The Making of the 20th Century City: Towards a Transnational Urban History of Japan and Europe (Beitrage Zur Stadtgeschichte Und Urbanisierungsforschung, 23) 3515134085, 9783515134088

Table of contents :
INDEX
PREFACE
INTRODUCTION (Rainer Liedtke, Takahito Mori, Katja Schmidtpott)
PART I: MUTUAL HISTORIOGRAPHICAL PERCEPTIONS
GERMAN RESEARCH ON THE JAPANESE CITY IN THE INTERWAR PERIOD (Katja Schmidtpott)
THE IMPACT OF WESTERN IDEAS ON THE BIRTH OF TOWN AND REGIONAL PLANNING IN JAPAN. An Overview of Japanese Research (Satoshi Baba)
PART II: MAKING OF THE 20TH CENTURY CITY IN JAPAN
FROM TEACHING ‘PROGRESS’ TO LEARNING ‘TRADITION’? Tokyo’s Built Environment as a Mirror of Ideas of Modernity in Germanlanguage Discourses of Architecture (1900–1940) (Beate Löffler)
MODIFICATION OF THE GARDEN CITY CONCEPT IN JAPAN. A Case Study on the Mukonosō Residential Area (Yūdai Deguchi)
FIREPROOFING THE JAPANESE CITY AGAINST DISASTERS AND AERIAL BOMBING, 1923–1945 (Julia Mariko Jacoby)
THE GERMAN INFLUENCE ON THE FIRST SUBWAY IN TOKYO (Shūichi Takashima)
FROM HAMBURG TO OSAKA? Organising Leisure through Kraft durch Freude and Kōsei Undō (Takahito Mori)
PART III: OBSERVATIONS FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF EUROPEAN URBAN HISTORY
JAPANESE URBANISATION IN THE LIGHT OF URBAN ENVIRONMENTAL HISTORY (Dieter Schott)
OBSERVATIONS ON URBAN PLANNING IN JAPAN AND EUROPE IN A TRANSCULTURAL PERSPECTIVE. Pathways and Entanglements, 1870–1940 (Christoph Bernhardt)
THE ROLE OF INFRASTRUCTURE FOR JAPANESE AND EUROPEAN URBANISATION (Ralf Roth)
SOCIAL DIMENSIONS OF EUROPEAN AND JAPANESE URBANISATION (Rainer Liedtke)
APPENDIX
TABLES AND FIGURES
REFERENCES
ARCHIVAL SOURCES
CONTRIBUTORS

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The Making of the 20th Century City Towards a Transnational Urban History of Japan and Europe Edited by Rainer Liedtke, Takahito Mori and Katja Schmidtpott

Beiträge zur Stadtgeschichte und Urbanisierungsforschung | 23 Franz Steiner Verlag

Beiträge zur Stadtgeschichte und Urbanisierungsforschung Herausgegeben von Christoph Bernhardt (geschäftsführend), Beate Binder, Harald Bodenschatz, Sybille Frank, Tilman Harlander, Martina Heßler, Wolfgang Kaschuba, Friedrich Lenger, Dieter Schott und Clemens Zimmermann Band 23

The Making of the 20th Century City Towards a Transnational Urban History of Japan and Europe Edited by Rainer Liedtke, Takahito Mori and Katja Schmidtpott

Franz Steiner Verlag

Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Mitsubishi Foundation, der Fakultät für Ostasienwissenschaften an der Ruhr-Universität Bochum und des Leibniz Science Campus Regensburg: Europe and America in the Modern World

Umschlagabbildung: Nihonbashi Street (Nihonbashi dōri), one of Tokyo's main commercial streets, mid-1930s. (Postcard, archive Beate Löffler) Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2023 www.steiner-verlag.de Druck: Beltz Grafische Betriebe, Bad Langensalza Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-13408-8 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-13412-5 (E-Book)

INDEX Preface ..................................................................................................................... 7 Rainer Liedtke, Takahito Mori, Katja Schmidtpott Introduction .............................................................................................................. 9 PART I: MUTUAL HISTORIOGRAPHICAL PERCEPTIONS Katja Schmidtpott German Research on the Japanese City in the Interwar Period ............................. 23 Satoshi Baba The Impact of Western Ideas on the Birth of Town and Regional Planning in Japan: An Overview of Japanese Research ........................................................... 45 PART II: MAKING OF THE 20TH CENTURY CITY IN JAPAN Beate Löffler From Teaching ‘Progress’ to Learning ‘Tradition’? Tokyo’s Built Environment as a Mirror of Ideas of Modernity in Germanlanguage Discourses of Architecture (1900–1940) ............................................... 71 Yūdai Deguchi Modification of the Garden City Concept in Japan: A Case Study on the Mukonosō Residential Area ............................................... 105 Julia Mariko Jacoby Fireproofing the Japanese City against Disasters and Aerial Bombing, 1923–1945 ........................................................................................................... 123 Shūichi Takashima The German Influence on the First Subway in Tokyo........................................ 153 Takahito Mori From Hamburg to Osaka? Organising Leisure through Kraft durch Freude and Kōsei Undō ...................... 175

6 PART III: OBSERVATIONS FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF EUROPEAN URBAN HISTORY Dieter Schott Japanese Urbanisation in the Light of Urban Environmental History ................. 207 Christoph Bernhardt Observations on Urban Planning in Japan and Europe in a Transcultural Perspective: Pathways and Entanglements, 1870–1940 ...................................... 227 Ralf Roth The Role of Infrastructure for Japanese and European Urbanisation .................. 239 Rainer Liedtke Social Dimensions of European and Japanese Urbanisation ............................... 253 APPENDIX Tables and Figures ............................................................................................... 265 References ............................................................................................................ 271 Archival sources .................................................................................................. 301 Contributors ......................................................................................................... 303

PREFACE The idea for this collection of essays was conceived during a meeting of the three editors in Tokyo in September 2018. After the pioneering “Moderne Stadtgeschichtsforschung in Europa, USA und Japan. Ein Handbuch”, edited by Christian Engeli and Horst Matzerath and published by Kohlhammer, Stuttgart in 1989, it is only the second volume to address transnational connections in urban development between Japan and Europe. It built on some of the work that had been discussed during a workshop on “Japanese and European Urbanisation in Comparison” at the University of Regensburg in the previous month, in which some of the contributors had taken part. In the following year, in March 2019, another workshop, “Comparative Studies on the Development of the Modern City in Japan and Europe” under the auspices of the Gesellschaft für Stadtgeschichte und Urbanisierungsforschung at the Humboldt University Berlin, shaped the direction and structure of the volume further and added more contributors. Some of the contributions were discussed as work in progress in a panel discussion at the 90th Conference of the Socio-Economic History Society in Japan, University of Kōbe (conducted virtually) in May 2021. Finally, some of the finished papers were presented in a specialist session at the 15th International Conference of the European Association for Urban History at the University of Antwerp. The editors wish to thank Maren Barton (Billericay, UK) for her painstaking language editing and Jan Wiemann from the Ruhr-Universität Bochum for his precise and prompt compilation of the print version of the manuscript. The editorial board of the “Beiträge zur Stadtgeschichte und Urbanisierungsforschung”, supported by an anonymous academic referee, has graciously agreed to incorporate our volume into its series at the Steiner Verlag, where Katharina Stüdemann has efficiently accompanied its production. Generous financial support for language corrections and publication costs has been received from the Mitsubishi Foundation, the Leibniz Science Campus “Europe and America in the Modern World” at the University of Regensburg, the Chair of Japanese History at Ruhr-Universität Bochum and the Chair of European History at the University of Regensburg.

INTRODUCTION Rainer Liedtke, Takahito Mori, Katja Schmidtpott “The city as social construct characterised the Middle Ages of European history and could be one of the most important features of Western history that shed light on differences with the Orient.” 1 The Japanese historian Masuda Shirō (1908– 1997) 2 emphasised the role of urban history in comparative historical research with this phrase in his first article “Doitsu Hanza toshi Lübeck no hatten ni tsuite” (Study on the Development of the Hanseatic City Lübeck) published in 1935. Masuda has been known not only as a pioneer of the study of European urban history in Japan but as an opinion leader of the post-war history school (sengo rekishigaku) just after 1945. Its essential aim was to create a “narrative of the nation” for reconstructing Japan as liberal democratic society after the war by denying the totalitarian regime in the 1930s/40s and leading the people into establishing a “civil society” according to the model of the modern Western countries. Methodologically, post-war history was characterised as “scientific history” based mainly on Marxist historical materialism. 3 Methodologically, the two books of Masuda, “Seiō shimin ishiki no keisei” (Development of the Bourgeois Ethos in Western Europe) in 1949 and “Toshi: Sono kontei ni aru mono” (A Essay on the City with Focus on its Historical Basis) in 1952, were somewhat different from other works of the post-war history school. They gained a wide readership not only among scholars but among the public at that time. What attracted attention to Masuda was his focus on the communal consciousness for the public good as one of the fundamental elements of modern European society. Based on Max Weber’s urban theory, he argued that the origin of communal consciousness stemmed from the bourgeois ethos, derived from the self-governed urban community in medieval Europe. Masuda contrasted these “settlements of individuals” to the Oriental cities ruled by the clan ethos. 1 2

3

Masuda Shirō, Doitsu Hanza toshi Lübeck no hatten ni tsuite [Study on the Development of the Hanseatic City Lübeck], in: Tōkyō Shōka Daigaku kenkyū nenpō keizaigaku kenkyū 4, 1935, pp. 141–217, here pp. 142 f. On Masuda’s personal history and achievements as a historian mentioned below, cf. Mori Takahito, Tokushu Europateki naru mono kara chi’ikishugi e: Masuda Shirō no chi’ikishi kōsō [From focusing on the uniqueness of Europe as a historical entity to enlightening the importance of regionalism: Masuda’s concept of regional history], in: Mori Takahito / Ishi’i Takashi (eds.), Chi’iki to rekishigaku: Sono ninaite to jissen, Kyoto: Kōyō Shobō 2017, pp. 205–227. Ninomiya Hiroyuki, Sengo rekishigaku to shakaishi [Post-war history and social history], in: Rekishigaku kenkyū 729, 1999, pp. 21–27.

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According to Masuda, it was urgently required to create a Japanese civil society through cultivating communal consciousness according to the model of European cities. Masuda’s opinion was a product of the post-war history characterised by the dichotomy between the developed Western societies and the developing Japanese society. What turned Masuda’s attention toward the civil society and the city as its birthplace might be his experiences in Tokyo since he moved there in 1926 for entering academia. The 1920s belonged to the era of Taishō Democracy between the end of the Russo-Japanese War (1905) and the Japanese invasion of Manchuria (1931). The period was, in contrast to the atmospheres before and after, characterised by the birth of mass society, liberalisation and democratisation boosted by various social movements. These were aimed at reforming living and working conditions through social policy, creating a socialist society, advocating women’s rights or at liberating discriminated minorities. 4 The perception of Tokyo as a modern metropolis was well reflected in the volume of Greater Tokyo in the series “Nihon chiri taikei” (Compendium of the Geography of Japan) published in 1930, when the reconstruction of the city after the earthquake officially came to an end. In the introduction, the Compendium defined Tokyo as the capital of the “newly rising empire Japan”, including Marunouchi, the business centre with many modern buildings, Ginza, the “privileged core of Japan’s modern urbanity” 5, with department store towers at its centre, and equipped with modern infrastructure such as electric streetlamps or brick sidewalks and various kinds of street-side trees. 6 Marunouchi and Ginza were connected to Shinjuku and Shibuya by the Yamanote line, which, according to the Compendium, corresponded to the ring railway in Berlin. Shinjuku and Shibuya were also newly developed districts with terminal stations of several railways extending to the suburbs in the west. The western suburbs developed rapidly as the residential area of the new middle class, especially white collar workers, after the Great Kantō Earthquake (1923). They 4

5 6

For an overview on the social and intellectual trends in the era of the Taishō Democracy, cf. Narita Ryūichi, Taishō demokurashī [Taishō democracy], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2007. Major works in English on the cultural history of the long Taishō period include: Elise K. Tipton / John Clark (eds.), Being modern in Japan: Culture and Society from the 1910s to the 1930s, Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press 2000; Sharon A. Minichiello (ed.), Japan’s competing modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy 1900–1930, Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press 1998. For an overview on the urban social history of the Taishō period in German, see: Regine Mathias, Das Entstehen einer modernen städtischen Gesellschaft und Kultur, 1900/1905–1932, in: Josef Kreiner (ed.), Geschichte Japans, Stuttgart: Reclam 2016, pp. 332–380. Yoshimi Shun’ya, Shikaku toshi no chiseigaku: Manazashi to shite no kindai [Urban Geopolitics as the Study of Visual Representation with Focus on the Modern Gaze], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2016, p. 69. Itabashi Tomoyuki, Ginza, in: Ishibashi Gorō / Iimoto Nobuyuki / Tokuda Sadakazu / Katabira Jirō / Takahashi Jun’ichi / Tanaka Keiji / Tanaka Shūsaku / Endō Kanefusa / Shimomura Hikoichi (eds.), Nihon chiri taikei. Daisankan. Daitōkyō hen [Compendium of the Geography of Japan. Vol. 3. Greater Tokyo Area], Tokyo: Kaizōsha 1930, pp. 386–396, here pp. 392 f.

Introduction

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were regarded as the “best residences for a rational lifestyle” which should liberate citizens from “traditional and conventional lifestyle.” 7 In the western suburbs, the population grew so rapidly that the number of people boarding and alighting at Shinjuku station exceeded that at Tokyo Central Station by 1930. 8 The suburbanization process had finally brought about the emergence of the administrative unit of Greater Tokyo through extensive incorporations of neighbouring and surrounding communities in 1932. In addition, the Compendium introduced the various topographies, urban technologies and institutions that were considered modern, namely roads, bridges, parks, schools, universities, drinking water pipes, hospitals and so on. The perception of Tokyo as a modern metropolis in the Compendium was characterized by the fact that almost every object was compared to its counterpart in Western cities. It indicates not only that the development of Tokyo as a modern metropolis was influenced significantly by the model of Western cities, but that in the context of the rise of Japan as one of the great powers after the First World War, Tokyo was perceived as a global city that was not inferior to the Western cities. It is also widely recognized in today’s Japanese urban history study that the prototype of the modern city in Japan, typically seen in the case of Tokyo, was formed during the period between the Russo-Japanese War and the Second World War, when against the background of accelerating urbanization the ideas of modernity, in terms of regularity, functionality and rationality, contributed to the establishment of mass culture and ultimately the social mobilisation for the total war. This applied to various fields such as urban planning, public hygiene, consumer culture and the culture of the body. 9 These views correspond in some respects with those of European urban history where especially the period between the two world wars saw the transformation of urban space and lifestyles due to ideas of modernity in the sense mentioned above. 10 Such a remarkable coincidence raises the question why the modern city had developed at the same time in Japan and Europe. Taking the today’s globalised historical studies into consideration, the question could be connected with the perspective of multiple modernities proposed by Shmuel Eisenstadt that sees patterns of modernisation as being “greatly influenced by specific cultural premises, tradi7

Tanaka Keiji / Masuda Ichiji, Chiriteki chi’iki: Jūtaku chiku [Geographical characters of the Residential Areas], in: Ishibashi Gorō / Iimoto Nobuyuki / Tokuda Sadakazu / Katabira Jirō / Takahashi Jun’ichi / Tanaka Keiji / Tanaka Shūsaku / Endō Kanefusa / Shimomura Hikoichi (eds.), Nihon chiri taikei. Daisankan. Daitōkyō hen [Compendium of the Geography of Japan. Vol. 3. Greater Tokyo Area], Tokyo: Kaizōsha 1930, pp. 356–369, here p. 362. 8 Tanaka Keiji, Tōkyō sōsetsu [General remarks on Tokyo], in: Ishibashi Gorō / Iimoto Nobuyuki / Tokuda Sadakazu / Katabira Jirō / Takahashi Jun’ichi / Tanaka Keiji / Tanaka Shūsaku / Endō Kanefusa / Shimomura Hikoichi (eds.), Nihon chiri taikei. Daisankan. Daitōkyō hen [Compendium of the Geography of Japan. Vol. 3. Greater Tokyo Area], Tokyo: Kaizōsha 1930, pp. 24–45, here p. 32. 9 For example, Narita Ryūichi, Kindai toshi kūkan no bunka keiken [Cultural Experiences in the Modern Urban Space], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2003; Yoshimi, Shikaku toshi (cf. n. 5). 10 For example, Friedrich Lenger, Metropolen der Moderne. Eine europäische Stadtgeschichte seit 1850, München: C. H. Beck 2013.

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tions, and historical experiences”. 11 As seen in the attempt of Chistopher Bayly or Jürgen Osterhammel to write a global history or in that of Bo Stråth and Peter Wagner to rethink the historical sociological meaning of European Modernity, the theory of multiple modernities has made the basis for generalising the notion that the modernisation of the world did not entail the uniform spreading of Western modernity everywhere, although the globalization process since the 19th century had certainly led to an international integration of social and economic structures pushed by the initiative of Western countries. 12 Moreover, according to Eisenstadt, Japan followed a unique path of modernisation among the non-Western societies owing to its “unusual combination of similarities and differences with Western societies”. 13 Although the opinion was formed on the basis of his wide-ranging analyses on the history of Japan, he mentioned little about the city, in which the various aspects of the modernisation process could be found most clearly. Also, in international joint research programmes for the transnational history between Japan and European countries whose number has increased since 2000, the city has been seldom chosen as the main theme. 14 It would therefore be meaningful to compare the development of the modern city in Europe with that in Japan and to include as many points of contact between the two as possible, in order to understand the historical significance of urban modernisation in a transnational context. Starting from there, the research of historians of Japanese and European urban history from Japan and Germany presented here examines what influence the European and possibly North American experience of urbanization had on the development of the modern city in Japan and how the persistence of Japanese urban traditions could be reconciled with Western role models. In doing so, the chapters in this volume testify to transnational urban historians’ observation that many cities are, at least in part, products of transnational flows of concepts, institutions, practices, knowledge, technology, commodities, or people. 15 In modern history, these flows were mostly initiated when the common 11 Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, Multiple Modernities, in: Daedalus 129, 1, 2009, pp. 10–29, here, p. 2. 12 Christopher A. Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World 1780–1914, Malden: Blackwell 2004; Jürgen Osterhammel, Die Verwandlung der Welt. Eine Geschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts, Munich: C. H. Beck 2009; Bo Stråth / Peter Wagner, European Modernity, London: Bloomsbury 2017. 13 Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, Japanese Civilization. A Comparative View, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press 1995, p. 16. 14 As the works of such international joint research programmes, e. g. Hosoya Chihiro / Ian H. Nish (eds.), Nichi-Ei kōryūshi 1600–2000 [History of the interactions between Japan and the UK 1600–2000], 5 Vols., Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2000/01; Kudō Akira / Tajima Nobuo (eds.), Nichi-Doku kankeishi 1890–1945 [History of the relationship between Japan and Germany 1890–1945], 3 Vols., Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2008; Sven Saaler / Kudō Akira / Tajima Nobuo (eds.), Mutual Perceptions and Images in Japanese-German Relations, 1860–2010, Leiden: Brill 2017. 15 Nicolas Kenny / Rebecca Madgin, “Every Time I Describe a City”: Urban History as Comparative and Transnational Practice, in: idem. (eds.), Cities Beyond Borders: Comparative and Transnational Approaches to Urban History, London: Routledge, pp. 3–23, here p. 6.

Introduction

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experience of city growth in the wake of industrialisation brought about common issues such as housing, unemployment, or public health, which prompted city governments in different nations to observe and discuss each other’s ideas and practices in their search for solutions. 16 In Japan, too, the emergence of the modern city has been shaped by transnational flows, even before industrialisation and urbanisation led to large-scale social problems, as its urban development was affected by the import and adaptation of Western municipal government institutions, urban planning concepts or civil engineering technology as part of Japan’s comprehensive modernisation process since the middle of the 19th century. While key topics related to the modernisation of Japan’s cities have been taken up by Japanese and – to a much lesser extent – by Western historians, many studies have been following the established narrative of modernisation as a oneway transfer from Western countries to Japan. In contrast, the field of transnational urban historiography which seeks to examine not only processes of unidirectional transfer and adaptation, but even more importantly connections and circulations, has a strong focus on North-West European and North American cities. 17 It is only recently that other places have come into the picture, including understudied European regions 18 and, finally, Non-Western cities 19. It is the latter which has been acknowledged as particularly promising as it might bring forward discussions on urban theory which has been developed on the basis of Western experience and has yet to be tested against the historical experience of other world regions. 20 In this respect, taking the Japanese experience into account may be especially fruitful, as Japan has rightfully been described as “one of the world’s most self-conscious transnational learners” 21 , thus promising to provide ample material for transnational research. One influential model in transnational urban history concerns exchange processes on the level of municipal government. The pioneer of transnational urban history, Pierre-Yves Saunier has put forward the hypothesis that transnational knowledge transfer in modern history has developed in three gradually overlap16 Pierre-Yves Saunier, Introduction: Global City, Take 2: A View from Urban History, in: Pierre-Yves Saunier / Shane Ewen (eds.), Another Global City: Historical Explorations into the Transnational Municipal Moment, 1850–2000, New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2008, pp. 1–18, here p. 10. 17 Shane Ewen, What is Urban History?, Cambridge: Polity Press 2016, p. 115. 18 Eszter Gantner / Heidi Hein-Kircher / Oliver Hochadel, Interurban Knowledge Exchange in Southern and Eastern Europe, 1870–1950, London: Routledge 2021; Martin Kohlrausch, Brokers of Modernity. East Central Europe and the Rise of Modernist Architects, 1910–1950, Leuven: Leuven University Press 2019. 19 The edited volume “Making Cities Global: The transnational turn in urban history” (A. K. Sandoval-Strausz / Nancy Kwak (eds.), Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2018) includes studies on cities in Western Europe, North and South America and South East and East Asia. 20 Kenny/Madgin, “Every Time I Describe a City” (cf. n. 15), p. 22. 21 Sheldon Garon, On the Transnational Destruction of Cities: What Japan and the United States Learned from the Bombing of Britain and Germany in the Second World War, in: Past & Present 247, 1, 2020, pp. 235–271, here p. 237.

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ping “intermunicipal circulatory regimes” 22 . According to his model, from the middle of the 19th century to the turn of the century transfer processes were mostly informal. They were often initiated by cosmopolitan mayors or urban politicians and carried out under the paradigm of “emulation to cope with current urban problems as a ‘modern metropolis’ should”. From the time around the First World War into the 1920s, exchange processes became more and more formalised and institutionalised. Intergovernmental organisations or philanthropic foundations emerged as major actors, and international organisations evolved that supported the professionalisation of discussions on urban development, involving experts such as social scientists or engineers. The third regime has only emerged in the 1970s, when transnational networks of cities with common economic structural features evolved which sought to develop collective strategies in order to improve their international economic competitiveness. 23 How would interwar urban Japan fit into this model? Japan’s rise as a world power after the First World War and its subsequent integration and engagement in international organisations, especially those related to the League of Nations, has been well examined on the level of national diplomacy and political relations.24 Did Japanese representatives of city governments or experts likewise become part of the intermunicipal circulatory regimes that Saunier suggested, and how did this influence Japan’s urban development? What is more, the case of Japan may illustrate that transnational flows were not always unidirectional from the Euro-American “core” to the “rest” of the world, as Japan gradually shifted from receiving and adapting Western knowledge to creating and exporting knowledge towards Western-dominated global scientific communities. This trend has been shown in the history of science, starting with seismology in the 1900s, 25 but was also reflected in Europeans and Americans observing and learning from the Japanese war effort after Japan’s victory over 22 Defined as “long-term patterns and relatively stable interactions between mutually identifiable protagonists in a given geopolitical and geographical framework” (Saunier, Introduction (cf. n. 16), p. 10). 23 Saunier, Introduction (cf. n. 16), pp. 16 f. 24 Thomas W. Burkman, Japan and the League of Nations: An Asian Power Encounters the “European Club”, in: World Affairs 158, 1, 1995, pp. 45–57; Frederick R. Dickinson, World War I and the Triumph of a New Japan, 1919–1930, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2013; Frederick R. Dickinson, Toward a Global Perspective of the Great War: Japan and the Foundations of a Twentieth-Century World, in: The American Historical Review 119, 4, 2009 (“AHR Forum: Early-Twentieth-Century Japan in a Global Context”, ed. by Louise Young), pp. 1154–1183; Tosh Minohara / Tze-ki Hon / Evan Dawley (eds.), The Decade of the Great War: Japan and the Wider World in the 1910s, Leiden: Brill 2014; Liang Pan, National Internationalism in Japan and China, in: Glenda Sluga / Patricia Clavin (eds.), Internationalisms: A Twentieth-Century History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2016, pp. 170–190. 25 Gregory Clancey, Earthquake Nation. The cultural politics of Japanese seismicity, 1868–1930, Berkeley: University of California Press 2006; Boumsoung Kim, Seismicity Within and Beyond the Empire: Japanese Seismological Investigation in Taiwan and its Global Deployment, 1895–1909, in: East Asian Science, Technology and Society 1, 2, 2007, pp. 153–165.

Introduction

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Russia in 1905, which also inspired reformers in Asia and the Islamic world. 26 Even before the interwar period, Japan therefore began to emerge as a node of growing importance in the global circulation of knowledge. But does this observation also apply to urbanism related fields, such as governance and planning concepts, civil engineering technology, urban design ideas or architecture? Apart from the prominent and often-quoted exception of the American urban progressive Charles Beard (1874–1948), who exchanged ideas about the future development of Tokyo with Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929), mayor of Tokyo from 1920 to 1923, around the time of the Great Kantō Earthquake, previous research suggests that exchange processes in the interwar period remained largely unidirectional. 27 However, some of the papers in this volume suggest to revise this view, by shedding light on examples of bi-directional exchange and transfer of concepts and knowledge between Japan and Europe. The initial two contributions by Satoshi Baba and Katja Schmidtpott chart the development and current state of historiography on modern Japanese urbanisation with a particular view to Western influences. Baba’s overview of Japanese research on the impact of Western ideas on the birth of town and regional planning in Japan highlights that historical research on town planning has been conducted mainly by scholars with a background in urban engineering, before social and economic historians and architectural historians began widening the area of research by including specific research subjects such as housing policies since the 1990s. Baba’s paper traces Japan’s urbanisation process and the development of town and regional planning in Britain, the US and Germany before describing the development of town and regional planning in Japan from the late 19th century until the interwar period. Based on historical comparison, certain key features of Japanese town and regional planning as they arose in relation to influences from Western countries have been described in the literature. In town planning, ideas of legislation and administrative systems as well as planning techniques were selectively collected from various countries and adapted to Japanese conditions. For instance, the Garden City concept was very influential as it was seen as a solution 26 Sheldon Garon, Transnational History and Japan’s “Comparative Advantage”, in: Journal of Japanese Studies 43, 1, 2017, pp. 65–92, here p. 69. 27 Writing on the reformist Osaka mayor Seki Hajime (1873–1935), Jeffrey Hanes has shown that in the 1920s, only very few experts from Europe or North America were available for discussions with their Japanese counterparts on common issues such as social problems caused by industrial capitalism or the question of municipal autonomy. Jeffrey Hanes, Pacific Crossings? Urban Progressivism in Modern Japan, in: Pierre-Yves Saunier / Shane Ewen (eds.), Another Global City: Historical Explorations into the Transnational Municipal Moment, 1850–2000, New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2008, pp. 51–68. See also: Jeffrey E. Hanes, Progressivism for the Pacific World: Urban social policymaking in modern Osaka, in: City, Culture and Society 3, 2012, pp. 79–85. In this article, he links the origins of Seki’s innovative urban social policymaking in Osaka to his involvement with the transnational social reform movement of Progressivism. For his intellectual biography of Seki, who was one of the most influential thinkers of urban social reform in the interwar period, see: Jeffrey E. Hanes, The City as Subject: Seki Hajime and the Reinvention of Modern Osaka, Berkeley: University of California Press 2002.

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to rapid city growth and its related problems, yet the garden cities that were built in Japan differed in many respects from the original concept. Two other important points in which Japan’s planning system diverged from Western models was the absence of master plans and an ambiguous understanding of the concept of regional planning. Schmidtpott’s overview on German scholarship on Japan’s urban history in the first half of the 20th century presents a field of research that is comparatively small, yet very diverse in terms of the disciplinary backgrounds of scholars and the variety of their approaches. While typical phenomena of urban modernity in the interwar period such as Western lifestyle and consumerism, media and entertainment culture, or changing gender roles have often been addressed in historiography on the Taishō period, urban development as such, i. e. the key actors, political processes or economic forces that have shaped it, have received much less scholarly attention. That being said, clusters of research on Japan’s interwar urban history can be identified on the topics of architecture, planning, local communities and social problems, urban entertainment culture and representations of the modern city in literature. There is also a certain amount of comparative research on Tokyo and Berlin or Vienna, respectively. A growing interest in transnational historical research can be seen in the recent literature, especially in the fields of architecture and planning, where the interwar period marks the beginning of a shift from a uni-directional flow of concepts and knowledge from the West to Japan towards both sides sharing in a global urban modern. As concerns urban planning, it seems that Japanese experts indeed became part of the Western-dominated urban planning community during the interwar period. As mentioned in Baba’s paper, Japanese experts and bureaucrats were regular participants at international congresses since the very first international conference on town planning took place in London in 1910. In general, Japanese planners remained in close contact with European, particularly German planners or planning ideas, such as those formulated by geographer Walter Christaller (1893–1969) and professor of planning Gottfried Feder (1883–1941). American or Russian ideas were also discussed. As Western experts were rarely available to travel to Japan for a direct exchange of ideas with their Japanese counterparts, ideas were mostly transmitted to Japan via media such as books, journals, or master plans, which often resulted in planning ideas being adapted to local needs while ignoring the foreign context in which they originally evolved. Again, a prominent example is the idea of urban de-concentration in the form of the garden city concept which was adapted by the architect and planner Fukuda Shigeyoshi (1887–1971) in his planning for Tokyo in 1918, and later in the form of military planning for air defense when in the 1930s industries should be moved to satellite towns away from the centre of Tokyo and large greenbelts should be created. 28 Related to the topic of the garden city concept, Yūdai Deguchi mentions in his 28 Carola Hein, Crossing Boundaries: The Global Exchange of Planning Ideas, in: A. K. Sandoval-Strausz / Nancy Kwak (eds.), Making cities global: The transnational turn in urban history, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2018, pp. 114–129, here pp. 126 ff.

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paper in this volume that it had already been introduced to Japan in 1907, only five years after the publication of Ebenezer Howard’s book “Garden Cities of To-morrow”. Using a case study from the city of Amagasaki in the Kansai region near Osaka, Deguchi shows how a modified concept of the garden city was used in the construction of suburbs in interwar Japan. 29 Looking at the field of civil engineering, Shūichi Takashima’s paper underlines that by the interwar period, Japanese experts had reached a similar level of expertise compared to their Western counterparts. He focusses on the German civil engineer Rudolf Briske (1884–1967) who was hired as an expert when Tokyo’s first subway line was to be constructed which opened its service as the first subway in Asia in 1927. What seems to be a familiar story at first, reminiscent of the hiring of Western experts (so-called oyatoi gaikokujin or contract foreigners) in Meiji period technology transfer to Japan, turns out to be a very different case in several respects. To begin with, technology transfer did not start from scratch. By the 1920s, a considerable group of well-educated and experienced engineers had emerged in Japan and railway construction was no longer in need of foreign assistance. Rather, Tokyo’s public transport system shared common issues with other major cities in Europe and America, and Japanese engineers in their search for solutions that were suited best to local conditions consulted with Briske on a similarly high level of expertise over certain technical problems, deciding which part of his advice they found useful and which not. What is more, Briske also benefited from this exchange, as he gathered data from Japanese scientific literature which he later put to use in his doctoral dissertation on the earthquake resilience of buildings. Rather than transfer, this is an example of a symmetrical exchange of knowledge and ideas based on expertise on both sides, which supported the creation of Japan-specific ways of urban development in terms of public transport systems. In Mariko Jacoby’s paper, discussions about and the implementation of fireproofing Japanese cities are described as a process of import and adaptation of Western knowledge in combination with local traditions plus a further development of urban planning and construction technology in order to create a Japanspecific, modern fire regime. Similarly to railway construction, Japanese engineers occupied with earthquake engineering using reinforced concrete construction had reached an international level by the 1930s. While they continued to read Western publications, especially from Germany 30, Japanese civil engineers further

29 On the influence of the transnational Garden City Movement, including the reception of the garden city concept and its actual implementation in a comparative perspective in 1910s Japan and Britain, see: Susan C. Townsend, The Great War and Urban Crisis: Conceptualizing the Industrial Metropolis in Japan and Britain in the 1910s, in: Tosh Minohara / Tze-ki Hon / Evan Dawley (eds.), The Decade of the Great War: Japan and the Wider World in the 1910s, Leiden: Brill 2014, pp. 301–322. 30 Related to the topic of fire-proofing, Sheldon Garon has shown that when conceptualising the protection of Japanese cities against fire-bombing, Japanese urban planners still travelled to Germany as late as during the war to study the damage caused by air raids on German cities

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refined relevant technologies and gradually began considering their work as world-leading, although local conditions did not allow them to put their ideas and findings about disaster-proof building and planning into practice until the postwar period. Takahito Mori’s paper in this volume on organised leisure as a form of urban social policy in Japan and Germany reveals a vivid, bi-directional exchange between the two regimes as they were heading towards total war at the end of the 1930s. Prompted by the 14th International Labour Conference of the ILO in 1930 and the 1st World Recreation Congress in Los Angeles 1932, the German leisure organisation Kraft durch Freude was established in 1933. In 1936, Isomura Ei’ichi (1903–1997), a municipal official of the city of Tokyo, inspected the Olympic Games in Berlin and surveyed the 2nd World Recreational Congress in Hamburg held by the KdF. When the Japanese Recreation Campaign (Kōsei Undō) was launched two years later, it was inspired by the German model. Japanese delegates of the Japan Recreation Association attended both the national congress of the KdF in Germany and the 3rd World Recreational Congress in Rome in 1938. Conversely, a delegation of the KdF attended the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development (Kōa Kōsei Taikai) held by the Japanese Recreation Campaign in Osaka in 1940. Although modeled after the KdF, the Japanese campaign was adapted to Japanese society and politics in terms of its organisational form and activities. In the local case of Osaka, where a high-ranking public health official who had studied social policy in Western cities was the leader of the campaign, its origins can partly be traced back to an earlier campaign to reform daily life in Japan. While Western discourses on urbanism were widely received in Japan, and urban planning concepts, architecture or engineering technology were put to use – mostly in adapted forms – in creating modern cities, Beate Löffler’s paper examines the opposite side of Japan’s relationship with the West. Her analysis of accounts of the Japanese city by German-speaking observers, including experts in architecture and urban planning, shows that even after almost 60 years of modernisation, a trajectory that saw not only Japan’s rise as an industrial nation and as hegemonic power in East Asia, but also the reconstruction of Tokyo as a modern imperial capital after the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923, they preferred to ignore, or to condemn the modernisation of Japan’s cities. Even those who had visited Japan and seen Tokyo first hand, preferred to imagine Japanese cities as pre-modern, perpetuating stereotypical images of Japan that were circulating in Europe since the emergence of Japonism in the 1870s and 1880s. It was only after 1945, beginning with the presentation of Tange Kenzō’s Hiroshima Peace Park and Tokyo Bay projects to primarily Euro-American audiences, and later with the Metabolists in the 1960s, that the flow of planning or urban design and architecture ideas between Japan and Euro-America began to

and Germany’s civil defense system. Garon, On the Transnational Destruction of Cities (cf. n. 21).

