Volk Deutsche Heimat, Vol. II (Munich: Deutscher Volksverlag, 1937), map in pocket on inside back cover. Figure 2.3 Die Straße August, Nr. 1 (1934): cover. Figure 2.4 HAFRABA map, from invitation to 1926 founding meeting, reproduced in: Martin Kornrumpf, HAFRABA e.V. Deutsche Autobahn-Planung 1926–1934 (Bonn: Kirschbaum Verlag, 1990), 23. Figure 2.5 Otto Reismann, Deutschlands Autobahnen: Adolf Hitlers Strassen (Bayreuth: Gauverlag Bayersiche Ostmark, 1937), 98. Figure 2.6 Johann Wilhelm Ludowici, Das deutsche Siedlungswerk (Heidelberg: Winter, 1935), 17. Figure 2.7 Die Straße Vol. II (1937): 395. Figure 2.8 Alwin Seifert, Im Zeitalter des Lebendigen (Munich: Müllersche Verlagshandlung, 1941), 123. Photo: Alwin Seifert.

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Figure 2.9 Die Straße March (1941): cover. Photo: Dr. Wolf Strache. © Landesmedienzentrum Baden-Württemberg. Figure 2.10 Troost, Vol. II, 96, below. Figure 2.11 Raumforschung und Raumordnung Nr. 6/7 (1942): plates between pp. 216–217, left side. Artist: Dr. Martin Pfannschmidt. Figure 2.12 Loc. cit., right side. Artist: Dr. Martin Pfannschmidt. Figure 2.13 Wächtler, Neue, 165, below. Photo: Walter Niessen. Figure 2.14 Seifert, Zeitalter, 91. Photo: Alwin Seifert. Figure 2.15 HAFRABA November 1 (1929): cover image. Artist: Georg Köhler. Figure 2.16 Die Gartenkunst (1930): 172. Artist: Becker, Kassel. Figure 2.17 Die Straße Vol. II (1938): 766. Figure 2.18 Troost, Vol. II, 98, above. Photo: Walter Niessen. Figure 2.19 Seifert, Zeitalter, 122. Photo: Alwin Seifert. Figure 2.20 Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 479. Figure 2.21 Julius Schulte-Frohlinde, ed., Bauten der Bewegung (Berlin: Verlag von Wilhelm Ernst & Sohn, 1938), 76. Figure 2.22 HAT, D060/00/-45/RDV/4/Sonstiges. Figure 2.23 Emil Maier-Dorn, Reichsautobahnführer Berlin-Leipzig-Halle-NürnbergMünchen, Nr. 2 (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1938), 31. Artist: Robert Zinner. Figure 2.24 die neue linie July (1937): cover. Artist: Otto Arpke. Figure 2.25 die neue linie February (1938): cover. Artist: Otto Arpke. Figure 2.26 Eduard Schoenleben, Fritz Todt (Oldenburg: Stalling, 1943), 79, above. Photo: Hansa-Luftbild. Figure 3.1 Carl Diem, ed., XI. Olympiade Berlin 1936 Amtlicher Bericht, Vol. I (Berlin: Wilhelm Limpert Verlag, 1937), 56. Figure 3.2 Die Kunst im Dritten Reich Vol. II, Ausgabe B (1939): 475. Figure 3.3 Werner Hegemann, Werner March (Berlin: Hübsch Verlag, 1930), 10. Figure 3.4 Werner March, Bauwerk Reichssportfeld (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1936), 14. Figure 3.5 Diem, 53. Photo: Gerhard Riebicke, Berlin. Figure 3.6 March, Reichssportfeld, plate 1. Photo: Presse Illustration Hoffmann. Figure 3.7 Viktor Kuron, Die Läufer des Friedens von Olympia nach Berlin (Berlin: Hobbing, 1936), n.p. Figure 3.8 Diem, 154. Photo: Wolfgang Strache. Figure 3.9 Diem, 155, below. Photo: Scherl, Berlin. Figure 3.10 March, Reichssportfeld, 27. Figure 3.11 Diem, 155, above. Photo: Scherl, Berlin. Figure 3.12 March, Reichssportfeld, plate 35. Photo: Hilde Schlitter. Figure 3.13 Ibid., plate 3. Photo: Hansa Luftbild. Figure 3.14 Diem, 163. Photo: Wolfgang Strache. Figure 3.15 Gerhard Krause, ed., Olympia 1936: Eine Nationale Aufgabe (Berlin: Reichssportverlag, 1935), 199. Artist: Piel-Ponta.

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Figure 3.16 BARCH, R1501, 5611, p. 19. (Artist: not given). Figure 3.17 Die Straße January, Issue 2 (1938): cover. Photo: Heinrich Hoffmann (Freig. RLM. 261 137). (Collage image, probably produced by Speer’s office as General Building Inspector for Berlin.) Figure 3.18 Werner March, Olympisches Dorf 1936 (Berlin: Bauwelt Verlag, 1936), 1. Photo: Klink u. Co. Berlin. Figure 3.19 Gartenschönheit (1941): 47. Figure 3.20 Diem, 175. Figure 3.21 Leni Riefenstahl, Schönheit im Olympischen Kampf (Berlin: Deutschen Verlag, 1937), 145. (Still from Riefenstahl’s film: Olympia 2. Teil — Fest der Schönheit [Festival of Beauty]. Figure 3.22 Hans Saalbach, Dorf des Friedens (Leipzig: Philipp Reclam, 1936), 24–25. Figure 3.23 Die Straße Vol. II (1938): 548. Figure 3.24 Troost, Vol. I, 26. Photo: Kurt Grimm. Figure 3.25 Hans Kerrl, ed., Reichstagung in Nürnberg 1935: Der Parteitag der Freiheit (Berlin: Weller, 1936), foldout, inside back cover. Artist: Herbert Bartholomäus, Berlin. Figure 3.26 Die Straße Vol. II (1936): 159. Figure 3.27 Kerrl, 344–345. Figure 3.28 SAN, C32_1352_2. Figure 3.29 Kerrl, 28. Figure 3.30 Die Gartenkunst Sept. (1934): 142. Figure 3.31 Albert Speer, plan, “Nürnberg Reichparteitaggelände,” Berlin, October 1934, BHSA, buero-speer-plaene_000085. Figure 3.32 Albert Speer, plan, “Nürnberg Reichparteitaggelände,” Berlin, October 1934, BHSA, buero-speer-plaene_000072. Figure 3.33 Albert Speer, plan, “Nürnberg Reichparteitaggelände,” Berlin, December 1934, BHSA, buero-speer-plaene_000151. Figure 3.34 die neue linie September (1938): cover. Artist: Toni Zepf. Figure 3.35 Albert Speer, and Rudolf Wolters, Neue Deutsche Baukunst (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1940), 28. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 3.36 Kerrl, Reichstagung, 125. Figure 3.37 Troost, Vol. I, 33. Photo: Kurt Grimm. Figure 3.38 Troost, Vol. I, 32. Photo: Kurt Grimm. Figure 3.39 Die Gartenkunst (1938): 173. Figure 3.40 Alfred Hinz, “Nürnberg. Reichparteitaggelände, Gesamtplanung Generalbauinspektor Prof. Speer, Vorschlag für die Landschaftsgestaltung,” April 1941 (Scan from original drawing from Hinz family collection; reproduction kindly provided by Alexander Schmidt, Documentation Center, Nazi Party Rally Grounds.) Figure 3.41 Die Gartenkunst (1938): 168. Figure 3.42 Die Straße Sept. (1937): n.p., color plate. Artist: Robert Zinner.