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change direction. 31 And it was still later, in the 1980s, that Western urbanists started to see positive features in Japan’s seemingly unordered, chaotic cities. In his influential book “Learning from the Japanese city: Looking East in Urban Design” (1999), the Australian urbanist Barrie Shelton understood Japanese cities in their own right, referring to Japanese cultural traditions and architectural works, free from Western perceptions about how a city should be according to EuroAmerican urban design theory paradigms. 32 In sum, the papers in this volume indicate that in Japan’s urban history, the interwar period may be characterised by a shift from a uni-directional, wholesale import and adaptation of Western concepts, knowledge and technology as practiced throughout the preceeding Meiji period towards a beginning bi-directional exchange based on common issues and on an equal level of expertise in municipal administration, planning, architecture und civil engineering. However, it was still a long time until conversely, aspects of Japanese urbanism were discussed as models for the West and actually influenced Western urban development. Much is left to be done in research on Japan’s urban history in the interwar period, especially when taking its transnational dimension into account. The role of individual administrators, politicians, urban planners, civil engineers or architects as agents of transnational exchange, including their participation in international networks, institutions or organisations, has not been sufficiently studied yet. Also, Western research is still overwhelmingly focused on Tokyo, with some exceptions on Osaka. Only a few recent works have examined the emergence of urban modernity in other cities, including regional cities (chihō toshi). As was the case with Tokyo, their modernisation was likewise based on the introduction of concepts and practices developed in the West, but also influenced by local traditions and adapted to specific economic or topographical conditions. 33 Finally, it should be noted that due to the specialisations of the authors the papers in this volume examine connections between Japan and Europe, while leaving out Japan’s formal and informal empire in Asia (1895–1945). It should not go unmentioned, though, that Japanese planners and architects not only engaged with Western concepts and practices in city planning and architecture with the aim of creating modern cities within Japan proper, they also transferred, adapted and implemented them to prominent places in Japan’s overseas territories. 31 Carola Hein, Editorial: Japanese Cities in Global Context, in: Journal of Urban History 42, 3, 2016, pp. 463–476, here p. 470. 32 Hein, Editorial (cf. n. 31), p. 464. That Japanese historians may sometimes be more critical of certain aspects of Japanese urban development than Western researchers, reveals the review of André Sorensen’s seminal book The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century. London: Nissan Institute/Routledge Japanese Studies Series, 2002 by Natsuki Natake in: Social Science Japan Journal 8, 2, 2005, pp. 303–305. 33 On Sapporo, Okayama, Niigata and Kanazawa: Louise Young, Beyond the Metropolis. Second Cities and Modern Life in Interwar Japan, Berkeley: University of California Press 2013; on Nagoya in comparison to Birmingham: Simon Gunn / Susan Townsend, Automobility and the City in Twentieth-Century Britain and Japan, London: Bloomsbury 2019, ch. 1: “Planning the Automotive City, c. 1920–1960”, pp. 17–42.

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Considering these points, our contributions to the transnational urban history of Japan and Europe can only be called a beginning. We hope to motivate the readership to rethink the historical characteristics of European and Japanese cities in a global context, which is what the study of urban history in this century should first and foremost promote.

PART I MUTUAL HISTORIOGRAPHICAL PERCEPTIONS

GERMAN RESEARCH ON THE JAPANESE CITY IN THE INTERWAR PERIOD Katja Schmidtpott In line with Baba’s overview 1 of Japanese research on Western 2 influences on the emergence of the modern city in Japan’s long interwar period or more broadly the decades from 1900 to 1940, the task of this paper was defined as discussing research publications from the German 3 community of Japanese Studies on the same topic. If limited to just these parameters, however, such an overview would be rather short, due to the scarcity of publications that match these thematic and temporal specifications all at the same time. Even if one widens the timeframe to Japan’s modern era (1850s–1945) and the thematic scope to urban history in general, a search in the online database “Bibliographie zur historischen Japanforschung” (Bibliography of Historical Research on Japan), which does not claim to be exhaustive but covers most publications in German on Japanese history that have appeared since 1 January 2003, yields a result of a mere 17 publications. 4 An additional search for publications in English by members of the German-speaking community of Japanese Studies would certainly provide some more results. However, even if the much bigger English-speaking international research community in Japanese Studies was included, the historian of Japan Jeffrey Hanes’s remark remains true, namely that the urban history of Japan, and especially the history of cities other than Tokyo, has “received little attention”. 5 Although there is a considerable body of German – and English – literature on phenomena of Japan’s urban modernity in the interwar period such as Western lifestyle and consumerism, media and entertainment culture, or changing gender roles, the city is often rather treated as the natural backdrop to these phenomena

1 2 3 4 5

See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume. For pragmatic reasons, the ambiguous term West is used as a shorthand term for Europe and North America throughout this article. In the particular context of this paper, German refers to both publications by German scholars and publications in German. Publications exclude reviews. The database is maintained by Maik-Hendrik Sprotte, Freie Universität Berlin, Institute of Japanese Studies. https://www.historische-japanforschung.de; accessed 23.7.2022. Jeffrey E. Hanes, Tokyo and Beyond: Space and Place in Urban Japan, in: Journal of Urban History 42, 5, 2016, pp. 972–983, here p. 972.

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rather than being the focus of examination itself. 6 There is still some truth to what Philip Brown, a scholar of Early Modern and Modern Japanese History, found in 2003: “[S]tudies of Japan’s urban history are still relatively few and far between, once one moves beyond the realm of urban-centred arts, literature, and culture”. 7 As in urban history in general, it is sometimes hard to draw a line between urban history and the history of social or cultural phenomena that occur in the city. It is clear, however, that classical core issues of urban history such as governance and urban politics or the economic forces that have shaped urban development, have not yet received much scholarly attention. It is certainly not totally off the mark to say that in German scholarship Japan’s urban history is a field of research that is comparatively small. At the same time, it is also very diverse in terms of research topics and disciplinary approaches. 8 Apart from Japanese Studies, scholars in geography, art history, the social sciences, architecture and literature studies have written on modern Japanese urban history. This implies that rarely have two scholars written about the same topic or addressed the same research question, with the result that a coherent academic discourse on Japan’s modern urban history is hardly discernable in German scholarship. The following introduction to German research on the Japanese city in the interwar period will focus on Western influences on Japan’s urban development, but it will also discuss publications on other major topics that have been explored in the literature. Whenever possible, it will include more recent publications that have appeared since the year 2000, and it will make references to relevant studies in English that are being discussed in German scholarship, too. As this text is structured along the topics that have been explored in the literature, especially architecture, planning, urbanisation and urban society, historical discourses on the city and comparative studies between Tokyo and Berlin or Vienna, it has a slightly eclectic appeal, which, however, reflects the diversity of the field.

6

7 8

This applies to, e. g., some papers of the volumes: Japanisch-Deutsches Zentrum Berlin (ed.), Berlin–Tōkyō im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Berlin: Springer 1997; Sepp Linhart (ed.), Wien und Tokyo um die Wende vom 19. zum 20. Jahrhundert (Beiträge zur Japanologie, 37), Vienna: Abteilung für Japanologie des Instituts für Ostasienwissenschaften der Universität Wien 2003; Roland Domenig / Sepp Linhart (eds.), Wien und Tokyo, 1930–1945: Alltag, Kultur, Konsum, Vienna: Abteilung für Japanologie des Instituts für Ostasienwissenschaften der Universität Wien 2007; Stephan Köhn / Chantal Weber / Volker Elis (eds.), Tokyo in den zwanziger Jahren. Experimentierfeld einer anderen Moderne? (Kulturwissenschaftliche Japanstudien, 9), Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz 2017. Philip Brown, New Frontiers in Japanese Urban History, in: Journal of Urban History 29, 2, 2003, pp. 198–206, here p. 198. The diversity of approaches is reflected, e. g., in the papers of an edited volume which can still be considered a fairly representative collection of research on the modern and contemporary Japanese city in German-speaking academia: Christoph Brumann / Evelyn Schulz (eds.), Urban Spaces in Japan: Cultural and social perspectives, London: Routledge 2012. The book also includes papers by other international researchers.

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ARCHITECTURE Since the emergence of the Modern Movement of architecture after the First World War, traditional Japanese architecture has enjoyed comparably high interest in the West, especially among practitioners. Internationally influential architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright (1867–1959) or Bruno Taut (1880–1938) praised the aesthetic value of traditional Japanese building design, referring to key features such as simplicity, standardisation, transparency and flexibility which they regarded as ideal qualities that should be incorporated into modernist architecture in the West. 9 Around the same time, the diffusion of modern architecture within Japan itself accelerated remarkably, fuelled by an economic boom caused by a steep increase in Japanese exports during the First World War. Multi-storey, concrete buildings came to dominate central spaces in Japan’s major cities where they could hardly be overlooked. With very few exceptions, however, Japan’s modern architecture was mostly ignored, if not commented upon negatively by Western observers. 10 Among those exceptions was the art historian Otto Kümmel 9

Barrie Shelton, Learning from the Japanese City: Looking East in Urban Design, London: Routledge 22012, p. 6. On the question if traditional Japanese architecture and aesthetics did influence Western Modernism in the interwar period, see, for instance: Claudia Delank, Das Bauhaus und Japan: Die Rezeption japanischer Ästhetik am Bauhaus (1919–1933), in: Walter Gebhard (ed.), Ostasienrezeption im Schatten der Weltkriege: Universalismus und Nationalismus, Munich: Iudicium 2003, pp. 267–287; Manfreid Speidel, The Presence of Japanese Architecture in German Magazines and Books 1900–1950, in: Yamamoto Kazuki / Adachi Hiroshi / Shigemura Tsutomu (eds.), Dreams of the Other / Higan no Yume. Nichi-Doku hyakunen no kenchiku toshi keikaku ni okeru sōgo kōryū. Katsura, Bauhausu, Burūno Tauto kara atarashii ekorojī e / A Hundred Years of Japanese Architecture and German Town Planning in a Mutual View: Dreams of the Other: The Japanese House, Villa Katsura, Bauhaus, Bruno Taut and the New Ecology, Kōbe: Kōbe Daigaku 21seiki COE puroguramu 2007, pp. 117–131; Julia Odenthal, Japonismus am Bauhaus? Der Architekt Walter Gropius und seine Japan-Rezeption, in: Elisabeth Scherer / Michiko Mae (eds.), Nipponspiration: Japonismus und japanische Populärkultur im deutschsprachigen Raum, Köln: Böhlau 2013, pp. 113–139; Hyon-Sob Kim, Einflüsse aus Japan auf die moderne Architektur in Europa, in: Susanne Kohte / Hubertus Adam / Daniel Hubert (eds.), Dialoge und Positionen. Architektur in Japan, Basel: Birkhäuser 2017, pp. 214–225. A central figure within German research is Bruno Taut, a pioneer of Modernism who designed numerous social housing complexes in Berlin before emigrating to Japan in 1933. In his writings, he introduced classical Japanese architecture to an international audience. The architect Manfred Speidel edited many of Taut’s works, including his most influential book “Houses and People of Japan”, which originally appeared in English in 1937, and his diaries from the years 1933–1936 which he spent in Japan. Manfred Speidel (ed.), Das japanische Haus und sein Leben, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 1997 (first edition in German; the original English edition was first published in 1937 by Sanseidō, Tokyo); id. (ed.), Bruno Taut: Nippon mit europäischen Augen gesehen, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 2009; id. (ed.), Bruno Taut: Japans Kunst mit europäischen Augen gesehen, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 2011; id. (ed.), Bruno Taut in Japan: Das Tagebuch: Erster Band 1933, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 2013; id. (ed.), Bruno Taut in Japan: Das Tagebuch: Dritter Band 1935–1936, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 2013; id. (ed.), Bruno Taut in Japan: Das Tagebuch: Zweiter Band 1934, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 2015. 10 See Beate Löffler’s paper in this volume.

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(1874–1952), director of the Asia Department of the Museum of Ethnology in Berlin, who in 1931 was the first to discuss works and writings of contemporary Japanese architects such as Itō Chūta (1867–1954) in German. As shown by art historian Julia Odenthal in her PhD dissertation on the reception of Japanese architecture by Western art historians from 1850 to 1950, Kümmel drew on the writings of Franz Baltzer (1857–1927), who had worked as a railway engineer in Tokyo from 1898 to 1903 and had been the first to publish in German on contemporary Japanese architecture in the 1900s. 11 Still, the widespread admiration for Japan’s traditional architecture overshadowed the reception of its modern architecture in Western discourse almost until Tange Kenzō (1913–2005), an active member of the Western-dominated movement of modernist architects, emerged as Japan’s leading architect after attracting world-wide attention with his buildings for the Hiroshima Peace Park and the Tokyo Olympics in the 1950s and 1960s.12 Looking at Western historiography on modern Japanese architecture and urban design in the interwar period, it is therefore not surprising that the number of related publications is much smaller than the number of publications on either Japan’s traditional architecture or Japan’s contemporary architecture in the postwar period. The art historian Michiko Meid’s PhD dissertation on the introduction of Western architecture to Japan, which was the first comprehensive book on this topic in German, 13 addressed the question of how Japanese architects such as Tange Kenzō or Maekawa Kunio (1905–1986) became part of an internationally accepted avant-garde in the post-war era. Tracing Western influences on Japanese architecture from the 16th century to the 1930s, Meid briefly introduces major influential Western and Japanese architects, places them into the context of international exchange and describes their most important projects in Japan. Concerning the decades between 1900 and 1940, she identifies two major strands of development. On the one hand, she stresses the continuity in the transfer of a wide range of Western styles of architecture to Japan. This transfer had begun in the early Meiji period (1868–1912) when architects from various European countries and the USA were invited to work and teach in Japan, while Japanese architects went 11 Julia Odenthal, Andere Räume – Räume des Anderen: Die Rezeptionsgeschichte der japanischen Architektur in der deutschen und japanischen Kunst- und Architekturgeschichte (1850– 1950), Munich: Iudicium 2015. 12 Carola Hein, Nishiyama Uzō: Leading Japanese Planner and Theorist, in: id. (ed.), Reflections on Urban, Regional and National Space: Three Essays: Nishyama Uzō (introduced by Carola Hein, translated by Norman Hu), London: Routledge 2018, pp. 1–31. 13 Michiko Meid, Der Einführungsprozeß der europäischen und der nordamerikanischen Architektur in Japan seit 1542, Cologne: Abteilung Architektur des Kunsthistorischen Instituts der Universität Köln 1977. See pages 258–326 for the interwar period. Meid’s book is a rich and informative introduction to the field, which was later followed by a similarly themed PhD dissertation in art history written by Mori Hisako who discusses Western influences on Japanese architecture from the mid-19th century to the Second World War: Hisako Mori, Tendenzen der japanischen Architektur zwischen der Öffnung des Landes und dem Zweiten Weltkrieg: Brüche und Kontinuitäten, Hamburg: Dr. Kovac 2013.

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abroad to study the latest construction techniques and building design which they applied to government-sponsored projects as part of the Japanese government’s endeavour to modernise the appearance of Japanese cities, starting with the capital city of Tokyo. While British or American influences had been prominent until the 1890s, the German influence became stronger after the turn of the century. This was due to the advance of the Berlin school of architects consisting of Tsumaki Yorinaka (1859–1916), Kawai Kōzō (1856–1934), and Watanabe Yuzuru (1855– 1930), who had studied at the Berliner Bau-Akademie in the 1880s, to influential positions in major building authorities. 14 Their creations, such as the city hall of Tokyo (Tōkyō Shichōsha, 1894), the Naval Museum (Kaigun Sankōkan, 1908) or the office building of the Aikoku Life Insurance (Aikoku Seimei Hoken Gaisha, 1912), were examples of the styles of European historicism, such as NeoRenaissance or Neo-Baroque, which had been taught to Japanese architects since the 1870s. On the other hand, a new era began with the introduction of Art Nouveau at the beginning of the 20th century, and the interwar period marked an even more fundamental change in that the development of Japanese architecture became synchronised with that in Western countries. More and more Japanese architects not only travelled to Europe or to the US for studying but came to work at the workshops of leading American or European modernist architects. Endō Arata (1889– 1951) thus worked for Frank Lloyd Wright (1867–1959), Yamaguchi Bunzō 14 They had been affiliated with the German architects Hermann Ende (1829–1907) and Wilhelm Böckmann (1832–1902), who had been invited by the Meiji government to develop plans of a modern, European-style government district in Tokyo with wide boulevards, large open spaces, and numerous buildings in the styles of Neo-Renaissance and Neo-Baroque with added Japanese elements. Only three buildings were constructed in the end: the Parliament (Gijidō, 1890), albeit in a simplified version as a wooden construction, the Palace of Justice (Saibansho, 1896), and the Ministry of Justice (Shihōshō, 1895). See Meid, Der Einführungsprozeß (cf. n. 13), pp. 203–268 and Carola Hein / Yorifusa Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung und ihre deutschen Wurzeln, in: Die alte Stadt 25, 3, 1998, pp. 189–211. See also Carola Hein, Baumeister und Architekten in Japan, in: Winfried Nerdinger (ed.), Der Architekt. Geschichte und Gegenwart eines Berufsstandes, München: Prestel 2012, pp. 3–15. Horiuchi Masa’aki, a historian of architecture who in 1995 supervised the renovation of the Ministry of Justice, the only remaining building of Ende & Böckmann’s plan, has published mainly in Japanese, and to a lesser extent also in German, on the cooperation between Ende & Böckmann and Japanese architects in the 1880s and 1890s. He also mentions how elements of traditional Japanese architecture were integrated into some buildings of the Berlin Zoo by a former employee of Ende & Böckmann, which might be interpreted as an example of Japonism in German architecture around the turn of the century. Horiuchi Masaaki, Die Beziehungen der Berliner Baufirma Ende & Böckmann zu Japan, in: Gerhard Krebs (ed.), Japan und Preußen (Monographien des Deutschen Instituts für Japanstudien, 32), Munich: Iudicium 2002, pp. 319–342; id., Deutsche Bauten der Meiji-Zeit: Die Beziehungen der Berliner Architekten Ende & Böckmann zu Japan, in: OAG-Notizen 4, 2004, pp. 10–26. The latest publication in German on Ende & Böckmann is a book by historian of architecture Franziska Pagel, which in a short chapter describes their projects in Tokyo. Franziska Pagel, Ende & Böckmann: Ein Berliner Architekturbüro im 19. Jahrhundert, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag 2019, ch. 6, pp. 105–112.

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(1902–1978) and Kurata Kanetada (1895–1966) for Walter Gropius (1883–1969) and Maekawa Kunio and Sakakura Junzō (1901–1969) for Le Corbusier (1887– 1965). An increasing number of European and American architectural magazines circulated in Japan, while Japanese architectural magazines began to discuss not only Western but also Japanese modern architecture. As a result, the latest trends in modernist architecture, such as expressionism or functionalism, developed almost simultaneously in the West and in Japan. This resulted in a gradual shift in building materials from brick and wood to iron, steel and concrete, which became visible especially after the Great Kantō Earthquake (1923) when, in the course of the reconstruction of Tokyo, department stores, office buildings, banks, universities, sports facilities and other public buildings were built in large numbers. Many of these were in the style of functionalism, such as the Tokyo Central Post Office, built by Yoshida Tetsurō (1894–1956) in 1931. 15 Therefore, in the field of architecture, the interwar period marked an emancipation from a more or less wholesale adoption of Western architecture towards a considerate appropriation of the latest trends in European architecture, combining them with elements of traditional Japanese architecture to create a distinct form of modernism. 16 Thus, Japanese architecture came to develop in parallel with Western modernism, although this was hardly recognised in the West at that time. It should be added that the specific field of Christian church architecture remained subject to strong continuities in terms of a uni-directional transfer of styles from the West to Japan. Beate Löffler, a trained architect specialising in the history of Japanese architecture, has shown that most churches in Japan continued to be built in Western historicising, often Neo-Roman or Neo-Gothic styles from 15 Yoshida, who had travelled extensively through Europe and the United States, engaged in a vivid exchange with Bruno Taut during his stay in Japan. In 1935, he introduced Japanese residential architecture to German readers in a book that was published in German in Berlin: Tetsuro Yoshida, Das japanische Wohnhaus, Berlin: E. Wasmuth 1935. 16 On Western influences on Japanese architectural discourse in the interwar period, see the papers by Benoît Jacquet and Christian Tagsold in: Susanne Kohte / Hubertus Adam / Daniel Hubert (eds.), Dialoge und Positionen. Architektur in Japan, Basel: Birkhäuser 2017: Benoît Jacquet, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne: Die zwei Seiten der japanischen Vorkriegsarchitektur, pp. 226–237; Christian Tagsold, Kulturelle Übersetzungsprozesse: Japanische Architektur zwischen Ost und West, pp. 206–213. On the influence of the Bauhaus, see Masato Izumi, Bauhaus als Medium der Modernisierung: Eine Skizze der repräsentativen Rezeption und Verarbeitung der Bauhaus-Idee in Japan Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts, in: Josef Fürnkäs / Masato Izumi / K. Ludwig Pfeiffer / Ralf Schnell (eds.), Medienanthropologie und Medienavantgarde: Ortsbestimmungen und Grenzüberschreitungen, Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, pp. 73–96. The shift from the styles of European historicism to developing a genuine Japanese modern architecture was further investigated by art historian Jonathan Reynolds in a paper on the group of the Secessionists (Bunriha). The Secessionists sought to combine the new styles of European modernism with Japanese traditional architecture. Jonathan M. Reynolds, The Bunriha and the Problem of “Tradition” for Modernist Architecture in Japan, 1920–1928, in: Sharon A. Minichiello (ed.), Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy 1900–1930, Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press 1998, pp. 228–246. See also the book by Ken Tadashi Oshima, International Architecture in Interwar Japan: Constructing Kokusai Kenchiku, Seattle: University of Washington Press 2009.

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the Meiji period until the 1970s, when Japanese architects took over who were members of the global movement of modern architecture. 17 PLANNING If modern Japanese architecture in the interwar period has received comparatively little attention in German research, this is also true for urban planning. The major reason for this is that well into the post-war period, Japanese cities appeared all but chaotic to Western observers. Their spatial patterns seemed to be nothing that urban planning in the West could learn from. In fact, unlike urban development in many Western countries, where carefully planned, large-scale development projects such as representative government districts or social housing complexes were realised, the role of planning was much smaller in Japan. Consequently, in Western scholarship on urban planning, Japan was largely ignored, with the notable exception of Tange Kenzō’s projects such as his plans for Tokyo (1960) or for the World Expo in Osaka (1970). Only recently have Western commentators begun to understand the spatial organisation of contemporary Japanese cities on their own terms or to even appreciate them as liveable and sustainable, 18 which has led to a certain increase in historiography on Japanese urban planning. However, a comprehensive history of Japanese urban planning in German is yet to be written. 19 What comes closest to this is the geographer Uta Hohn’s book on “Stadtplanung in Japan” (Urban planning in Japan), which, while focusing on contemporary issues, contains the most extensive overview of the history of urban planning in Japan from the Meiji period until the 1990s that is available in German. 20 It is mainly based on the works of the eminent planning historian Ishida 17 Beate Löffler, Fremd und Eigen: Christlicher Sakralbau in Japan seit 1853, Berlin: Frank & Timme 2011. 18 Carola Hein, Shaping Tokyo: Land Development and Planning Practice in the Early Modern Japanese Metropolis, in: Journal of Urban History 36, 4, 2010, pp. 447–484, here: p. 450; Shelton, Learning from the Japanese City (cf. n. 9), pp. 6 ff. 19 The first point of reference for German researchers interested not only in Japan’s planning history, but in its urban history in general, is the Canadian geographer André Sorensen’s seminal book “The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century”, which covers the time span from the Edo period (1603–1868) to the 21st century. André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the TwentyFirst Century, London: Routledge 2002. As regards the interwar period, one of the key points he makes is that the comparatively small influence of planning on urban development in Japan was also caused by the absence of a strong civil society that could have demanded stronger regulation from the state which tended to see planning as a means to foster economic growth in the first place and was less concerned with the needs of local residents in the sense of creating liveable urban living environments. See also: André Sorensen, Urban planning and civil society in Japan: Japanese urban planning development during the “Taisho Democracy” period (1905–31), in: Planning Perspectives 16, 2001, pp. 383–406. 20 Uta Hohn, Stadtplanung in Japan: Geschichte – Recht – Praxis – Theorie, Dortmund: Dortmunder Vertrieb für Bau- und Planungsliteratur 2000. Historical overview of Japanese planning history on pages 41–110. Uta Hohn is the current holder of the chair for Internationale

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Yorifusa (1932–2015), 21 who frequently collaborated with international researchers, as well as studies by the historians of architecture and planning Watanabe Shun’ichi, Fujimori Terunobu, and Koshizawa Akira. Hohn’s overview of the history of urban planning is structured according to major changes in planning law, resembling the periodisation introduced by Ishida. 22 As concerns the interwar period, Hohn writes that after the turn of the century urbanisation accelerated due to heavy industrialisation. New types of cities emerged while existing cities expanded rapidly. As a reaction to that, Japan’s first national City Planning Law (toshi keikaku hō) was promulgated in 1919 together with the Urban Buildings Law (shigaichi kenchikubutsu hō). It provided a legal framework for urban planning which, with some changes, remained in force until the 1960s. On its basis, Western planning instruments such as land-use zoning (yōto chi’iki seido) or land readjustment (tochi kukaku seiri) were introduced, the latter of which became the preferred technique for persuading landowners to sell portions of their land to create areas for development. A highly centralised planning system was established, which gave the Home Ministry (Naimushō) far-reaching control over planning with little participatory rights on behalf of local authorities or civil society. However, the law was not applied nationwide until 1933, and not all of its provisions were mandatory. Towards the end of the 1930s, urban planning became shaped by the demands of the war economy and air defence, which gave more weight to long-established guiding principles such as the fireproofing of the city, green belts or suburban developments. In sum, Hohn makes the point that Japanese urban planning has been consistently characterised by a great discrepancy between the provisions of planning laws and their actual implementation. According to her analysis, the characteristic traits of Japan’s urban development were: a strong tradition of centralisation in planning control while citizens’ participation in the planning process has been weak; the central state has long seen urban planning primarily as a tool for providing infrastructure for the purpose of industrial development; relatively large urban areas were developed unplanned; mixed land use prevailed despite the introduction of zoning systems in Japan’s major cities after 1919; and land readjustment has been the dominant technique of urban planning. Adding to Hohn’s historical overview of urban planning in Japan, the historian of architecture and urban planning Carola Hein conducted further in-depth research on certain aspects of Japanese planning history, including on its European influences. In an article co-written with Ishida Yorifusa, Hein traced the German roots of Japanese urban planning since the Meiji period. 23 Looking at the Stadt- und Metropolenentwicklung (International Urban and Metropolitan Studies) at the Faculty of Geosciences at Ruhr-Universität Bochum. 21 For an introduction to the work of Ishida Yorifusa in English see the obituary by Shun-ichi Watanabe, The life and works of Professor Yorifusa Ishida (1932–2015): A pioneer of planning history in Japan, in: International Planning History Society Proceedings 17, 6, 2016, pp. 117–128. 22 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume. 23 Hein/Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung (cf. n. 14).

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interwar period, German influences can be seen in the Urban Buildings Law of 1919, more precisely in its building line (kenchikusen) concept, which was, however, mixed with its slightly different English counterpart, the line of building frontage; in zoning; in the technique of land readjustment that was based on the German Lex Adickes; and in zone expropriation (chōka shūyō), a technique for the renewal of built-up urban areas to create wide roads and squares. Hein and Ishida also refer to German–Japanese links in the Nazi period, which is still a highly underresearched topic. Gottfried Feder’s (1883–1941) book “Die neue Stadt” (The New City) from 1939, a blueprint for the spatial organization of new cities or new city districts with 20,000 inhabitants, left a considerable impression with Japanese urban planners, similar to Ebenezer Howard’s (1850–1928) garden city concept or Clarence A. Perry’s (1872–1944) neighbourhood unit planning. It appealed to Japanese planners because it supported their major aim of making big cities more liveable and was compatible with the Japanese urban tradition of subdividing big cities into smaller units that were almost independent from each other in terms of public services. According to Hein, this amalgamation of Western and Japanese traditional planning ideas comes closest to a distinct Japanese style of urban planning. It is embodied in the works of the architect and planner Nishiyama Uzō (1911–1994) who proposed to divide existing cities into smaller units, which he called life spheres (seikatsu kichi), that combined the elements mentioned above. 24 In many of her works, Hein has emphasized that visionary planning and the notion of grand design have been and still are mostly absent in Japanese urban planning. 25 In contrast to Western countries, where there is a tradition of urban planning that is based on discussions of large scale, long-term visions or plans, into which certain ideologies are inscribed, urban planning in Japan can be described as “a pragmatic instrument for the organisation of the city-space”. 26 Large-scale planning visions were small in number, they were developed as a reaction to Western models, largely concentrated on Tokyo, and they influenced 24 Nishiyama, a professor at Kyoto University, was also an eminent urban theorist whose numerous publications have been highly influential for Japanese urban planning and likewise for the architecture of housing. In his works, he discussed both foreign planning concepts and practices and traditional Japanese urban structures and housing. Carola Hein recently edited English translations of three articles written by Nishiyama on the topics of organising big cities into small units that provide the urban workforce with all the necessary functions of daily life (1942), on organising urbanisation on a national level with the aim of creating liveable megacities (1946) and on building high-rise buildings in mountainous areas in order to solve the problem of overpopulation and limited land availability (1946). See Carola Hein (ed.), Reflections on Urban, Regional and National Space: Three Essays: Nishyama Uzō (introduced by Carola Hein, translated by Norman Hu), London: Routledge 2018. 25 Carola Hein, Visionary Plans and Planners: Japanese Traditions and Western Influences, in: Nicolas Fiévé / Paul Waley (eds.), Japanese Capitals in Historical Perspective: Place, Power and Memory in Kyoto, Edo and Tokyo, London: Routledge 2003, pp. 309–346. See also: id., Shaping Tokyo (cf. n. 18); id., Machi: Neighborhood and Small Town: The Foundation for Urban Transformation in Japan, in: Journal of Urban History 35, 1, 2008, pp. 75–107. 26 Hein, Visionary Plans (cf. n. 25), p. 310.

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urban development only in exceptional cases. They were absent even in situations when there was a chance for large-scale rebuilding, such as in the reconstruction of Tokyo after the Great Kantō Earthquake, which was primarily guided by the needs for a better infrastructure and disaster prevention, with land readjustment the primary tool for creating firebreaks in the form of parks and broad roads. A notable exception, if little known among Western researchers, is the city of Nagoya, for which master plans had been developed in the 1920s that proposed comprehensive zoning systems and infrastructure networks which were actually implemented to a large extent. Hein showed that rather than importing or even implementing wholesale grand visions or concepts of urban design based on certain aesthetic principles or ideologies from the West, Japanese planners developed a practice that departed from European and American models. It was in a process of careful and deliberate selection that certain ideas, concrete techniques or methods were discussed, and, if found compatible with Japanese methods of urban development and Japanese traditions of urbanism, they were adapted to Japanese needs and incorporated into the toolkit of urban planning. The specific style of Japanese urban planning that emerged from this process has been primarily motivated by local needs of disaster prevention and creating infrastructure for economic development. It has been based on small-scale approaches, pragmatic and engineering-driven. Also, it has mostly followed the principles of capitalist land-use and has been restricted by a strong protection of individual landownership. Another topic in planning history that has gained some interest among German researchers is related to Japan’s colonial past, reflecting the influence of postcolonial studies: the trend to understand modern Japan more as an empire than as a nation-state, and to focus more on its relations with Asia than with the West. 27 Both Hohn and Hein have remarked that while urban planning in main27 There is a considerable number of studies related to planning, architecture and urban design in Japan’s colonies in English. See, for example, Bill Sewell, Beans to Banners: The Evolving Architecture of Prewar Changchun, in: Victor Zatsepine / Laura Victoir (eds.), Harbin to Hanoi: The Colonial Built Environment in Asia, 1840 to 1940, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press 2013, pp. 37–57 and Bill Sewell, Constructing Empire: The Japanese in Changchun, 1905–45, Vancouver: UBC Press 2019; Todd A. Henry, Assimilating Seoul: Japanese Rule and the Politics of Public Space in Colonial Korea, 1910–1945, Berkeley: University of California Press 2014, esp. ch. 1: “Constructing Keijō”, pp. 22–61; Tristan R. Grunow, Paving Power: Western Urban Planning and Imperial Space from the Streets of Meiji Tokyo to Colonial Seoul, in: Journal of Urban History 42, 3, 2016, pp. 506–556; David Tucker, City Planning without Cities: Order and Chaos in Utopian Manchukuo, in: Mariko Asano Tamanoi (ed.), Crossed Histories: Manchuria in the Age of Empire. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press 2005, pp. 53–81; Christian A. Hess, From colonial port to socialist metropolis: Imperialist legacies and the making of “New Dalian”, in: Urban History 38, 2011, pp. 373–390; idem., Gateway to Manchuria: The Port City of Dalian under Japanese, Russian and Chinese Control, 1898–1950, in: Comparativ 22, 5, 2012, pp. 47–59; Carola Hein, Editorial: Japanese Cities in Global Context, in: Journal of Urban History 42, 3, 2016, pp. 463–476; Edward Denison / Guangyu Ren, Ultra-Modernism: Architecture and Modernity in Manchuria, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press 2016.

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land Japan by and large remained restricted to corrections or extensions of the existing urban structure, the colonies, especially the vast territories of Manchuria, provided supposedly empty space for developing large-scale planning. Hein therefore argues that planning for urban development in Manchuria provides an insight into the visionary potential of Japanese planning. Given the colonial power context, the years of Japanese military rule over the territory (1931–1945) saw largescale urban planning experiments in Japan’s colonial cities on the Asian continent such as Changchun or Datong, where the latest international planning concepts could be put into practice. This included the division of planning areas (toshi keikaku kuiki) into urban zones (shigai kuiki) and green zones (ryokuchi kuiki), which were introduced in mainland Japan only much later after the war. In this sense, planning and urban development of Japan’s colonial cities in Manchuria have been interpreted as laboratories of the modern city which had repercussions on urban development in post-war Japan. 28 Related to this, Anke Scherer has looked deeper into the relationship between colonial power and architecture and planning in Manchuria, where a young generation of Japanese architects and planners created administrative buildings, modern urban infrastructure and largescale urban layouts. Their work, which was based on the latest Western standards, was part of Japan’s attempts at legitimising colonial rule in that it underlined the self-ascribed civilising mission of the Japanese rulers, who claimed to lead the Chinese northeast into modernity while exploiting the region’s resources. Constructing modern cities was not least meant to impress Western observers in order for Japan to be recognised as equal by the Western powers. Also, in terms of building design, their projects aimed at creating an East Asian Modern which incorporated into their work not only Western or Japanese but also indigenous elements, such as courthouses or local architectural design, as Manchuria was a multi-ethnic territory and the Japanese rulers wished to impose a unifying national identity on the inhabitants of the puppet state of Manshūkoku which was meant to be symbolised in its most prominent buildings. 29 SOCIAL HISTORY OF THE CITY Another strand in urban history is the social history of the city which focuses on changes in urban social structure and on the interactions and experiences of dif28 Hohn, Stadtplanung in Japan (cf. n. 20), pp. 41–110; Carola Hein, Imperial expansion and city planning: Visions for Datong in the 1930s, in: Kären Wigen / Sugimoto Fumiko / Cary Karacas (eds.), Cartographic Japan: A history in maps, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 2016, pp. 174–177. 29 Anke Scherer, The colonial appropriation of public space: Architecture and city planning in Japanese-dominated Manchuria, in: Brumann/Schulz (eds.), Urban spaces (cf. n. 8), pp. 37– 52. See also: id., Japanische Stadtplanung und Architektur in Manzhouguo/Manshūkoku: Entwicklungshilfe oder Machtdemonstration?, in: OAG-Notizen 10, 2003, pp. 10–27. Anke Scherer is a postdoctoral lecturer and researcher at the Faculty of East Asian Studies, RuhrUniversität Bochum.

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ferent social groups within the city in the course of urbanisation. Again, there is so far no comprehensive social history of the modern Japanese city in German. What comes closest to this are two compact and instructive articles by the historian of Japan, Regine Mathias, and the historian Wolfgang Schwentker. Regine Mathias 30 has written a concise overview on political, economic and social developments in the broader Taishō era of 1900/1905–1932, in which she traces the emergence of a distinct urban lifestyle and culture in Japan against the backdrop of liberalisation, industrialisation, urbanisation, internationalisation and social change. Schwentker’s article on the history of Tokyo from the Great Kantō Earthquake to the Tokyo Olympics discusses its development into a megacity of more than five million inhabitants. Schwentker looks at the economic and social factors that fuelled the growth of Tokyo’s population, explains how the city was governed, comments on the role of urban planning and includes voices of individual citizens reflecting on the development of the city. He concludes that governance largely remained a centralised, top-down process despite citizens’ growing demand for participation, that the emerging new middle class mostly settled in the expanding suburbs, that the influence of planning was limited as opposed to the influence of economic or demographic necessities, and that public discourse on the modernisation of Tokyo was far from uniform. While the loss of pre-modern traits of the city was frequently bemoaned, urban discourse has been characterised by a generally positive view of urbanity. 31 In her PhD dissertation on “Nachbarschaft und Urbanisierung in Japan, 1890– 1970” (Neighbourhood and urbanisation in Japan, 1890–1970), the author took issue with the assumption that modern Japanese urban society can be described as more gemeinschaftlich in the sense of social relations that are tight and emotionally loaded, with people sharing common values and traditions, than as gesellschaftlich, in the sense of flexible social relations, based on rational thinking, emotionally neutral, and distant. It has been claimed that in the course of Japan’s urbanisation, social relations largely remained modelled on the pre-modern village (mura) until the post-war era, which would make Japan’s urbanisation a unique case when compared to the West, where modern urban society was characterised by diversity and also by frequent conflict. These notions have been reinforced by a certain degree of enthusiasm in the recent Western literature about the liveability of contemporary Japanese cities. Here, the cooperation of citizens in urban governance is often quoted as an asset, pointing to the ubiquitous neighbourhood associations (chōnaikai), which in the interwar years came to encompass almost the whole urban population and are usually believed to be the product of a long 30 Regine Mathias, Das Entstehen einer modernen städtischen Gesellschaft und Kultur, 1900/1905–1932, in: Josef Kreiner (ed.), Geschichte Japans, Stuttgart: Reclam 2016, pp. 332–380. Regine Mathias is professor emeritus of Ruhr-Universität Bochum. She is currently affiliated with the Centre Européen d’Études Japonaises d’Alsace in France. 31 Wolfgang Schwentker, Die Doppelgeburt einer Megastadt: Tokyo 1923–1964, in: id. (ed.), Megastädte im 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2006, pp. 139–164. Wolfgang Schwentker is professor emeritus of Osaka University.

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tradition of vital urban neighbourhoods bound together by a strong community consciousness. However, little historical evidence has been presented about both formal and informal neighbourhood relations and how they changed in the course of urbanisation. Employing a microhistorical approach and based on an analysis of egobased documents such as diaries or reports written by members of the five major social classes that modern urban society was made up of – underclass, working class, old middle class, new middle class and upper class –, the author revealed that the intensity and the functions of social relations in neighbourhoods were shaped strongly by the class a family belonged to. Regarding informal social interaction among neighbours, it could be shown, for instance, that the poorer a family the more it depended on the financial and practical support of neighbours, especially in the Meiji period and in the interwar years when public welfare systems were either non-existent or still in their infancy. Therefore, members of the underclass of the urban poor or of the working class relied on strong neighbourhoods with frequent social interaction based on solidarity and cooperation. The urban upper class and the new middle class, in contrast, had very few social contacts in their immediate surroundings. As concerns the neighbourhood associations, focusing on the interwar years when the majority of them were established in Tokyo, the author showed that it is indeed a strong tradition that municipal authorities in Japan from pre-modern to modern times have expected urban residents to organise in order to care for safe and healthy living environments by themselves. However, membership rates of almost 100 per cent cannot be interpreted as an expression of local identity and community sentiment as people were simply declared members on the grounds of being residents of a certain neighbourhood (chō). The associations’ leaders were mostly recruited from the local elite of landowners, who as such had an interest in keeping their neighbourhood safe and healthy, and who sometimes had a commercial or political interest in making their names known among the hundreds of households that belonged to a neighbourhood association as they were shop owners or, after the introduction of universal male suffrage in 1925, ran as candidates in local elections. Large parts of the urban population, however, remained indifferent towards the associations. Especially reluctant to cooperate with the associations were members of the new middle class whose neighbourhood culture consisted of friendly but distanced relations based on a strong sense of privacy that kept interaction to a minimum. When leaders began to face difficulties in collecting membership fees, which restricted their capacity to act, the concept of the chō community, envisioned as a harmonious group with social relations based on conservative values, was invented and propagated by the local elites and the local authorities. The aim was to mobilise the cooperation of urban residents for administrative purposes and to instil social

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cohesion in what was a diverse, fast-changing urban society under the influence of rapid urbanisation. 32 Another related topic are the neighbourhood groups (tonarigumi) established nationwide as a subgroup of the neighbourhood associations in urban areas by state order until 1941. They have mostly been examined by political historians, who described them as instruments of control and indoctrination by the authoritarian state in war-time Japan. Another perspective is offered by Maik-Hendrik Sprotte, who contemplated their potential for the development of civil society in Japan. 33 From the angle of economic history, Erich Pauer examined their pivotal role in the state-controlled rationing and distribution system of consumer goods, especially foodstuffs, in the war economy 1937–1945, when the neighbourhood group was defined as the smallest unit of consumption in Japan’s economic system. Groups consisting of an average number of 10–12 neighbouring households were registered under the rationing system as one single unit that was responsible for the daily distribution of foodstuffs among its members. 34 Looking at the living conditions of the different classes that urban society was made up of, it is the urban underclass in the Meiji and Taishō (1912–1926) peri-

32 Katja Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft und Urbanisierung in Japan, 1890–1970, Munich: Iudicium 2009; id., Indifferent communities: Neighbourhood associations, class and community consciousness in pre-war Tokyo, in: Brumann/Schulz (eds.), Urban spaces (cf. n. 8), pp. 125–147. In the English literature on urban neighbourhoods in Japan, the anthropologist Theodore C. Bestor’s ethnography of a middle-class neighbourhood in Tokyo stands out as a fundamental work. It takes issue with the stereotype that pre-modern lifestyles have prevailed in the megacity throughout the 20th century. Bestor traces the history of a particular neighbourhood (chō) from the interwar period to the present with a focus on the old middle class and the neighbourhood association, which he describes as providing a sense of local identity and autonomy to the residents by means of traditionalism. Theodore C. Bestor, Neighborhood Tokyo, Stanford: Stanford University Press 1989. Focusing on the interwar period, the historian of modern Japan Sally Hastings has written on the industrial district of Honjo in Tokyo as an example of how the central and local bureaucracy advised residents to form and join local community associations as a means to pursue community interests such as welfare. She credits the associations with enhancing the political participation of urban voters. Sally Hastings, Neighborhood and Nation in Tokyo, 1905–1937, Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press 1995. 33 Maik-Hendrik Sprotte, Ein “einig Volk von Brüdern”? Techniken der Mobilisierung und Solidarisierung in Nachbarschaften, in: id. / Tino Schölz (eds.), Der mobilisierte Bürger? Aspekte einer zivilgesellschaftlichen Partizipation im Japan der Kriegszeit (1931–1945) (Formenwandel der Bürgergesellschaft / Transformations of Civic Society – Arbeitspapiere des Internationalen Graduiertenkollegs Halle-Tōkyō / Working Papers of the International Graduate School Halle-Tōkyō, 6), Halle: Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg 2010, pp. 23–33. Maik-Hendrik Sprotte is a postdoctoral lecturer and researcher at the Institute of Japanese Studies, Freie Universität Berlin. 34 Erich Pauer, Nachbarschaftsgruppen und Versorgung in den japanischen Städten während des Zweiten Weltkriegs (Marburger Japan-Reihe, 9), Marburg: Förderverein Marburger Japan-Reihe 1993. Erich Pauer is professor emeritus of Philipps-Universität Marburg. He is currently affiliated with the Centre Européen d’Études Japonaises d’Alsace in France.

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ods which has recently received some scholarly attention. 35 The Japanologist Sepp Linhart is to be credited with introducing the works of the journalist Matsubara Iwagorō (1866–1935) to German-speaking readers. Matsubara’s book “Saiankoku no Tōkyō” (In darkest Tokyo), which appeared in 1893, described the miserable life of the urban underclasses in Tokyo. It belongs to the genre of the social report which also flourished in Europe, and especially in Vienna, at the turn of the century. Linhart translated the first two chapters of Matsubara’s book into German and compared his work to that of Max Winter (1870–1937), who published a large number of reports commenting on the social situation of the urban poor of Vienna. Both Matsubara and Winter showed the dark sides of rapid urbanisation and industrialisation, bringing the issue of social inequality to the attention of the educated upper classes of society. Their common intention was to show that poverty had not only individual but also structural causes to underline the political claim that the urban poor deserved public support. 36 While journalists such as Matsubara or the more famous Yokoyama Gennosuke (1871–1915) wrote about the social question from the perspective of educated observers, the author has translated reports by day labourers in Tokyo which are rare examples of testimonies written by members of the urban underclass about themselves. Day labourers constituted a large part of the industrial workforce (approx. 40 per cent) in the interwar period. When the crisis-laden economic development of the 1920s led to growing unemployment, an increasing number of them came to live on the edge of poverty, posing a problem that the newly established social bureaucracy had to address. The municipal governments of the biggest cities commissioned social surveys in order to provide data as a basis for the formulation of social policies. The day labourers’ reports were part of such a survey, which was conducted in the years 1927 and 1928. They reveal constant existential fear as much as the ambition to rise in society by finding a better, more secure occupation, but also disclose cultural interests and leisure activities and offer glimpses of day labourers’ broader world-views, i. e. their thoughts about society and social order, nation and empire, politics, and the economy. They allow plentiful insights into working and living conditions at the bottom of urban industrial society, and provide rich source material for a history of interwar urban 35 The latest publication on this topic in English is James L. Huffman, Down and Out in Late Meiji Japan, Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press 2018. Huffman describes the experience of poverty from the perspective of members of the urban underclass at the beginning of the 20th century. 36 Sepp Linhart, Matsubara Iwagorō und Max Winter. Sozialreportagen aus Tokyo und Wien um 1900, in: id. (ed.), Wien und Tokyo um die Wende vom 19. zum 20. Jahrhundert (Beiträge zur Japanologie, 37), Vienna: Abteilung für Japanologie des Instituts für Ostasienwissenschaften der Universität Wien 2003, pp. 106–124; id., Aus der Sozialreportage Saiankoku no Tōkyō [Das dunkelste Tōkyō] von Matsubara Iwagorō (1893), in: Anke Scherer / Katja Schmidtpott (eds.), Wege zur japanischen Geschichte: Quellen aus dem 10. bis 21. Jahrhundert in deutscher Übersetzung: Festschrift für Regine Mathias anlässlich ihres 65. Geburtstags (Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens, 148), Hamburg: Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 2020, pp. 107–122. Sepp Linhart is professor emeritus at the University of Vienna.

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society from below. 37 Also related to the topic of the urban poor and situated in the same period of the interwar years, Eduard Klopfenstein, an expert on Japanese literature, wrote a short essay on the childhood experiences of the poet Sekine Hiroshi (1920–1994), whose family belonged to the urban underclass in Tokyo. 38 While the 1920s saw the emergence of municipal social policy, the urban poor were also supported by private institutions. The historians of Japan Hans Martin Krämer and Till Knaudt have examined the adoption of the settlement concept from Great Britain and the United States by members of the intellectual elites in Japan, using as a case study one particular settlement project related to the University of Tokyo that existed from 1923 to 1937. It was established by a Marxist students’ club with the aims of both political agitation and social reform. The Tokyo University settlement house was part of a movement of 43 settlements in total that were established in Tokyo between 1917 and 1926. It offered a variety of services to members of the working class such as education, a consumers’ cooperative, legal advice and medical treatment. A workers’ school was established, where several dozen workers from the local community, including ethnic Koreans, were educated in social history, political theory, economics, labour law and other topics and discussed the big socio-political issues of their time such as birth control, female labour, trade unions or strikes. The study shows how social engagement, political agitation and academic career networking went hand in hand in this particular case. Also, it shows that the political left, contrary to what has often been written about it, did in fact try to put their political ideas into practice. 39 From the perspective of gender studies, Ingrid Getreuer-Kargl has written on young female labour migrants from rural areas who came to the big cities in the 1920s. She examines the potential for autonomy that life in the city offered them as compared to life in the village community. She shows that migration to the city in most cases meant little more than gaining an additional income to support the family back at home, while an independent, self-determined life was hard to realise. However, the fact that young female textile workers went on strike for better food, for the right to leave the factory dormitory whenever they wished or for shorter workdays and in general for a life in dignity without fear of losing their 37 Katja Schmidtpott, Prekarität als Normalität: Tagebücher von Tagelöhnern in Tōkyō im Schatten der Shōwa-Finanzkrise von 1927, in: ibid., pp. 167–215. 38 Eduard Klopfenstein, Was bedeutete Spielen und Arbeiten für ein Kind der städtischen Unterschicht in den 1920er und 1930er Jahren? Sekine Hiroshis Autobiographie Hari no ana to rakuda no yume, in: Judit Árokay / Klaus Vollmer (eds.), Sünden des Worts. Festschrift für Roland Schneider zum 65. Geburtstag (Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens, 141), Hamburg: Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 2004, pp. 625–637. Eduard Klopfenstein is professor emeritus at Zurich University. 39 Hans Martin Krämer / Till Knaudt, Politische Agitation und Sozialreform im Alltag: Das “Settlement” der Universität Tōkyō in Shitamachi, in: Köhn/Weber/Elis (eds.), Tōkyō in den zwanziger Jahren (cf. n. 6), pp. 241–259. Hans Martin Krämer is professor for Japanese Studies (History/Society) at Heidelberg University. Till Knaudt is associate professor at the Institute for Research in Humanities (Jinbunken) at Kyoto University.

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livelihood, shows that they behaved not always as passively and obediently as gender norms at that time would have demanded from them, which might be interpreted as a result of them being exposed to progressive ideas in the city. 40 CULTURAL HISTORY APPROACHES TO THE MODERN JAPANESE CITY Another field of study related to Japan’s urban history is the study of modern literature, focusing on works that can be classified as historical discourses on the city – which is, in most cases, the city of Tokyo, given its symbolic function as the capital of the modern Japanese nation-state and of the expanding Japanese empire. It is related to the growing body of Edo-Tokyo Studies (Edo-Tōkyōgaku), a multidisciplinary field that was established in the 1980s by the historian of architecture Jinnai Hidenobu, whose works were inspired by a comparative view on European cities. 41 Edo-Tokyo Studies seek to write an integrated cultural history of Edo-Tokyo that spans both the pre-modern and the modern periods, exploring e. g. how pre-modern elements have shaped the underlying structure of the modern city of Tokyo in terms of road networks, or how concepts of water and greenery in the city have changed over time. In doing so, Edo-Tokyo Studies are attempting to define what constitutes a distinct Japanese urbanity which links them to more general contemplations on Japanese cultural identity. Part of such an integrated cultural history of Edo-Tokyo are studies of representations of the city that seek to describe historical and contemporary concepts of urbanity. The Japanologist Evelyn Schulz has been specialising in historical discourses on the city of Tokyo. Starting with the popular genre of the hanjōki (lit.: accounts of prosperity of a certain city), 42 which emerged at the beginning of the 19th century and is still thriving, and later focusing on relevant works of prominent writers and intellectuals such as Nagai Kafū (1879–1959), Mori Ōgai (1862– 1922), or Kōda Rohan (1867–1947), part of which fall into the interwar period, she has examined how the modernisation of Tokyo affected the way the city was reflected upon in literature and art. 43 40 Ingrid Getreuer-Kargl, Die Zuwanderung junger Frauen nach Tokyo in den 1920er Jahren, in: id. / Sepp Linhart (eds.), Migration und Raum in Wien und Tokyo: Soziologische und kulturelle Aspekte (Beiträge zur Japanologie, 47), Vienna: Abteilung für Japanologie des Instituts für Ostasienwissenschaften der Universität Wien 2018, pp. 43–82. Ingrid Getreuer-Kargl is a professor at the University of Vienna, Department of East Asian Studies. 41 Jinnai Hidenobu, who also published in English, became internationally known through his book Tokyo: A spatial anthropology, Berkeley: University of California Press 1995. 42 Hanjōki are a distinct Japanese kind of city portraits which document the transformation of Japan’s major cities since the 19th century from the perspective of writers and intellectuals. They can be defined as a type of guidebook literature on the intersection of literature and geography. Containing both fictional elements and reportages or descriptions of famous places, they are often seen more as topographies (chishi) rather than literature. 43 See among others: Evelyn Schulz, Stadt-Diskurse in den “Aufzeichnungen über das Prosperieren von Tōkyō” (Tōkyō hanjō ki): Eine Gattung der topografischen Literatur Japans und ihre Bilder von Tōkyō (1832–1958), Munich: Iudicium 2004; id., Zukunftsvisionen von Tōkyō

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Her research has shown that the hegemonic discourse on the modernisation and Westernisation of Tokyo sustained by politicians, bureaucrats, architects and urban planners since the 19th century has been constantly accompanied by a counter-discourse conducted by prominent writers and intellectuals whose views on the city opposed the development policy of the city government and the high-flying visions of architects or city planners. Rather than praising the modernisation of Tokyo and its ascent as the capital of Japan’s growing empire in Asia, which entailed replacing the city’s pre-modern wooden buildings with safe, that is inflammable and hygienic buildings, they pointed to the losses that modernisation brought about by referring to the negative sides of urbanisation and rapid industrialisation such as the social question, pollution of the environment and the cultural loss that resulted from the destruction of traditional buildings. The use of the past is key to their criticism of the transformation of Tokyo into a modern, Westernised city. At the beginning of the 20th century, writers such as Nagai Kafū who were searching for the authentic essence of Tokyo, began to explore the city’s pre-modern past by means of strolling (German: flanieren) through those areas which were not yet affected so much by modernisation. Their expeditions into the local cultures of those more traditional neighbourhoods that typically consist of one- or two-storeyed wooden apartment houses lining both sides of a back alley (roji) can be interpreted as attempts to define a distinctly Japanese form of urbanity and thus feed into broader discourses on Japanese cultural identity. Other cultural history approaches have analysed discourses on modern Japanese urbanity in films. Iris Haukamp looked at representations of post-earthquake Tokyo in two early films by Ozu Yasujirō (1903–1963) from 1929 and 1931, which transported ambiguous images of the modern metropolis to wider audiences within Japan. The films, centring on the Westernised lifestyle and social problems of the emerging new middle class, in itself an outcome of Japan’s modernisation in terms of class differentiation, exemplify how Tokyo became a “topos of modernity” in Japanese films after the earthquake. 44 um 1900: Kōda Rohans Ikkoku no shuto [Die Hauptstadt der Nation]; 1899, in: Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienforschung 24, 2000, pp. 153–180; id., Nagai Kafū’s Reflections on Urban Beauty in Hiyorigeta: Reappraising Tokyo’s Back Alleys and Waterways, in: Review of Asian and Pacific Studies (Center for Asian and Pacific Studies, Seikei University, Tokyo) 36, 2011, pp. 139–164; id., The Past in Tokyo’s Future: Kōda Rohan’s Thoughts on Urban Reform and the New Citizen in Ikkoku no shuto (One nation’s capital), in: Nicolas Fiévé / Paul Waley (eds.), Japanese Capitals in Historical Perspective: Place, Power and Memory in Kyoto, Edo and Tokyo, London: Routledge 2003, pp. 283–308; id., Die “Renaissance” der Stadt (toshi saisei) und die Wiederentdeckung der Hintergassen (roji): Aspekte der Literatur und Kultur des Flanierens in Japan, in: Jürgen Krusche / Japanisch-Deutsches Zentrum Berlin (eds.), Der Raum der Stadt: Raumtheorien zwischen Architektur, Soziologie, Kunst und Philosophie in Japan und im Westen, Marburg: Jonas Verlag 2008, pp. 74–88; Barbara E. Thornbury / Evelyn Schulz (eds.), Tokyo: Memory, Imagination, and the City, Lanham: Lexington Books 2018. Evelyn Schulz is Professor of Japanese Studies at the LudwigMaximilians-Universität München. 44 Iris Haukamp, Filmraum Tōkyō: Von Nonsens zur Sozialsatire, in: Köhn/Weber/Elis (eds.), Tōkyō in den zwanziger Jahren (cf. n. 6), pp. 147–168.

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In a similar vein, architecture can also be interpreted as manifestations of cultural identity, which is shown by Judith Fröhlich’s study of the Russian-orthodox Nikolai Cathedral, one of the landmark buildings of Tokyo constructed in 1891. She views it as a symbol of cosmopolitism among Japanese intellectuals and artists which emerged around the turn of the century and vanished around the time of the Great Kantō Earthquake to be displaced by a growing awareness of Tokyo’s function as the centre of the Japanese Empire, reflected in the new teikan yōshiki (Imperial crown) architectural style and contemplations on concepts of a distinct Japanese modernity, detached from the European model. Therefore, she interprets the destruction of the Nikolai Cathedral in the earthquake as the beginning of the end of Tokyo’s period as a cosmopolitan city.45 Her study is one of the few that have shed some light on Japan’s relations with Russia rather than with Europe or North-America. COMPARATIVE STUDIES As is the case with history in general, the growing influence of comparative approaches can be seen in urban history, too. Two comparative historical projects in German and Japanese were inspired by institutional exchange relations between cities and universities on both sides. In 1994, the cities of Berlin and Tokyo concluded a partnership agreement which initiated the publication of an extensive bilingual edited volume on the history and present state of the relations between both cities. It comprises short papers that highlight diplomatic, economic, military or cultural connections and exchange, with one paper addressing the history of urban development in the interwar period by comparing the construction of the elevated metro line loops in Berlin (Ringbahn) and Tokyo (Yamanote line) at the turn of the century, written by the scholar of German Studies Hirai Tadashi. He mentions the German influence on the construction of parts of the Yamanote line, which involved the German engineer Hermann Rumschöttel (1844–1918) who had worked on urban railway projects in Berlin and was invited to Tokyo in 1887, and the import of equipment for the electrification of the loop line in 1909 from Siemens under the direction of Shima Yasujirō (1870–1946), technical director of Japanese Government Railways at the turn of the century. Three other papers related to urban history give a comparative overview of the urban development of Tokyo and Berlin from pre-modern times to the present, describe changes in land use in Tokyo in the Meiji period or discuss urban planning concepts for Tokyo metropolis in the post-war period. 46 The fact that three out of the four papers related to comparative 45 Judith Fröhlich, Die Nikolai-Kathedrale, das Große Kantō-Erdbeben von 1923 und das Ende des alten Russlands in Japan, in: ibid., pp. 33–59. 46 Tadashi Hirai, Hochbahn oder Untergrundbahn? S-Bahn und Ringbahn in Berlin und Tokyo, in: Japanisch-Deutsches Zentrum Berlin (ed.), Berlin–Tōkyō (cf. n. 6), pp. 112–124; Winfried Flüchter, Berlin und Tōkyō: Stadtentwicklung im Vergleich, in: ibid., pp. 393–414. Winfried

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urban history in the modern era were written by Japanese authors underlines the impression that more research in this field is conducted in Japan than in Germany. A similar, albeit more long-term and comprehensive project was carried out on the cities of Tokyo and Vienna. From 2001 to 2009, the Department of Japanese Studies at the University of Vienna (Abteilung für Japanologie des Instituts für Ostasienwissenschaften der Universität Wien), the Austria–Japan Study Group for Humanities, Social Sciences & Art (Akademischer Arbeitskreis Japan), together with the Department of German Literature (Doitsu Bungaku Senkō) at Meiji University in Tokyo held eight joint symposiums on the topic of “Alltag und Freizeit in Tokyo und Wien vom 19. bis zum 21. Jahrhundert” (Everyday life and leisure in Tokyo and Vienna from the 19th to the 21st century). They explored the history of urban culture in both cities, focusing on intellectual debates in the fields of consumption and sports, radio and film, theatre, literature and art. 47 For the period around the turn of the century, topics as diverse as the early history of cinema, discourses on love, the modernisation of theatres or the social reports by the journalist Matsubara Iwagorō were explored for Tokyo, and, where possible, compared with their Viennese counterparts. It is clear that artists, writers and theatres in both cities incorporated Japanese or Western influences into their works, respectively, and the papers reveal that both cities provided a stage for intellectual discourses on similar topics in art, social relationships or social problems. While it could be shown that certain debates in Japan were influenced by Japanese intellectuals who had studied in Europe, in other cases no obvious connections could be identified. This absence of direct connections in some of the examined fields could be an indicator that, by the turn of the century, both cities had become part of a shared global urban modernity that gradually came to include non-Western cities such as Tokyo as well. In the following period from 1930 to 1945, Vienna and Tokyo developed in different directions, making systematic comparisons more difficult. While Tokyo prospered as the capital of an expanding Japanese empire, Vienna had become the capital of one of Europe’s smaller states due to the decline of the Habsburg Empire after the First World War, and was integrated into the German Nazi Empire in 1938. Two papers employ a comparative approach; however, they are not directly related to urban history. Wolfram Manzenreiter has written on sports in totalitarian systems, showing that both in Vienna and in Tokyo, sports education contributed to the militarisation of society. Susanne Schermann’s paper on film and censorship compares German and Japanese propaganda films. Flüchter is a Japan geographer and emeritus professor at the University of Duisburg-Essen. Yasuo Masai, Die Veränderung der Flächennutzung in Tōkyō während der Meiji-Zeit, in: ibid., pp. 51–60. Teruaki Tayama, Die Hauptstadtplanung für den Großraum Tōkyō, in: ibid., pp. 415–422. 47 The edited volumes to these symposiums, to which scholars from various other disciplines were also invited, were published alternately in Japanese or in German by Meiji or Vienna universities. Two edited volumes in German cover the interwar period as defined in this volume: Linhart (ed.), Wien und Tokyo (cf. n. 6) and Domenig/Linhart (eds.), Wien und Tokyo (cf. n. 6).

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SUMMARY The above survey of the German literature on Japan’s urban history in the first half of the 20th century has identified clusters of research in the fields of architecture, planning, local communities and social problems, and representations of the modern city in literature, some of which is comparative in nature. As concerns key actors in urban governance, planners as well as local associations, and to a lesser extent local governments, have been examined. It is striking that the military and private companies have been almost entirely neglected so far, given the important roles they have played in urban development. As regards the topic of transfer and adaptation of architectural design, urban planning methods or urban design principles, it has to be mentioned that this has not only been examined in relation to the West and Japan, but that transfers from Japan to other countries or regions, in particular continental Asia, in the context of Japanese imperialism is a growing field of research. As is the case with almost any topic related to Japan, it cannot be ignored that Japanese historians themselves have published considerably more on the modern Japanese city than Western scholars. Moreover, it seems that urban history is one of the fields where the gap in research activity between historians in Japan and those outside is particularly wide. While it is therefore essential for Western scholars to consult the Japanese literature when engaging with Japanese urban history, the question remains what can be added to the existing scholarship that has not already been done by Japanese researchers. The above overview of the literature shows that two answers have been given so far. Firstly, German-speaking and other Western scholars have examined the modern history of the Japanese city from the angle of their particular research interests that often differ from those of their Japanese colleagues. It is striking that much of the historical research on the Japanese city is comparative in nature, be it implicitly, when explaining the significance of planning in urban development, or be it explicitly, when comparing Berlin or Vienna to Tokyo. Their preference for comparative research can be explained by the fact that the aim of part of the Western literature is to identify specific characteristics of Japanese cities and Japan’s urbanisation, which in some cases is motivated by the wish to critically revise the Western literature on seemingly universal principles of urban development, thereby contributing to theory construction in the social sciences. Secondly, a growing interest in transnational historical research can be seen in the recent literature. Beyond comparisons, the aim is to explore reciprocal or circular transfers or exchanges of concepts and knowledge on how to plan, build or govern cities – or how to destroy them 48 – on a transregional or even global scale. This trend is visible in the fields of architecture and planning, especially in architecture, where the interwar period marks the shift from a uni-directional flow of 48 Sheldon Garon, On the Transnational Destruction of Cities: What Japan and the United States Learned from the Bombing of Britain and Germany in the Second World War, in: Past & Present 247, 1, 2020, pp. 235–271.

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concepts and knowledge from the West to Japan towards both sides sharing in a global urban modern. Finally, it should be mentioned that Western scholarship on Japan’s modern urban history remains overwhelmingly centred on Tokyo. The predominance of Tokyo in what is altogether a relatively small body of literature leads to a certain bias and entails the danger that Tokyo could be perceived as the epitome of the Japanese city. Tokyo, however, is a rather singular case, as it was the capital city of the Japanese empire with a growing concentration of population and of administrative, economic, educational, and cultural institutions. That being said, modern urbanity was certainly not confined to Tokyo, rather, as Japanese urban historians have shown, it extended to Osaka and other big cities as well. For a better understanding of Japan’s modern urban history, it is therefore desirable to see more research on other cities of various types and sizes. 49

49 In the English literature, studies on cities other than Tokyo include: Louise Young, Beyond the Metropolis. Second Cities and Modern Life in Interwar Japan, Berkeley: University of California Press 2013; Jeffrey E. Hanes, The City as Subject: Seki Hajime and the Reinvention of Modern Osaka, Berkeley: University of California Press 2002; id., Progressivism for the Pacific world: Urban social policymaking in modern Osaka, in: City Culture and Society 3, 1, 2012, pp. 79–85.

THE IMPACT OF WESTERN IDEAS ON THE BIRTH OF TOWN AND REGIONAL PLANNING IN JAPAN An Overview of Japanese Research Satoshi Baba INTRODUCTION This contribution aims to elucidate the impact of Western ideas on the birth of town and regional planning in Japan through a survey of previous research. The year 2019 marked the 100th anniversary of the first Japanese Town Planning Act (toshi keikaku hō), and various related publications appeared to mark the occasion. 1 Research on Japanese town planning history has been conducted mainly by researchers in the field of urban engineering, such as Ishida Yorifusa 2, Watanabe Shun’ichi 3 and Ishikawa Mikiko 4 . It is worth noting, however, that they have researched not only the historical development of town planning in Japan but also that occurring in Western countries, employing a comparative perspective. Research on town planning history by social and economic historians and architectural historians has been increasing since the 1990s. These specialists have widened the area of research, taking notice of the growth of large cities and the subsequent relationships with specific urban policies such as housing. They have used primary sources and elaborated on their findings. However, they no longer tend to engage in using comparative perspectives. Moreover, academic exchange between researchers in certain fields, for example that between economic historians and urban planning historians, has some1

2 3 4

Nakajima Naoto, Toshi keikaku shisō to basho: Nihon kingendai toshi keikakushi nōto [Thoughts on and places of urbanism: Notes on Japanese planning history], Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2018; Toshi keikaku hō 50 nen. 100 nen kinen tokushugō [Special Issue on the 50th and 100th Anniversary of Town Planning Acts], in: Toshi keikaku 68, 3, 2019, pp. 14–103. Ishida Yorifusa, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai, 1868–2003 [The development of modern Japanese town planning, 1868–2003], Tokyo: Jichitai Kenkyūsha 2004. Watanabe Shun’ichi, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō: Kokusai hikaku kara mita Nihon kindai toshi keikaku [The Birth of “City Planning”: Japan’s Modern Urban Planning in International Comparison], Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō 1993. Ishikawa Mikiko, Toshi to ryokuchi: Atarashii toshi kankyō no sōzō ni mukete [City and Green Space: Towards the Creation of New Urban Environments], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2001.

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times been limited, although information exchange has become much easier due to online public access catalogues. We aim to survey older influential studies and more recent studies on Japanese town and regional planning undertaken inside and outside of Japan that have used comparative historical perspectives. We pay special attention to studies by Akimoto Fukuo who critically reviewed older, influential classic works. Before engaging in that survey, we trace the urbanisation process in Japan and the development of town and regional planning in Western countries. In this contribution, the term town is a wider concept than city and subsumes the term city as meaning a relatively large town. We use the term town planning as a basic concept, but the term city planning is also used, especially in relation to the American context. THE PROGRESS OF URBANISATION IN MODERN JAPAN The formation of modern towns in Japan started after the Meiji Restoration in 1868. However, urbanisation in Japan had begun before that event, and indeed the urban population ratio in the early Meiji period was below that of the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) if a town is defined as a settlement with a population greater than 10,000. According to Takashima Masanori, whereas the urban population ratio in the years 1650, 1750 and 1850 was 13.6 per cent, 13.3 per cent, and 12.0 per cent, respectively, it was only 10.2 per cent in 1873. 5 Subsequent rates can be obtained from the Website of the Statistics Bureau of Japan. The urban population ratio increased from 11.8 per cent in 1898 to 37.7 per cent in 1940 (Table 1). Table 1: Japan’s Population and Urban Population Ratio, 1898–2000

1898 1908 1920 1930 1940 1950 1955 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000

5

A (total)

B (urban)

C (rural)

45,403,041 51,741,853 55,963,053 64,450,005 73,114,308 84,114,574 90,076,594 94,301,623 104,665,171 117,060,396 123,611,167 126,925,843

5,334,563 8,299,744 10,096,758 15,444,300 27,577,539 31,365,523 50,532,410 59,677,885 75,428,660 89,187,409 95,643,521 99,865,289

40,068,478 43,442,109 45,866,295 49,005,705 45,536,769 52,749,051 39,544,184 34,622,465 29,236,511 27,872,987 27,967,646 27,060,554

Urban Population Ratio (B/A: %) 11.75 16.04 18.04 23.96 37.72 37.29 56.10 63.28 72.07 76.18 77.37 78.68

Takashima Masanori, Keizai seichō no Nihonshi: Kodai kara kinsei no chōchōki GDP suikei 730–1874 [Economic Growth in the Japanese Past: estimating GDP, 730–1874], Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai 2017, pp. 191, 206.

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The population growth of Tokyo and Osaka was as follows (Fig. 1). Tokyo’s population in the early Meiji period stood at approximately 600,000, which was far below that of the late Tokugawa period when it had been over one million. 6 Tokyo’s population continued to increase from 1,207,341 in 1890 to 3,358,597 in 1920. Its growth was interrupted by the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923, but after continued increases it was recorded as 4,986,913 in 1930, 5,895,882 in 1935 and 6,778,804 in 1940. 8,000,000 7,000,000 6,000,000 5,000,000 4,000,000 3,000,000 2,000,000 1,000,000 0

1890

1895

1900

1905

1910 Tokyo

1915 1920* 1925* 1930* 1935* 1940* Osaka

*Note: Population of the urban area as of 1 December, 1942 Fig. 1: Population of Tokyo and Osaka, 1890–1940

Osaka’s population has been estimated to have been 220,000 in 1650, 410,000 in 1750 and 330,000 in 1850. 7 It decreased somewhat around the time of the Meiji Restoration (1868). It began to increase again from 476,392 in 1890 to 1,768,295 in 1920, and stood at 2,114,804 in 1925, which temporarily exceeded Tokyo’s population. After 1932 when Tokyo expanded its territory, Osaka’s population was superseded again by that of Tokyo, but it nevertheless continued to increase, reaching 2,989,874 in 1935 and 3,252,340 in 1940. In this way, Japan proceeded to undertake urbanisation and modernisation after 1868, which mirrored developments occurring in certain Western countries. In the area of town planning too, Japanese bureaucrats and scholars have collected considerable information and sought to apply it to the Japanese experience. 6 7

Ibid., p. 223. Saitō Seiji, Edo jidai no toshi jinkō [Population in Edo era], in: Chi’iki kaihatsu 240, 1984, pp. 48–63, here p. 62.