332 Illustration Credits

Figure 4.1 Paul Schultze-Naumburg, Die Entstellung unseres Landes (Munich: Kastner & Callwey, 1909), 7. Figure 4.2 KMW. Photo: F. Hiebel. Figure 4.3 die neue linie Sept. (1936): 16. Figure 4.4 KMW, Inv. no. 13634. “Krieg,” 1939–1941. Artist: Hans Lohbeck. Figure 4.5 © LWL. Photo: Hugo Schnautz. Figure 4.6 Claude Schnaidt, Hannes Meyer: Bauten, Projekte und Schriften (Teufen AR (CH): Verlag Arthur Niggli, 1965): 41. Figure 4.7 AVIP, VIP001221. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.8 COX, 14-287, Klotz, Zeichnung Schulungslager im Flachland, Crössinsee, Anfang 1934. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.9 Die Kunst im Dritten Reich / Die Baukunst, Vol. I, Ausgabe B, January (1939): 28. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.10 COX, 14-399, 18/24 1934, Klotz, Schulungsburg i. Saarland, Schaubilder. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.11 COX, 14-1271, Klotz, Ansicht von Westen mit der Marienburg der Deutschordensritter im Vordergrund, Ende 1938. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.12 COX, 14-528, Klotz, Entwurfszeichnung, Weichselburg, Ansicht vom Ufer, März 1941. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.13 AVIP, Heinen Collection. Photo: Atelier Mertens, Gemünd. Figure 4.14 AVIP, VIP007468, Harald Jahrl, La jeunesse: ses devoirs et ses joies (Berlin: n. p, n. d. [1942]), n.p. Figure 4.15 Schulte-Frohlinde, 16. Figure 4.16 Troost, Bauen, Vol. I, 34. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.17 AVIP, VIP001154. Photo: C. H. Schmeck, Aachen. Figure 4.18 Kameradschaftsblätter Der Orden 1 (1938): 5. Figure 4.19 AVIP, VIP006264 Herbrand Collection. Permission courtesy of Markus Herbrand. Figure 4.20 AVIP, Sawinski Collection. Artist: Georg Sluytermann von Langeweyde. Figure 4.21 Kameradschaftsblätter Der Orden 2 (1938): 16. Figure 4.22 AVIP, VIP001377. Figure 4.23 Hartmut Happel, Die Allgäuer Ordensburg in Sonthofen (Immenstadt: Verlag J. Eberl, 1996), 11, bottom. Figure 4.24 Alwin Seifert, N. S. Ordensburg Sonthofen (Kempten im Allgäu: Allgäuer Dr. u. Verl. Anst., 1937), n.p. (Plate 9). Photo: August Kröninger. Figure 4.25 AVIP, VIP002262. Photo: Heimhuber, Sonthofen-Oberstdorf. Figure 4.26 Die Kunst im Dritten Reich / Die Baukunst, Vol. I, Ausgabe B, January (1939): 24. Figure 4.27 Ibid., 21. Figure 4.28 Ibid., 23. Figure 4.29 Speer, 76. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto.

Illustration Credits

333

Figure 4.30 Oberallgäuer Nationalzeitung March 25 (1939): 5; reproduced in: Happel, Sonthofen, 25. Figure 4.31 Seifert, Sonthofen, n.p. (Plate 3). Photo: Fritz Hege. Permission courtesy of Conny Hege. Figure 4.32 Rolf Sawinski, Die Ordensburg Krössinsee in Pommern (Aachen: Helios Verlag, 2008), 93. Figure 4.33 Robert Ley, Der Weg zur Ordensburg (Berlin: Verlag der Deutschen Arbeitsfront, n. d. [1936]), n.p. Figure 4.34 Wasmuths Monatshefte für Baukunst und Städtebau (1936): 306. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.35 Ibid., 312. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.36 Troost, Vol. I, 37 below. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.37 AVIP, VIP007525. Figure 4.38 AVIP, VIP003520, Sawinski Collection. Figure 4.39 BARCH, R1501, 1292, Karte, Bl. 81. Figure 4.40 die neue linie, June (1938), 20–21. Artist: Gerda Rotermund. Figure 4.41 Troost, Vol. I, 100, top. Photo: Karrer & Mayer, Munich. Figure 4.42 Loc. cit., bottom. Photo: Karrer & Mayer, Munich. Figure 4.43 COX, 14-526, 18/24, 1935, Klotz, Zeichnung: Ruegen, Leuchtturm. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 4.44 Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung (1938): 1242, below. Figure 4.45 Hamburger Tageblatt August 6 (1939). Figure 5.1 Friedrich Heiß, Deutschland zwischen Nacht und Tag (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1934), 126. Photo: International News Berlin. Figure 5.2 Hans Hitzer, Deutschland (Berlin: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1936). Figure 5.3 Heiß, 149. Photo: Presse-Bild-Zentrale-Berlin. Figure 5.4 die neue linie Sept. (1937): 21–23. Figure 5.5 NLAH, ha_dep._hübotter_mappe_1481_0616_bl._009. Figure 5.6 NLAH, ha_dep._hübotter_mappe_1481_0616_bl._008. Figure 5.7 NLAH, ha_dep._hübotter_mappe_1481_0616_bl._006. Figure 5.8 SAV. Figure 5.9 SAV. Figure 5.10 VDK, 2457_Original. Figure 5.11 Alfons Hayduk, Annabergwacht (Gleiwitz: Neumann, 1938), 21. Photo: Ludwig Feld. Figure 5.12 Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung (1938): 472. Figure 5.13 Kriegsgräberversorgung (1938): 106. Photo: Ludwig Feld. Figure 5.14 Heiß, 23. Photo: G. Rosenkrantz. Figure 5.15 SAD, Pläne aus dem Gartenamt, Schlageter-Stätte, 5-1-15-429. Figure 5.16 Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung (1930): 94. Drawing: Leberecht Migge; retraced by the author for clarity. Figure 5.17 Theodor Sommer, Bildwerk über Leben und Sterben Albert Leo Schlageters (Düsseldorf: Self-published, 1933), n.p. Figure 5.18 SAD, 105_500_031_Söhn. Photo: Julius Söhn.

334 Illustration Credits

Figure 5.19 SAD, 005_162_041. Figure 5.20 Ewald Freundt, Tannenberg 1914: Führer durch das Schlachtfeld und die Ehrenfriedhöfe (Hohenstein (Ostpr.): Emil Grüneberger, 1927), n.p. Figure 5.21 Hans Kahns, Das Reichsehrenmal Tannenberg (Königsberg Pr.: Gräfe und Unzer, 1937): 33, below. Photo: Hugo Schmölz, © Coxfoto. Figure 5.22 NLAOS, Wiepking Papers, Dep 72 b, Nr. 144, 054. (Reichsehrenmal Tannenberg, Design: 1936). Figure 5.23 Kuratorium “für das Reichsehrenmal Tannenberg, eds., Tannenberg: Deutsches Schicksal – Deutsche Aufgabe (Berlin, Oldenburg: Gerhard Stalling Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1939)”, Plate 7. Figure 5.24 Kuratorium, Plate 4. Figure 5.25 NLAOS, Wiepking Papers, Dep 72 b, Nr. 144, 053.

INDEX

Note: page numbers in italics indicate figures; references following “n” refer to notes. Aachen 86, 89, 213 ADGB School, Bernau 207, 208, 208, 209 see also General League of German Trade Unions Africa 20, 22, 59, 68, 69, 87, 124n27, 236 African Americans 320 African Village (“Ashanti Dorf ”) 236 “The Age of the Living” (Seifert) 48 Ahnenerbe see “Ancestral Heritage” Alldeutscher Verband see Pan-German League Allgäu 214 Allgemeine Deutsche Gewerksschaftsbund (ADGB) see General League of German Trade Unions Allinger, G. 148 Alpine man 108 Alpine piedmont 92, 107, 120 Alpine Road 15, 84, 91–93, 107–110, 120, 121, 214, 226 America/Americans 14, 35, 51, 101, 105, 112, 112, 315, 319 “Ancestral Heritage” (Ahnenerbe) institute 199, 274 Ankara 84 Annaberg memorial: general refs. 11, 119, 265, 289, 315; main discussion 282– 288; autobahn link 287; battle of 282, 283; Böhmer and Petrich architects, 283, 284; Cow Valley 284; dedication

ceremony (1938) 286, 287, 288; f lag platform 284, 285, 286; geopolitical significance 283; German War Graves Commission 286, 287; Hallbaum 287; mausoleum 285, 286, 286; thingstead 283–284, 284; Treaty of Versailles plebiscite 282; youth hostel 285, 286, 287 Annexation (territorial) 8, 10, 58, 78, 91, 94–96, 117, 120, 164, 194n118 “Anthropo-geography” (Anthropogeographie – Ratzel) 22, 23 Anthropology/anthropological 3, 20, 22, 24 anti-Christian 282 anti-Semitism 64, 163, 244 Architecture and Politics in Germany 1918– 1945 (Lane) 14 Arendt, H. 1–4, 6, 16, 16n1, 122, 130, 197, 199, 205–206, 321, 323–324, 326n27 Armenian-Azerbaijani conf lict 317–318 Armenian genocide 318, 325Sn18 Arnheim, B. von 34 “Art and Race” (Schultze-Naumburg) 43–46 “Art in the Third Reich” 106 Aryan race 3, 31, 132, 151, 323 Asia/Asian 90, 124n27, 317 Association Internationale Permanente des Congrés de la Route 84