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PRESUPPOSITION: THE EMERGENCE OF TOWN PLANNING IN WESTERN COUNTRIES To facilitate understanding of developments in town planning from comparative perspectives, we trace briefly the development of town planning in Germany, Britain and the United States. Britain In Great Britain, Public Health Acts and Housing Acts were passed in the middle of the 19th century, 8 and the construction of model villages such as Bournville and Port Sunlight began at the end of that century. The Garden City Movement emerged from 1899, and the establishment of Letchworth started in 1903. In 1906, a private bill was proposed and passed as the Hampstead Garden Suburb Act. Following these movements, a British town planning movement under the leadership of Thomas. C. Horsfall (1841–1932), John S. Nettlefold (1866–1930) and William Thompson (date of birth and death unknown) was initiated, and the first Housing and Town Planning Act in Britain was enacted in 1909. 9 In the 1909 Housing and Town Planning etc. Act, Part II dealt with town planning, and its main purpose was to give the Local Government Board the right to regulate the preparation of schemes for urban development by local authorities. Because of the strict regulatory character of the 1909 Act, the complexity of procedures and remaining scepticism as to the merits of town planning, however, little of value came to pass before the 1909 Act was suspended due to the outbreak of World War 1. The 1909 Act was subsequently amended in 1919 and become known as the Addison Act after the Minister of Health, Christopher Addison (1869–1951). Emphasis was placed on house building for the working classes in the form of council housing because housing provision had become a more serious issue during and after World War 1. In relation to town planning, cumbersome procedures were simplified and local authorities were permitted to prepare schemes without authorisation from the Local Government Board (later, from the Ministry of Health). All local authorities with a population of over 20,000, however, were required to prepare schemes within three years. Moreover, the Act made it possible to set up a

8 9

William Ashworth, The Genesis of Modern British Town Planning: a Study in Economic and Social History of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, London: Routledge / Kegan Paul 1954, ch. 7. Baba Satoshi, Doitsu toshi keikaku no shakai keizaishi [Social and Economic History of Town Planning in Germany], Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2016, pp. 83, 362 ff.; Akimoto Fukuo, “Kyū toshi keikaku hō” saikō: Ikeda Hiroshi wa tochi riyō keikaku no kakuritsu o mezashita ka? [“The Old City Planning Act” Revisited: Did Ikeda Hiroshi Aim to Establish Land Use Plan in the Act?], in: Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai, Toshi keikaku ronshū 51, 3, 2016, pp. 1131–1136, here p. 1132.

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joint town planning committee of several neighbouring local authorities, which could operate in a unified manner concerning regional planning. As urban areas expanded rapidly from the late 1920s, planning in relation to rural areas became an urgent issue, leading to the 1932 Town and Country Planning Act. Although this Act applied to all types of land in principle, the concept of static areas that could be subject to exemptions was introduced. Ministry of Health controls and restrictions that had been eliminated in 1919 were reintroduced. Nevertheless, the number of town planning schemes increased, and areas covered expanded from 9 million acres in 1933 to 26.4 million acres in 1939. 10 Additionally, the 1935 Restriction of Ribbon Development Act was intended to prevent the development of urban sprawl. 11 Germany In Prussia, the largest territorial state of Germany until 1945, the Street and Building Line Act of 1875 (Fluchtliniengesetz) was enacted. At the individual city level, the pioneering Hobrecht Plan of 1862 was drawn up in Berlin. In Frankfurt, various town planning measures were introduced under Franz Adickes’ (1846– 1915) municipal government including a zoning building ordinance in 1891, the establishment of inheritable building rights (Erbbaurecht) in 1901, a land incremental tax in 1904, and most significantly, a Land Readjustment Act (the Lex Adickes) in 1902. These measures were subsequently also introduced in other German cities. At the territorial state level, a General Building Act (Allgemeines Baugesetz), considered comprehensive for the time, was enacted in Saxony in 1900. A Prussian Housing Act was enacted in 1918, which included elements of the 1875 Building Line Act and the 1902 Lex Adickes. 12 After World War I, urban areas underwent further expansion, and regional and national planning (Landesplanung) was initiated that covered a wider area, including rural areas. The Ruhr Coal District Settlement Association (Sied-

10 Gordon E. Cherry, The Evolution of British Town Planning, Leighton Buzzard: Leonard Hill Books 1974, pp. 63–67, 82–86, 98–200; Baba Satoshi, Ryōtaisen kanki no Igirisu ni okeru chi’iki keikaku no seiritsu [The Birth of Regional Planning in Inter-War Britain], in: Baba Satoshi / Takashima Shūichi / Mori Takahito (eds.), 20 seiki no toshi gabanansu, Kyoto: Kōyō Shobō 2019, pp. 135–139. 11 John Sheail, Rural Conservation in Inter-War Britain, Oxford: Clarendon Press 1981, pp. 133–136. 12 Ishida Yorifusa, Kenchikusen seido ni kansuru kenkyū (7): Doitsu toshi keikaku seido ni okeru gairosen, kenchikusen to gairo keikaku [Study on the Building Line System (7): Street line, building line and street planning in German town planning], in: Sōgō toshi kenkyū 19, 1983, pp. 69–94, here pp. 77–81; Wolfgang R. Krabbe, Die deutsche Stadt im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 1989, pp. 79–82; Baba, Doitsu toshi keikaku no shakai keizaishi (cf. n. 9), pp. 98–105.

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lungsverband Ruhrkohlenbezirk), which was established based on a concept of Robert Schmidt (1869–1934), a civil engineer, in 1920, was a typical case. 13 However, legislation to enact regional planning was blocked. Although a Prussian Town Construction Bill act was promoted in 1925, objections from land owners in the Landtag were strong, and the Staatsrat, a high-level advisory committee, rejected the Bill. A Reich Town Construction Bill suffered the same fate. Thus, German central government could not obtain a legal basis for town planning by the end of the Weimar Republic period. 14 After the Nazis had taken power in 1933, however, two Acts concerning settlement and development were introduced in 1933–1934 and the Reich Office for Land Planning (Reichsstelle für Raumordnung) was established in 1935. Through these means, the road to regional planning at the national level was opened up in Germany. 15 The United States In the United States, the park system had been introduced in New York from 1858, and other cities such as Chicago, Boston, Minneapolis and Kansas City followed suit. The park system can be understood as an initial form of city planning in the United States, and its spread meant that some landscape architects later became potential town planners. Frederick Law Olmsted (1822–1903), who is known as the father of American landscape architecture, was one such person. For the reconstruction of Chicago’s city centre, a City Beautiful Movement was initiated after the Chicago Exhibition of 1893 under the leadership of Daniel H. Burnham (1846–1912). 16 During the 1890s, information on urban construction in Germany (Städtebau) had already begun to circulate among planning professionals. Benjamin C. Marsh 13 Robert Schmidt, Denkschrift betreffend Grundsätze zur Aufstellung eines GeneralSiedlungsplanes für den Regierungsbezirk Düsseldorf (rechtsrheinisch), Essen: Fredebeul & Koenen 1912, pp. 4 ff., 22; J. Umlauf, Wesen und Organisation der Landesplanung, Essen: R. Bacht 1958, pp. 20–27; Takahashi Nobutaka, Rūru tankō chitai kaihatsu kumiai no setsuritsu to tenkai [Establishment and Development of the Settlement Association Ruhr Coal District], in: Kumamoto Daigaku Kyōiku Gakubu Jinbunkagaku 39, 1990, pp. 15–31. 14 Heinz Wilhelm Hoffacker, Entstehung der Raumordnung, konservative Gesellschaftsreform und das Ruhrgebiet 1918–1933, Essen: R. Hobbing 1989, p. 20; Ishida, Kenchikusen seido ni kansuru kenkyū (cf. n. 12), pp. 81 ff. 15 Takahashi Nobutaka, Raihi kokudo seibichō no setsuritsu to tenkai [Establishment and Development of the Reichsstelle für Raumordnung], in: Kumamoto Daigaku Kyōiku Gakubu Jinbunkagaku 40, 1991, pp. 1–18, here p. 4. 16 Anthony Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City: Germany, Britain, the United States and France 1780–1914, Oxford: Basil Blackwell 1981, pp. 93–99; Ishikawa, Toshi to ryokuchi (cf. n. 4), pp. 51–109, 112, 122, 139–142; Akimoto Fukuo, Igirisu oyobi Amerika ni okeru chi’iki keikaku no tanjō: Toshi keikakuka no kōryū ni chakumoku shite [The Birth of Regional Planning in Britain and the United States: Focusing on the Exchange of City Planners], in: Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai, Toshi keikaku ronshū 41, 3, 2006, pp. 887–892, here p. 889.

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(1878–1952), a housing reformer in New York, introduced German types of planning, and took a lead in organising a conference on city planning in Washington in 1909. He published “An Introduction to City Planning” in the same year. A proposed national city planning association was not established, but national conferences were held annually and city planning terminology began to steadily diffuse. The year 1909 proved to be significant in the establishment of American city planning as this was the year when the first university course in city planning was inaugurated at Harvard University and the first specialised journal “American City” was published. 17 Whereas town planning was mainly the product of local government in Germany and Britain, the idea of planning emerged largely from municipal reform movements within the private sector in the United States. 18 Later, from the early 1900s, city planning bureaus were established across many cities, and city administrations began to become engaged in devising comprehensive plans in relation to the development of city centres, the reorganisation of transport systems and the laying out of expanding suburbs. The pioneering case was “The Improvement of the Park System of the District of Columbia (The McMillan Plan)” of 1902 in Washington, D.C. Stimulated by that plan, George B. McClellan (1865–1940), mayor of New York City, set up the New York Improvement Commission in 1904, which presented a comprehensive planning report in 1907. Burnham’s Chicago plan of 1909 was more comprehensive than many improvement schemes following the 1893 exhibition. Moreover, zoning systems had also emerged for the protection of rich people’s dwelling environment. 19 The first zoning ordinance was passed in Los Angeles in 1908. A more comprehensive ordinance was passed in 1916 in New York, which has been widely acknowledged as the most impressive achievement of American city planning. 20 From the 1920s, urban areas expanded beyond the boundaries of municipalities, and the need for regional planning was widely acknowledged. The Regional Planning Association of America (RPAA) was established in 1923, and regional planning was initiated in several cities. The New York Regional Planning Committee, established in 1921 under the sponsorship of the Russell Sage Foundation, was a typical example. Thomas Adams (1871–1940), who had been invited from Britain, became the first chairman of the Advisory Group of Planners, and American leading planners such as Frederick Law Olmstead, Jr. (1870–1957), John Nolen (1869–1937), George B. Ford (1879–1930), Edward M. Basset (1863–1948) and Harland Bartholomew 17 Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City (cf. n. 16), pp. 88, 103, 113; Akimoto, Igirisu oyobi Amerika ni okeru chi’iki keikaku no tanjō (cf. n. 16), p. 889; Ishikawa, Toshi to ryokuchi (cf. n. 4), pp. 117, 134–138. 18 Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City (cf. n. 16), p. 102. 19 Ibid., pp. 105–110, 112; Ishikawa, Toshi to ryokuchi (cf. n. 4), pp. 137–142. 20 Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City (cf. n. 16), pp. 115 f.; Akimoto Fukuo, Amerika toshi keikaku ni okeru “tochi riyō keikaku” no tanjō: 1930 nendai no tochi riyō keikaku undō ga ataeta eikyō [The Birth of “Land Use Planning” in American City Planning: The impact of the “Land Use Planning Movement” in the 1930s], in: Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai, Toshi keikaku ronshū 40, 3, 2005, pp. 283–288, here p. 283.

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(1889–1989) were among its members. A regional survey was conducted based on Howard’s Garden City concept and Geddes’s Regional Survey, with reports published from 1927. In 1932, however, Lewis Mumford (1895–1990) criticised the Regional Plan of New York for assuming that metropolitan growth was inevitable. Thomas Adams responded that a certain degree of concentration was necessary in the modern economy and rejected Mumford’s objection as unrealistic. Nevertheless, Adams also thought that the application of the Garden City concept to the New York Regional Plan was utopian, lacking practicality. These debates reveal some of the tensions in American regional planning at that time. 21 International Exchange In commemoration of the 1909 Act, the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) held the first international conference on town planning in London in 1910, attended by approximately 1,300 people. Stanley D. Adshead (1868–1946), Ebenezer Howard (1850–1928), Patrick Geddes (1854–1932), George L. Pepler (1882–1959), Raymond Unwin (1863–1940), D. H. Burnham and Josef Stübben (1845–1936), all leading figures in the field of town planning, participated as lecturers. 22 The Japanese Architectural Society received an invitation letter to attend the conference, which led Tsuchiya Jun’ichi (1875–1946), a young architect, to attend. After the conference had concluded, Tsuchiya sent a report to the President of the Japanese Architectural Society (Nihon Kenchiku Gakkai), Tatsuno Kingo (1854–1919). Watanabe Shun’ichi has claimed, based on that report, that Tsuchiya had not understood what town planning was, and that he saw town planning simply as architecture on a grander scale. However, this view was common in Japan at the time, and interest in town planning as a holistic concept was poorly developed. 23 Ikeda Hiroshi seized an opportunity to go abroad to participate in the London International Road Congress of 1913, visiting New York and several other American cities on his way back from Europe. 24 Iinuma Kazumi made a voyage to the United States in February 1923 and attended a National Conference on City Planning, held in Baltimore, Maryland, from April 30 to May 2, 1923. After he had moved to Britain, Iinuma attended the International Garden Cities and Town Planning Federation Conference in Gothenburg in August 1923 at which Unwin

21 Ishikawa, Toshi to ryokuchi (cf. n. 4), pp. 152 f., 166–173; Akimoto, Igirisu oyobi Amerika ni okeru chi’iki keikaku no tanjō (cf. n. 16), pp. 890 f.; Michael Simpson, Thomas Adams and the Modern Planning Movement: Britain, Canada and the United States, 1900–1940, London et al.: Mansell 1985, pp. 133–142, 153–158. 22 Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City (cf. n. 16), p. 171; Ishikawa, Toshi to ryokuchi (cf. n. 4), pp. 146 f. 23 Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3), p. 67. 24 Ibid., pp. 170 f.

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gave a lecture titled “Garden City and the Overgrown Town”. 25 We will return to Ikeda and Iinuma later. The next conference of the Federation was held in Amsterdam in 1924. Howard, Unwin, Patrick Abercrombie (1879–1957), Charles B. Purdom (1883–1965), Schmidt und Adams attended, as well as Ishikawa Hideaki (1893–1955) and various colleagues from Japan. Unwin delivered a lecture titled “The Need for a Regional Plan”, in which he proposed the amalgamation of town planning with the Garden City concept and the need for planning in relation to areas beyond municipal boundaries. Notably, seven resolutions deliberated by the advisory committee were adopted at the conference, as listed below: 1. “An unrestricted expansion of large cities is undesirable.” 2. “Decentralization by means of satellite towns should be considered […].” 3. “It is desirable for the built-up parts of cities to be enclosed by green belts […].” 4. “The very rapid growth of traffic, especially that of motor cars and motor busses, renders it necessary for very special attentions to be devoted […]”. 5. “The preparation of regional plans is necessary for the development of large cities […].” 6. “These regional plans should be elastic and be changed according as conditions […].” 7. “It is essential that […] power be given to ensure that land zoned for certain purposes is put to that use […].” 26 Following the conference, various regional plans were drawn up and implemented in each country. Japan was not exceptional in this regard and Iinuma was a leading figure. The next part of this article traces the development of Japanese town planning after the Meiji Restoration. THE BIRTH OF TOWN AND REGIONAL PLANNING IN JAPAN City Improvement According to Ishida Yorifusa, a leading researcher of Japanese town planning history, Japanese town planning history can be divided into nine periods, as follows: 27 25 Akimoto Fukuo / Abe Masataka / Kajita Yoshitaka, Iinuma Kazumi no Bei-Ō gaiyū to chi’iki keikaku to no sōgu [Iinuma Kazumi’s Visit to the US and Europe and the Encounter with Regional Planning], in: Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai, Toshi keikaku ronshū 44, 3, 2009, pp. 871–876, here pp. 872, 874. 26 International Town Planning Conference Amsterdam 1924, Part 2, Amsterdam: Van Munster 1924, pp. 55 ff. Cf. Ishikawa, Toshi to ryokuchi (cf. n. 4), pp. 154–157; Akimoto, Igirisu oyobi Amerika ni okeru chi’iki keikaku no tanjō (cf. n. 16), p. 890. 27 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 2–6.

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1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Town renovation in the Western style (1868–1887) Town improvement (1888–1918) Establishment of town planning systems (1910–1935) Town planning under the Wartime Regime (1931–1945) Town planning during post-war reconstruction (1945–1954） Town development in the absence of updated town planning legislation (1954–1968) 7. Town planning under the 1968 Act (1968–1985) 8. Anti-planning and the bubble economy (1982–1992) 9. Town planning under the 1992 Act (1992–) Although Ishida’s work has been highly regarded in terms of its systematic and comprehensive content, his periodisation is open to some criticism since, for example, it is not clear why the third period ends in 1935. Nonetheless, his periodisation generally provides a useful framework for analysis. The first period identified concerns the prehistory of modern Japanese town planning, during which the city centre of Tokyo, for example Ginza district, was transformed into a Western-style city district under the guidance of invited nonJapanese engineers. That purpose of the project was to Westernise the cityscape as well as to improve fire prevention because almost all Japanese houses at that time were made of wood. 28 The second period began in 1888 when the Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance (Tokyo shiku kaisei jōrei) was promulgated. Its aim was to construct urban infrastructure within the city centre of Tokyo, especially by expanding of the road network as well constructing water supply and sewerage systems. While the idea of town improvement derived from the Tokyo City local authority, the leading agency involved was the Tokyo City Improvement Committee (Tōkyō Shiku Kaisei I’inkai) which operated under the Home Minister’s control and was almost entirely a state enterprise. Although Tokyo governors (Matsuda Michiyuki and Yoshikawa Akimasa) were members of the committee, the role of Tokyo City’s local authority in the decision-making process of the committee was limited. 29 Concerning land condemnation and utilisation, Tokyo City Improvement Land and Building Disposition Codes (Tōkyō shiku kaisei tochi tatemono shobun kisoku) were implemented in 1889. Ishida has maintained that Haussmann’s Paris renovation project provided the ideal model for Tokyo City improvement, and that the policy of excess condemnation was stipulated in the Codes after the provision of the Decree of March 26, 1852 in relation to Parisian streets. Akimoto has criticised Ishida’s explanation, and maintained that the Codes did not entail a con28 Ibid., pp. 13–36. 29 Ikeda Maho, Chihō to kokka no aida no shuto keikaku: Shiku kaisei torishirabe no kaishi to Tōkyō Fuchō [Capital city planning in between region and nation: The Tokyo Provincial Government and the start of inquiry into the reform of urban districts], in: Shigaku zasshi 126, 3, 2017, pp. 42–66, here p. 42.

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demnation policy and that this aspect should be distinguished from that followed in the 1852 Decree. 30 As the Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance applied only to Tokyo, its extension to other large cities such as Osaka and Kyoto required further approval, and it was not until 1918 that it was applied in five large cities including Yokohama, Nagoya and Kōbe. 31 Four long-term plans (1884, 1885, 1889, and 1902) were implemented, covering roads, rivers and canals, railways and bridges, that is, the construction of infrastructure. Table 2 gives a breakdown of project spending under the Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance. In terms of costs, the first period (1888–1899) mainly concerned the construction of water supply systems (66.2 per cent), whereas road improvements involving the construction of tram lines (79.9 per cent) entailed the most expense in the second period (1900–1910). In the third period (1911–1918), the percentage of sewerage construction costs rose, although road improvements remained the most costly item. Table 2: Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance project spending 1888–1918 (10,000 yen (%))

1st Period (1889–99) 2nd Period (1900–10) 3rd Period (1911–18)

Total

Roads

Bridges

297.93 (30.2) 1568.21 (79.9) 730.26 (57.8) 2596.40 (61.7)

8.86 (0.9) 8.25 (0.4) 7.7 (0.6) 24.81 (0.6)

Rivers/ canals 1.43 (0.2) 127.81 (6.5) 21.58 (1.7) 150.82 (3.6)

Parks 1.97 (0.2) 3.01 (0.2) 1.28 (0.1) 6.26 (0.1)

Drainage Sewers ditches 23.06 – (2.3) – 75.12 – (3.8) – 93.41 285.55 (7.4) (22.6) 191.59 285.55 (4.5) (6.8)

Water supply 651.90 (66.2) 179.60 (9.2) 123.97 (9.8) 955.47 (22.7)

Total 985.16 (100.0) 1962.00 (100.0) 1263.76 (100.0) 4210.90 (100.0)

In summary over the second period, road improvements accounted for 61.7 per cent of costs, water supply for 22.7 per cent, sewerage system construction for 6.8 per cent, and park establishment only for 0.1 per cent. Water supply construction was the most important factor in the first period due to the need for improved water quality because of the risk of cholera and typhoid epidemics and the need for more effective fire-fighting resources. In the second and third periods, an extension of the transportation system was urgently required as urban areas expanded. 32 While the initial financial resources for the plans consisted of special taxes (a land tax, a house tax and and one added on to the trade tax) and revenue obtained from renting riverfront estates, an upper limit was set. From the second 30 Akimoto Fukuo, “Chōka shūyo” saikō: Tōkyō shiku kaisei wa Pari kaizō o tehon to shita ka [“Excess Condemnation” Revisited: Was Tokyo City Improvement Modelled after the Rebuilding of Paris?], in: Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai, Toshi keikaku ronshū 49, 3, 2014, pp. 1071–1076. 31 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 73–76, 81; Shibamura Atsuki, Nihon kindai toshi no seiritsu: 1920: 30 nendai no Ōsaka [The Birth of the Modern City in Japan: Osaka in the 1920s and 1930s], Kyoto: Shōraisha 1998, p. 154. 32 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 56–69.

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period, revenue obtained from the tram company after the construction of tram lines became available. Financial constraints, however, hindered effective implementation of the plans, with achievement rates of only approximately 60 per cent for park development and of approximately 40 per cent for road construction. 33 Two Town Planning Acts in 1919 The third period, beginning in 1910, had as its background the rapid progress of industrialisation and urbanisation at the turn of the 20th century. According to Angus Madison’s estimates, Japan’s GDP rose from 25,392 million dollars in 1870, to 40,556 million in 1890, and to 71,653 million in 1913. 34 The number of cities with populations between 50,000 and 100,000 rose from 12 to 31, and that of cities of more than 100,000 from 6 to 16. 35 The urban population ratio also rose from 11.75 per cent in 1898 to 18.67 per cent in 1918 (Table 1). As noted, the application of the Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance was extended to five other large cities in 1918. Very soon afterwards in 1919, the first Town Planning Act (toshi keikaku hō) and a Buildings in Built-up Areas Act (shigaichi kenchikubutsu hō) came into force These resulted from various interlinked factors, including the establishment of a Town Planning Research Association (Toshi Keikaku Chōsakai) under the leadership of Goto Shimpei (1857–1929), the activities of several associations such as the Japan Architectural Society, and the introduction of the Osaka Urban Area Reform Bill (Ōsaka shigai kairyō hō sōan) and efforts to ensure its implementation. 36 Ikeda Hiroshi (1881–1939) played a leading role in bringing about the two 1919 town planning acts. He had entered the Home Ministry (Naimushō) in 1905 after graduating from Kyoto University, Faculty of Law. He participated in an International Road Congress at London and made a round of visits to European countries and the United States from 1913 to 1914. Ikeda was appointed as the first head of the Town Planning Section in the Home Ministry (Naimushō Toshi Keikakukyoku) in 1918 and drafted what became the first Town Planning Act. 37 The draft was considered at the newly established Toshi Keikaku Chōsakai from July to December 1918. Initially, the planning unit to be considered was intended to be a town, following the practice of Western nations, but eventually the plan33 Ibid., pp. 66–69, 91; Ishizuka Hiromichi, Nihon kindai toshi ron: Tokyo 1868–1923 [Studies on the Japanese Modern City: Tokyo 1868–1923], Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 1991, pp. 65–71; Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3), pp. 12 f. 34 Angus Maddison, Contours of the World Economy, 1–2030 AD. Essays in Macro-Economic History, Oxford: Oxford University Press 2007, p. 385. 35 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), p. 82. 36 Shibamura, Nihon kindai toshi no seiritsu (cf. n. 31), pp. 284 ff.; Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), p. 86. 37 Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3), pp. 170 f.; André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century, London: Routledge 2002, p. 109.

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ning unit was defined as a town planning area, being independent of administrative boundaries. For example, the town planning area in Tokyo included 84 cities and villages in the suburbs. Ikeda was well aware that town planning was the work of local authorities in Europe. He, however, followed the tradition of the City Improvement Ordinances, in which town planning was a state-controlled undertaking, and accordingly he preferred to use the term town planning area. This highly centralised town planning system that emerged in Japan was quite distinctive from an international perspective. 38 According to Akimoto Fukuo, the 1919 Town Planning Act was drafted on the same logic as the 1896 River Act and the 1919 Road Act. Ikeda drafted the latter and regarded road management as a state undertaking. 39 Whereas the Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance aimed to reconstruct builtup areas, the two 1919 Acts were intended to elaborate town planning techniques and extend their application to cities across the nation. The new system introduced various techniques and methods such as land use zoning, land readjustment, a building line system and beneficiary fees (juekisha futankin). 40 We can point out some aspects of the 1919 town planning acts in addition to the characteristic meaning of the term town planning area. The two acts included the articles for the introduction and institutionalisation of modern town planning techniques in Japan. 41 1. First, land readjustment is a process to encourage the creation of land for building, roads and parks on urban fringes or in built-up areas. According to Ishida, the model for land readjustment practice in the 1919 Town Planning Act was not the Lex Adickes of 1902, but rather the earlier 1893 Bill. That Bill included not only an article on land readjustment in the suburbs, but also articles on zone condemnation and excess condemnation for road construction in built-up areas. If necessary, local authorities could implement land readjustment by compulsion. The role of the Agricultural Land Consolidation Act should also be noted here. This act was originally intended to prompt agricultural land improvement and was enacted in 1899 following the model of the German land consolidation system, and was amended for the consolidation of paddy fields in 1909. Even after the enactment of the 1919 Town Planning Act, the method set out in the Agricultural Land Consolidation Act (kōchi seiri hō) was utilised for the formation of new built-up areas because subsidies were provided to agricultural land consolidation practices. Whereas there were 544 cases (33,100 ha) of land readjustment practices prior to the 1919 Town Planning Act, only 51 cases (2,171 ha) remained by 1930. After 1931 38 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 87 ff.; Akimoto et al., Iinuma Kazumi no Bei-Ō gaiyū to chi’iki keikaku tono sōgu (cf. n. 25), p. 871. 39 Akimoto Fukuo, Naze toshi keikaku kuiki ga sonzai suru ka: Nihon toshi keikaku hō to Amerika keikaku hō no konponteki sai [Why Do We Have the “Town Planning Area”?: A Fundamental Difference of Planning Acts between Japan and the United States], in: Toshi keikaku 53, 3, 2004, pp. 9–12, here 10 f. 40 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 85 f. 41 Ibid., pp. 89–95; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), ch. 4.

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agricultural land consolidation practices on the urban fringe were not permitted. 42 2. Although a zoning system was introduced in both 1919 acts, with a legal basis provided in the Buildings in Built-up Areas Act, the relevant articles lacked detail. Hence the system was used only to a limited extent and it is not possible to specify a model for the Japanese zoning system. The 1916 New York zoning ordinance could have been a model, although that in turn was based on zoning systems in Altona and Frankfurt in Germany. The Japanese zoning system had only four zones, namely, residential, commercial, industrial and undesignated areas. As its main purpose was the limitation of industrial areas, building restrictions were not especially strict and did not assure the conservation and improvement of the residential environment. Zoning regulations developed into a standard zoning system in the United States, and town planning developed through a combination of the B-plan and the F-plan in Germany. Compared with these developments, only 27 of 97 towns in Japan to which the Town Planning Act applied had adopted the zoning system by 1930. 43 3. A building line system was also introduced, modelled on the German 1875 Street Lines and Building Lines Act (Fluchtliniengesetz). The Japanese building lines concept was unique and included both street lines and building lines. It was prescribed only in the 1919 Buildings in Built-up Areas Act, and its essential intent was that buildings must not be constructed on lots not situated on roads more than 2.7 metres in width. In Germany, the building lines system was enforced through various methods such as land condemnation and compensation for roadside land. In Japan, however, the same system was applied in a more permissive manner, with an understanding that roads could be constructed without requiring public expenditure once the building line had been designated. 44 There has been debate, between Watanabe and Okata on one side and Akimoto on the other, as to whether Ikeda aimed to establish a land use plan. Watanabe has claimed that a key principle of the 1919 acts was the establishment of a land use plan based on a master plan, and Ikeda was a leading supporter of this approach.45 Okata has also pointed out that Ikeda’s idea could be regarded as a land use master plan. 46 According to Akimoto, however, town planning legislation in Germa42 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 96–103; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), pp. 122 ff. 43 Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City (cf. n. 16), p. 185; Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 103–109; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), pp. 115–118. 44 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 110–114; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), pp. 119 ff. 45 Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3), p. 119. 46 Okata Jun’ichirō, Kindai toshi keikaku no genzō to kindai Nihon toshi keikaku no isō [The Original Image of Modern Town Planning and the Phase of Town Planning of Modern Japan], Ph.D. Thesis, The University of Tokyo 1987, p. 90.

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ny, Britain and the United States did not include a land use plan at the period of drafting the 1919 acts. On the contrary, Akimoto has claimed that Ikeda’s consistent idea was for a detailed and long-range plan based on the zoning system as was applied in Germany and the United States at the time. However, the thinking of F. Adickes and Reinhard Baumeister (1833–1917) did not strongly influence Ikeda, and if anything, his view was similar to that of American city planners such as Lawrence Veiler (1872–1959) and Charles H. Cheney (1884–1943). Moreover, Ikeda learned from R. Unwin and F. L. Olmsted, Jr. the idea of comprehensive town planning that aimed to plan towns “as a whole, on comprehensive lines”. The originality of Ikeda’s approach, and the aspect in which he differed from the international perspective, lay in the fact that he combined this comprehensive idea with the strong binding forces to the central and local authorities. 47 In summary, the two Japanese 1919 acts could be characterised in comparison with German town planning system as follows. Whereas various techniques of town planning were enforced systematically and comprehensively by local authorities in Germany, the Japanese Home Ministry was empowered by the 1919 acts and provided uniform guidelines throughout the country. 48 The Japanese town planning system was established with reference to those operating in Western countries, but differed from those systems. The 1919 acts themselves were not utilised effectively. Therefore, additional research concerning the foreign situation was required to implement the system more effectively. When Iinuma had the opportunity to go abroad, he became aware of and was attracted by the concept of regional planning. The Reconstruction Project after the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake The metropolitan area around Tokyo and Yokohama was significantly destroyed by the Great Kantō Earthquake in September 1923. The reconstruction process was a major enterprise in the history of Japanese town planning. An Imperial Capital Reconstruction Board (Teikoku Fukkōin) was established immediately, and Gotō Shinpei, the Home Minister, was appointed as its president. A reconstruction project involving town planning, especially the building of roads, bridges, canals and parks, was completed in 1930, as well as a land readjustment project extending over an area of approximately 3,600 ha. Because of that land readjustment project, Tokyo’s town landscape, which had remained essentially unchanged since the Edo era, was altered considerably, with more reinforced concrete buildings in the city centre. Land readjustment practices were extended to built-up areas through the 1923 Special Town Planning Act, and applied comprehensively to burnt-out areas after the earthquake. This revision contributed to the accomplishment of the reconstruction project. The population within Tokyo’s city centre,

47 Akimoto, “Kyū toshi keikaku hō” saikō (cf. n. 9), pp. 1132–1135. 48 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 114 f.

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however, did not recover to the level before the earthquake, with population increases instead occurring in the suburban areas of Tokyo. 49 Thus, the reconstruction project after the Great Kantō Earthquake was an epoch-making event in the history of Japanese town planning, and it advanced the development of various planning techniques and increased the number of town planning technocrats enormously. Alongside this, investigations into urban problems and town planning were conducted actively, and town planning systems and insights from Western countries were frequently explored. Various works were published such as “Urban Review” (“Toshi kōron”) by the Urban Study Group (Toshi Kenkyūkai) from 1919 and “Urban Problems” (“Toshi mondai”) by the Tokyo Municipal Research Group (Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai) from 1925. In addition, numerous magazines, pamphlets and books on urban problem were published. 50 The Introduction of the Concept of Regional Planning Within this context, Iinuma Kazumi (1892–1981) proposed to introduce the concept of regional planning to Japan, as already noted. After graduating from the University of Tokyo, Iinuma entered the Home Ministry in 1917 and was assigned to the Town Planning Section in 1922. He made a round of visits to the United States and European countries in early 1923, setting sail from Yokohama in February, landing in San Francisco, and arriving in New York in April. He attended the Fifteenth National Conference of City Planning in Baltimore before travelling on to Britain in May 1923. Iinuma subsequently attended a Conference of the International Garden Cities and Town Planning Federation in Gothenburg, Sweden. Shortly before and during the conference he became acquainted with Unwin, Howard and other significant figures in the town planning field. Iinuma gave a presentation on the development of town planning in Japan after which he visited many European cities, but was then ordered to return to Japan because of the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake. On his return, Iinuma organised material collected during his tour and translated some of it into Japanese. Iinuma worked primarily at the Town Planning Section in the Ministry of the Interior, becoming its head from 1931. Additionally, he published many books, especially “Regional Planning” (“Chihō keikaku”) (1933) and “Town Planning” (“Toshi keikaku”) (1934). 51 The expansion of large Japanese cities began before World War I, and urbanisation proceeded steadily after the Great Kantō Earthquake. Given this development, the seven principles of metropolitan planning determined at the Internation49 Ibid., pp. 117–126; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), pp. 125 ff. 50 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 122–125, 141–144; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), p. 109. 51 Akimoto et al., Iinuma Kazumi no Bei-Ō gaiyū to chi’iki keikaku tono sōgu (cf. n. 25), pp. 871–876.