336

Index

Atlantic Ocean 68, 90, 113 Atlantic Wall 69, 89, 90 Auberlen, R. 97 Auschwitz concentration camp 14 Austria/Austrian 4, 8, 10, 58, 91, 92, 95, 96, 99, 111, 117, 120, 150, 211, 214, 226–228, 228, 288, 292 Austro-fascist 226 autobahn (Nazi): general refs. 5, 6, 9, 10, 12, 15, 48, 51, 62, 66, 67, 70, 132, 141, 159, 165, 186, 187, 187, 188, 200, 204, 211, 224, 235, 241–245, 254, 266, 270, 281, 287, 294, 302, 323; main discussion: frontispiece, 9–10, chapter two. autobahn map (1939) frontispiece, 9, 10, 66, 78, 118, 119, 200, 211, 266, 270, 281, 287, 294, 323 Baedeker, K. 117 “Baedeker’s Auto Guidebook” (Baedekers Autoführer) 118, 120, 121, 213–214, 270, 282, 287, 294, 302 Baltic, 88, 90, 213, 241, 243, 245, 287, 298, 301 Baltic Times 316 Baroque 165, 179, 180, 189, 200, 201 Bartels, H. 201, 203–204 Das Bauen im neuen Reich see “Building in the New Reich” Bauernherzöge see noble farmers Bauhaus, 46, 115, 207 Baur, M. 55 Bavaria/Bavarian 51–53, 61, 65, 84, 91, 92, 93, 106, 107, 115, 120, 137, 207, 209, 226, 243, 283, 288 Bavarian East March (Bayerische Ostmark) 51–52, 53, 61, 93 “The Bavarian East March: The Building-up of a German Borderland” (Bayerische Ostmark: Aufbau eines deutschen Grenzlandes–Trampler) 52 Bavarian East March Road 15, 91, 93 Becker, Landesoberrat 102 Behne, A. 208 Belgium/Belgian 39, 141, 211, 212, 218 Bender, E. 224, 236–237, 250–252 Berghof (Hitler’s mt. residence) 118, 120, 121 Berkelmann, R. 277–280 Berlichingen, G. von 228 Berlin 34, 81, 91, 95, 98, 99 116, 118, 129, 130, 131–133, 133, 137, 139, 144, 148, 151–153, 154, 155, 159, 161, 162, 164,

171, 172, 177, 179, 183, 186, 188, 189, 207, 209, 225, 241, 243, 244, 267–269, 273, 283, 284, 289, 294, 295, 299, 316 Berlin Agricultural University 148 Bernau 207, 208, 208, 209, 213, 221; see also ADGB School biology/biological 3, 4, 17n7, 20–24, 27, 29, 30, 32, 33, 43, 58, 80, 91, 147, 181, 210, 252, 320 biopolitics 21 Bismarck, Otto von 297 Black Forest 8, 18n19 Blomberg, W. von 156 blood and soil (“Blut und Boden”): anti-modernist 33; architectural manifestation 12, 16, 32, 70, 322, 323; autobahn 78, 81, 100, 110, 122; biological bond of race and land 3, 21, 32; Bückeberg 266–27, 269; Darré 32, 268; earth-rooted garden 21; Haushofer 29; Hitler 31; male body 156, 207; monumentalized landscapes 265, 307; mystical symbolism 12; national community 3; Olympics 132, 134–135, 137, 153, 156; Order Castles, gen. 207, 201, 212; Party Rally Grounds 130, 175–176, 191, 189; Prora Seaside Resort 250, 252, 255, 256; Rosenberg 33; Schlageter Cross 288, 291–293, 297; Schlageter Grove 282; SchultzeNaumburg 43; social Darwinism 28; sports park type 130; Stone Mountain 315, 320; Tannenberg 297, 304; Tempelhof Field 267; Vogelsang 223–225; Wewelsburg 203; Wiepking 159, 160 blood-soaked-soil 11, 265, 274, 279, 297, 301, 316 “blue-eyed blonds” 151 Blut und Boden see blood and soil Böddeken agricultural estate 203 Bodden (bay) 252 bodenständig/Bodenständigkeit see earthrooted/earth-rootedness (general) bodenständige Gartenkunst see earth-rooted garden design (Seifert) Bohemia 7, 8, 95 Böhmer, F. 283–284, 286–287 Boitzenburg park 179 Bonatz, P. 79, 100 Bonn 212, 213 Bormann, M. 48, 121 Boss, H. 204 botanical geography 50

Index

Brandenburg 136, 137, 143, 146, 147, 155, 157, 160, 161, 162, 190n20, 209 Brandenburg Gate 225 Braunau (Hitler birthplace) 10 Breslau (Wrocław) 95, 108, 241, 243 Britain/British 26, 30, 68, 69, 84, 89, 90, 98, 162, 163 Bruckmann, H. 46 Brugmann, W. 167, 183, 186 Brundage, A. 162–163 Bückeberg: general refs. 11, 33, 172, 265, 280, 282, 289, 321; main discussion 266–273; Darré 268; farm men and women 273; Führer’s Path 270, 270; Goebbels’s role, 267–269; Gutterer’s role 267, 269, 272; Jews excluded 273; natural amphitheater 270; ritual procession 272; searchlights 270, 271; Speer, final plans 271, 272; swastika f lags 270; Weser River 269, 270; Wessel monument 269, 270 Budapest 97 “Building in the New Reich” (Troost/ Trampler) 14, 21, 50, 61, 62, 62, 63–70, 198 Building Nazi Germany: Place, Space, Architecture, and Ideology (Hagen and Ostergren) 15, 260n93 Bulgaria 69, 150 California 155 Canada 162 “Care of the Land” (Mäding) 46 Carinthia (Austria) 99, 107, 287 Carl-Mardorf, W. 55 Carus, C. G. 223 Casa Blanca 84 Castel del Monte, Italy 300 castles (general concept/symbolism) 197, 199, 206, 212 see also Order Castles Catholicism/Catholic 289, 292 Caucasus 97, 317 Charlemagne 273–274, 282 Charlottesville, Virginia 320 Cherbourg 84 Cherusker (Germanic hero) 201 Chicago 112 Chiemsee lake 120, 120, 215, 243 Christianity/Christian symbolism 273, 279, 281, 282, 293, 294, 298, 306, 317 Cologne 209, 212, 213, 218, 223, 224, 236, 250 colonialism/colonial 22, 23, 30 communism 2–3

337

concentration camps 14, 19n24, 48, 74n116, 203, 258n27, 264n189, 323 Confederate States of America/ the Confederacy 319–320 Congress Hall 170–172, 170 Court, A. 16, 19n33 Cracow 97, 298 Crössinsee Order Castle: general refs. 205, 207, 210, 211. 212, 245; main discussion 213, 216, 234–244; axial planning 235, 237; Court of Honor 238, 239; f lat landscape 235, 236; Hall of Honor 237, 238, 238, 239; House of Knowledge 240, 241; Ley 236, 240, 241, 243; new cultural landscape 240– 242, 242, 243, 244; Strength through Joy Hotel 240; Strength through Joy Tourist Homes 243 cultural genocide 317–318 cultural landscape (Kulturlandschaft): Alpine Road 92, 107, 190; Annaberg 282, 283; autobahn 9–10, 15, 111, 117, 119, 122; Bückeberg 269, 270, 273; castles, general 198; colonialism 20; contemporary significance 314; Crössinsee 240–244; “deep cleansing” 65; destruction of 315, 317, 318; geopolitics and 52–53; Heimat 21, 31, 32, 36; Himmler’s personal 200, 281; Hitler 31; “industrial” 89; as institutional identity 255, 256; Kjellén 27, 28; national community 33; natural landscape 13; Olympics, Berlin (1936) 130, 137, 140, 144, 154, 161; parks as 130; Party Rally Grounds 172, 173, 180, 185; political implications in relation to Arendt’s Totalitarianism 1–7, 16, 320–324; Prora Seaside Resort 245, 250, 254, 255; Ratzel 22–26; Saxon Grove 273, 279, 281; Schlageter Cross 289, 293, 294, 297; Seifert 100, 101, 105, 105, 109; Sonthofen 226, 233, 234; Tannenberg 301, 304, 306, 307; touristic imperative 8; Trampler 14, 51–60, 63–70; Westwall 60; see also Heimat cultural work (Kulturarbeit) as publication title and concept 23, 36, 38–43, 100, 104 Czechoslovakia/Czechs 8, 10, 51, 52, 52, 53, 53, 54, 54, 58, 90, 91, 93–95, 150 Dachau concentration camp and plantation 48, 74n116, 203 Danzig (Gdańsk) 90, 91, 241, 243, 298 Darré, W. 32–33, 99, 268–269, 273