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al Town Planning Conference held in Amsterdam in 1924 stimulated Japanese town planners, and they declared a need for regional planning, with Iinuma a key figure in this debate as previously noted. Through an amendment to the 1919 Town Planning Act in 1933 when Iinuma was head of the Town Planning Section, the term town planning area (toshi keikaku kuiki) was extended to cover small towns and villages that the Home Minister designated. As a result, coordination between town planning areas within the metropolitan region was required, and the necessity of regional planning rather than town planning became more apparent. 52 VIEWS ON TOWN PLANNING AND REGIONAL PLANNING IN PRE-WAR JAPAN Kataoka Yasushi, Seki Hajime and Ikeda Hiroshi According to Nakamura Moto, whose recent work we rely on considerably, town planning specialists such as Kataoka Yasushi and Seki Hajime had already discussed “the relation between occupational space and residential space” in association with “the expansion of large cities” in the period prior to the passing of the 1919 Town Planning Act. In other words, they had discussed how an ideal town could be constructed, or how Howard’s Garden City concept could be adopted. They considered regional planning to be an important countermeasure to the expansion of large cities. 53 Seki Hajime (1873–1935) was a graduate and later a professor at Tokyo Commercial College (Tōkyō Shōka Daigaku, now Hitotsubashi University). He had studied mainly in Belgium and Germany in 1898–1901 and had published numerous works on urban social and planning issues based on his wide knowledge of contemporary developments and policies in Europe. He is known for translating town planning into the Japanese term toshi keikaku in 1913. 54 Seki was recruited as one of two deputy mayors of Osaka in 1914 and became mayor in 1923. He made town planning and municipal reform a central part of his agenda throughout his career in Osaka. 55 Yasushi Kataoka (1876–1946), an architect and graduate of the University of Tokyo, published a book titled “Gendai toshi no kenkyū” (The Study of Contem52 Ishida, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai (cf. n. 2), pp. 145 f. 53 Nakamura Moto, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” [Democracy and the Rise of Modern Cities in Japan], Tokyo: Yoshida Shoten 2018, pp. 187 ff. 54 Akimoto Fukuo, “Taun puraningu” saikō: Igirisu no toshi keikakuka wa kenchikuteki apurōchi o suteta ka? [“Town Planning” Revisited: Did British Planners break with the architecture-based Approach?], in: Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai, Toshi keikaku ronshū 52, 3, 2017, pp. 915–920. 55 Shibamura Atsuki, Seki Hajime: Toshi shisō no paionia [Seki Hajime: a pioneer of urban thoughts], Kyoto: Shōraisha 1989, chs. 1, 2; Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 37), pp. 133 ff.

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porary Cities) in 1916, which can be regarded as the first comprehensive work on town planning in Japan. He became president of the Osaka Architectural Association (Ōsaka Kenchikuka Kyōkai) on its establishment in 1917 and oversaw the publication of its journal. In addition, Kataoka was an influential member of the Town Planning Research Association. 56 In the introduction to his principal 1916 work, Kataoka noted the rapid development of large Japanese cities that was occurring in similar fashion to that of the metropolises in Western countries. He argued that “perfect urban management” in response to such expansion was necessary, but not easy to accomplish, and then provided an account of foreign and Japanese urban problems and policies in detail. Kataoka considered the Garden City concept in chapter 7 of his book. He understood that the ideal type of Howard’s Garden City was a new city where working areas were adjacent to living areas but concluded that this was impossible to achieve in many cases. Nevertheless, Kataoka stressed, “the management of a Garden City should not be isolated but could be recommended […] as so-called suburb town planning under an orderly plan in the suburbs of large cities”. 57 According to Watanabe, Kataoka was of the view that modern town planning in Western countries was essentially street planning, and its success and failure depended on the reconstruction of city centres and on effective building regulations. Kataoka’s views, however, were not accepted within the 1919 Town Planning Act, as the Act was prepared under the leadership of Ikeda and focused on the comprehensive control of built-up areas including suburban areas through the use of various town planning techniques. 58 Seki pointed out in his 1923 book that the prerequisite for the formation of large cities was railway construction and that the transition from steam to electric railways had prompted the decentralisation of residential areas, and therefore the reconstruction of city centres had become possible. In other words, Seki held the view that separating living spaces from working spaces should be promoted due to the opportunities arising from transportation developments, basing his arguments on the cases of London and Berlin. 59 Consequently, Seki regarded Howard’s Garden City idea as “a utopia in a way” and offered no support for it. Rather, he wrote “It is astonishing that the Japanese proponents of a Garden City ignore even the differences between a Garden City and a Garden Suburb”, and “I affirm the development of a Garden Suburb”. 60 Seki claimed that “the British proponents of the Garden City concept say […] the Garden City concept is a genuinely British idea, whereas the Garden Suburb 56 Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3), pp. 102–105. 57 Kataoka Yasushi, Gendai toshi no kenkyū, Tokyo: Kenchiku Kōgeisha 1916, ch. 7, here p. 454; Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), pp. 190 ff. 58 Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3), pp. 120–131. 59 Seki Hajime, Jūtaku mondai to toshi keikaku [The Housing Problem and Town Planning], Kyoto: Kōbundō Shobō 1923, pp. 93–99; Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), pp. 192 f. 60 Seki, Jūtaku mondai to toshi keikaku (cf. n. 59), p. 109.

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concept is an imported idea from Germany”. 61 He noted elsewhere in his book that “in general the concept of town planning or of a garden suburb is necessary for the continuous expansion of existing large cities, and it is a German way of thinking”. Seki therefore regarded “town planning on garden city lines as the key concept of housing policy”. 62 Although Kataoka and Seki had some sympathy for the Garden City idea as a countermeasure to rapidly expanding large cities in Japan, they basically felt that the German style of town planning with a Garden City style landscape should be adopted to address urban problems in Japan. According to Nakamura, Ikeda, who did preparatory work for the 1919 Town Planning Act, also had similar ideas. Ikeda regarded a large city and its surrounding area as an organised system, and he advocated that “a unified plan” should be applied to it. The concept of a town planning area in the 1919 act was formulated based on this perception. Ikeda also regarded the development of suburban residential areas as a most important issue in town planning projects, although he interpreted the Garden City concept in a broader sense than Kataoka and Seki. 63 Iinuma Kazumi It has been claimed that the first person to introduce the concept of regional planning into Japan was Yoshikawa Suejirō of the Imperial Capital Reconstruction Institute. He translated a part of G. B. Ford’s theory, as delivered in a speech at the National Conference on City Planning in Baltimore in 1923, into Japanese and it was published in “Urban Review” 64 in 1924. Yoshikawa understood regional planning to involve “comprehensive town planning” and characterised it as “a plan for the normal and desirable expansion of the central city towards the adjacent suburbs”, and referred positively to the British Garden City concept. 65 However, it was Iinuma Kazumi who contributed to diffusing the Japanese term chihō keikaku, which was equivalent to regional planning although it is uncertain whether he invented that term. 66 Iinuma’s idea of regional planning was influenced by the Garden City concept, with restrictions on town scale being a key element. This idea was derived from the International Town Planning Conference held in Amsterdam in 1924, where the expansion of large cites was brought into question again, and where control of broad areas including the central city and surrounding satellite cities was recognised as a critical issue. Therefore, the Garden City concept, which neither Kataoka nor Seki had supported, received further 61 62 63 64

Ibid., p. 109. Ibid., p. 110. Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), pp. 196 f. George B. Ford, Sōgōteki toshi keikaku to daitoshi keikaku [Regional and Metropolitan Planning: Principles, Methods and Co-operations], translated by Yoshikawa Suejirō, in: Toshi kōron 7, 1, 1924, pp. 39–51. 65 Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), pp. 199 f. 66 Ibid., pp. 206, 225.

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attention. 67 Shūzo Okada criticised measures encouraging large city expansion in Japan at that period from the perspective of the regional planning movement, which tried to tackle the problem through the annexation of surrounding communities and the boundary change of local authorities. 68 Iinuma also supported the Garden City concept, and noted in an article that “the essence of town planning is without doubt the Garden City concept”. 69 It is noteworthy that Iinuma regarded the Garden City concept as compatible with a satellite city in regional planning. Moreover, he did not favour the Garden Suburb concept and thought that it could not hold back the expansion of large cities, unlike Kataoka and Seki, 70 but rather that it deflected from the need to take effective measures in Japan to tackle the problems posed by large cities. Iinuma expressed himself most explicitly in his book “Theory and Legislation of Town Planning”, published in 1927. He stated that the 1919 Town Planning Act could not resolve the problems associated with the expansion of large cities, and aligned himself in favour of the Garden City concept and proposed his own view of regional planning. According to Iinuma, regional planning aimed basically to “decentralise the population in order to prevent population centralisation and to eliminate overcrowding in large cities”. 71 This stance meant that Iinuma could not support the Garden Suburb concept that aimed to separate residential areas from working areas. Iinuma also directly criticised the 1919 act, stating that “the present town planning act in Japan adopts both large town centrism and approves of population concentration in large cities. It is totally different from the standpoint of regionalism”. 72 According to Iinuma, there were three problems: (1) town centrism, (2) the system concerning town planning areas, and (3) the lack of an open space system. It was necessary to address these problems arising from the 1919 act for the effective implementation of his own view of a regional planning / satellite town concept. Just prior to becoming head of the Town Planning Section in 1931, he had maintained in an article that revision of both the Town Planning Act and the Buildings in Built-up Areas Act were necessary for the realisation of regional planning. He specifically highlighted three further issues: (1) the lack of a system to assign green space areas and to prohibit and restrict certain types of development in the Town Planning Act; (2) deficiencies in the building line system in the 67 Ibid., p. 201. 68 Ibid., pp. 201 f. 69 Iinuma Kazumi, Den’en toshi ron ni arawaretaru toshi no risō [The Ideal of Town Planning Expressed in the Garden City Concept], in: Jichi kenkyū 1, 1, 1925, p. 87; Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), p. 203. 70 Ibid., p. 204. 71 Iinuma Kazumi, Toshi keikaku no riron to hōsei [Theory and Legislation of Town Planning], Tokyo: Ryōsho Fukyūkai 1927, pp. 2 f.; Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), pp. 207 f. 72 Iinuma, Toshi keikaku no riron to hōsei (cf. n. 71), p. 164; Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), p. 213.

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Buildings in Built-up Areas Act concerning the construction of buildings in builtup areas, and; (3) the lack of a system through which the Town Planning Act could be applied not only to large cities but also to small towns and villages. 73 Iinuma accomplished some of his desired reforms. The Tokyo Green Space Planning Council (Tōkyō Ryokuchi Keikaku Kyōgikai) was set up in October 1932, with Iinuma as deputy president. The Council’s object was to conduct research for “a unified plan regarding parks and other green space facilities” and for “the health, recreation and urban aesthetics of citizens”. Its range spread beyond the Tokyo town planning area, covering an area within a 50-kilometre radius of Tokyo’s central railway station. As noted, an amendment to the 1919 Town Planning Act was submitted at the end of 1932, in which it was proposed that the act should apply not only to large cities but also to small towns and villages, and this amendment was approved in 1933. This marked the first change towards regional planning, and recognition for Iinuma’s viewpoint and partial achievement of his aims. 74 Iinuma has, however, been subject to severe criticism from Akimoto, Abe and Kajita. Although he had acquired his understanding of the regional planning concept at the 1923 Baltimore Conference, Iinuma had not thought out in detail the relationship between regional planning and town planning and a town planning area. Iinuma used chihō keikaku as the Japanese equivalent term for regional planning and stressed the need to unify the Garden City concept and the regional planning movement. However, Unwin, who delivered a lecture titled “The Necessity of Regional Planning” also at the Baltimore Conference, had proposed modifications to Howard’s Garden City concept while acceding to it. In a presentation at the Gothenburg conference in August 1923, he allowed for satellite cities but also allowed for a large central city to continue to exist. In this sense Unwin was a proponent of the Garden Suburb concept. Iinuma, however, did not recognise these more subtle differences between the Garden City and Garden Suburb concepts that had emerged. In addition, Akimoto, Abe and Kajita have pointed out a further limitation of Iinuma’s view in that he did not mention the conservation of green spaces outside the town planning area, although he did specify the concepts of agricultural area and green space area, and proposed the extended application of the building line system to parks. Thus, Akimoto, Abe and Kajita have provided compelling evidence that Iinuma played a leading role in the introduction of the regional planning concept into Japan. However, they have also concluded that regional planning did not take root in Japan at both the conceptual and institutional level because of the ambiguity and incompleteness of Iinuma’s view regarding regional planning. 75 73 Iinuma, Toshi keikaku no riron to hōsei (cf. n. 71), pp. 164 ff.; Nakamura, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” (cf. n. 53), pp. 213 f. 74 Ibid., pp. 215–219. 75 Akimoto et al., Iinuma Kazumi no Bei-Ō gaiyū to chi’iki keikaku tono sōgu (cf. n. 25), pp. 871–876.

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CONCLUSION Based on a research review using comparative historical perspective, it can be seen that the main features of Japanese town and regional planning as they arose in relation to influences from Western countries were as follows: 1. Japan underwent rapid urbanisation and modernisation after the Meiji Restoration (1868), following developments in Western countries. Also, in the area of town planning, leading figures such as Kataoka Yasushi, Seki Hajime, Ikeda Hiroshi and Iinuma Kazumi did not adapt ideas and techniques from just one particular country, but selectively collected and utilised diverse types of information on legislation, administrative systems and techniques from Germany, Britain, France, Belgium and the United States. For instance, although the zoning system introduced into Japan through the two 1919 acts derived from precedents in New York and Frankfurt, building restrictions introduced in Japan were not as strict as those in the United States and Germany, and thus did not assure the conservation and improvement of the residential environment in Japan. As a result, building activity was disorderly, and was largely according to the intentions of individual landowners. 2. In Western countries, it was usual that comprehensive plans (for example, a master plan in Britain and an F-Plan in Germany) were made in advance of a district plan (B-Plan). There was, however, no concept or tradition of a master plan in Japanese town planning, beginning with the Tokyo Town Improvement Ordinance and continuing until much later in the 20th century. In working on the 1919 acts, Ikeda intended to achieve the comprehensive control of build-up areas but, while a town planning area beyond the boundaries of local authorities was introduced, a master plan system did not eventuate. A master plan system was not finally introduced into Japan until the new Town Planning Act (toshi keikaku hō) of 1968. 3. Although Kataoka and Seki had some sympathy for the Garden City concept as a countermeasure in order to mitigate the effects of rapidly expanding large cities in Japan, they basically understood this to involve a German style of town planning with a Garden City style landscape, that is, that a Garden Suburb concept could be adopted to address urban problems in Japan. Ikeda also regarded the large city and its surrounding area as an organised system, and he advocated that “a unified plan” should be applied to it. However, Ikeda’s views were not fully shared by town planners and bureaucrats when the 1919 acts were passed. 4. Iinuma Kazumi held the view that the 1919 Town Planning Act could not resolve the problems posed by the expansion of large cities. He sympathised with the Garden City concept, proposed the idea of regional planning, and was partly successful in accomplishing his vision. For example, he was able to bring about an extension of the application of the 1919 Town Planning Act to cover small towns and villages in 1933. However, scholars have also stressed that regional planning did not take root in Japan at both the concep-

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tual and institutional level because of ambiguity in what Iinuma thought regional planning was.

PART II MAKING OF THE 20TH CENTURY CITY IN JAPAN

FROM TEACHING ‘PROGRESS’ TO LEARNING ‘TRADITION’? Tokyo’s Built Environment as a Mirror of Ideas of Modernity in Germanlanguage Discourses of Architecture (1900–1940) Beate Löffler Throughout history, cities have been characterized by the accumulation of greater political, military, economic and social functions and powers compared to their surrounding regions, though not necessarily to the degree that this is true today. Famous and well-studied places such as ancient Rome, Renaissance Florence, Victorian London, Haussmann’s Paris or Wilhelmine Berlin dominate our (Western) ideas of the urban to such an extent as to marginalize all counterexamples. The Western idea of an important city came to define that importance in exactly this way, especially when it came to the capital cities of the emerging Western nation states. They were seen as the hotspots of established culture combined with the hallmarks of good government, such as a functioning administrative and organizational apparatus, and enhanced by the blessings of technological development such as railways or plumbing. Cities came to embody and symbolize the understanding of modernity as experienced more or less concurrently by the hegemonic powers of the West at this time. 1 Meanwhile, cities also became a focus of cultural criticism for the cultural losses, experienced or imagined, they represented: the loss of traditional culture and faith, of social order and timehonoured practices. 2 Up to the turn of the twentieth century, these perceptions were mirrored in Western accounts of non-Western places such as Japan. The majority of authors, most of them diplomatic staff or foreign experts in various specialities who commented in English, German or French on Japan’s urban environment, relegated 1

2

For an overview on these processes, see for example Lewis Mumford, The City in History. Its Origins, Its Transformations, and Its Prospects, London: Secker & Warburg 31966; Leonardo Benevolo, Die Geschichte der Stadt, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 1983 or Donald J. Olsen, The City as a Work of Art: London – Paris – Vienna, New Haven: Yale University Press 1986. See for example the famous English discourse with figures such as John Ruskin (1819–1900), Augustus Pugin (1812–1852) and William Morris (1834–1896); see also Ebenezer Howard, To-morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform, London: Swan Sonnenschein 1898. The German perspective is reflected in Camillo Sitte, Der Städtebau nach seinen künstlerischen Grundsätzen, Vienna: C. Graeser 1889; Georg Simmel, Die Grosstädte und das Geistesleben, in: Theodore Petermann (ed.), Die Grossstadt. Vorträge und Aufsätze zur Städteausstellung, Dresden: v. Zahn & Jaensch 1903, pp. 185–206, and Paul Schultze-Naumburg’s (1869–1949) series “Kulturarbeiten”.

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Japanese cities to the margins of the contemporary discourse on urban modernity, citing their lack of technological infrastructure or familiar public institutions such as town halls. In concert with the Japanese government, these authors strove to redesign the city according to the expectations Westerners had for the capital city of a modern nation state. The technology-based overhaul helped to create a Western face of Tokyo that was then presented as such by its creators, both Western and Japanese. At the same time, other Western visitors, mostly artists but on occasion the very same foreign actors who worked to modernize Japan, revelled in the otherness of Japanese expressions of culture as compared to the everyday experience in the contemporary modern Western city. For them, Tokyo represented the city as a social space of old, in which change was slow and gradual, social order stable, and technology of only secondary importance. The Japanese city was sought after and experienced as a refuge from modernization, as a Sehnsuchtsort or place of longing, and thus provided a context in which to express the perceptions of cultural loss in the wake of European industrialisation. In their texts, the Western visitors sketched an idea of a specific, occasionally elusive Japanese-ness that was not yet entirely overcome by the advancement of Western civilisation, but had merely relocated itself. In due course, distinct historical places such as Ueno Park or the Tokugawa memorials in Shiba, but also modernized areas such as Ginza or Nihonbashi, were charged with the expectation of Japanese-ness; they became emblematic of this quality, as described in texts and documented in visual representations. Thus they opened to the attentive visitor opportunities to discover these embodiments of traditional values of old Japan in the modern environment. 3 This orientalist perception should have shifted significantly during the early decades of the twentieth century in the course of Japan’s successful modernisation, evidenced not least by its military victories against China (1895) and Russia (1905). Japan should also have been perceived as a rival for power, resources and modern ideas, as it was by Asian intellectuals at this time, who saw it as a spearhead of Asian self-empowerment. However, the tone of Western discussion on Japanese cities hardly shifted over time. While the changes in their urban fabric and social life went on and their increasing similarities to Western cities became evident even to the casual observer, for writers and commentators on Japanese cities they remained a case of pre-modern otherness: a curious and interesting throwback, fated to be overcome by the blessings of modern civilization in due course. However, while architectural-historical texts of the time tell us almost nothing about the Japanese city, they do reveal that the German-speaking architectural avant-garde of the 1920s and 1930s was beginning to take an interest in the Japanese dwelling house. True, housing construction, especially mass housing, was a crucial topic of European urban planning at this time, but Western architects were not looking at modern Japanese solutions, but rather at traditional ones. What was the logic behind this? Why did they become preoccupied all of a sudden with pat3

The most propagated of such places, however, was Nikkō, just a daytrip north of Tokyo.

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terns and dispositions that had already been dismissed as outdated in the architectural handbooks for decades? How did this interest relate to their overall perception of the Japanese city and its architecture? Intrigued by this paradox, this paper traces the narratives on Japanese cities published by German-speaking visitors between 1900 and 1940 4 and compares it to both the expert statements by the relatively small group of German architects, urban planners and engineers interested in Japan – figures such as Franz Baltzer (1857–1927), Peter Jessen (1858–1926), Herrmann Muthesius (1861–1927), Fritz Schumacher (1869–1947), Bruno Taut (1880–1938), or Rudolf Briske (1884– 1967) 5 – and to the main themes of Central European architectural discourses on urban planning and housing at the time. 6 Which topics did they discuss in relation to the Japanese city and how did this discussion change over time? What effect did an event such as the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923, together with the documentation of Tokyo’s reconstruction afterwards as issued by the Japanese administration, have on their thinking? The reason for this approach to textual sources is twofold. First, the material provided by German-language architects and planners is far too thin to provide sufficient insights in and of itself. 7 Second, previous research on Western perceptions of Japan’s built environment up to 1900 has shown that the discussion of architectural topics built upon and was embedded into more general discourses on Japan, and thus is incomprehensible without this context. 8 4

5 6

7

8

A number of the figures whose views on Japan are discussed here were involved in public discourse and political opinion making, and represented positions along the entire political spectrum – from left-wing leanings or nationalist interests through to active involvement in national-socialist agendas. Some of this is readily evident in their texts, while some remains hidden unless the reader knows about the writer’s particular background. In a future stage of research, the broader integration of other Western voices might make it possible to evaluate more precisely the degree to which political ideas and orientalism influenced these discourses on urban Japan. The author is grateful to Mariko Jacoby for the link to the biographical data at the Center for Jewish History’s digital collection, https://access.cjh.org/; accessed 24.3.2020. On Briske, see Shūichi Takashima’s paper in this volume. It is important to keep in mind that German-language discourses on architecture encompassed actors of diverse ethnicity and citizenship who trained at universities or equivalent institutions across Central Europe, in Munich, Strasbourg, Stuttgart, Berlin, Breslau, Zurich, Vienna or Gdańsk. The participants included the graduates of the many building trade schools (Baugewerbeschulen) as well, that trained primarily practitioners. Manfred Speidel agrees with this observation even in regard to architecture, where the situations is slightly better. See Manfreid Speidel, The Presence of Japanese Architecture in German Magazines and Books 1900–1950, in: Yamamoto Kazuki / Adachi Hiroshi / Shigemura Tsutomu (eds.), Dreams of the Other / Higan no Yume. Nichi-Doku hyakunen no kenchiku toshi keikaku ni okeru sōgo kōryū. Katsura, Bauhausu, Burūno Tauto kara atarashii ekorojī e / A Hundred Years of Japanese Architecture and German Town Planning in a Mutual View: Dreams of the Other: The Japanese House, Villa Katsura, Bauhaus, Bruno Taut and the New Ecology, Kōbe: Kōbe Daigaku 21seiki COE puroguramu 2007, pp. 117–131, esp. p. 118. The western reception of Japan’s architecture and urban environment and the resultant stance taken in handbooks on architecture is the core object of a recently completed research project.

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This inquiry focuses primarily on Tokyo and its environs and contrasts the texts with contemporary visual sources, such as picture postcards and woodprint series. It thus takes account of the fact that architectural communication, though framed by words, was largely visual: the evaluation of urban situations and architectural environments happened through the conscious and unconscious perception of plans, maps, drawings and photographs. Thus, visual mass media of at least two kinds is relevant to our topic: on the one hand, the visual impressions of Japanese cities available to audiences in the West, and on the other, the visual mass media available to Western visitors in Japan at that time. One of the aims is therefore to understand which images of Japanese cities travelled back to Central Europe, which urban environments were discussed, and when. The focus is on the intra-Western discourses, notably the German-speaking ones, and for that reason includes only those Japanese textual sources that were linguistically accessible to and interesting for Westerners, such as the guide books issued by the Japanese Government Railways (Tetsudōshō) to encourage and foster tourism. 9 Visual media of any kind is hindered less by linguistic borders than by the interest of the audience, and serves as an historical source of urbanity independent of its origin. In general, this essay narrows down on but a small part of a broader phenomenon in two respects. On the one hand, it omits the natural cross-national knowledge transfers on architecture and urban issues between the western nations but for the German-speaking faction. On the other hand, it focuses on only a short period of the Western examinations and negotiations of Japan’s urbanity, which had started with Engelbert Kaempfer (1651–1716) already in the early eighteenth century and came only to look beyond perceived deficits towards its intrinsic values and meanings some decades ago. 10 The paper shows that the German-language texts addressed Japan’s urban environments in general and the city of Tokyo in particular as proxies for discussing technological and social advancement at home. When underlining or arguing certain developments on the national or global level and locating them within a field-specific or popular framework, it was common knowledge on Japan that was used, while deeper knowledge or expertise on Japanese architecture and urban Beate Löffler, Constructing Japan. Knowledge Production and Identity Building in Late Nineteenth Century Western Architectural Discourses (forthcoming). For a brief overview of some findings, see ibid., Petrified worldviews. Eurocentric legacy in architectural knowledge bases on Japan, in: InterDisciplines 8, 2, 2017, pp. 69–95. 9 For a brief introduction, see Koichi Nakagawa, Prewar Tourism Promotion by Japanese Government Railways, in: Japan Railway and Transport Review 15, 1998, pp. 22–27. 10 There are a number of publications on Tokyo’s urban qualities from the late twentieth century onwards. In terms of planning science, they provide new insights and inspirations. See e. g. Carola Hein, Shaping Tokyo: Land Development and Planning Practice in the Early Modern Japanese Metropolis, in: Journal of Urban History 36, 4, 2010, pp. 447–484, and esp. the list provided in n. 6. Despite this, some anthropologic or cultural studies appreciate Tokyo’s Japanese-ness with elements of exceptionalism and thus perpetuate orientalist patterns of othering.

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planning was not in demand. The paper shows as well, that the urban development and modernization in Japan was often neglected in texts and almost entirely omitted in illustrations, thus intentionally perpetuating an image of a pre-modern country far into the twentieth century. FROM STATE OF KNOWLEDGE AT THE TURN OF THE CENTURY TO THE GREAT KANTŌ EARTHQUAKE At the turn of the twentieth century, the available information on urban phenomena in Japan was as heterogeneous as the text genres involved in general knowledge transfer on Japan. With the fields of urban planning and urban design just beginning to emerge at the time, there were no specific publications yet. Information in this regard was scattered in regional studies, general travelogues and reports of artists or architects, or technical information related to specialized building types; all of these will be examined here. Regional studies provide data against a background of governmental and economic interests: numbers and statistics on developments, which traced social and urban change largely without addressing the urban environment at all. The books of German geographer Justus Rein (1885–1918), for example, combine numerical data, such as the information that at “the end of 1898, Tokyo had 316,527 houses and 1,440,121 residents”, 11 with mentions of landmarks and historical occurrences such as fires or earthquakes. Topography, society and the built environment are referenced in context but considered separately. This was in contrast to general travelogues, which shared many common characteristics, such as the interweaving of their narratives with discussions of diverse cultural phenomena, but which took their storylines from the respective interests of their authors. Hans Graf von Königsmarck (1865–1943), a member of the Prussian military, served in Japan in 1897 and published his observations in 1900. 12 While military and political considerations are introduced repeatedly throughout the book, the overall content resembles that of many of the earlier travelogues on Japan: cities and landscapes make an appearance in commentary on the availability of transport infrastructure or overnight accommodation, while historical information and personal observations are worked in seamlessly. About Tokyo, Königsmarck observed: Today, the main residence of the Mikado is already deeply marked by modern civilisation and Western activity. Tokyo consists of three different districts. In its centre are the imperial palaces, single-storied in the Japanese style, surrounded by a beautiful park. The vast area occupied by the buildings belonging to the Mikado court is surrounded by high walls made of enormous blocks, and by wide moats that give it a dark, fortress-like character. The melancholy impression of this imperial residence, far removed from worldly activity, is heightened 11 Johannes Justus Rein, Japan. Nach Reisen und Studien im Auftrage der Königlich Preussischen Regierung. vol. 1, Leipzig: W. Engelmann 21905, p. 648. 12 Graf Hans von Königsmarck, Japan und die Japaner. Skizzen aus dem fernen Osten, Berlin: Paetel 1900.

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Beate Löffler by the dark, bizarrely-shaped and ancient pine trees that crown the stone walls, which have been piled up without mortar, as though by giant hands. The imperial quarters are surrounded like a belt by the modern quarter, which contains the foreign embassies, the ministries, public buildings, parliament houses and barracks, the formal apartments of official Japan, the European hotels and the club. This part of the city is also bordered by a tree-lined wall and moat. Outside this surrounding wall, the Japanese city unfolds, the accumulation of villages and locales: a colourless sea of grey, one-storey wooden houses, which group themselves along the river arms and canals in endless monotony. Rarely does a public square interrupt the monotony of the local neighbourhood, crossed by innumerable straight streets, into which only a temple brings architectural change here and there. 13

But for the actual spatial and narrative juxtaposition with the European-style antitype, von Königsmarck’s description of the Japanese part of the city is little different from older accounts and resembles many other contemporary descriptions of local neighbourhoods. Like others, he did not perceive these urban environments as genuinely Japanese and believed it was possible to experience true Japanese-ness only away from the cities, and in particular away from those with a settled foreign presence. 14 Unlike most earlier observers, however, von Königsmarck does not discuss the need to modernize Japan: he was already experiencing the changes. In consequence, he does not comment on the existence of shipping lines and railway transportation per se but only describes their shortcomings in comparison to Europe; 15 travellers’ accommodation is treated similarly. 16 In general, von Königsmarck reproduced part of the existing narrative patterns on Japanese cities as decidedly non-Western and non-modern 17 as far as cultural parameters were concerned, but kept a keen eye on Japan’s modernization when it came to the political sphere. Here, his evaluations and expectations vacillate between appreciation for achieved developments on the one hand, and expressions of indignation and incredulity in response to claims of political equality, as voiced by a progressive member of parliament, on the other hand. 18 Travelogues written by artists mostly carried on in the tradition of Japonism and tended to perpetuate the Western perception of Japan as a land of exotic otherness and an artistically-inclined pre-modern culture. 19 They provided narrative 13 Ibid., pp. 180 ff. 14 Ibid., pp. 19, 45; see also pp. 291 ff. It might be worth exploring whether Western visitors rather associated a lack of technology with an essentially rural culture, and saw the cities already as expressions of modernity. 15 Ibid., pp. 30–33, 45, 76. 16 Ibid., pp. 8 f., 53 ff.; also 282–285. 17 For a first introduction to this, see Beate Löffler, Exotische Fremde, erträumte Heimat? Japan als Spiegelbild europäischer Heimatkonstruktionen. 1860–1910, in: Amalia Barboza / Barbara Krug-Richter / Sigrid Ruby (eds.), Heimat verhandeln? Kunst- und Kulturwissenschaftliche Annäherungen, Cologne: Böhlau 2020, pp. 337–352. 18 Graf von Königsmarck, Japan und die Japaner (cf. n. 12), pp. 95 f. 19 For an introduction into this rich field of study, see for example Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication (ed.), Le Japonisme, Paris: Editions de la Réunion des Musées Nationaux

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visualizations of forms and motifs known to a broader European audience from art objects and woodblock prints. The Austrian painter Franz Hohenberger (1867– 1941), who visited Japan at about the same time as Königsmarck and published an essay in 1900, assessed Tokyo’s environment in terms of its picturesqueness alone, from the cherry trees and tea houses of Ueno Park to the urbanity of the red-light district: The Yoshiwara (pleasure district), 1½ hours from Tokyo, is the most original and picturesque thing you can imagine. At your first sight of it, you are simply stunned. The houses here are two to three stories high. The premises at ground level, whose floor is at chest height, are separated from the street by a wooden lattice. Inside, like hummingbirds in a golden cage, there is a row of young girls with the most charming costumes, which stand out in delicate contrast against the golden and painted background of the sliding doors. […] The alleys in this town, which is as big as a Viennese district, are almost endless. The cages, lined up side by side, are brightly lit in the evening; then tens of thousands of such young girls sit in them, while the semi-darkness of the streets is filled with hustle and bustle. 20

The technical information provided in trade journals or by engineers and architects was usually much less colourful. An essay on proposed port buildings in Japan in 1901 in “Deutsche Bauzeitung” contained hard facts on four different harbours, but none on their respective cities. 21 The same pragmatism characterized the extensive text that German railway engineer Franz Baltzer (1857–1927) published on Japanese houses in 1903 first in “Zeitschrift für Bauwesen” and as a monograph as well. 22 He provided constructional details, which had largely been missing in architectural accounts to that date, as well as some sections and views of different kinds of Japanese houses, but ignored other topics such as urban form and planning, except in relation to the issues of fire hazards and hygiene. 23 In fact, these specialists’ publications on Japanese matters were themselves mere fragments and depended on the cultural and historical background provided by the travelogues. The relevance of the architectural topics and the attention given to

20 21 22

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1988; Siegfried Wichmann / Mary Whittall, Japonisme. The Japanese Influence on Western Art since 1858, London: Thames & Hudson 1999; Michiko Mae / Elisabeth Scherer (eds.), Nipponspiration. Japonismus und japanische Populärkultur im deutschsprachigen Raum, Cologne: Böhlau 2013; Gregory Irvine (ed.), Japonisme and the Rise of the Modern Art Movement: The Arts of the Meiji Period, London: Thames & Hudson 2013. Franz Hohenberger, Briefe aus Japan, in: Ver Sacrum 3, 1, 1900, pp. 37–50, here p. 45 ff. Hafenbauten in Japan, in: Deutsche Bauzeitung 35, 1, 02.01.1901, pp. 2 f.; Hafenentwurf für Osaka (Japan), in: Deutsche Bauzeitung 35, 23, 20.03.1901, p. 137. Baltzer’s introduction underlines the cross-national character of knowledge production on Japan, both in general and in the building-related fields. He references Johannes J. Rein and Justus Brinckmann (1843–1915), a German art collector who never visited Japan but largely drew on older English-language sources, such as the work of American zoologist Edward S. Morse (1838–1925), English designer Christopher Dresser (1834–1904), and Josiah Conder (1852–1920), the Founding Professor of the chair of Western Architecture in Tokyo during the 1870s. Franz Baltzer, Das japanische Haus, eine bautechnische Studie, in: Zeitschrift für Bauwesen 53, 1903, cols. 5–56, 229–276, 409–428, 587–612; resp. ibid, Das Japanische Haus, eine bautechnische Studie, Berlin: W. Ernst & Sohn 1903.

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specific issues would have remained a mystery without the overall background of Japanographic knowledge disseminated in popular publications. A hybridisation of the two spheres was achieved in two short texts by the German architect Otto Bartning (1883–1959), who stood at the beginning of his career in 1905. They were both inspired by his trip around the world in 1904. 24 The first text addressed the Japanese house and was intended to be illustrated with a few of Bartning’s own photographs as well as a detail drawing of timber processing. It remains unclear at this point to what extent older publications informed the author and whether the article was ever printed. 25 However, Bartning’s manuscript combined the cultural considerations common to texts on Japan with some subtle technical observations of a kind often lacking in older sources. Though some of the information he gave was incorrect, he may in fact have been the first to focus his attention not on the absence of walls as an occasionally bothersome means of achieving spatial fluidity, but on the structural system of the building as embodied by the supports, all the time using everyday architectural terminology. For Bartning, the Japanese house was a strange yet clearly comprehensible architectural entity within a complex system of social parameters. Genuinely new was the perspective presented in his second essay, published in the just-founded trade journal “Der Städtebau” in 1905. 26 It addressed urban planning in America and Asia and discussed the strengths and weaknesses of the urban forms of an (apparently arbitrary) selection of cities, including Valparaiso, Santiago de Chile and Iquique, San Francisco, Kyoto and Tokyo, Calcutta, Rangoon and Delhi; references to Hong Kong, Mannheim, Karlsruhe and Pompeii were thrown in as well. For the two Japanese cities, he provided redrawn maps and information drawn from “Murray’s Handbooks for Travellers”. 27 With regard to Kyoto, Bartning stated that while some of the original planned grid of the city still survived, the spirit behind the plan had been lost over time. 28 His assessment of Tokyo was more favourable. He told the story of a naturally growing city that combined functionality and aesthetic qualities, green areas and flexible infrastruc24 Werner Durth / Wolfgang Pehnt / Sandra Wagner-Conzelmann, Otto Bartning. Architekt einer sozialen Moderne, Darmstadt: Justus von Liebig 2017, pp. 18 f. Bartning’s later narration of this trip, issued in 1947, is of a more poetic nature and devoid of information on Japan’s urbanity or architecture. 25 Otto Bartning (?), Das japanische Haus, undated, 9 pages with handwritten notes, Otto Bartning Archive at the Darmstadt University of Technology [hereafter OBA Darmstadt], 2007S05120.; also a Pencil Sketch (presumably supplementing the text “Das japanische Haus”), undated, OBA Darmstadt, 2007Z05121; Otto Bartning, letter to “Lieber Herr Doktor”, re: Aufsatz (presumably: “Das japanische Haus”) for a journal and the corresponding payment, 22.02.1905, OBA Darmstadt, 2007S05122. 26 Otto Bartning, Vom Städtebau in Amerika und Asien. Mit sieben Planskizzen, in: Der Städtebau 2, 11, 1905, pp. 141–143, plates 81 ff.. 27 Basil Hall Chamberlain / W. B. Mason, A Handbook for Travellers in Japan, London: John Murray 31891. A seventh, revised edition was issued in 1903. 28 See Ibid., A Handbook for Travellers in Japan, Including the Whole Empire from Yezo to Formosa, London: John Murray 71903, p. 326 for the quote and p. 325 for the template of the map.

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ture. Here, Bartning shows a strong familiarity with the work of Camillo Sitte (1843–1903), the Austrian urban theorist and one of the originators of the journal “Der Städtebau”. While his comments on Kyoto and Tokyo were very superficial, included misinformation and lacked analytical distance, his was an innovative attempt to take a global view on the urban. It remained, however, an exception in German-language literature on Japan’s cities. The situation regarding visual materials on the Japanese city was similarly limited and shaped by travelogues. Since architecture is a subject of visual communication even more than of textual explanations, many European perceptions of Japan and its built environment were shaped by images: originals or reproductions, collection pieces or mass products, woodblock prints, souvenir photographs, or illustrations in books. During the late nineteenth century, the images that made their way to Europe almost completely excluded the changes occurring in society and the environment but depicted what was soon to become known as old Japan: 29 sights and views, manners and customs, garments and everyday items. The urban in its architectural sense as the interplay of topography, infrastructure and edifices was absent. Only a few books reproduced Felice Beato’s (1832– 1909) panoramic photographs of Tokyo or Yokohama, while some others showed street scenes in the context of depicting festivals or religious rituals (Figs. 1, 2). Regarding the content of souvenir albums, the situation was similar. In the early twentieth century, however, there emerged an additional source of visual information in the form of the picture postcard. Compared to the souvenir photographs, postcards were much cheaper and easier to handle. They depicted not only sightseeing spots and traditional customs, but modern infrastructure and urban neighbourhoods as well. Thus, travellers, authors and editors preparing books on Japan had the choice to build up a stock of cheap and diverse visual material and to illustrate their texts not only by re-using the well-known traditional motifs but by including contemporary scenes as well.

Fig. 1: Edo (Tokyo). View of a burnt-out neighbourhood and the parks at the castle, illustration, cropped.

29 Löffler, Constructing Japan (cf. n. 8).

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Fig. 2: View of a street in Edo (Tokyo) on New Year’s Day

Did this change anything in Western representations and perceptions of urban Japan? Not as far as contemporary publications were concerned. While it remains understudied how many picture postcards with modern motifs circulated in Europe and/or became part of private collections, 30 they remained absent in books and journals entirely. Thus, the German texts and their illustrations partially ignored the actual urban development of Japanese cities. Figures 3 to 5, dated between 1910 and 1918, underline this argument. Figure 3 shows the isolated inclusion of new building types and building forms in a residential neighbourhood near central Tokyo. The urban structure here contrasts with the area shown in Figure 4, the district just south of the castle area, which was one of the centres of architectural Westernization and the modern self-representation of Japan at this time. The third postcard stands for the subsequent hybridisation of urban structures around infrastructural nodes such as Nihonbashi.

30 Of the about 400 picture postcards of this time held in the author’s collection, about 10 per cent were postally used with a western recipient. Picture postcards remain an underresearched category despite their well-known history as a popular medium of communication and imagination. How fruitful this field of research can be for the study of culture became evident at the EAJS Conference in Ljubljana, Slovenia in 2014. The two-part panel “Picture Postcards as Important Media for the Study of Japan” presented a broad collection of research projects.

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Fig. 3: View of Tokyo from Atago Hill, postcard, c. 1910

Fig. 4: Tokyo, Ministry of Justice and Supreme Court by Böckmann & Ende, 1895 and 1896, postcard, 1910 (left); Fig. 5: Tokyo at Nihonbashi by Tsumaki Yorinaka (1859–1916), 1911, just north of Ginza, postcard, 1911–1918 (right)

The books published by the photographer Ogawa Kazumasa (1860–1929) provide additional information. While Ogawa became famous for his images of flowers and beautiful women, he published on many other topics as well, often cooperating with Westerners from very diverse fields of interest. His book “Tōkyō fūkei. Scenes in the Eastern Capital of Japan”, 1911, is a treasure trove of depictions of the ways in which urban tradition and newly created urban stories in that city intertwined. 31 While some of the motifs reproduced scenes known from souvenir 31 Tōkyō fūkei. Scenes in the Eastern capital of Japan, Tokyo: Ogawa Kazumasa Shuppanbu 1911.

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photographs of exotic Japan, the overall selection belies the separation between old and new usually found in Western accounts on Tokyo and Japan.

Fig. 6: Elevated Railway (left); Fig. 7: Nihonbashi by Tsumaki Yorinaka (1859–1916), 1911 (right)

Figure 6 shows elevated railways cutting through an area of small-scale Japanese housing. The scene was probably taken from Yūrakuchō, looking across the outer moat of the castle towards the southwest. The large Western-style building at the right margin and the buildings along the outside of the moat reveal the contemporary changes taking place in the neighbourhoods of central Tokyo. The confluence of different languages of space and form is depicted in Figure 7 as well. The subject is Nihonbashi once again, this time from a slightly north-western angle, qualifying the orderly situation of the view shown in Figure 5. Seen along the riverscape, with an additional bridging construction and some boats visible, the white bridge building loses its domineering spatial role and appears foreign. The visual material documented the hybridisation of urban and architectural patterns taken from Japan and the West alike, and this at the same time as Japanese architects and administrative bodies were intensely discussing the implementation of planning tools from all over the world, including Germany. 32 Yet there was barely anything new in the German publications with regard to cities, not to mention, that the visual material did in no way depict the actual changes on site. It might have been a shock for some of the visitors during these years, to experience not the settings of Edo-time woodcut scenery but streetcars and electric street lighting. The only significant shift was a growing awareness of Japan’s claim to power in the texts. This phenomenon, already remarked on by Königsmarck, was significant in Peter Jessen’s (1858–1926) descriptions some years later. 32 On this, see for example André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century, London: Routledge 2002; Carola Hein / Yorifusa Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung und ihre deutschen Wurzeln, in: Die alte Stadt 25, 3, 1998, pp. 189–211; Hein, Shaping Tokyo (cf. n. 10), pp. 447–484; Shunichi J. Watanabe, The Japanese 1919 City Planning Act System in the World History of Planning: An Overview and Some Hypothetical Propositions on “Bureaucratic Professionalism”, in: International Planning History Society Proceedings 18, 1, 2018.

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The German art historian Jessen, warden of the Berlin Art Library and member of the Deutscher Werkbund, travelled through the USA, Japan, Korea and China in 1913. He published his observations in a series of illustrated articles in “Kunstgewerbeblatt” in 1917, and then more extensively in 1921. 33 Jessen’s account shows an ambivalent, even inherently contradictory narration of Japan and its urban environments, starting with a retrospective insight into a problematic situation: For German friends of ancient Japanese art and culture, the war destroyed a fairy tale. We watched thoughtlessly for so long as the new Japan, the Japan of victories and conquests, stood up against China, Russia and America, and forgot that our own possessions lay most conveniently at its fingertips. Those who now know dear young friends buried in Tsingtau can no longer speak as harmless romantics about Japan. Beside the dreamy past, the watchful present imperiously demands its right. 34

This opening paragraph sketches Japan as an adversary, responsible for a loss of German status and soldiers’ lives in East Asia in the course of the Japanese occupation of the German concession in China. Yet the Japan-centred section of Jessen’s report ends with a depiction of Japan as a compatriot in the fight to civilize, citing its development programs in Korea and Manchuria and praising the perfection of the infrastructure in Japan’s continental territories: In the hill-girdled harbour of Fusan, the Japanese have built long docks; we moored at a quay, next to the luxury train already waiting for us to continue our journey. In the hours until departure, I was able to visit the Japanese quarter, a jewellery box of order and cleanliness, and its counterpart, the random, dirty houses and shanty masses of the Korean settlement. […] In Seoul I saw how the Japanese had cleared up countless grievances in these few years. The dirty flats had been forcibly cleaned; wide roads had been cut and planted with trees; (there were) electric railway lines, post offices, telegraphs; the beginnings of sewerage; farsighted measures to raise agriculture, farming, cattle breeding, cotton cultivation and silkworm breeding; reforestation of the devastated woodlands and mountain areas; for each individual area across the country, educational and research institutions. 35

Interestingly enough, none of the illustrations accompanying these pages displayed any evidence of the uniform-wearing or gun-toting Japan described in the text, or the technical infrastructure of harbours and railways, or even the changing urban environment that was visible in the postcards. The photographs in Jessen’s essay reproduced the established visual pattern of historical sights, costumes and art objects alone.

33 Regarding Japan: Peter Jessen, Reisestudien 4–6, in: Kunstgewerbeblatt 28, 5, 1917, pp. 77– 84; 28, 6, 1917, pp. 97–104; 28, 8, 1917, pp. 137–144 and the respective chapters in Ibid.: Japan. Korea. China. Reisestudien eines Kunstfreundes, Leipzig: E. A. Seemann 1921. 34 Jessen, Reisestudien (cf. n. 33), p. 77. 35 Ibid., pp. 142 f.

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Fig. 8: Temple forecourt in Nikkō (left); Fig. 9: Exterior View of a theatre (right)

In fact, most of the text did so as well. The disillusions and shocks of war disappeared below a narrative surface of culture and tradition in which Japan was reflected as a land of artistic wonder. Like many artistically inclined visitors before him, Jessen expected to find an original, non-Western culture, an inspiration for art and design, and he was prepared to compartmentalize his observations when necessary: On an early June morning, Japan came into sight, surrounded by hazy clouds and mists. Slowly the mountain tops appear, soon softly rounded and densely wooded, soon in the sharp cone form that makes us imagine Fuji in every towering peak. […] And now the first picture of the people: a fishing boat bobs far off the coast, flat, with the angular brown sail. Then three fishermen of unadulterated Japanese form, bare-legged, in loincloths, with short work dresses over their shoulders, headscarves tied back, exactly the outlines that had so often appealed to us in the old woodcuts. I took them as a friendly symbol that at least in the life of the common man, I would find the old culture I had come to seek. Just behind Yokohama and its embarrassingly mundane business districts, I had a second picture of original folk life in mind, the farmers on the rice fields. There they stand barefoot in their small, swampy, walled districts, […] in traditional costumes and gestures completely shaped by ancient tradition, they themselves and their traditional costumes completely in accordance with the given materials, handy tools and unadulterated demands of purpose, just as everything that truly lasts in the great and small of craftsmanship. 36

Jessen saw a city such as Yokohama with its cultural hybridisations, globally connected and trade-oriented, as an antitype of the supertemporal idea of architectural and artistic expression put forward by the Deutscher Werkbund. The challenges of balancing modern technologies and artistic intent, which pervaded the discourses at home, were evident in the few sentences he dedicated to other Japanese cities as well: At every turn, the work of man is adapted to the landscape. Even the capital cities, to which the lover of art must dedicate a large portion of his time, become schools of what today we call the urban planning art (Stadtbaukunst): not of what is intended, consciously planned, but of what has grown effortlessly and naturally. The way that in Tokyo, in the residential districts of the affluent, the wood-lined and tree-lined streets nestle against the green hills; the 36 Ibid., pp. 78 f.

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way that in the crowded suburbs of the people, the traffic routes stand out from the residential streets; how the self-contained storehouses and open teahouses are reflected in the rivers and the bay; how, on the evergreen heights in Kyoto, the temples unite with the tree-growth and the mountain heights in ever-changing groups; how, in the sacred park districts of Nara and under cryptomerias of Nikko as they reach toward the sky, an incomparable euphony of generous nature’s art lifts the strength of architecture and diminishes the petty and mediocre – all these things one never tires of admiring and honouring as a serious lesson. You can also experience thrilling surprises far outside the towns. Here on the mountain slope a thatched roof, like a temporary shelter for a world-famous overlook, and yet nothing more than a poor farmer’s hut, pinned here out of necessity. There in dense green a weathered little temple, consecrated to the ancient ancestor gods, like a piece of nature grown at this place, inseparable from its form and sentiment. 37

This perception of the city and of rural or religious buildings as nested within the landscape is similar to the motif we have already seen in Bartning’s contribution: special value was given to an architectural setting that was understood to have resulted from a natural process of becoming. The intrinsically long-term character of historicity served as an argument against the short-term utility of some aspects of a technology-based, planned modernity. It did so with the implicit assumption that an outstanding artist would be able to create such architectural qualities intentionally, if he were freed from undue competition arising from a further mechanization of the arts and construction. The call for authenticity, for a certain nativeness or essential and transcendent meaning of architecture, was and is an essential part of discourses on modern planning and design on the one hand, and in the attribution of heritage value on the other hand. To be clear, it was not a rejection of modernity in general that stood at the core of these discussions. It was modernity’s perceived negotiation of form, quality and direction that split German architectural thought into many rivalling schools and doctrines. It was thus not the merits of its modernization that earned Japan attention in some artistic circles, but its supposedly high standards of traditional culture and art, which served as arguments for the upkeep of established values and virtues. The loss of Tsingtao and Germany’s larger defeat in the First World War had some impact on the perception of Japan in German-language travel reports and regional studies, be it due to Japanese policies in general, the restrictions placed on German and Austrian citizens in Japan at this time, or the shunning of these citizens by parts of the foreign residents’ networks. In 1914, the Austrian journalist and photographer Alice Schalek (1874–1956) published a feature article in which she commented caustically on the European willingness to believe in fairy tales about Japan, even in the face of contradictory facts. 38 In 1923, she returned to Japan and described Japan’s further social development with a similarly critical eye. 39 Schalek was primarily interested in people. Thus, the urban environment 37 Ibid., pp. 101 f. 38 Alice Schalek, Ein Wort über Japan, in: Neue Freie Presse, Morgenblatt 17956, 21.08.1914, pp. 1 ff. 39 Alice Schalek, Japan. Das Land des Nebeneinander. Eine Winterreise durch Japan, Korea und die Mandschurei, Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt 1925.

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served largely as mere scenery in her stories, except where they addressed earthquakes and the danger of fire. It seems unlikely that an experienced war journalist would have written a simple travelogue after experiencing a major case disaster such as the Great Kantō Earthquake that hit Tokyo and Yokohama on the first of September in 1923. Thus, while the exact period of Schalek’s winter journey to East Asia is not specified in the literature, it seems reasonable to assume that she travelled through Japan in the early months of that year. THE GREAT KANTŌ EARTHQUAKE In terms of Tokyo’s urban history, the disaster marked a definite turning point, not only because of its dimensions, but also because of its timing: it challenged the self-conception of the society at a critical point in its development. As Gennifer Weisenfeld concludes: Although proceeding from natural causes, the 1923 earthquake became a metaphor for the relentless destruction of tradition by modernity. For many Japanese, the earthquake recapitulated and accelerated the ruptures and dislocations of modernization, which had been subject of intense debate long before the tremor hit. The disaster not only crystallized these debates but also demonstrated the fragility of modern society: the greater the technological achievement, the more spectacular its destruction. The shock of the quake became the shock of the modern. 40

But what did this event mean for Western observers involved in architecture and urban planning? The information in European newspapers and journals was as voluminous as it was heterogeneous: numbers of casualties and material losses, names of diplomats and foreign residents killed or evacuated, 41 thoughts on the causes and effects of the earthquake in general and of specific phenomena in particular. 42 In the “Berliner Tageblatt”, for example, the earthquake dominated the front page for three days running before further incoming information and discussion on the event was moved to the rear. The actual news was then supplemented with thoughts on the consequences of the recent changes that had been made in building practices in Japan and discussions of the affected region, such as a report 40 Gennifer Weisenfeld, On Imaging Disaster: Tokyo and the Visual Culture of Japan’s Great Earthquake of 1923, in: The Asia-Pacific Journal 13, 6, 2, 2015. https://apjjf.org/2015/13/6/ Gennifer-Weisenfeld/4270.html; accessed 2.12.2019. See also a paper given by the politician Tsurumi Yusuke (1885–1973) in 1924, in: Yusuke Tsurumi, Present Day Japan, New York: Columbia University Press 1926, pp. 46 f. 41 Some original sources are assembled in Frank Käser (ed.), Deutschland und das Große Kantō-Erdbeben von 1923. Quellen aus deutschen Archiven, Munich: Iudicium 2014. The book contains some photographs as well, which have to be taken cautiously. At least one of the images supposedly depicting earthquake damage around Tokyo and Yokohama in 1923 was already published in regard to the Mino-Owari earthquake in 1891. 42 On visual media, specifically in Japan, see: Gennifer Weisenfeld, Imaging Disaster. Tokyo and the Visual Culture of Japan’s Great Earthquake of 1923, Berkley: University of California Press 2012.

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by a special correspondent written already before the quake in July 1923, or the article “Der japanische Hausbau” by architect Hermann Muthesius (1861–1927). The correspondent had once more described the country’s artistic nimbus, the implicitness of beauty in everyday Japan. He had puzzled about the deterioration of this beauty through Western influences in harbour cities, where industrial structures had emerged “exactly as in Hamburg”, where “a few of the pretty, low wooden cottages” were surrounded by buildings “in the bland utilitarianism of our commercial buildings and tenements.” 43 It was exactly this kind of architecture, which came under scrutiny afterwards for its role in the disaster. Muthesius defended the Western structures – some of which he had helped to build more than thirty years earlier – in his short essay and blamed the well-known shortcomings of Japan’s wooden structures instead. He observed a Japanese reluctance to build in an entirely Western manner, despite the general intelligence and understanding of its people, a phenomenon credited to their peculiar Japanese-ness. 44 His argumentation perpetuated the patterns of European earthquake discourse, which had been established already in late nineteenth century. 45 He conceded, however, that in the face of a quake of the magnitude experienced in Tokyo, even “reinforced and massive buildings fail”, thus increasing the risk of their users being killed by collapsing building parts. 46 While these two authors, the correspondent and the architectural expert, followed established narrative practices about Japanese architecture and cities, the cataclysm was reflected upon in a more matter-of-fact way in other articles, above all those appearing in English-language specialist journals. Here, the different causes of destruction (earthquake, fire, flood wave) and different construction principles were addressed separately. Hence, the analyses did not address the cities in general but the elements that made up the cities in a technical sense. Interestingly, these contributions were not primarily concerned with contrasting the earthquake-induced collapses of wooden (Japanese) houses with those of the massive (Western) buildings of different kinds, since neither were particularly numerous in the two affected cities. Instead, their authors looked for patterns of damage. The observations were aimed at finding solutions to prevent the recurrence of such widespread destruction of buildings and infrastructure – even if they involved making “the new Tokio a city of steel and concrete, which may rob it of some of its former picturesque charm”. 47 43 Viator, In Japan, in: Berliner Tageblatt und Handels-Zeitung 52, 426, 11.09.1923, pp. 1 f. 44 Hermann Muthesius, Der japanische Hausbau, in: Berliner Tageblatt und Handels-Zeitung 52, 429, 13.09.1923, 1. Beiblatt. 45 Beate Löffler, Thwarted Innovation: The Western Discourse on Earthquake Resistance in Japanese Architecture – a historical review, in: Construction History 34, 2, 2019, pp. 35–52. Much more extensive on this issue, see Gregory Clancey, Earthquake Nation. The Cultural Politics of Japanese Seismicity, 1868–1930, Berkeley: University of California Press 2006. 46 Muthesius, Hausbau (cf. n. 44). 47 Rebuilding of Japan’s cities, in: The Builder 125, 14.09.1923, p. 396. Further, see for example Charles Davison, The Earthquake in Japan, in: The Builder 125, 21.09.1923, p. 437; Idem., The effects on buildings of the Japanese earthquakes of 1923, in: The Builder 127,

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In parallel, some essays addressed or discussed trans-national support for Japan, and/or the consequences such an event might have on Japan’s further development. 48 An anonymous author, for example, wrote a piece for the wellestablished British periodical “The Building News and Engineering Journal” that blended a number of issues: the evidently sensible Japanese tradition of erecting buildings that were merely temporary, and the “loss of brain power and directive ability that may well imperil the country’s future for some years to come” and might temporarily “sink [the country] to a second-rate power”. The text ended with a prognostic summary that inserted the challenges facing Japan into a global framework: With the rebuilding of the French and Belgian devastated areas, the reconstruction of Japanese cities and towns, the overtaking of the world shortage of building caused by the war, architects and builders everywhere have before them a task such as they have never had to face in history. 49

This contribution may appear to be a typical expression of the self-assurance of Western engineers at first, especially since it goes on to encourage American earthquake experts to support their Japanese colleagues in developing earthquakeresistant structures. However, a half-sentence captured what some engineers might in fact have been experiencing in the face of the devastation: “that terrible feeling of hopeless impotence aroused by what is commonly called ‘an act of God’.” 50 While none of the aforementioned accounts included illustrations of the earthquake, visuals of the destruction became available to a broader Western audience within about two weeks after the event at the latest. 51 The image resolution in many of the newspapers was comparatively low; thus the overall information came across, but details were difficult to come by. This was evident with two richly illustrated articles published in architectural journals some months after the disaster. In February 1924, Franz Baltzer along with Bernhard Berrens (1880–1927), a mechanical engineer and founder of the

48

49 50 51

05.12.1923, p. 893. See also an older contribution: Idem., Earthquakes and Steel-brickbuildings, in: The Builder 124, 25.05.1923, p. 864; X, Lettre Du Japon. La Reconstruction De La Zone Détruite Par Le Tremblement De Terre De Septembre, in: L’architecture 3, 10.02.1924, pp. XVII; La Construction au Japon, in: La Construction Moderne, 27.04.1924, pp. 354 f.; A.M., Le Ciment Armé Au Japon Durant Les Tremblements De Terre De 1923 …, in: L’architecture 24, 25.12.1924, pp. IX f. The Japanese earthquake, in: The Building News and Engineering Journal 125, 21.09.1923, p. 309; Rebuilding Japan, in: The Building News and Engineering Journal 125, 05.10.1923, p. 364; The re-building of Japan, in: The Building News and Engineering Journal 125, 02.11.1923, p. 474. The Japanese earthquake (cf. n. 48). Ibid. Weisenfeld, On Imaging Disaster (cf. n. 40); Idem., Imaging Disaster (cf. n. 42), pp. 35 f.

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German school of engineering in Shanghai, 52 commented on a series of 16 photographs for the very influential “Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung”. 53 The two authors had to make deductions based on the visual material alone, albeit guided by their experience in the region and their general technical competence. Figure 10, chosen as one of the examples, shows the Asakusa Sensō-ji, one of the oldest and most venerated religious places in Tokyo, which had remained undamaged – much to Baltzer’s astonishment. The people on the street in the middle of the image make it possible to judge the distances and proportions of the area. The condition of the Western-style building in the foreground and the much smaller two-storied fireproof storehouse, kura, in the centre of the picture indicate that the area had been affected by fire. Another image, Figure 11, showed a close-up of the corner of the new headquarters of the Nippon Yūsen shipping company, designed by Sone Tatsuzō (1853–1937) and just recently completed. Parts of the decorative building envelope broke away, laying bare the building’s apparently undamaged load-bearing structure.

Fig. 10: Asakusa kwannon temple, temple gate and five-storied tower (pagoda) (left); Fig. 11: New administration building of Nippon Yusen Kwaisha (shipping company) (right)

Civil engineer Rudolf Briske was able to assess the damage on site. However, while his article in “Der Bauingenieur” was probably the most comprehensive and analytic in German, the 28 pictures leave a lot to be desired when it comes to urban considerations. 54 The images are very small and their content largely 52 Li Lezeng, Dresdner Dozenten an der Tongji-Universität China, in: Technische Universität Dresden, University archives. https://tu-dresden.de/ua/dokumentationen/pressespiegel/ dresdner-dozenten-an-der-tongji-universitaet-china; accessed 26.3.2020. 53 Franz Baltzer / Bernhard Berrens, Die Wirkungen des Erdbebens in Japan am 1. September 1923, in: Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 44, 9, 27.02.1924, pp. 69–74. 54 Rudolf Briske, Das Erdbebenunglück in Japan vom Standpunkt des Bauingenieurs, in: Der Bauingenieur 5, 11, 15.06.1924, pp. 327–334. See also Idem., Die Erdbebensicherheit von Gebäuden, in: Die Bautechnik 5, 30, 08.07.1927, pp. 425–430; 5, 32, 22.07.1927, pp. 453– 457; Idem., Die Erdbebensicherheit von Ingenieurbauten, in: Die Bautechnik 5, 39, 06.09.1927, pp. 547–555.

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focused on the interests of a civil engineer or seismologist documenting natural phenomena and structural issues. 55

Fig. 12: Tokyo, Manseibashi Station by Tatsuno Kingo (1854–1919), 1912, in 1923 (left); Fig. 13: Tokyo, Ryōgoku Kokugikan by Tatsuno Kingo (1854–1919) and Kasai Manji (1863–1942), 1909, in 1923 (right)

Fig. 14: Tokyo, Azumabashi in 1923 (left); Fig. 15: Yokohama after the earthquake, collected by J. H. Messervey before March 1924 (right)

Some motifs similar to those in the journal articles were distributed in Japan as picture postcards, such as the twisted streetcar tracks of Azumabashi or the bulky structure of the Sumo stadium (Figs. 13, 14), thus pointing towards this masscommunication medium’s efficiency and timeliness. How widely and how quickly such motifs made their way to a general Western audience remains largely unknown but for single cases such as the Reynolds Collection held by Brown University Library. 56 Yet, for the matter at hand, these postcards are a valuable source on architecture due to their significantly higher image resolution. 55 The single bird’s-eye view supposedly showing a devastated Yokohama is interesting. It was most probably reproduced from the same original as the copy held in the USGS Denver Library Photographic Collection, sent to the United States by J. H. Messervey in a letter dated March 5, 1924. It belongs to the same portfolio as the image reproduced here in Figure 13. 56 For the material collected on site immediately in September 1923, see: The Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923: About this Project, in: Brown University Library, Center for Digital Scholarship. https://library.brown.edu/cds/kanto/about.html; accessed 26.3.2020. The dissemination of images of destruction and reconstruction in Western newspapers will probably be traceable within a few years as mass-media publications become further digitized.

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Postcard images of single buildings, often paired with older images of the same structures before the earthquake, gave a good impression of the scope of the destruction. They often depicted structures of Japan’s modern architectural infrastructure that had endured in recognizable form: the outer walls of Manseibashi Station, for example, remained in place. The representative façade, designed by Tatsuno Kingo (1854–1919) on the model of Tokyo Central Station and completed in 1912, was still recognizable as an urban landmark even though the roof was burnt out (Fig. 12). Similarly, the walls and dome of the Sumo stadium in Ryōgoku remained in place (Fig. 13). This building for the very popular Japanese wrestling competitions was initially designed by Tatsuno and Kasai Manji (1863– 1942), in 1909 but had required reconstruction after a fire in 1917. Despite its appearance of having survived in the photographs of 1923, the building could not be saved and had to be replaced again. In the case of Azumabashi, the two separate bridges for pedestrians and streetcars collapsed entirely, while the framework of the 1880s road bridge survived damaged (Fig. 14). Overview photographs and aerial photographs of the affected region showed the scope of destruction in a much broader context but were difficult to evaluate in terms of future urban development plans without the help of significant topographical landmarks, particularly for foreigners unfamiliar with the cities. 57 Better than did most of the motifs from Tokyo, a photograph of Yokohama gave an impression of the challenges of reconstruction (Fig. 15). Here, the topography and the structural significance of the ruins give an impression of the spatial dimensions and impact of the earthquake but make it possible to recognize the place. The photo was taken from Nogeyama, a slight elevation about two kilometres west of the harbour. The background hill at the right edge stands in Yamate, a residential neighbourhood also known as The Bluff that overlooked the harbour, the old foreign settlement and the city centre, and that housed part of the foreign community of Yokohama. The skeleton of a dome in the centre of the picture marks the Yokohama Specie Bank Building (Yokohama Shōkin Ginkō, 1904) by Tsumaki Yorinaka (1859–1916) and Endō Oto (1866– 1943). The burned tree trunks in the foreground, the fragments of buildings here and there and the lines of roads in the middle make it possible to sense the absent city: there was no clean slate or actual wasteland to build on, but an opportunity and even an imperative to reframe the urban form in the course of reconstruction. This is the angle from which the German architect and urban designer Fritz Schumacher (1869–1947) approached the problem with his suggestions for Tokyo’s reconstruction in late 1924: 58 57 For more visual material, see Ōsaka Asahi Shinbunsha (ed.), Daishinsai shashin gahō [Pictorial of the Great Kantō Earthquake], 3 vols., Ōsaka: Ōsaka Asahi Shinbunsha 1923, and, extensively, Bureau of Social Affairs, Home Office, Japan (ed.), The Great Earthquake of 1923 in Japan, Tokyo: Home Office, Bureau of Social Affairs 1926; and Idem. (ed.), Companion Maps and Diagrams to the Great Earthquake of 1923 in Japan, Tokyo: Home Office, Bureau of Social Affairs 1926. 58 Fritz Schumacher, Der Plan zum Wiederaufbau von Tokyo, in: Deutsche Bauzeitung 96, 29.11.1924, pp. 33–37. For context, especially Japanese interests, see Hein/Ishida, Japanische

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Beate Löffler Out of cruel misfortune a happiness can grow for the future, if the present time succeeds in using the room for manoeuvring which a terrible blow of fate has created and clears away everything old, using this opportunity for the significant development of the technical skills and social aspirations of today. The painful process of transformation that every growing metropolis must undergo in all its old parts is replaced here by an agonizing cut that now gives room for new healthy tissue to unfold unimpeded. 59

Schumacher’s analysis came in response to a visit by Fukuda Shigeyoshi, a planning official involved in Tokyo’s reconstruction office, 60 and his request for an expression of opinion on their plans. This critique of the perceived shortcomings in the proposed project followed the lines of the discussion of the technological, infrastructural and administrative possibilities and prospects of urban planning going on in Europe at this time, in which the architectural re-organisation of the city might mean the re-organisation of its residents in alignment with the needs of a modern society. In contrast to Bartning’s and Jessen’s earlier ideal conceptions of naturally developing cities, Schumacher’s comments were based on abstract overall planning concepts, such as those underlying the reconstruction of Hamburg after the fire in 1842, the re-organization of Paris under the aegis of GeorgesEugène Haussmann (1809–1891) or Le Corbusier’s (1887–1965) vision of the Ville Contemporaine, 1922. This approach was in line with the plans made in Japan immediately after the earthquake, which reflected the intention to apply advanced Western techniques of planning and to control the independent initiatives of landowners. 61 Thus, the discourses on Tokyo’s reconstruction were characterized by a global exchange of engineering and planning concepts, in which the ideas of technological innovation were given far greater priority than were the questions of cultural identity or exoticism that had been so prevalent in Western media on Japan until then. REPRESENTING POST-EARTHQUAKE TOKYO TO THE WORLD In 1929, the Bureau of Reconstruction presented a summary of the reconstruction effort in Tokyo and Yokohama in a document combining text, statistics, photographs and some maps. 62 Two main features are significant in this volume: its use 59 60 61 62

Stadtplanung (cf. n. 32). Schumacher, Plan zum Wiederaufbau (cf. n. 58), p. 33. Hein/Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung (cf. n. 32), p. 204. Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 32), p. 126. Bureau of Reconstruction, Home Office, Japan (ed.), The Outline of the Reconstruction Work in Tokyo & Yokohama, Tokyo: Home Office, Bureau of Reconstruction 1929. The evaluation of the damage as well as the plans for reconstruction were often expressed in maps. It would be worthwhile to discuss their specific means of representing information in this context, but to do so would far exceed the scope of this essay. It should thus suffice here to refer to this source genre as a means of ordering urban space in a very abstract sense, as is evident in the maps accompanying Schumacher’s contribution as well as the reports on the reconstruction work. For an introduction, see for example Kären Wigen / Sugimoto Fumiko / Cary Karacas (eds.), Cartographic Japan: A History in Maps, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 2016,

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of before-and-after pictures and its technical character. The before-and-after pictures did not illustrate the process of reconstruction out of the rubble and ashes of the earthquake, but showed the application of planning tools such as land readjustment, while other images gave examples of new infrastructure such as bridges. This underlines the dominance of technical information in this report, in which social or aesthetic issues are absent aside from references to special regulations in building law or administrative procedure. 63 While not surprising in itself given the context and the function of the institution generating the report, this approach limits urban planning and the discourse on the urban to the realm of engineering, law and infrastructure; the city is a problem to be solved, and this by a certain group of experts in engineering or planning on the one hand, and by means of administration on the other. The social and artistic dimensions of the city, which were addressed in parallel with such technical positions as an ever-present topic in European discourses, were absent here. Some other English-language publications on Tokyo and its reconstruction were very similar in content but – probably with a more general audience in mind – were more popular in approach. A volume from 1930, issued by the Tokyo Municipal Office, included a short history of the city accompanied by many photographs, but these did not so much complement the text as present Tokyo as a city beyond devastation and reconstruction. 64 One year later, the same institution published another book with very similar content but no mention of reconstruction in its title, yet with more photographs of the devastation than the earlier volume had contained. 65 Still another publication on the city of Tokyo, issued in a revised version in 1936, once more showed the modern, Western urbanity of the capital with some sprinkling of traditional Japanese-ness. 66 Without the title on the book cover and these pictures of well-known sightseeing motifs, it would have been difficult to recognize the city by its visual portrayal as a specific place somewhere, and even less as a non-Western metropolis in Asia: the photographs of the rebuilt city show the contemporaneity of structures and urban practices that had started to manifest already before the quake, 67 including some historicist and reformist architecture, high-rises, women in skirt suits and men in trench coats, streetcars and buses, bird’s-eye perspectives and aerial views.

63 64 65 66 67

especially therein J. Charles Schencking, Mapping Death and Destruction in 1923, pp. 151– 154 and André Sorensen, Rebuilding Tokyo after the Great Kanto Earthquake, pp. 155 ff. Bureau of Reconstruction (ed.), The Outline (cf. n. 62), pp. 39 ff. Tokyo Municipal Office (ed.), Tokyo, Capital of Japan. Reconstruction work, 1930, Tokyo: Tokyo Municipal Office 1930. Tokyo Municipal Office (ed.), The City of Tokyo: municipal administration and government, Tokyo: Tokyo Municipal Office 1931. Tokyo Municipal Office (ed.), Tokyo, rev. ed., Tokyo: Tokyo Municipal Office 1936. On this, see the extensive treatment by Ken Tadashi Oshima, International Architecture in Interwar Japan. Constructing Kokusai Kenchiku, Seattle: University of Washington Press 2009.