338

Index

Davis, J. 319 D-Day invasion 8 “The Defacement of the Land” (Schultze-Naumburg) 38 defense geopolitics (Wehrgeopolitik) 29 defensive landscape (Wehrlandschaft) 60, 325–326n24 Denmark 87, 88, 88, 89. “The Design of the Landscape through Humans” (Schultze-Naumburg) 40, 42, 42, 43 Detering, O. 290 Deutsche Arbeitsfront (DAF) see German Labor Front Deutsche Automobil-Club (DDAC) see German Automobile Club Deutsche fern der Heimat see “Germans Far from The Heimat” Deutschen Gesellschaft für Gartenkunst see German Society for Garden Design Deutsches Volk–Deutsche Heimat see “German People–German Heimat” Das deutsche Volksgesicht see “The Face of the German People” Deutschland Baut: Bauten und Bauvorhaben see “Germany Builds…” Deutschland: Einführung in die Heimatkunde see “Germany: An Introduction…” “Deutschland über Alles” 141 Diem, C. 133, 141, 150, 153 Dietrich Eckhart Open Air Theater 137, 144–146 Djulfa 315, 317, 318 dolmens 280 Drachenfels Castle 212 Driving Germany: The Landscape of the German Autobahn 1930–1970 (Zeller) 15 Dürer, A. 180–181 Düsseldorf 288–290, 294, 295 Dutzend Lake 172, 180, 185 earthmoving 33, 149, 154, 159, 261n108, 278, 303 earth-rooted/earth-rootedness (bodenständig/Bodenständigkeit) 33, 35, 147, 182, 252, 253 earth-rooted garden design (bodenständige Gartenkunst – Seifert) 47–49, 49, 50, 100, 104 East Prussia 56, 90, 206, 214, 283, 297, 298, 301, 306 Ebers, E. 81, 109–110 Eckhardt, P. 241–243 Eckhart, D. 144–145

ecological garden 47 ecology/ecological 25, 27, 46, 47, 50, 101, 104, 107, 114, 149, 160, 181, 252, 307, 323 Eichstätt 108 Eifel district 212, 213, 224, 236 Einheit des Ostproblems see “The Totality of…” Engelhardt, Baron W. von 290 England/English 35, 36, 97, 99 English Channel 69, 69 English Garden (Munich) 64 Die Entstellung unseres Landes see “The Defacement…” Eulen, S. 287 Externsteine stone formations 199, 201, 281 “The Face of the German People” (Lendvai-Dircksen) 57 Falkenburg 211, 213, 234, 241, 242, 242, 243 fascism/fascist 28, 105, 140, 226, 322 female athletes 132, 156 female body as symbol 39, 39, 57, 115, 150, 273 “final solution” 323 f lag hill 267, 270 Florian, K. 295 Foerster, K. 67, 192n57 forced labor 97 see also slave labor “Foundation for Research in Germandom in the South and Southeast” 52 France/French 12, 36, 54, 84, 87, 89, 90, 92, 162, 180, 183, 189, 214, 274, 287–290 Franconia 107, 147 Frank, H. 14 The Frankenburg Dice Game 144 Frankfurt Main 45, 83, 83, 254, 259n63 Frankfurt Oder 95 Free Corps (Freikorps) 283, 288–289 see also Schlageter, L. Freundt, E. 301 Frick, W. 46, 136, 136, 242, 244 Friedrich, C. D. 63, 223, 250 Friedrich II (Emperor) 298, 300 Früchtel, M. 14 Führer Building (Munich) 199 “Further Valley” 54 “Garden Design” (Die Gartenkunst) 47, 159, 277, 280 General League of German Trade Unions 207–209, 210; see also ADGB School

Index

General Plan for the East (Generalplan Ost – GPO) 6–7, 68, 243, 283, 323, 324 Genoa 83, 83, 84 genocide 6, 317, 318 geographic planting categories (Seifert) 47–50 geology/geological 40, 46, 65, 81, 109, 110, 113, 114, 250, 302 geopolitics: Annaberg 282, 293, 288; autobahn 10, 78, 79, 80, 84, 87, 88, 91, 93; Berlin 130, 153; blood and soil 21; Britain 97, 98, 122; Bückeberg 267, 273; castles, general 197, 198; Caucasus 317; Crössinsee 235; cultural landscape 3; domestic and international 5, 6; Grunwald 317; HAFRABA 84; Haushofer 29, 30; historiography 15, 16, 18n12; Kjellén (originator of term) 27, 28; landscape appreciation 8; Marienburg 215, 301; Mein Kampf 30; monumentalized landscapes 265, 266, 314; monumental sites as network 7, 11, 12; Nuremberg 130, 173; Oder River bridge 95; Order Castles, general 207, 211; Party Rally Grounds 164, 165, 186, 188; phases of 4, 7, 321, 323; Prora Seaside Resort 245, 248, 255; race and neighboring states 86, 87, 87, 96; Ratzel 22, 96; Schlageter, L. 289; Schlageter Cross 293, 297; Seifert 47; Sonthofen 226; Tannenberg 299, 301, 302; torch relay 131, 150, 151, 151; Trampler 22, 51–54, 60, 61, 63, 68–70; Vogelsang 218; Wewelsburg 200, 204, 301 Georgia (US) 315, 318, 319 “The German Ancestral Landscape on Rügen Island” (“Germanische Ahnenlandschaft auf Insel Rügen” – Wiepking) 159 German Automobile Club (DDAC) 117 German Labor Front (DAF) 118, 160–161, 183, 197, 205, 208, 211–213, 244–247, 250 “German People–German Heimat” 54, 55, 55, 56, 56, 57, 58 “Germans Far from The Heimat” 58 German Society for Garden Design 148, 170–171 German War Graves Commission 286, 287 “Germany: An Introduction to Heimat Studies” (Ratzel) 25

339

“Germany Builds: Construction and Building Plans” (Herbert Hoffmann) 62 gesamtkunstwerk 223, 286 gesamtwerk 306 Die Gestaltung der Landschaft durch den Menschen see “The Design of the Landscape…” Giaccaria, P. 15 Giesler, H. 14, 209–211, 214, 215, 216, 226–228, 230, 233, 247, 281 glacial erratics 237, 275, 278–280, 298, 302, 310n55 “glacier garden” 109, 110 Goebbels, J. 46, 99, 131, 144, 267–268, 274, 281–282, 289 Goethe, J. W. 36, 39, 40, 48 Gohdes, O. 209, 211, 213, 234 Golzheimer Heath 289 Göring, H. 118, 121, 179, 294 Greece/Greek 63, 69, 132, 139, 150–152, 159 Greek theater type 144, 222, 266, 274 Grohé, J. 218 Gröning, G. 13, 123n1 Grossglockner mt. 10 grove: as ancient archetype 265, 266, 273, 279; “sacred grove” at Party Rally Grounds 164, 165, 179, 180–182, 185, 189; Schultze-Naumburg on 41; Wewelsburg, walnut grove 203; see also Saxon Grove, Schlageter Grove Gruber, E. 123n1 Grund, P. 295, 295–296 Grunewald 138, 146, 183 Grunwald Battlefield memorial 298, 315–317 Guderain, H. 94 Günther, H. F. K. 43 Gutschow, N. 14 Gutterer, L. 267, 269, 272 HAFRABA Society 80, 83, 83, 84, 102, 103, 104; poster with heroic highway builder 103 Hagen, J. 15 Haithabu 199 Hallbaum, F. 287 Hamburg 26, 47, 83, 83, 134 Hamburg City Park (1910) 134, 134 Hapag Lloyd 253 harvest festival: Nazi 11, 172, 266, 267, 272, 273; traditional 268–269, 272 Harz mountains 18n19 Haus der deutschen Kunst see “The House of German Art”

340 Index

Haushofer 20–22, 28–30, 51, 64 Havel River 153 Hayduk, A. 283, 287 Hege, F. 233 Hege, W. 233, 234 Heicke, K. 170–171 Heidrich, W. 247, 252 “Heimat” (homeland): in academic and popular discourse 21; Alpine Road 100–110; Annaberg 287; autobahn 78, 84, 93, 97, 105–107, 111, 113, 115, 122; Berchtesgaden (Hitler) 118; blood and soil 31, 32; Bückeberg 273; castles, general 198; Crössinsee 236, 240; Haushofer 29; Olympics, Berlin (1936) 137, 138, 143, 150, 153, 155, 156, 159, 161, 162; Order Castles, general 207, 212; Party Rally Grounds 181, 182; Ratzel 22, 25, 26; Rudorff 34–36; Saxon Grove 279, 281 SchultzeNaumburg 36, 38, 40, 41, 43; Seifert 47–50; Sonthofen 233; thingsteads 266; touristic imperative 7; Trampler 53–67, 70; Wewelsburg 201, 204; see also cultural landscape Heimat preservation movement (Heimatschutz) 12, 21, 34–36, 38, 47, 48, 64 Heimat style 34, 36, 66, 181, 234, 236, 250 Heinrich V. 13 Hensel, A. 166–172, 179, 180, 183 Hess, R. 20, 28–30, 26, 48, 81, 84, 131, 177, 179, 233 Heydrich, Reinhardt 199 Hildenbrand, H. 55 Himmler, H. 6, 87, 99, 179, 199–201, 203–205, 273, 274, 276, 279–282, 307 Hindenburg, P. von 297, 283, 299, 302 Hinz, G. 160, 166, 173, 179–181, 182, 183, 184, 184, 185, 186 Hitler, A.: ADGB School (Bernau) 209; “Adolf Hitler’s Roads” 83, 95; “African village” 236; Annaberg 287; Austria 226; at autobahn exhibition 85; Bückeberg 270, 270, 272; Charlemagne 282; Crössinsee 236; Eckhart 145; Goebbels 131; Haushofer 28, 29; Hess 20, 28, 233; Hindenburg 302; Hinz 179; “landscape,” use of word 7, 18n19; Lehmann 274; Ley 209, 222, 225, 245; living space (Lebensraum) 31; von Loringhoven 316; Mussolini 51; national culture 321; Olympia (Greece) 150; Olympics, Berlin (1936) 131, 135,

136, 137, 138, 144, 152, 181; Olympic Village 156; Party Rally Grounds 164– 167, 167, 176–180, 188; Prora Seaside Resort 245, 248; putsch of 1923 283; Ratzel 25, 28, 29; “The Road” 82; Saxon Grove 274; Schlageter, L. 289; Schlageter Cross 295; SchultzeNaumburg 21, 46; Seifert 48, 233; Tannenberg 297, 302; Todt 80–81, 85, 90, 94; touristic imperative 7,8, 26, 199; Trampler 51; Treaty of Versailles 95; Trondheim 99; Vogelsang 222, 225; Westwall 60, 90; WWI, loss of 30, 31 Hitler’s Geographies (Giaccaria and Minca) 15 Hitler Youth 66, 118, 186, 242, 280, 294, 295 Hoffmann, Herbert 62 Hoffmann, R. 91, 93, 99 Hohe Bühl (High Hill) 180, 185–186, 187 Hohensalza (Poland) 68 Hohenstaufen dynasty 300 Hohenstein (Olsztynek) 299 Hollywood Bowl 132, 144 Holocaust 16, 314, 323 Holy Roman Empire 129, 164, 173, 181, 321 Holzmeister, C. 290, 292, 293, 294, 295 Hopstock, L. 13 The House of German Art 64, 65, 115, 116 Hübotter, W. 274–275, 276, 277, 280 Indo-Germanic peoples 104 International Olympic Committee (IOC) see Olympic Summer Games, Berlin 1936 International Road Congress 84 Iran 318 Italy/Italians 8, 83, 85, 105, 222, 300 Jackson, S. 319 Jena 150 Jewish Anti-Defamation League 162; see also anti-Semitism Jews/Jewish 3–4, 38, 64, 162, 209, 215, 244, 273, 323 Johst, H. 204–205 Jungingen, U. von 298 Junker 206–207, 215, 222, 224, 227–228 Kampfbund Deutscher Architekten und Ingenieure see “Militant League of German Architects and Engineers” Kampfbund für deutsche Kultur see “Militant League for German Culture”

Index

341

Kazimierz (Dolny) 215, 217, 260n93; see also Vistula (Order) Castle KdF Seaside Resort see Prora Seaside Resort for 20,000 Kellner, U. 13 Khachkars 318 Khnopff, F. 39 Kjellén, R. 20–22, 27–30, 32, 33, 64, 206 Klotz, C. 209, 210, 212–215, 216–217, 218–22, 225–227, 236, 237, 240, 242, 244, 247–249, 249, 250, 250, 251, 301 Knobelsdorf, G. W. 147 Kolberg 241, 243, 245 Königsberg (Kaliningrad) 90, 91, 97 Kraft durch Freude (KdF) see Strength Through Joy Kreis, W. 68, 69, 69, 299 Kriest, M. 123n1 Krüger bros., J & W. 299, 300, 302, 303, 305, 306 Krupp Firm 150 Kuffner, H. 51 Ku Klux Klan (KKK) 319 Kulturarbeit see cultural work Kulturlandschaft see cultural landscape Kunst im Dritten Reich see “Art in the Third Reich” Kunst und Rasse see “Art and Race”

Lemcke, W. 150 Lemke, E. 156 Lendvai-Dircksen, E. 55, 57 Lenné, P. J. 159, 160, 179–180, 189, 244, 279 Ley, R. 99, 199, 200, 205–212, 214, 215, 220–222, 225, 227, 230, 236, 240, 241, 243, 245–248 Lichtwark, A. 47 Linz 111 Lippe district 200, 201 Lippert, F. 203 Lithuania 298, 315–317 “living space” (Lebensraum) 8, 25, 30, 31, 33, 91, 96, 205 Lohbeck, H. 201 London 99, 108 Loringhoven, Baron A. F. von 316 Los Angeles 132, 144, 155, 156 Lotz, W. 254–255 Lower Saxony 34, 107, 236, 273, 279, 280 Luitpold Arena see Nazi Party Rally Grounds Luitpold Grove (Luitpoldhain) see Nazi Party Rally Grounds Lüttgens, G. 53, 55 Lyndenfycht (Himmler residence) 200

Labor Day (Nazi) 172, 267–269, 273, 294 Lake Constance (Bodensee) 108 land crown (Landeskrone) 198, 199, 225, 257n5 Landespflege see “Care of the Land” Landsberg 28, 120 “Landscape and Humans in the German Living Space” (“Landschaft und Mensch im deutschen Lebensraum” – Schrepfer) 31 “landscape of the machine age” see Prora Seaside Resort landscape planning facing p. 1, 6, 7, 14, 15, 67, 154, 250, 251, 306, 307 Landwirtschaftliche Hochschule Berlin see Berlin Agricultural University Lane, B, M. 14 Lange, W. 47 Langemarck Hall see Olympic Summer Games, Berlin 1936 League of German Girls 242 Lebensraum see “living space” Lee, R. E. 319, 320 Lehmann, J. 274 Lehr, R. 290 Leipzig, 26, 117

Maasz, H. 170 Machtergreifung see “seizure of power” Mäding, E. 46 Maier-Dorn, E. 96 male body, symbolism of 102, 103, 142, 151, 156, 161, 161, 175, 176, 176, 204, 207, 212, 222, 223, 230, 238, 240, 247 Mallon, Hans, mausoleum of 250 Manchester Guardian 163 Mappes, M. 159 March, Walter 132, 155 March, Werner 132, 133, 133, 134–135, 136, 136, 137, 138, 140–149, 155–158 Marienburg Order Castle (medieval) 206, 214, 215, 217 Marienburg Order Castle (Nazi era) 214, 215, 217, 300, 301 Marxism/Marxist 209 Mason-Dixon line 319 “mass manufactured” National Socialism 206 mathematical sublime 12, 100, 164, 248 Mattern, H. 13, 48 Maurer, E. 148 May, E. 209, 254, 259n63 Mediterranean 83, 90