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Fig. 16: Tokyo, Kiyosubashi, postcard, 1928–1933 (left); Fig. 17: Tokyo, Marunouchi Building (Sakurai Kotarō (1870–1953), 1923–1926), postcard, 1926–1933 (right)

Fig. 18: Tokyo, Ginza Crossing with Mitsukoshi Department store, postcard, 1930–1933 (left); Fig. 19: Buildings of Mitsui and Mitsukoshi near Nihonbashi, postcard, 1929–1933 (right)

The same is true of the picture postcards of Tokyo that did not depict historical sightseeing spots (Figs. 16–19). The Kiyosu Bridge is a steel construction which at the time of its completion in 1928 was structurally on par with prestigious bridge projects in Germany, as the report on the reconstruction work pointed out. 68 The Marunouchi Building across from Tokyo Station was already under construction when the earthquake hit in 1923 but survived largely undamaged. Figures 18 and 19 show scenes of urban life in the central business and entertainment area between Nihonbashi in the north and Ginza and Tsukiji in the south. These scenes had already been a classic motif before the destruction hit, and they remained so for decades to come. While many of the stout buildings with historic facades were interchangeable, the means of transport – most notably the airplanes – date the photographs and underline the modernity of the resurrected capital’s daily life. To be sure, this modernity of representation was not always straightforward or undisputed. 69 A paper concurring with the official report on the reconstruction and 68 Bureau of Reconstruction (ed.), The Outline (cf. n. 62), p. 60 and esp. p. 72. 69 It would be instructive to compare the positions taken on Tokyo and Yokohama with those on non-affected Japanese cities such as Osaka, or on more remote places in Japan in which the urban development of the 1920s and 1930s perhaps took a different course.

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addressing a global audience showed a great deal of ambivalence. It was delivered at the World Engineering Congress in Tokyo in 1929 by Sano “Riki” Toshikata (1880–1956). An architect with a focus on seismology, Sano was also the president of the Architectural Institute of Japan (AIJ) in that same year, which makes his position not necessarily the leading national doctrine but an important stance in Japan nevertheless. 70 Sano started his paper with a reference to Japan’s history, its unique building tradition and the changes since the re-establishment of external political relationships seven decades earlier. He hinted at the hardships brought by these changes, the necessity of embracing them nonetheless and the price that must be paid in a cultural sense, since the upkeep and further development of ancestral practices “is after all nothing but a dream, an adoration of the past, a subject which shall be duly dwelt upon.” 71 The further argumentation outlined the decisions made to integrate new knowledge and to enhance competence in construction. Here too, Sano showed some ambivalence: As the conditions of our country are as outlined, we of the present generation must not be concerned with the recollection of our mere admiration of our traditional culture, even though it is dear to our hearts. Reason peremptorily dictates that in order to live we must squarely face the most momentous problems, the efficiency value of buildings. Thus our efforts are concerned with the following; 1. How shall we plan our buildings to afford the uttermost efficiency befitting the present age? (Science of Planning). 2. How shall we construct these buildings to be proof against fire and earthquake? (Science of Construction). 3. How shall we construct these buildings in the most quick [sic!] and economical manner? (Science of Execution). These are almost the whole achievement for which we should strive. 72

After underlining the role of technology-based and innovation-driven engineering, Sano returned to reflections on the cultural parameters of architecture. His argumentation built a frame of reference in which Japan could both express its achievements in the global technological competition and stress its unique cultural identity, since the Japanese were “well aware that there runs in our veins an unadulterated quality of taste bequeathed to us by our ancestors.” 73 With civil engineering and style-bound modern architecture coded as Western and thus not (yet) an intrinsic part of Japanese-ness, the architectural actors of this time were evidently challenged to write an inclusive narrative of modern Japanese architecture and the city, even more so a narrative that communicated with the

70 For information on Sano in Japan, see Designing against Disaster, in: Mosaic 8, 6, 1977, pp. 33–37, and Oshima, International Architecture (cf. n. 67), p. 176. 71 Riki Sano, Recent Development of Architecture in Japan, in: World Engineering Congress (ed.), World Engineering Congress, Tokyo 1929: Proceedings, 7. Architecture and Structural Engineering, 1. Architecture, Tokyo: Kogakkai 1931, pp. 1–11, here p. 1 f. 72 Ibid., pp. 2 f. 73 Ibid., p. 3.

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West as well. 74 This was further complicated by the Western conviction of their ongoing technological superiority as it was expressed in the famous story of the undamaged survival of Frank Lloyd Wright’s (1867–1959) Imperial Hotel in Tokyo. 75 It was the Japanese visual artists who found ways to merge the different aspects in depicting their cities. Some used the means of photography; 76 others found ways toward a new visual language of the woodblock print. 77 There are two sets of prints from these years in the tradition of the meisho zue, the illustrated guides to famous places, or that of woodblock print series such as Hiroshige’s (1797–1858) “One Hundred Famous Views of Edo”, 1856–1858. The “One Hundred Views of New Tokyo”, Shin Tōkyō hyakkei, were created between 1928 and 1932 by a group of eight artists. 78 They continued established motifs and brought new ones into play 79 (Figs. 20–22). Nihonbashi appeared yet again, by now no longer a formal newcomer in the urban fabric but a comparatively traditional element, next to the newly built Kiyosubashi with its riveted steel frame (see also Fig. 16). The night scene of the Kabuki Theatre seamlessly fused the stylistic elements of Japan’s building history in its 1930s application with the streetcar passing in front. The second series, “One Hundred Views of Great Tokyo in the Showa Period”, Shōwa Daitōkyō hyaku zue hanga, was created by Koizumi Kishio (1893– 1945) between 1928 and 1940. Here as well, the continuation of an urban (hi)story was as evident as were the changes associated with modernity, loss and reconstruction (Figs. 23–25). The night scene of Ginza shows close parallels to 74 Richard Neutra’s three essays of 1931 similarly consider the interrelationship of buildingrelated and cultural issues in architecture, illustrated by predominantly modern structures by Japanese architects. Richard J. Neutra, Gegenwärtige Bauarbeit in Japan, in: Die Form 6, 1, 1931, pp. 22–28; ibid., Japanische Wohnung. Ableitung. Schwierigkeiten, in: Die Form 6, 3, 1931, pp. 92–97; idem., Neue Architektur in Japan, in: Die Form 6, 9, 1931, pp. 333–340. 75 This story, well-known in architectural history due to the famous architects involved, is an interesting case of myth making and ignorance that merits an own essay. See for an introduction to this building Kevin Nute, Frank Lloyd Wright and Japan. The role of traditional Japanese art and architecture in the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold 1993, esp. pp. 152–156. 76 See for example the relevant period in Japan Photographers Association (ed.), A Century of Japanese Photography, London: Hutchinson 1981. 77 James Ulak’s essays in the context of MITs Visualizing Culture program are a good entry point in this regard: James T. Ulak, Tokyo Modern – I. Koizumi Kisho’s “100 Views” of the Imperial Capital, 2009. https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/tokyo_modern_01/index.html; accessed 20.12.2019; Idem, Tokyo Modern – II. Koizumi Kisho’s “100 Views” – Annotations & Gallery, 2009, https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/tokyo_modern_02/index.html; accessed 20.12.2019; Idem, Tokyo Modern – III. “100 Views” by 8 Artists (1928–1932) – Gallery, 2009. https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/tokyo_modern_03/index.html; accessed 20.12.2019. 78 James B. Austin, Shin Tokyo Hyakkei. The Eastern Capital Revisited by the Modern Print Artists, in: Ukiyo-e geijutsu 14, 1966, pp. 3–14, here pp. 3 f. 79 For the overall context, see also Beate Löffler, Designing a Global City: Tokyo, in: Andreas Exenberger / Philipp Strobl / Günter Bischof / James Mokhiber (eds.), Globalization and the City: Two Connected Phenomena in Past and Present, Innsbruck 2013, pp. 191–206.

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the urban cityscapes of London or Berlin produced at this time, with business, traffic and entertainments overlapping in the colourful lights of advertisements and streetlights. The same attention is given to older buildings and places that escaped the earthquake’s destruction, such as the Fudōdō of Meguro Ryūsenji.

Fig. 20: Nihonbashi (left); Fig. 21: Kiyosu Bridge (right)

Fig. 22: The Kabuki Theatre at Night (left); Fig. 23: Night View of Ginza in the Spring (right)

Fig. 24: Fudōdō Temple at Meguro (left); Fig 25: Yanagi Bridge in the Night Rain (right)

These spheres of Tokyo’s urban life, which in the eyes of most Western observers represented two different realities of Japanese society, existed side by side or even

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overlapped but rarely met overtly in the prints, except for a woman in a kimono in front of a high-rise building or some subtle play with established motifs such as the soft lights and parasol-protected women on the new Yanagi Bridge, completed in 1929. 80 It is difficult to estimate the level of influence that these developments in Japanese woodblock prints had on their non-Japanese audiences, even though Japan’s modern visual art is held by many museums, archives and private collections in the West. 81 It might suffice to point out that it was not only the art of the Edo period that was available to Western Japanophiles during the early twentieth century. For a German architect or artist, the idea of a contemporary Tokyo could have been (re-)formed over time by photographs, picture postcards, woodblock prints and other visual material as well. 82 But was it? Did all of these new textual and visual materials produced in the wake of the earthquake and reconstruction, in the context of social change and further modernization in Japan, in fact change Western perceptions of Tokyo’s urban environment? THE PERSISTENT DREAM OF THE NON-MODERN JAPANESE CITY Karl Haushofer’s regional study of Japan, issued in its second edition in 1933, provided no new insights concerning urban or architectural matters. He assigned a minor role to architecture due to the risk of earthquakes and the use of wood, while commenting on the homeliness, quality and pragmatism of housing and the admirable interconnectedness of building and landscape – all characteristics that had already been attributed to Japan’s architecture for decades. 83 80 Taito City Culture Guide Archives, Taito City’s Historical Sites and Noted Places: Taito, Kojima, Misuji, Torigoe, Kuramae, Yanagibashi, Asakusabashi, n.d. https://www.culture. city.taito.lg.jp/bunkatanbou/landscape/english/taito_01.html; accessed 30.10.2021. 81 See for example The Library of Congress, Washington D.C., https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/ ukiyo-e/beyond.html; accessed 21.12.2019; Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh, https://cmoa.org/; accessed 22.12.2019; The Wolfsonian–FIU, Miami Beach, FL, The Mitchell Wolfson, Jr. Collection, https://wolfsonian.org/; accessed 22.12.2019; Nihon no hanga print collection, Amsterdam, http://www.nihon-no-hanga.nl/; accessed 22.12.2019. 82 There is significant literature on these prints, but to the best of the author’s knowledge at present, it might take some work to relate this issue to urban and architectural contexts. See for example Oliver Statler, Modern Japanese Prints: An Art Reborn, Rutland/VT: Tuttle 1956; Lawrence Smith, Modern Japanese Prints, 1912–1989. Woodblocks and Stencils, London: British Museum Press 1994; Marianne Lamonaca, Tokyo: The Imperial Capital Woodblock Prints by Koizumi Kishio, 1928–1940, Miami Beach/FL: Wolfsonian, FIU 2003; Amanda T. Zehnder (ed.), Modern Japanese prints. The twentieth century, Pittsburgh/PA: Carnegie Museum of Art 2009; Chris Uhlenbeck / Amy Newland / Maureen de Vries, Waves of Renewal. Modern Japanese prints, 1900 to 1960. Selections from the Nihon no hanga collection, Amsterdam, Leiden: Hotei Publishing 2016; Marije Jansen, Japan: Modern. Japanese prints from the Elise Wessels collection, Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum 2017. 83 Karl Haushofer, Japan und die Japaner. Eine Landes- u. Volkskunde, Leipzig: Teubner 2 1933, pp. 112, 116, 118 f.

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In 1936, the Japanese Government Railways (Tetsudōshō) published a German-language travel guide in addition to its much broader range of Englishlanguage guidebooks of both Japanese and non-Japanese origin. The introduction to Tokyo combines dry facts with an inviting narration. After some lines of geographical data, attention is drawn to the highly developed transportation system, which makes “it possible to reach even the most remote points of the city quickly and comfortably.” 84 Something similar was stated about Tokyo’s convenience as a jumping-off spot for nationwide travel. This kind of information was in itself appropriate for a travel guide. Together with the following paragraph, however, it becomes evident that this introduction resonated with the interests expressed in earlier travelogues: 85 Already upon leaving the station, the traveller will notice the contrast between the Western and the Eastern world. The station itself is a very large building in the European style. On the opposite side of the station square there are enormous office buildings, like those found in all metropolises. But from the main entrance of the station, one sees the Imperial Palace some distance away. At the edge of the ancient moat, the massive palace walls rise up, overgrown with old and fantastically shaped pine trees. This contrast is characteristic for the whole capital. It is fair to say that the introduction of Western architecture and Western customs and ideas has not yet had a great impact on the lives of the vast majority of the population. This is especially true of life outside the big cities, where even today there are but few indications of fundamental change. The Japanese civilization, developed over 2600 years, is deeply rooted, and its contrast to Western civilization is one of the most interesting features of Japan, especially for the foreign visitor to the country. 86

Here, in these two paragraphs, the distinguishing features of Japan’s specific Japanese-ness are summed up and applied to a city in concepts comprehensible to any German-language reader with some Japanographic background knowledge. It does not matter that the walls of the castle area are nearly 800 metres away from the station and virtually invisible from that vantage point, even to a practiced eye. It is likewise irrelevant that Tokyo’s urban landscape embodied not so much two different Japans, but rather varying degrees of modernity within a single cultural sphere both in terms of social practices and in the built environment: 87 The travel guide reached into its foreign readers’ (un)conscious images and imaginings of Japan to strengthen their interest in its national capital. To underline this observation, it is interesting to note just where the elements of traditional Japanese culture were localized in relation to the city and how this allocation changed over time. In Rutherford Alcock’s “Capital of the Tycoon”, 84 Reiseverkehrszentrale der Japanischen Staatsbahn (ed.), Kleiner Führer durch Japan. Mit besonderem Hinweis auf Geschichte, Gewerbetätigkeit, Erziehung, Kunst, Sitten und Gebräuche, Tokyo: Reiseverkehrszentrale der Japanischen Staatsbahn 1936, p. 116. 85 A deeper analysis of the textual interconnectedness of these textual media might yield more insights – the more so since the 1933 English edition opted to forego this. 86 Reiseverkehrszentrale (ed.), Kleiner Führer durch Japan (cf. n. 84), p. 116. 87 Reflecting on this, it becomes evident that this kind of modern Japan is by no means comprehensible and discussible along the lines of a dichotomist Western-ness or Japanese-ness. It might be worthwhile to bring Shmuel Eisenstadt’s concept of multiple modernity further into the analysis of global urbanity than has been done to date.

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1863, the entire city partook in it. Eliza Scidmore, in “Jinrikisha days in Japan”, 1891, commented that despite the modernization there were “many corners, however, which the march of improvement has not reached, odd, unexpected, and Japanese enough to atone for the rest.” 88 At nearly the same time, the abovementioned Hans Graf von Königsmarck was convinced that the authentic Japan was now only to be found outside the cities: in the eyes of some Western visitors, Japanese cities were losing their Japanese-ness. 89 In the dualistic logic that pervaded the cultural accounts, this should have meant that Japan’s cities won recognition as appropriately Western and modern, most notably Tokyo with its up-to-date infrastructure and public buildings. Yet the cities remained objects of criticism. The German architect and urban planner Bruno Taut (1880–1938) was already well known for his residential developments in Berlin when he came to live in Japan between 1933 and 1936. With his essays and monographs on Japanrelated architectural issues, primarily published in English at that time, Taut became notorious as an admirer of Japanese building tradition. 90 However, his opinion of Japanese cities and above all on Tokyo was far from charitable. While he did not really discuss urban planning with regard to Japan in his texts, he did contextualize urban and architectural phenomena on occasion. He identified a disadvantageous role of the architect and planner in modern Japanese society and saw here the cause for "a culmination of international ugliness” 91 in some areas of Tokyo. Taut went as far as to say that Japan’s capital, “seen from the light railway between Yudobashi and Ueno, is perhaps the ugliest city in the whole world.” 92 He described something similar in the opening pages of “Houses and People of Japan”, 1937, when he sketched the car ride between Yokohama and Tokyo: The general impression was one of intolerable garishness. In the course of our travels we had only too often come up against civilization in decay. But this utter aimlessness, this total lack of direction even in bad taste, did more than shatter our illusion about Japan; it lacerated our finer feelings. After all, Berlin, Paris and London, even in their drearier aspects, are never devoid of character and integrity. 93

88 Eliza R. Scidmore, Jinrikisha days in Japan, New York: Harper & Brothers 1891, p. 43. 89 It might be worthwhile to trace this process of withdrawal further into the late twentieth century. A cursory glance provides evidence that Japanese-ness became more and more intangible over time. 90 See for example Bruno Taut, Architecture Nouvelle Au Japon, in: L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui 4, 1935, pp. 46–83; Idem, Das architektonische Weltwunder Japans, in: Nippon 2, 1935, pp. 2 ff.; Idem. / Glenn F. Baker / H. E. Pringsheim, Fundamentals of Japanese Architecture, Tokyo: Kokusai Bunka Shinkokai 1936; Bruno Taut, Houses and People of Japan, Tokyo: Sanseido 1937. 91 Taut, Architecture Nouvelle (cf. n. 90), p. 64, quoted after Idem.: Ich liebe die japanische Kultur. Kleine Schriften über Japan, Berlin: Gebrüder Mann 2003, p. 135. 92 Ibid., p. 135. 93 Taut, Houses and People (cf. n. 90), p. 2.

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In the following paragraphs of his narration, Taut described his depression and regrets. He recuperated to a degree when, somewhere in a town on the way to his residence in Takasaki, “the children in brightly coloured kimono supplied at long last a bit of genuine Japan.” 94 Taut’s writings might have been tantamount to the embedding of Japanese architectural history and the Japanese dwelling into Western architectural canones. Together with Yoshida Tetsuro’s (1894–1956) famous volume “Das Japanische Wohnhaus”, 1935, 95 it was Taut who provided the information on Japanese houses needed to satisfy the curiosity that had arisen ten years earlier in the context of inner-European struggles over interior design. Once more, Japan seemed to have a traditional solution just waiting to be used to innovate Western art. In terms of the discussion of the urban environment, however, Taut offered no help. His consternation was similar to that which Peter Jessen had expressed two decades earlier. Neither of them found their Sehnsuchtsort, their place of longing, in the utilitarian necessity of the cities. Both had to refer to rural Japan, to its seemingly pre-modern practices and values, to escape the shortcomings of modernity at home in Germany. It was probably the visitors from artistic circles who suffered most from the unmet expectations of contemporary Japan, even more so if their expections rested on the outdated images usually perpetuated in publications. Ivar Lissner (1909–1967), a journalist and intelligence officer, described this same environment in terms expressive of amazement, but also with endless curiosity about the otherness he experienced: In the car from Yokohama to Tokyo. Deep night. And it goes on and on without end, the city, house upon house, lights upon lights, shop after shop, and everywhere crowds of people. And it goes on and on. My God, Yokohama has to end sometime! But I’m disappointed. Mile after mile. But there’s no peace anywhere. Lights everywhere. And nowhere an open space. What are the great cities of America? What are the great cities of Europe? They all have a suburb somewhere, an end or a beginning. They all have a bedtime and a rising at some point. Here the night is bathed in light. The houses are small. The goods are on display as if it were broad daylight. People walk up and down. The women still carry children on their backs at this hour as if it were the most natural thing. This is a revelation, and it is the first time I have been touched by it, by Japan’s spacelessness. Now 10 miles have rolled by. Now 12, now 14, now 18. City …, city …, and only now does the city begin to rise. The houses are getting bigger. And with the facades, the neon signs are also growing into the sky. And here we are in Tokyo. Two cities have grown so big that their lives have collided. Now to Ginza! The little Japanese man drives his car so wonderfully fast and skilfully. And yet there’s no end to it. I am now standing on the Ginza. At last. It is still like a dream. I still have the endless expanses of the ocean, the coldness of the Aleutians, the boundlessness of Canada, the loneliness of its prairie and the horror of its emptiness in my limbs. And now the fairy tale road of Japan opens before me. Neon tube upon neon tube. Cascades of light, rushing in.

94 Ibid., p. 3. 95 Tetsuro Yoshida, Das Japanische Wohnhaus, Berlin: E. Wasmuth 1935.

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CONCLUSION In the end, the German accounts of Japan’s urban environment were shaped by necessity, but different kinds of it: the necessity of fulfilling one’s duty to the state administration at home, the necessity of finding a job, of making a place for oneself in a world full of competing nation-states and changing societies. Even the dreams of Japan’s otherness had their roots in necessity, both Western and Japanese: the Westerners sought inspiration for how to cope with the fallout from the industrialization and urbanisation that seemed to be changing their neighborhoods and society beyond recognition, sought spiritual solace in looking back into Japan’s supposedly pre-modern culture without having to give up their hegemonic political role for a moment. At the same time, Japan sought to foster cultural coherence in the face of ongoing change and to further connect with the hegemonic narratives in the global power struggle, aiming to earn a position of equality with the Western nations. 97 Thus, the perception of Japan as a modern nation-state, a military power and an economic competitor grew and changed in the German cultural sphere during the early twentieth century. Yet the observations and analyses by Germanlanguage writers remained pervaded by an attempt to hold on to the images created in the years of Japonism as well as the claim of superiority that underlay Western politics. Thus, urban phenomena were not analysed as a means of understanding culture and gaining insights into urban processes. While there were many different stances towards Japan’s and Tokyo’s otherness, it was discussed by all of the authors, with the possible exception of Otto Bartning, through glasses tinted by preconceptions and expectations. Thus, the cities were not evaluated for their own sake but as a foil against which to evaluate Japanese-ness, whether it be in a critical or commendatory way. Though they were willing to accept Japan as a role model in matters of traditional artistic accomplishment and nativeness, Western engineers and architects were not willing to accept Japan as an equal in any matter pertaining to modern technical or urban development. For them, the achievements of extensive 96 Ivar Lissner, Japanischer Bilderbogen, Hamburg: Hanseatische Verlagsanstalt 1941, p. 7. 97 To what extent the adherence to Western cultural expectations by Japanese decision-makers was intentional and conscious is not yet clear with regard to architecture and planning. There is evidence for and against it, but the research is ongoing. See for example Daniel Hedinger, Im Wettstreit mit dem Westen: Japans Zeitalter der Ausstellungen 1854–1941, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 2011 or Beate Löffler, Discovery, Search, Canonization and Loss. Japan’s Architectural Heritage as a Matter of Cultural Negotiation and Perception of Relevance in the Late Nineteenth Century, in: Simone Bogner / Gabi Dolff-Bonekämper / Hans-Rudolf Meier (eds.), Collecting Loss, Weimar: Bauhaus Universitätsverlag 2021, pp. 80–93.

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earthquake reconstruction might have spoken in favour of the organisational and administrative skills of Japanese government. In terms of urban planning discourses, however, these issues were not relevant. While German architects often discussed the urban in regard to mass housing in many technologial and formal variations, the international discourses on urban planning were not about solving these close-to-reality local problems but about the large-scale re-invention of the city, not least evidenced by the action taken for Berlin’s renewal between 1837–1943 or the Futurama at New York World’s Fair in 1939. Tokyo was not seen as a possible inspiration for the ‘city of tomorrow’ at this time. Consequently, the German-speaking actors proceeded to tell stories about Japanese cities and their alluring or defective otherness that had already been told during the nineteenth century – and this despite the contrary evidence contained in photographs and news reports. It would not be until the renewal of the post-war period that the discourses on progress and urban innovation, at least, would become reciprocal.

MODIFICATION OF THE GARDEN CITY CONCEPT IN JAPAN A Case Study on the Mukonosō Residential Area* Yūdai Deguchi As is well known, the garden city concept was systematically discussed in Ebenezer Howard’s “Garden Cities of To-morrow”, published in 1902. 1 It was based on the reform of capitalism and was premised on problems that surfaced in cities at the end of the 19th century. The concept was designed to share the land in the garden city and to return the development benefits of the land to the community, with the main feature being the reform of the capitalist land system. The Garden City Company (a semi-municipal corporation), which was funded by the residents, owned the land and developed the farmland and forest in order to return the profits gained from the increase in land prices due to the urbanisation to the community. 2 Moreover, Howard envisioned the garden city community as being selfmanaged by its residents. Indeed, it is well known that Howard’s garden city concept was realised in Letchworth, England. The garden city is one of the most influential concepts in the formation of modern urban planning in Japan. 3 The garden city concept has been an ideal and a norm for the cities of modern Japan. 4 It is believed that in 1907, a book titled “Garden Cities” (“Den’en toshi”) was published by members of the Bureau of Regions in the Home Ministry (Naimushō Chihōkyoku) which systematically

*

1 2 3 4

This chapter is based on my earlier papers: 1930 nendai Nihon ni okeru nōson no shigaichika to tochi mondai [Urbanisation of a Rural Area and Land Problems in Japan in the 1930s], in: Shigaku zasshi 127, 1, 2018, pp. 38–61 and Hankyū Mukonosō jūtakuchi no shakai shihon seibi katei [Development of Social Infrastructure of the Mukonosō residential area], in: Shakai keizai shigaku 84, 2, 2018, pp. 215–236. Ebenezer Howard, Garden Cities of To-morrow, London: Swan Sonnenschein 1902. The book is a revised version of Ebenezer Howard, To-morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform, London: Swan Sonnenschein, which was published in 1898. The above description is based on Nishiyama Yaeko, Igirisu den’en toshi no shakaigaku [Sociology of the British Garden City], Kyoto: Mineruva Shobō 2002, ch. I. Watanabe Shun’ichi, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō: Kokusai hikaku kara mita Nihon kindai toshi keikaku [The Birth of “City Planning”: Japan’s Modern Urban Planning in International Comparison], Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō 1993, p. 41. Suzuki Yūichirō, Kindai Nihon no daitoshi keisei [The Formation of Big Cities in Modern Japan], Tokyo: Iwata Shoin 2004, p. 22.

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introduced the garden city concept for the first time. 5 After this, in Japan before the Second World War, many experts discussed urban planning and used the British garden city concept as a reference. 6 Studies on the acceptance of the garden city concept in Japan have progressed in the field of urban engineering, especially since the 1980s, and Watanabe Shun’ichi’s and Nishiyama Yasuo’s studies are some of the most representative. Watanabe’s study discussed the formative process of urban planning in modern Japan. 7 In this connection, Watanabe analysed the spread of the British garden city in Japan and stated that the term den’en toshi (the garden city) became widely accepted in Japan after 1915. In addition, Nishiyama categorised the discussion of the garden city concept in pre-war Japan into three main positions – its introduction, reinterpretation, and criticism – and analysed the genealogy of each. 8 However, much of the study in the field of urban engineering, including both of the above authors, focuses on analysing the discourses of the experts who discussed the garden city concept at the time. 9 Therefore, it is not sufficiently clear how the concept was embodied in the actual construction of cities in Japan. In this regard, Suzuki Yūichirō’s study in the field of history is important. 10 Suzuki analysed the formation process of the urban development plan by the predecessor companies of today’s Hankyū Corporation and Tōkyū Railways, which were the leading developers in Japan before the Second World War. He pointed out that the garden city concept was accepted in Japan as a practical model of suburban life, which featured the separation of work and home in the big cities in the 1900s. However, the process from land acquisition – which was the premise for the construction of the garden city – to the formation of community in the garden city has still not been sufficiently elucidated. 11 An empirical analysis of the Japanese garden city in these respects will inevitably reveal the differences to those of Europe.

5

Naimushō Chihōkyoku Yūshi, Den’en toshi [Garden Cities], Tokyo: Hakubunkan 1907. However, among the 15 chapters in this work, only chapters I and II discuss the garden city concept. 6 Nishiyama Yasuo, Nihon gata toshi keikaku to wa nani ka [What is Japanese-style Urban Planning?], Kyoto: Gakugei Shuppansha 2002, ch. VI. According to Nishiyama, there were 116 books and papers in Japan before the Second World War that referred to the British garden city concept. 7 Watanabe, “Toshi keikaku” no tanjō (cf. n. 3). 8 Nishiyama, Nihon gata toshi keikaku to wa nani ka (cf. n. 6), ch. VI. 9 In this regard, Nakamura Moto’s study in the field of history is the critical succession of the study in the field of urban engineering. Nakamura Moto, Kingendai Nihon no toshi keisei to “demokurashī” [Democracy and the Rise of Modern Cities in Japan], Tokyo: Yoshida Shoten 2018, ch. V. 10 Suzuki, Kindai Nihon no daitoshi keisei (cf. n. 4). 11 Relatedly, Takashima Shūichi’s study reveals that the landowners agreed to reduce their landholdings because they expected the fictional benefit of a land price increase after the completion of the land readjustment project. Takashima Shūichi, Toshi kinkō no kōchi seiri to chi’iki shakai [A Land Readjustment Project and Local Community in the Inter-war Tokyo Suburbs], Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Hyōronsha 2013.

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Therefore, we will discuss the following questions. How did the garden city concept, which was introduced to Japan from Europe, become embodied in the construction of cities in Japan? That is to say: (1) what kind of developers built garden cities in Japan?; (2) in Japan, how was an agreement reached between the developer and the landowners/tenant farmers on land acquisition, which is the premise of the garden city’s construction?; and (3) what was the reality of the garden city in Japan after the land acquisition was completed? This chapter examines these questions through a case study on the Mukonosō Residential Area (today Amagasaki City, Hyōgo Prefecture) 12, which was built by the Hankyū Corporation: a pioneer in garden city construction. Finally, we aim to clarify the uniqueness of the garden city in Japan. THE MODIFICATION OF THE GARDEN CITY CONCEPT IN JAPAN In Japan, heavy and chemical industries developed as a result of World War I. It led to a concentration of the population and the expansions of urban areas. Therefore, during the interwar period, the suburbs of big cities in Japan underwent an urbanisation. One of the representative urban developers were private railway companies, such as the Hankyū Corporation. In response to the deterioration of the existing urban environment in Japan at the time, the private railway companies actively developed residential areas in the suburbs along their railway lines and advertised them as garden cities with a living environment. The new middle-class of Japan yearned to live in these garden cities, which were heavily advertised by the railway companies. 13 Thus, the Japanese garden cities were built under the logic of capitalism. It contrasted with Howard’s concept, which envisions the overcoming of capitalist economic activity. 14 The Hankyū Corporation is one of the most well-known private railway companies in Japan. Its origin stems from the Minō-Arima Electric Tramway, which was established in 1907 with a capital of 5.5 million yen. Although the Tramway’s establishment was approved in December 1906, it risked dissolution due to difficulties in capital payment that arose as a result of the recession following the Russo–Japanese War (1904/05). Under these circumstances, Kobayashi Ichizō (1873–1957) 15 took over the management of the Minō-Arima Electric Tramway

12 13 14 15

Amagasaki City is located to the west of Osaka City and is a leading industrial city in Japan. Takashima, Toshi kinkō no kōchi seiri to chi’iki shakai (cf. n. 11), p. 34. Ibid., p. 73. Kobayashi Ichizō was born in what is today Yamanashi Prefecture. After graduating from the current Keiō University, he worked at Mitsui Bank (today the Sumitomo Mitsui Banking Corporation). He then retired form Mitsui Bank and became the senior managing director of Minō-Arima Electric Tramway in 1907. After changing the name of the Minō-Arima Electric Tramway to the Hankyū Corporation, Kobayashi became its president, and made efforts to form the Hankyū Tohō Group.

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in July 1907 with the support Iwashita Kiyochika (1857–1928), 16 the president of Kitahama Bank at the time. Kobayashi had previously worked as a subordinate of Iwashita at the Osaka branch of Mitsui Bank. It is believed that his relationship with Iwashita was important to Kobayashi’s entrepreneurial activities. 17 In October 1907, at the inaugural meeting of the Minō-Arima Electric Tramway, Kobayashi became its senior managing director, and he focused on developing the suburban residential areas along the Tramway. Kobayashi conceived a management strategy that combined an increase both in the number of passengers on the railway and in profits from the sale of residential areas. In addition, he envisioned the introduction of monthly instalments for the sales of suburban residential areas along the railway lines to make it easier for the new middle-class to purchase plots of land. This was first realised in the Ikeda-Muromachi residential area (today Ikeda City, Osaka Prefecture), which was built in 1910 by the MinōArima Electric Tramway. Subsequently, the Tramway continued to build suburban residential areas along the line. The management methods led by Kobayashi were considered as epoch-making in Japan at the time. Table 1: The Construction of Suburban Residential Areas by Hankyū Corporation along the Hankyū Kōbe Line Total Area (m²) Nishinomiya-Kitaguchi Residential Area Tsukaguchi Residential Area Shin-Itami Residential Area Sonoda Residential Area Mukonosō Residential Area

Selling Price for 3.3 m² Starting the Sell (year) (yen)

82,644.6

92.4–148.5

1931

79,338.8

52.8–75.9

1934

330,578.5

42.9–66.0

1935

234,353.7

66.0–118.8

1936

199,613.2

82.5–141.9

1937

In February 1918, the Tramway changed its name to the Hanshin Electric Express Corporation (Hankyū Corporation). Also after that, the Hankyū Corporation, still led by Kobayashi, actively developed the suburban residential areas along the line, just as it had done before, and the development of the Hankyū Kōbe Line is a 16 Iwashita Kiyochika was born in what is today Nagano Prefecture. Iwashita worked at the current Mitsui & Co. after serving as the head of the company’s Paris branch, having joined Mitsui Bank in 1891. After retiring from Mitsui Bank in 1896, he was involved in the establishment of the Kitahama Bank, becoming president in 1903. He also served as the president of the Minō-Arima Electric Tramway from 1908 to the first half of 1914. Afterwards, he actively provided loans to some of today’s leading companies in Japan such as OBAYASHI CORPORATION, Morinaga & Co. and UNITIKA. 17 Oikawa Yoshinobu / Watanabe Kei’ichi, Raifu sutairu o keisei shita tetsudō jigyō [The Formation of Lifestyle by Railway Business in Japan], Tokyo: Fuyō Shobō Shuppan 2014, p. 25.

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typical example of this. The corporation considered the Hankyū Kōbe Line as the “lifeline of our company”. 18 The line, which connects Umeda Station (Osaka City, Osaka Prefecture) and Sannomiya Station (Kōbe City, Hyōgo Prefecture), opened in July 1920 (Fig. 1). At the time, the areas along the line were mostly rural areas, thus it was an ideal location to build garden cities for the Hankyū Corporation. In the 1930s, the corporation built a series of suburban residential areas along the Hankyū Kōbe Line such as the Tsukaguchi residential area (today Amagasaki City, Hyōgo Prefecture) in 1934, the Shin-Itami residential area (today Itami City, Hyōgo Prefecture) in 1935, the Sonoda residential area (today Amagasaki City, Hyōgo Prefecture) in 1936, and the Mukonosō residential area (today Amagasaki City, Hyōgo Prefecture) in 1937 (Table 1).

Fig. 1: A map of the Hankyū Kōbe Line

However, the Hankyū Corporation’s method of constructing garden cities by developing rural areas along the railway line had the potential to create conflicts of interest if the farmers in the areas to be developed wanted to continue farming. Therefore, it is necessary to examine the process of land acquisition by developers for the construction of a garden city, paying attention to the formation of an agreement for the acquisition. We examine the issue as a case study on the Mukonosō residential area, which is located along the Hankyū Kōbe Line. THE CONSTRUCTION PROCESS OF THE MUKONOSŌ RESIDENTIAL AREA BY THE HANKYŪ CORPORATION The Hankyū Corporation built Mukonosō Station and the Mukonosō residential area in Muko Village (today Amagasaki City, Hyōgo Prefecture) in October 1937 (Fig. 2). In January 1934, the residents of Muko Village were informed of the Hankyū Corporation’s plan to build the Mukonosō residential area. The plan called for the construction of a residential area of approximately 200,000 square metres in the current Mukonosō area and approximately 130,000 square metres on 18 Hanshin Kyūkō Dentetsu Kabushiki Gaisha, Hanshin Kyūkō Dentetsu 25 nenshi [TwentyFive Years of the Hankyū Corporation], Osaka: Hanshin Kyūkō Dentetsu 1932, p. 16.