342

Index

Mein Kampf (Hitler) 5–6, 20–21, 28, 30, 31, 46, 120, 145, 289, 321 Meller, W. 223 Mertens photo studio 213 Meyer, H. 207–208, 208 Migge, L. 160, 170; Schlageter memorial design 291, 292 Militant League for German Culture 46 Militant League of German Architects and Engineers 81 militaristic imagery/symbolism 11, 31, 35, 50, 58, 60, 63, 69, 88, 95, 97, 130, 132, 142, 143,145, 164, 175, 176, 179, 182, 198, 206, 207, 212, 215, 222, 223, 230, 236, 237, 255, 266, 272, 286, 300, 301, 302 military/militarization 6, 8, 23, 26, 29, 30, 31, 35, 54, 58, 60, 67, 68, 84, 86, 88, 89, 90, 94, 95, 97, 99, 113, 118, 142, 143, 153, 154, 156, 161, 179, 205–207, 245, 246, 254, 266, 267, 274, 283, 289 Minca, C. 15 modernism/modernist 14, 33, 43, 44, 45, 45, 46, 64, 102, 115, 130, 132, 169, 170, 172, 184, 207, 208, 208, 209, 237, 247, 248, 250, 254, 255, 284, 291–293, 300, 316 Mongolians 104 Monschau 86, 224 monumentalization of landscape 5, 9, 11, 118, 119, 199, 265, 267, 282, 307, 314 Moravia 7, 8, 95 Moscow 84, 97 Moslem culture 317 Munich 28, 46–48, 64, 65, 84, 95, 115, 116, 118–120, 163, 175, 183, 199, 200, 239, 283 Mussolini, B. 51, 83, 85 Nagorno-Karabakh region 317 national community (Volksgemeinschaft): architectural symbolism 322; autobahn 78, 80, 82; Bückeberg 272; contemporary persistence of 314, 320; cultural landscape 33; Grunwald 317; human portraits of 57; Labor Day (Nazi) 267, 268; memorials, monuments, 11, 265, 266; as nation itself 33, 71n11; nations and race 86, 87, 87; Olympics 130; Party Rally Grounds 11, 163, 164; pre-Nazi 4; Prora Seaside Resort 248, 253; racial exclusion 3, 4; Saxon Grove 276, 277, 280, 282; secret societies 197; Sonthofen 233; Stone Mountain 319; Tannenberg 302

National Socialist Motor Corps 117, 153 National Socialist Teachers League 51, 54 Nationalsozialistischer Lehrerbund see National Socialist Teachers League Nationalsozialistisches Kraftfahrkorps see National Socialist Motor Corps Native American/Indian 51, 320 nature garden (Naturgarten) 13 Nazi Olympics see Olympic summer games, Berlin 1936 Nazi Party College (Hohe Schule der NSDAP) Chiemsee 215 Nazi Party Rally Grounds: general refs. 11, 62, 116, 118, 119, 135, 160, 197, 252, 255, 295; main discussion 129–131, 163–189; autobahn routes to 186–188; “Bee Garden” 181; campgrounds 164, 185, 186; Congress Hall 164, 170–172; Dutzend Lake 172, 180, 185; German Stadium 176–179, 183, 184, 188; Great Road 172, 173, 176, 180, 183, 189; Hohe Bühl (“High Hill”) 180, 185–187; landscape planning (Hinz) 179–186; Luitpold Arena 167, 168, 168, 169, 169, 171, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 175, 183, 185, 186, 321; Luitpold Grove 167, 168, 168; Maple Hill 185; March Field (Märzfeld) 172, 174, 176, 178, 181, 182, 185–187; marching route to Nuremberg city center 165, 167; modernist sports park and landscape planning (Hensel) 167–172; Paris Exhibition (1937) 189; Speer’s great model 166; Speer’s role and planning 166, 167, 170, 172, 173, 173, 174, 174, 175, 175, 176–179; Turf Road I and II 183, 185; Water Tower (Speer) 185, 185; Wodan Square 185; Zeppelin Field 116, 177, 177, 178, 179, 183, 184, 186, 188, 189, 203 Neoclassicism 33, 39, 40, 132, 147, 166, 188, 215, 247, 253, 267, 290, 322, 323 Netherlands, the 26 Die neue Heimat see “The New Heimat” die neue linie see “the new line” New Frankfurt 254, 259n63 “New German Architecture” (Wolters) 62, 118 “The New Heimat” 58 “the new line” 115, 116, 117, 176, 202, 204, 254, 269 New York City 112 New York Herald Tribune 163 noble farmers (Bauernherzöge) 236 Nogat River 214

Index

Nonnenwerth Island 212 Nordic countries/culture 87-89, 92, 279, 281 Nordic man 88 Nordic Road Association in Stockholm 89 The Nordic Society (Nordische Gesellschaft) 87 Norkauer, F. 120 North Sea 83, 90, 245 Norway 87, 88, 89, 99 Nuremberg (city) 46, 129, 130, 163–165, 165, 167, 167, 168–171, 173, 174, 179, 180, 181, 185–188, 236, 271, 302, 321 Nussbaum, T. 250–253 Nüsslein, T. 14 Obersalzberg 48, 118, 120–121, 214 Ochs, J. 160 Oder-Neisse boundary 317 Oder River 95, 284, 287, 317 “Olympia” (film by L. Riefenstahl) 151, 161, 161 Olympia, Greece 150, 152 Olympic Committee, American (AOC) 162; see also Brundage, A. Olympic Committee, International (IOC) 130, 131, 150, 178, 188 Olympics/Olympia, “German” (Nuremberg) 163, 177, 179, 188 Olympic summer games, Amsterdam (1928) 132, 133, 171; first Olympic f lame 132 Olympic summer games, Berlin (1916) 132 Olympic summer games, Berlin (1936): general refs. 11, 116, 162–165, 171, 172, 174, 179, 181, 183, 188, 189, 197, 207, 209; main discussion 129–153, 162– 163; bell 135, 139; Bell/Führer Tower 135, 138, 140, 141, 141, 142, 143, 143, 146, 147, 150; f lame 132, 139, 140; Hess on 131–132, 163; Langemarck Hall and Battle 131, 141, 142, 142, 143, 144, 147, 149, 151, 153; Marathon Gate 138–140, 140, 151; May Field (Maifeld) 138–141, 141, 144, 146, 149; Olympic Gate 138; Olympic Plaza 138; Olympic Roads 152–153; Olympic Stadium 116, 132, 133, 133, 137, 140, 141, 147, 149, 151, 152, 152, 153, 154, 177, 295; open-air theater 132, 137, 144–146, 147; Podbielski Oak 138; SchultzeNaumburg, inf luence on 132–135, 127, 138, 148; Speer’s urban planning

343

153, 154; Sport Forum 132–135, 137, 138, 148; sports park type as precedent 128–131; Tennis Pavilion 147, 148; torch relay 149–152; Via Triumphalis/ Triumphal Way 153. Olympic summer games, Los Angeles (1932) 132, 144 Olympic summer games, Tokyo (1940) 177, 195n147 Olympic Village, Berlin 1936: general refs. 11, 130, 132, 149, 179, 180, 253, 303, 304; main discussion 154–163; accommodation buildings 158, 161, 162; Dining Hall of the Nations 154, 156, 157; as lazaret 154, 155; Los Angeles (1932) 155–156; male body 161, 161; military involvement 154, 156, 161; sauna 158, 158, 161, 161; site plan as map of Germany 161, 161, 162; swimming hall 158 Order Castles (Nazi era): general refs. 11, 118, 265, 266; main discussion 197, 205–208, 210–217; see also Crössinsee Order Castle, Marienburg Order Castle (medieval), Marienburg Order Castle (Nazi era), Saarschleife Order Castle, Sonthofen Order Castle, Vistula (Order) Castle, Vogelsang Order Castle “Ordering Insanity” (Ordnungswahn – Gutschow) 14 On the Origins of Totalitarianism (Arendt) 1, 16 Ostergren, R. 15 Ottoman Turks 318 Paderewski, I. J. 298 Pan-German League 28 Paquet, A. 81, 91, 114 paramilitary 117, 282, 283 Paris 108 Paris Exhibition (1937) 189 Party Rally Grounds see Nazi Party Rally Grounds “The People’s Observer” 46 Petrich, G. 283, 286–287 Petschow, R. 55 Pied Piper legend 269 Poelzig, H. 283–284 Poland/Polish 6, 9, 55, 58–60, 68, 90, 91, 94, 95, 206, 211, 213, 235, 282, 283, 288, 298, 307, 315–317 Polish corridor 56, 90 “Political Geography” (Politische Geographie – Ratzel) 22–28

344 Index

Pomerania 207, 212, 234–236, 241, 243, 244 Posen (Poznań) 68, 97, 243 Potsdam 159, 244 Praunheim Siedlung (modernist housing) 45 pre-Christian era/symbolism 199, 201 “The Productive Nation” exhibition 296, 297 Prora Seaside Resort for 20,000: general refs. 11, 15, 118, 197, 243; main discussion 244-255; aerial perspective 246; Festival Hall 249; Festival Plaza redesign 253, 253; fountains 253; intensification of experience 246; “landscape of the machine age” 254; landscape planning (Nussbaum) 250–253; as lazaret 246; Ley 245–248; lighthouse 249, 250; naval allusions 247, 248; non-Strength through Joy hotels 247; Ruegenberg 263n166; in Troost/Trampler survey 248, 249; wall-like structure, geopolitical presence 245; see also German Labor Front, Ley, Rügen Island, Strength through Joy “Protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia” 8, 95 Prussia/Prussians 4, 32, 147, 159, 179, 267, 270, 298, 300, 301 Pückler-Muskau, Prince H. von 159 Puricelli, P. 83–85 “Purity and Beauty of City and Country” (“Sauberkeit und Schönheit in Stadt und Land” – Wagner) 65 Putlitz, E. zu 247, 295 Putsch of 1923 145, 175, 239, 283 Pütz, Captain 156, 253 Ratzel, F. 20–34, 36, 96, 248 Raumforschung und Raumordnung see “Spatial Research and Spatial Order” Redslob, E. 171 Reich Autobahn (RAB) see autobahn “Reich Autobahn Atlas” (Todt) 117 Reich Farmers Leader (Darrè) 99, 268 Reich Jewels 164, 174, 194n118 Reich Labor Service 164, 175–177 Reich League for Open-Air and People’s Theater 274 Reich Nature Protection Law 307 Reich Organization Director (Ley) 241, 205 Reich Railway Travel Office 112, 112, 113

Reichsarbeitsdienst (RAD) see Reich Labor Service Reichsarbeitsgemeinschaft für Raumforschung see Reich Working Group for Spatial Research Reichsautobahn (RAB) see autobahn Reichsbauernfürher see Reich Farmers Leader Reichsbund deutscher Mädel see League for German Girls Reichsbund für deutsche Freilicht- und Volksschauspiele see Reich League for Open-Air and People’s Theater Reichskleinödien see Reich Jewels Reichsnaturschutzgesetz see Reich Nature Protection Law Reichsparteitagsgelände see Nazi Party Rally Grounds Reichssportfeld see Olympic summer games, Berlin 1936 Reich Working Group for Spatial Research 97 Reinhardt, F. 121 Reitsam, C. 13 “Reservation for Germans” 51, 52 Rettslaff, E. 55 Rhineland 89, 207, 287, 289 Rhine River 89, 212, 216, 236, 288, 289, 295, 296 Riefenstahl, L. 151, 161, 163–164 Rittich, Werner 159 “The Road” (Die Strasse) 9, 81, 82, 82, 84, 85, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91, 93, 94, 94, 95, 97, 99, 100, 105, 109, 111, 113, 114, 115, 119, 121, 187 Road Construction Conference in Munich (1939) 95 Rohe, M. van der 102 Rohrbach, C. 137, 191n21 Roma (“gypsies”) 4 “Romanen” 124n27, n28 Romanesque 147 Romania/Romanian 90, 198 Romantic era/painting 33, 63, 64, 159, 179, 189, 250 Rome/Roman 147, 152, 153, 176, 181, 195n145, 201, 323 Rosenberg, A. 33, 46, 87, 206, 236, 273–274, 280 Rost, Captain 156 Rostock, J. von 15 Rotermund, G. 254 Rötteken, E. 281 Rudorff, E. 34–35, 47, 50 Ruegenberg, S. 263n166

Index

Ruff, L. 170 Rügen Island 159, 245, 250 Rügen Seaside Resort see Prora Seaside Resort for 20,000 Ruhr Valley 89, 287, 292, 293 “Ruins of Paradise” (von Rostock) 15 Russia/Russian 1, 101, 283, 297, 298, 301, 318, 326n27/n28 SA (Sturmabteilung) 186 Saarbrücken 89 Saarschleife Order Castle 214, 217 Sachsenhain see Saxon Grove Saebens, H. 55, 81 Salzburg 95, 112, 120 Sassnitz 245, 250 Saxon Grove (Sachsenhain): general refs. 11, 199, 265; main discussion 273–282; Baedeker’s 282; Berkelmann description 277, 278; cathedral view 278, 279; farmhouses 278; Führer’s Platform 278, 278, 279; glacial erratics 279, 279, 280; Goebbels 274; Himmler 273, 274, 279–281; Hübotter plans 274, 275, 275, 276, 276, 277, 277; massacre of Saxons by Charlemagne 273, 274; “meadow of the dead” 274–275; Reich League for Open-Air and People’s Theater 274; Rosenberg 273, 274, 280; Saxon Way 276, 279, 279, 280; Schaller thingstead proposal 274; solstice, dedication ceremony 280 Saxons 273, 274, 278, 279–282 Scandinavia 88, 88 scenic highways 10, 15, 84, 91, 93, 107, 122; see also Alpine Road, Bavarian East March Road, Sudeten Road Schaffendes Volk exhibition see “The Productive Nation” Schaller, F. 274 Schemm, H. 51, 58 Schinkel, F. 34, 147 Schirach, B. von 287, 294 Schlageter, L. 288–290, 292, 294, 295, 297 Schlageter City 294 Schlageter Cross: general refs. 11, 118, 265; main discussion 282–297; Baedeker’s 294; execution of Schlageter 288, 289; Flag Allée 296, 297; Göring dedication 294; Holzmeister scheme 292, 293, 293; masterplan (von Engelhardt) 290; Migge scheme 291, 292, 292; Productive Nation exhibition 296, 297; sandpit 288, 290,

345

290, 291-294, 297; Schlageter Forum 294–296; Schlageter Grove 294, 295, 295; Wehner-Detering scheme 290, 291, 291, 312n114/n115 Schlageter Forum 294, 296 Schlageterkreuz see Schlageter Cross Schlüter, A. 147 Schmölz, H. 221 Schönleben, E. 119 Schrade, H. 62 Schrepfer, H. 31 Schulte-Frohlinde, J. 167, 247 Schultze-Naumburg, P. 21, 35–37, 37, 38, 39, 39, 40, 40, 41, 42, 42, 43, 44, 45, 45, 46–48, 52, 64, 104, 132–135, 137, 138, 148, 165, 198, 198, 233, 234, 265; see also cultural work (Kulturarbeit) Schumacher, F. 134 Schütz, E. 123n1 Schutzstaffel see SS Schwarz, F. X. 244 Schwede-Coburg, F. 241–242, 244 Schweizer, O. E. 170 Seaside Resort see Prora Seaside Resort for 20,000 “secret societies established in broad daylight” 197, 257n2 Seifert, A. 5, 13, 21, 47–50, 67, 80–82, 92, 92, 100–102, 102, 104–109, 109, 110, 111, 122, 159, 226, 229, 230, 233, 234, 295 “seizure of power” (Machtergreifung) 4, 5, 17n14, 79, 84, 104, 131, 132, 294, 297, 314, 321 Seven Castle Towns (Siebenbürgen), Transylvania 198 Silesia 93, 119, 282, 203, 286–288 slave labor (Nazi) 179, 203 slavery (US) 319 Slavs/Slavic 51, 53, 58, 68, 84, 87, 87, 90, 150, 301, 307, 324n8 social Darwinism 24, 28–30, 65 Society for Heimat Preservation 35, 36, 38 solstice, symbolism of 223, 274, 280 Sonthofen Order Castle: general refs. 205, 207, 209–211; main discussion 214, 216, 226–234; Alpine plantings 230; courtyard as theatrical space 228–230; in cultural landscape 233, 234, 234; donjon 230, 231, 232; Great Hall 230, 232; Ley 227, 230; officials inspecting site 227, 227; “Reich Training Camp” 227; Strength through Joy Hotel 230 Soviet Union 90, 97, 200

346 Index

“Spatial Research and Spatial Order” 97, 99 Speer, A. abstract neoclassicism 33, 247; autobahn 111, 112, 118; contemporary biography on 14; Hinz 160; memoirs 135, 177–179; Olympics, Berlin (1936) 135; Schlageter Forum competition 295; survey (period) of his work, “New German Architecture” 62, 118; Tannenberg 302; Todt 81, 89; Wewelsburg 203; see also Bückeberg, Nazi Party Rally Grounds, Tempelhof Field Spree River 133, 134, 138 SS (Schutzstaffel) 6, 59, 179, 196, 200, 201, 203–206, 256, 277, 281, 282 Der Staat als Lebensform see “The State as Life-Form” Stalingrad 8 Stalinist Russia 1, 326n27 “The State as Life-Form” (Kjellén) 27, 29 Stiftung zur Erforschung des deutschen Volkstums im Süden und Südosten see “Foundation for Research in Germandom…” Stommer, R. 15 Stonehenge 300 Stone Mountain Memorial (US) 315, 318–320 Stonework/use of stone 48, 92, 93, 97, 107–109, 141, 146, 147, 179, 182, 201, 210, 224, 230, 261n20, 271, 282, 292 Die Strasse see “The Road” Stratigakos, D. 14, 74n118 Strength through Joy (KdF) 160, 183, 197, 205, 212–214, 226, 226, 230, 240, 243, 245–248, 254, 255 Sturmabteilung see SA Sudetenland 90, 93–95 Sudeten Road 15, 91, 93, 95 Süntel Mt. 269, 270 swastika (as Nazi symbol) banners 153; f lags 248, 270, 284, 284, 294; stone sculpture of 238, 239 Sweden/Swedish 22, 27, 87, 88, 89, 245 Switzerland 35, 83, 91 Symbolist (painting) 21, 39, 40 Tamms, F. 95, 96 “Tannenberg: German Destiny” (Tannenberg: Deutsches Schicksal – Krüger bros.) 300 Tannenberg Memorial: general refs. 11, 118, 265, 283, 315, 316; main discussion 297–207; battle (1410) 298,

301, 302; battle (1914) 297–299, 301, 302; Castel del Monte 300; Grunwald 298, 301; von Hindenburg 297, 299, 302; von Hindenburg crypt 297, 302; Hitler’s role 297, 302; Kernsdorfer Heights 306; Krüger bros. architects 299, 299, 300, 302, 303, 305, 306; old Prussians 298; Teutonic Order 298, 300, 301; Wiepking scheme 303, 304, 304, 305, 305, 306, 306, 307 Tegernsee lake 200 Tempelhof Field, Labor Day celebrations 139, 267, 268, 268, 269 Temple of Hera (Greece) 150 Tesch, S. 14 Teutonic Knights 206, 298, 316–317 thingstead (Thingplatz) 15, 144, 157, 221, 222, 240, 266, 271, 274–278, 280, 282–284, 284, 285, 285, 286, 286, 287, 288, 294 Third Reich 9, 21–22, 62, 143, 163, 188, 204, 247, 294; origin of term 145 Tischler, R. 286 Titzenthaler, W. 55 Todt, F. 48, 67, 79–82, 85, 85, 87–90, 94–97, 100, 102, 109, 111, 117, 119, 121, 122, 152, 187 totalitarianism 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 16, 20, 99, 121, 122, 197, 204, 206, 255, 320–324, 326n27/n28 “The Totality of the Eastern Problem” (Haushofer) 51 Totenberg see tumulus Tourism/Tourists 7,8, 22, 26, 27, 32, 34, 35, 84, 85, 91–93, 107, 111, 112, 112, 113, 116, 117, 119, 121, 199, 200, 204, 211–215, 222, 230, 235, 240, 243–245, 247, 248, 255, 270, 271, 294, 301, 319 Trampler, K. 14, 15, 21, 22, 51, 52, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 56, 57, 58, 60–70, 74n118, 79, 80, 80, 86, 93, 173, 198, 225, 248 Transylvania 198 Treaty of Versailles 51, 53, 54, 55, 60, 86, 91, 93, 95, 165, 206, 215, 218, 282, 293 Triumph of the Will (Triumph des Willens) 163, 164 Troost, G. 14, 21, 46, 50, 51, 58, 61–64, 70, 248 Troost, P. L. 14, 21, 46, 64, 65 Tschammer und Osten, H. von 150 Tschörtner, W. 252 tumulus (Totenberg) 68, 226 Tusk, D. 316 Tüxen, R. 82, 181

Index

Urals 90 Urft reservoir 212, 213, 218, 218, 219, 220, 222, 223, 223 Verden on the Aller 274, 279 Versailles park 12, 165 Via Triumphalis (Triumphal Way) 153 Vienna/Viennese 94, 95, 97, 164, 188, 292 Vikings 87, 88 199 violence 1, 2, 4, 8, 11, 54, 58, 208, 267, 307, 316, 318, 320, 323, 324 Violette, M. 84 Vistula (Order) Castle (Kazimierz Dolny) 215, 217 Vistula River 69, 95, 96, 215, 260n93 Vogelsang Order Castle: general refs. 118, 205, 207, 210, 211, 228, 230, 236–240, 247, 250, 294; main discussion 212– 214, 215, 216, 218–226; barrack blocks 221, 221, 222; “Castles – like Cities” (article) 225; dedication ceremony 218; excavation work 224; Hitler 222; House of Knowledge 225, 225; Ley 222, 225; “living wall” of men 222, 222; medieval knight and Junker (woodcut) 224; “sea of clouds” (photo) 221; solstice circle 223, 225; Strength through Joy Hotel and swimming pool 226, 226; Wandelhalle (covered promenade hall) 220 Völkische Beobachter see “The People’s Observer” Volksbund deutscher Kriegsgräberversorger see German War Graves Commission Volksgemeinschaft see national community Volkswagen 111, 188 Wächtler, F. 55, 75n130, 76n135 Wagner, A. 65 Wagnerian music 280 Walhalla (German monument) 52, 165 Warsaw 59, 59, 60, 97

347

Wartheland Gau 283 Wehner, E. 290 Wehrgeopolitik see defense geopolitics Wehrlandschaft see defensive landscape Weimar (city) 46, 48, 163, 234 Weimar Republic 170, 299 Werkbund, Deutsche 254, 296 Weser River 269, 270 Wessel, H. 269–270, 289 Westwall 60, 60, 61, 86, 90, 95, 214 Wewelsburg Castle: general refs. 11, 198, 255, 256, 281; main discussion 199– 205; Böddeken agricultural estate 203, 258n26; concentration camp 258n27; Dachau 203; geopolitical significance 200, 201; Ley’s role 199, 200, 200; moat restoration, new bridge 201, 202; in “the new line” 202, 204, 205; SS lessons 202; SS triptychs 201, 202, 203; walnut grove 203 Widukind, Duke (Germanic hero) 236, 274, 279 Wiepking (aka Wiepking-Jürgensmann), H. facing p. 1, 6, 13, 48, 67, 68, 122, 148, 149, 154, 156, 159, 160, 173, 179–181, 183, 280, 303, 304, 304, 305, 305, 306, 306, 307, 323, 324 Wismüller (army architect) 186 Wodan Square 185 Wolff, P. 55 Wolschke-Bulmahn, J. 13, 123n1 Wolters, R. 62, 118–119 Wucher, W. 95, 121 Yugoslavia 150 Zeiss firm 150 Im Zeitalter des Lebendigen see “The Age of…” Zeller, T. 15, 123n1 Zeppelin Field see Nazi Party Rally Grounds Zietara, V. 119, 120