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Fig. 2: A map of the Mukonosō Residential Area

the east bank of the Mukogawa River. 19 Simultaneously, the Hankyū Corporation had planned the construction of the Shin-Itami and Sonoda residential areas and allocated employees to each of these construction projects, in addition to the residential area project. 20 The construction plan for the residential area was as follows: 21 1. The Mukonosō residential area totalled 30,000 square metres approximately; of which the residential area was approximately 18,000 square metres and there were 550 housing units. 2. The first phase (50 units) was scheduled for sale in October 1937; the second phase (50 units) was scheduled for March 1938. 3. The Mukonosō residential area was forecast to take between three and five years until the number of units in the residential area reached 500. 4. The Corporation planned a readjustment project in the Mukonosō residential area in cooperation with Muko village. The Corporation also acquired approximately 330,000 square metres of land in the surrounding area of the village to construct new residential areas. 5. Since the Mukonosō residential area was located on the Hankyū Kōbe Line and had good living environments, the urbanisation of the surrounding area would be realised within a few years. Therefore, the Mukonosō residential 19 In addition, the Hankyū Corporation promised to build a road connecting the Muko District and Tsukaguchi District when the construction of the Mukonosō residential area was realised. 20 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 60, 1954, p. 1; Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 61, 1954, p. 1. Mukonosō Bunkakaihō was the bulletin published by the Mukonosō residents’ association from November 1949 (No. 1) to January 1995 (No. 259). 21 Muko Village, Jūyō shorui tsuzuri [The Important Documents of Muko Village], Amagasaki Shiritsu Rekishi Hakubutsukan.

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area, like the Shin-Itami residential area that the Corporation built before, would be well developed. As such, the Hankyū Corporation carried out the construction of the Mukonosō residential area (Fig. 3). However, when they proceeded with the construction plan, they encountered conflicts with the farmers living in the development site – especially with the tenant farmers who wanted to continue farming. In addition, the landowners also responded in various ways to the Hankyū Corporation’s land acquisition.

Fig. 3: The rotary in front of Mukonosō Station (1937)

In Namazu, which was one of the sites to be built in the Mukonosō residential area, the tenant farmers were strongly opposed to the corporation’s acquisition of the land. Originally, Namazu had an issue with the relocation of the Naruo Racecourse. 22 In September 1931, when the land lease contract had expired, Namazu was selected as one of the candidates for the new location of the racecourse. The tenancy farmers in Namazu wanted to continue farming, so they asked the landowners not to sell the land. However, the landowners rejected this demand, which resulted in the tenant farmers forming the Namazu branch of the National Federation of Farmers’ Unions of Hyōgo Prefecture (Zennō Hyōgoken Rengōkai), who then started a tenancy dispute to prevent the return of their land to the landowners. 23 This dispute was finally settled when the Naruo Racecourse renewed its 22 The Naruo Racecourse was constructed in 1907. It was the first racecourse in the Kansai region. 23 Nōrinshō Nōmukyoku, Kosaku sōgi oyobi chōtei jirei [Peasant Disputes and Arbitration Cases], Tokyo: Nōrinshō Nōmukyoku 1936, p. 500.

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previous contract. However, even after this incident, several tenancy disputes occurred in Namazu over reducing the tenants’ farming fees. In particular, the tenancy disputes that started in December 1933 intensified the confrontation between the tenant farmers and the landowners. During this dispute, the Hankyū Corporation devised a plan to construct Mukonosō Station and the Mukonosō residential area in these districts. This plan had a decisive impact on the result of the tenancy dispute. According to the recollection of Habara Shōichi (1902– 1995), the leader of the dispute, the prolonged dispute caused the price of farmland in Namazu to drop sharply. 24 The reduction of land prices was a serious problem for the landowners who wanted to sell their land. In addition, there was a possibility that the plan would be cancelled due to the prolonged dispute, although the establishment of Mukonosō Station by the Hankyū Corporation had been a “long-cherished desire” of the residents of Muko Village. 25 The landowners needed to resolve the tenancy dispute as soon as possible. Therefore, they agreed to the conditions set by the tenant farmers of the Namazu branch, resulting in the tenancy dispute coming to an end. Under these circumstances, the Hankyū Corporation started purchasing the land at sites to be developed from 1935, including Namazu. They finally acquired approximately nine hectares of land in Namazu. In response, the residents of other municipalities started acquiring land in Namazu, which was not included in the Hankyū Corporation’s development site. Therefore, we will examine the two following aspects of the landowners’ responses to their land sales in Namazu: (1) the landowners’ response to the Hankyū Corporation’s acquisition of land for the development site (the Mukonosō residential area), and (2) the landowners’ response to the acquisition of land for non-development sites. First, how did the Namazu landowners respond to the Hankyū Corporation’s acquisition of the land for the purpose of building the Mukonosō residential area? The majority of Namazu’s landowners sold the proposed residential area site to the corporation in February or March of 1935 for 4.5 yen per tsubo 26. 27 As mentioned above, the establishment of Mukonosō Station had been a “long-cherished desire” for many residents of Muko Village. Therefore, most landowners in Namazu immediately agreed to sell their land to the Hankyū Corporation to promote the latter’s construction efforts. However, there were uneven responses from the landowners who owned land which was not included in the Mukonosō residential area construction site. Some landowners also sold their land to other municipal residents. Still, it is noteworthy that the landowners who owned a lot of 24 Habara Shōichi, 1930 nendai no Amagasaki no nōmin undō [The Tenancy Disputes in Amagasaki in the 1930s], in: Chi’ikishi kenkyū 3, 1, 1973, p. 51. Habara Shōichi was born in Osaka. He was a well-known leader of the tenancy dispute and was mainly active in the Kansai region. 25 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 60, 1954, p. 1. 26 Tsubo is a unit measurement of area that has been used in Japan since the early modern period. One tsubo equals approximately 3.31 square metres. 27 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaiho 60, 1954, p. 1. Initially, regarding the purchase (sale) price, the landowners of Namazu insisted on 5 yen per tsubo, while the Hankyū Corporation insisted on 3 yen per tsubo.

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land in Namazu did not sell any land, except to the Hankyū Corporation. These landowners lived in Namazu or its neighbouring areas and wanted to continue farming. Therefore, while they sold land to the corporation’s planned construction site, they continued to use the rest of their land as farmland. As such, urbanisation progressed in Muko Village only in the space of the Mukonosō residential area (Fig. 4).

Fig. 4: An Aerial View of the Mukonosō Residential Area (1955)

The ownership of the Mukonosō residential area construction site was transferred to the Hankyū Corporation. The next problem for the corporation was the treatment of the tenant farmers who continued to work there. Based on the Namazu branch, the tenant farmers resisted the corporation’s plan to build the residential area, and they declared “We fight the Hankyū Corporation to protect our lives”. 28 The tenant farmers of the branch, in cooperation with the tenant farmers cultivating land on the residential area site, began a tenancy dispute against the Hankyū Corporation. Due to the seriousness of the issue, peaceful negotiations could not be conducted between the two sides. During this period, while conducting surveys on the land to be developed, the corporation’s surveyors clashed with the tenant farmers, resulting in the hospitalisation of one of the farmers. 29 As the tenancy dispute became increasingly violent, the Hankyū Corporation notified 28 Zennō Hyōgoken Farmers’ Unions Kenkyūjo. 29 Zennō Hyōgoken Farmers’ Unions Kenkyūjo.

Rengōkai, Zennō Hyōren nyūsu [Bulletin of the National Federation of of Hyōgo Prefecture] 1, 1935, Hōsei Daigaku Ōhara Shakai Mondai Rengōkai, Zennō Hyōren nyūsu [Bulletin of the National Federation of of Hyōgo Prefecture] 3, 1935, Hōsei Daigaku Ōhara Shakai Mondai

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Muko Village of its intention to cancel the construction of Mukonosō Station and the Mukonosō residential area. 30 Under these circumstances, the police forced the tenant farmers to sign a contract with the corporation. In other words, once the negotiations between the parties broke down, the matter was settled through “police mediation”. Thus, the parties abruptly reached an agreement on 28 March 1935 under the following conditions: 31 1. The Hankyū Corporation paid 0.3 yen per tsubo to the Namazu branch’s tenant farmers for returning their cultivated land to the Hankyū Corporation. 2. The Corporation reduced the rent by 55 per cent in 1934 for the branch’s tenant farmers. 3. The Corporation waived the rent for the branch’s tenant farmers in 1935. 4. The Corporation gifted money to the branch’s tenant farmers. These conditions were better than those established in other cases conducted by the Hankyū Corporation at the time. 32 This was due to the fact that the tenant farmers of the Namazu branch thoroughly and systematically waged the tenancy dispute against them. However, it was no longer possible for the tenant farmers to continue cultivating land as they had done before on the construction site of the Mukonosō residential area. By 1939, when the Hankyū Corporation’s land acquisition was almost complete, the area of cultivated land for Namazu’s tenant farmers was reduced by half. 33 The Hankyū Corporation started selling the Mukonosō residential area in October 1937. However, it had the spatial characteristic of being surrounded by farming communities, as the landowners and tenant farmers chose to continue farming. The important aspect of this discussion is that the presence of landowners and tenant farmers, who wanted to continue farming, prevented the urbanisation of areas in Muko Village other than the Mukonosō residential area. The development of the residential area by the Hankyū Corporation could not affect the urbanisation of the entire Muko Village. In other words, the corporation could not uniformly develop the entire local community. 34 Thus, when they built the Mukonosō residential area as a garden city, they encountered fierce resistance from the tenant farmers who wanted to continue farming. 30 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 61, 1954, p. 1. 31 Zennō Hyōgoken Rengōkai, Zennō Hyōren nyūsu 3 (cf. n. 29). 32 Amagasakishi, Amagasaki shishi [History of Amagasaki City], Amagasaki: Amagasakishi 1970, pp. 629 f. 33 This was from 137,454.6 m2 in 1933 to 65,355.4 m2 in 1939. 34 The urbanisation of the entire Muko Village area was conducted in the 1960s during the implementation of the Amagasaki City Planning Muko Land Readjustment Project, the Hanshin Area City Planning Mukonosō Southern Land Readjustment Project, and the Hanshin Area City Planning Muko Second Land Readjustment Project. Amagasakishi Toshikyoku Keikakubu Toshi Keikakuka, Amagasaki no toshi keikaku [City Planning of Amagasaki], Amagasaki: Amagasakishi Toshikyoku Keikakubu Toshi Keikakuka 1992, p. 99.

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As a result, the Mukonosō residential area, which was surrounded by rural areas, was geographically similar in character to Howard’s garden city concept. However, this spatial uniqueness caused various problems in the residential area. SOCIAL INFRASTRUCTURE IMPROVEMENT PROCESS IMPLEMENTED IN THE MUKONOSŌ RESIDENTIAL AREA BY THE MUKONOSŌ RESIDENTS’ ASSOCIATION The Hankyū Corporation managed to complete the acquisition of the Mukonosō residential area construction site, despite the fierce opposition from the tenant farmers. They started building, and advertised it as follows: 35 Our company has long been striving to provide ideal, healthy residential areas. We recently opened Mukonosō Station, which is located midway between the Tsukaguchi and Nishinomiya-Kitaguchi stations on the Hankyū Kōbe Line. To coincide with the opening of Mukonosō Station, we constructed the Mukonosō residential area on the eastern bank of the Mukogawa River, and we will sell the residential area at a special price from 20 October to 10 November, 1937. Its location is highly convenient, as it takes 14 minutes to Umeda Station and 17 minutes to Sannomiya Station. The water supply and sewage infrastructure are well developed and there are a lot of green spaces. The Mukonosō residential area is an ideal area that is large-scale, high class, and has a better environment than any other suburban residential area. Once completed, we are convinced that the Mukonosō residential area will become a model, high-class residential area between Osaka and Kōbe. We are selling the residential area at prices ranging from 25 to 45 yen per tsubo. Therefore, the sale of the residential area is a great opportunity for you. We hope that you will view it and make an application for purchase as soon as possible.

The Hankyū Corporation built the Mukonosō residential area as part of its efforts to provide an “ideal, healthy residential area” for the new middle class, and it was the epitome of a garden city in Japan. The selling price ranged from 25 to 45 yen per tsubo. Among the residential areas built by the Hankyū Corporation in the 1930s along the Hankyū Kōbe Line, the Mukonosō residential area was initially sold at the second highest price after the Nishinomiya-Kitaguchi residential area. Consequently, many wealthy people lived there. For example, at the end of 1949, approximately one-third of the total number of households in the residential area were corporate executives. 36 However, there was a discrepancy between the image of the Mukonosō residential area, as advertised by the Hankyū Corporation, and the reality of the residential area; especially in terms of social infrastructure. After the war, the residents complained that the area was not equipped with water, gas, telephone lines, kindergartens, and elementary schools, that the high humidity made it unhealthy,

35 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakai 60 shūnen kinenshi [The History of the Sixty Years of the Mukonosō residents’ association Bunkakai], Amagasaki: Mukonosō Bunkakai 2010, p. 25. 36 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 4, 1950, p. 1.

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and that there were many thieves. 37 Some of this social infrastructure should have been developed by the national and local governments. It should be noted, however, that even though the Hankyū Corporation marketed the area as “ideal”, the residents recognised that its social infrastructure was not sufficiently developed. At the time, Amagasaki City, to which the Mukonosō residential area belongs, had to prioritise the reconstruction of the industrial area in the city’s southern parts that had been damaged by the Second World War. Hence, the residents of the residential area, located in the northern part of Amagasaki City, could not expect Amagasaki City’s cooperation to improve the area’s infrastructure. Accordingly, in 1948, the residents of the Mukonosō residential area voluntarily established a residents’ association, the Mukonosō Bunkakai (Mukonosō residents’ association), to manage the crises in the area such as the lack of social infrastructure. The establishment of the association was the residents’ attempt to selfmanage the community. 38 The association originated from Sōwakai, which was established by the residents in 1938. The purpose of the association was to improve the life and culture of the residents of the Mukonosō residential area, and to promote friendship among the residents. There were four specific policies of the association: 39 1. To maintain sanitation and the streets in the Mukonosō residential area and negotiate with the local governments. 2. To maintain street lighting. 3. To publish a bulletin and a list of the association’s members. 4. Other matters necessary to achieve the objectives of the association. The association set up departments such as a sanitation department to carry out these projects. Although the Mukonosō residential area at that time was also inhabited by managers and executives of large corporations, 40 the board members of the association were mainly managers and executives of small- and mediumsized businesses, sole proprietors, and employees of large corporations. In addition, there were approximately 490 households belonging to the association (98.0 per cent of all households in the Mukonosō residential area) in November 1949, and approximately 730 (91.4 per cent of all households) in July 1960. Therefore, it is estimated that the membership rate of the association was over 90 per cent during this period. In the following, we will examine the activities of the association in developing social infrastructure in the Mukonosō residential area; in particular, in the provision of gas and the establishment of an elementary school. 37 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 6, 1950, p. 4. 38 Naturally, it was not as thorough as Howard’s garden city concept. 39 Mukonosō Bunkakai kai’in meibo [Member list of the Mukonosō residents’ association Bunkakai], 1952, p. 1. 40 At the time, the Mukonosō residential area was inhabited by managers and executives from leading Japanese companies such as the Nippon Life Insurance Company, Morinaga Milk Industry Company, Takeda Pharmaceutical Company, Toyo Rayon Company (today Toray Industries, Inc.).

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First, concerning the provision of gas in the Mukonosō residential area, the Hankyū Corporation first planned to electrify the residential area. 41 Due to the frequent occurrence of blackouts as a result of the electricity restrictions imposed between the wartime and post-war periods, the residents used shichirin (a charcoal grill) and kamado (a cooking stove) for cooking. 42 Hence, the association began negotiations with the Osaka Gas Company 43 to ensure the availability of gas in the Mukonosō residential area. However, Osaka Gas responded that it would not install facilities to ensure the availability of gas in the residential area until at least the end of 1951, since it was prioritising the restoration of services to areas damaged by the Second World War. 44 Subsequently, the association re-initiated its negotiations with Osaka Gas; however, Osaka Gas continued to refuse the installation of facilities to ensure the availability of gas in the Mukonosō residential area, since the area had a relatively low number of households when compared to other areas with similar spatial characteristics. 45 In response to this argument, the association insisted that the number of houses was increasing in the Mukonosō residential area, and that the amount of gas usage per household was relatively high. Finally, the two sides reached an agreement in December 1950 that the association would pay 3 million yen to cover a proportion of the 13.5 million yen cost for gas installation in the area. However, the association had to pay it to Osaka Gas at the time of the contract. Therefore, the board members of the association borrowed money from Amagasaki Shinkin Bank, a regional financial institution, on personal guarantee. 46 Amagasaki Shinkin Bank lent 3 million yen to the association on the condition that each household in the residential area would open a bank account at the bank’s Mukonosō branch. 47 At the Mukonosō branch of Amagasaki Shinkin Bank, the residents’ total deposit exceeded approximately 100 million yen in 1954. 48 This amount highlights the relatively high income level of the Mukonosō residential area, and indicates that this high income level was a key factor that influenced the development of social infrastructure. Subsequently, the association held a general meeting in February 1951 and unanimously decided to install the facilities for gas supply to the Mukonosō residential area. However, only 130 households wanted to install the facilities. 49 Based on these circumstances, the board members of the association considered that it would be difficult to collect the money required to repay the loan. Therefore, they visited each household in the Mukonosō residential area and persuaded

41 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 24, 1951, p. 1. 42 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 19, 1951, p. 1. 43 The Osaka Gas Company was established in 1897 and began to supply gas in 1905. At present, the Osaka Gas Company is the second largest gas supply in Japan. 44 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 4, 1950, p. 5. 45 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 16, 1951, p. 2. 46 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 52, 1954, p. 2. 47 Amagasaki Shin’yō Kinko (ed.), Amashin dayori 81, 1962, p. 2. 48 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 62, 1954, p. 1. 49 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 17, 1951, p. 4.

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them to apply for the gas supply. 50 As a result, when the association finally concluded a contract with Osaka Gas in April 1951, there were approximately 400 households that intended to apply for a gas supply in the residential area. 51 The Association collected money six times to apply for the gas installation between May and October 1951, and Osaka Gas completed the gas installation in the Mukonosō residential area in September 1951. 52 Table 2: The Number of Students Studying in Elementary Schools in December 1960 Elementary Schools

1st grade 2nd grade 3rd grade 4th grade 5th grade 6th grade Mukonosō Residential Area

Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary S.

12

8

12

7

13

12

Others

69

66

49

59

78

71

total

456

Others in Muko East Area Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary S.

62

48

74

58

66

65

Others

33

25

20

37

29

34

551

Second, concerning the establishment of an elementary school in the Mukonosō residential area, regarding the elementary school district of the residential area, Amagasaki City originally designated the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School. 53 However, the enrolment rate of students from the Mukonosō residential area to the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School was remarkably low. Approximately 86.0 per cent of the elementary school students in the residential area attended public or private elementary schools located in other districts in 1960 (Table 2). Crucially, the residents of the Mukonosō residential area considered the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School, which consisted mainly of children from the surrounding rural area, to have a low level of education. 54 In the Mukonosō residential area, which mainly consisted of affluent residents who had a separation between work and home, many households were eager to educate their children. Therefore, elementary school students in the residential area generally attended public or private elementary schools located in other dis50 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 52, 1954, p. 2. 51 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 19, 1951, p. 3. The cost of installing gas pipes in each household was divided between the Osaka Gas Company and the individual household. 52 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 24, 1951, p. 1. 53 The origin of the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School can be traced back to Tsunematsu Elementary School, which opened in 1873. The Tsunematsu Elementary School was renamed Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School after the enforcement of the Basic Act on School Education in 1947. 54 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 125, 1960, p. 1. In addition, the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School was approximately 1,500 metres away from the Mukonosō residential area.

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tricts. This was a problem caused by the fact that the Mukonosō residential area was a garden city, and the residents treated the rural people in the neighbourhood with disdain. Under these circumstances, during the first half of the 1950s, the association worked to establish a private elementary school in the Mukonosō residential area, excluding children from the surrounding rural area. However, this association-led movement eventually failed. A direct factor was the association’s inability to provide free land for the construction of a private elementary school. 55 In addition, we must highlight three more significant factors. First, some residents did not consider the construction of a new elementary school necessary, since the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School was already established for the residential area. 56 Second, unlike the elements of social infrastructure such as gas supply, only households with school-aged children benefited from the establishment of a new elementary school. 57 Third, the households with school-aged children in the Mukonosō residential area did not always share the need to establish a new elementary school, since many of them had already sent or planned to send their children to public or private elementary schools in other districts that had higher levels of education. In light of the above, the association’s attempt to establish a new elementary school was difficult from the beginning. In the 1960s, the rural areas surrounding the Mukonosō residential area were rapidly urbanised to solve the housing shortage in Amagasaki City. For instance, Amagasaki City implemented the Amagasaki City Planning Muko Land Readjustment Project from 1960. 58 In addition, the Japan Housing Corporation (Nihon Jūtaku Kōdan, today the Urban Renaissance Agency (Toshi Saisei Kikō)) constructed the Nishi-Muko Housing Complex, which consisted of approximately 1,200 units. As a result, the maximum capacity of the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School, which was the only school established by Amagasaki City in the Muko district, was expected to be significantly exceeded. Accordingly, the establishment of a new public elementary school in the land surrounding the Mukonosō residential area became a critical problem for Amagasaki City. At the same time, the enrolment in public elementary schools in other districts (known as cross-border schooling), which was common among households with children in the Mukonosō residential area, became a serious issue. 59 In response to this situa55 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 33, 1952, p. 3. 56 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 37, 1952, p. 1. This opinion, in particular, was strongly expressed by the families of students graduating from the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School. 57 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 118, 1960, p. 4. 58 Amagasaki City implemented the Amagasaki City Planning Muko Land Readjustment Project, targeting 63.7 hectares of land for residential land development. The project was approved in March 1960, and the re-zoning was completed in July 1967. Amagasakishi Toshi Kaihatsukyo Kukaku Seiribu Kukaku Seirika, Kukaku seiri no ayumi [The Strides of Land Readjustment Project by Amagasaki City], Amagasaki: Amagasakishi Toshi Kaihatsukyoku Kukaku Seiribu Kukaku Seirika 1981, p. 5. 59 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 109, 1959, p. 2.

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tion, the association held talks with the Amagasaki City Board of Education in November 1960. 60 The board opined that the establishment of a new public elementary school was highly feasible from an objective point of view, and ordered the association to investigate the number of students studying in elementary schools in the Muko-Higashi district. Accordingly, the association examined the number of students both currently enrolled and expected to study in elementary schools in the Muko-Higashi district (Tables 2, 3). Furthermore, the association set up a committee to promote the establishment of a new elementary school in the Muko east district, which was organised by voluntary representatives of the residents of the Mukonosō residential area and its neighbouring areas, and discussed possible construction sites to build a new elementary school. 61 Consequently, the committee decided to construct a new public elementary school in Tomoyuki of the Muko east district, and Amagasaki City decided to name the new public elementary school the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School. 62 In April 1961, the committee was dissolved, and Amagasaki City councillors who were elected to the Muko district, representatives of the association, the Amagasaki Municipal Muko Elementary School’s parent-teacher association, and the Amagasaki City Council of Social Welfare (Amagasakishi Shakaifukushi Kyōgikai) established a committee to discuss the facilities offered by the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School. 63 Furthermore, the committee solicited donations to meet the expenses of the facilities for the elementary school from the residents of the Muko east district, which amounted to approximately 4 million yen. The residents of the Mukonosō residential area had to pay approximately 1.52 million yen by themselves. 64 However, as mentioned earlier, it was not easy to obtain the consent of all the residents regarding their burden of donations, since the residents differed in their enthusiasm for the establishment of the elementary school. Through this process, the construction of the elementary school was completed in February 1963 at a total cost of approximately 50 million yen. 65 Table 3: The Number of Students Expected to Study in Elementary Schools

Mukonosō Residential Area Others in Muko East Area

1961 35 82

1962 39 98

Enrolment of 1963 1964 47 42 109 85

1965 56 123

Total 219 497

60 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 126, 1960, p. 3. 61 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 128, 1961, p. 4. 62 Sōritsu 20 Shūnen Kinen Jigyō Jikkō I’inkai, Muko Higashi Shōgakkō sōritsu 20 shūnen kinenshi [Twenty Years of History of the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School], Amagasaki: Amagasaki Shiritsu Muko Higashi Shōgakkō 1982, p. 15. 63 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 131, 1961, p. 1. 64 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 151, 1963, p. 3. 65 Amagasakishi Gikaihō 17, 1962, p. 7.

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One of the purposes of establishing the elementary school was to prevent students from the Mukonosō residential area attending public schools located in other districts. Kuroda Tadashi, who became the first principal of the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School, recalled the following: 66 On my arrival at the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School, the Amagasaki City Board of Education told me that a large number of children from the Mukonosō residential area currently attended public elementary schools in other districts, and that they wanted to prevent this by improving the facilities at the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School.

Hence, the elementary school realised the theme of fostering independent learning attitudes of students, and actively held classes on research presentations to enhance its quality of education. 67 However, the rate of students who transferred to the elementary school remained extremely low in the Mukonosō residential area, and the majority of households with children continued to attend public or private elementary schools in other districts. 68 Thus, the households with children in the Mukonosō residential area did not recognise that the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School had a high level of education. Conversely, the households with children in the Muko districts other than the Mukonosō residential area considered the Amagasaki Municipal Muko-Higashi Elementary School to have a sufficient level of education. 69 Therefore, children from other districts often attended the elementary school, which was known as cross-border schooling. CONCLUSIONS In Japan, the garden city concept, as introduced from Europe, was accepted in response to the realities of environmental degradation in the existing urban areas at the time. Private railway companies actively built suburban residential areas for the new middle-classes along the railway lines and promoted them as garden cities with good living conditions. The Minō-Arima Electric Tramway and Hankyū Corporation, led by Kobayashi Ichizō, were pioneers in the construction of garden cities in Japan. Their management strategies had a significant impact on other Japanese private railway companies. In various fields of study, Kobayashi Ichizō is often highly regarded as the entrepreneur who created the Japanese-style private railway management. However, as the discussion in this chapter makes clear, various problems arose during the Hankyū Corporation’s construction process of the garden city. 66 Sōritsu 20 Shūnen Kinen Jigyō Jikkō I’inkai, Muko-Higashi Shōgakkō sōritsu 20 shūnen kinenshi (cf. n. 62), p. 17. 67 Ibid., p. 17. 68 Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 151, 1963 (cf. n. 64), p. 2. 69 Sōritsu 20 Shūnen Kinen Jigyō Jikkō I’inkai, Muko-Higashi Shōgakkō sōritsu 20 shūnen kinenshi (cf. n. 62), p. 24.

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We examined these points using the case of the Mukonosō residential area, which was typical of the garden city in Japan. The Hankyū Corporation began acquiring land in Muko Village for the purpose of constructing the Mukonosō residential area, and it had to obtain the agreement of the landowners and tenant farmers. However, the tenant farmers wanted to continue cultivating the land to be developed, and strongly opposed the corporation’s acquisition of the land for the construction of the Mukonosō residential area. For the Hankyū Corporation to finally complete the land acquisition, mediation by the police was required. Although the tenant farmers were unable to continue on the developed land, the presence of landowners and tenant farmers in Muko Village who wanted to continue farming gave rise to the geographical characteristics of the Mukonosō residential area, which was surrounded by farming villages. Thus, the construction of the residential area did not lead to the urbanisation of the entire village. In addition, the choices of these landowners and tenant farmers influenced the formation of the community in the residential area. Subsequently, the establishment of the Mukonosō residents’ association was in response to the community’s crisis in the Mukonosō residential area due to the lack of social infrastructure. The association was able to achieve the provision of gas in the residential area due to the high incomes of the residents. Similar to the case of gas supply, the residents’ expended efforts to improve other social infrastructure in the Mukonosō residential area, such as the water supply, telephone facilities, a fire station branch office, and a police box in the 1950s. As a result, the development of social infrastructure related to living in the residential area was largely completed during the 1950s. It is assumed that the association played an important role on behalf of the national and local governments, since these governments faced financial difficulties at the time. Therefore, the association at the time was responsible for the self-management of the community. However, due to the disdain of the residents of the Mukonosō residential area (new residents) towards the farmers of the surrounding rural area (old residents), there was only limited self-management of the residential area by the association. Thus, in Japan, it was difficult for the garden city to achieve the “marriage of town and country”. 70 This was closely related to the fact that the construction of the garden city progressed under the logic of capitalism in Japan.

70 Naturally, the Howard’s garden city concept was not realized as hoped for even at Letchworth, one of Europe’s leading garden cities. However, it can be said the important point is that many of Letchworth’s residents respected Howard’s concept. Nishiyama, Igirisu den’en toshi no shakaigaku (cf. n. 2), ch. III.

FIREPROOFING THE JAPANESE CITY AGAINST DISASTERS AND AERIAL BOMBING, 1923–1945 Julia Mariko Jacoby I have a lot of experiences with the earthquake disaster [to tell], but I would like to say one thing: For its reconstruction, Gotō Shinpei laid out a very colossal reconstruction plan, but that it has not been put into practice for various reasons, I find very disappointing. If it had been put into practice, I think, this destruction by the war would have been a bit less, in the area of Tokyo, war destruction would have been much less. Even now, I find it very disappointing that Gotō Shinpei’s plan was not put into practice at the time. Emperor Hirohito, 1983 1

INTRODUCTION In 1983, at a press conference commemorating the 60th anniversary of the Great Kantō Earthquake, the late Emperor Hirohito (1901–1989, Emperor 1926–1989), who had lived through the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 as a young regent and experienced the Second World War as emperor, bemoaned that Gotō Shinpei’s plan for the reconstruction of Tokyo had not been realised at that time. He even claimed that “the war destruction would have been much less” for Tokyo if the plan had been followed through as originally designed. Gotō Shinpei (1857– 1929), Home Minister and president of the Imperial Capital Reconstruction Board (Teito Fukkōin) at the time, had proposed an ambitious reconstruction plan only weeks after the earthquake. It was informed by Western experts like the American historian and political scientist Charles Beard (1874–1948), as well as Gotō’s own experiences with urban planning during his turn as civilian governor in colonial Taiwan from 1898 to 1905, and was designed to transform Tokyo into a representative modern metropolis. But Gotō’s plan required an exorbitant three billion yen, which was more than three times Japan’s annual budget at the time. In harsh parliamentary debates, the ambitious scope of the original plan was boiled down to only 500 million yen, which limited what could be accomplished. 2 Western

1 2

Takahashi Hiroshi, Heika, otazune mōshiagemasu: Kisha kaiken zenkiroku to ningen tennō no kiseki [Your majesty, please allow the question: The full record of press conferences and the tracks of a human emperor], Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 1988. J. Charles Schencking, Catastrophe, Opportunism, Contestation: The Fractured Politics of Reconstructing Tokyo following the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923, in: Modern Asian Studies 40, 2006, pp. 833–873; J. Charles Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake and the

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observers like the German urban planner Fritz Schumacher (1869–1947) were disappointed by the Japanese reconstruction efforts and criticised them for lacking a comprehensive plan. 3 The emperor’s statement encapsulates a widespread and oft-repeated popular narrative that the reconstruction of Tokyo, which was completed in 1930, was a missed opportunity to put progressive urban planning into practice and redesign Tokyo as a fireproof city. Scholarship and popular writings on Gotō Shinpei usually depict him as a visionary brought down by the ignorance of short-sighted party politics. 4 If Gotō had had his way, the suggestion goes, Tokyo would have been far better prepared for the air raids in the Second World War, which burned large portions of the city to the ground and claimed over one hundred thousand lives in the night of 9 March 1945 alone. These statements are plausible because after its reconstruction following the Great Kantō Earthquake, Tokyo still consisted of many densely populated neighbourhoods with narrow wooden houses. These burned easily when beset by American phosphor bombs. 5 However, these claims obscure the fact that during the period between the Great Kantō Earthquake and the end of the Second World War, there was a lively discussion in Japan about how to fireproof cities, which featured contributions from experts from many disciplines and had a great impact on the reconstruction of Japanese cities after 1945.

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Chimera of National Reconstruction in Japan, New York: Columbia University Press 2015, pp. 187–225. Carola Hein, Visionary Plans and Planners: Japanese Traditions and Western Influences, in: Nicolas Fievé / Paul Waley (eds.), Japanese Capitals in Historical Perspective: Place, Power and Memory in Kyoto, Edo and Tokyo, London: Routledge 2003, pp. 309–346. Cf. Beate Löffler’s paper in this volume. To name only a few: Mikuriya Takashi (ed.), Jidai no senkakusha Gotō Shinpei 1857–1929 [Pioneer of his age: Gotō Shinpei 1857–1929], Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten 2004; Kitaoka Shin’ichi, Gotō Shinpei: Gaikō to bijon [Gotō Shinpei: Diplomacy and vision], Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Shinsha 2000; Koshizawa Akira, Gotō Shinpei: Daishinsai to teito fukkō [Gotō Shinpei: The great earthquake disaster and the reconstruction of the imperial capital], Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō 2011; Kobayashi Yūki, Gotō Shinpei no kokorozashi kangaeru shinpo: Tokyō fukkō, bōhinteki seisaku … iro asenu miryoku [Symposion to think about Gotō Shinpei’s aspiration: The reconstruction of Tokyo, anti-poverty policies … unceasing fascination], in: Yomiuri Shinbun, Tokyo edition, 17.8.2019, evening edition, p. 4; Nishizen Teruo, Ano toki, sore kara: Taishō 12 nen Kantō daishinsai jishin ni tsuyoi machizukuri no kyōkun [At that time, since then: The Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923, the lesson of strong urban development against earthquakes], in: Asahi Shinbun, 30.8.2014, evening edition, p. 4; Ikeuchi Haruhiko, Jigyō kōsōka no tetsugaku: Kantō daishinsai kara Tokyō o fukkō saseta “kokka no ishi” Gotō Shinpei [The philosophy of a project designer: Gotō Shinpei, “the doctor of the nation” who made Tokyo recover from the Great Kantō Earthquake], in: Jigyō kōsō 2015, https://www.projectdesign.jp/201502/philosophy/001916.php; accessed 15.7.2020. Mark Selden, A Forgotten Holocaust: US Bombing Strategy, the Destruction of Japanese Cities & the American Way of War from World War II to Iraq, in: The Asia-Pacific Journal 5, 2007, pp. 1–29; David Fedman / Cary Karacas, A Cartographic Fade to Black: Mapping the Destruction of Urban Japan during World War II, in: Journal of Historical Geography 38, 2012, pp. 306–328.

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The Great Kantō Earthquake had claimed more victims by the resulting fire than by the actual earthquake damage. Since it happened two minutes before noon, when many Tokyo inhabitants were preparing lunch over open flames in their wooden dwellings, many fires had broken out simultaneously. The fire brigades were in many cases helpless because infrastructure had broken down and water lines burst due to the earthquake, and they could only watch as two thirds of the city burned down over the next two days. 6 This disaster had mercilessly shown the vulnerability of the Japanese capital in the face of an exceptional fire. As urban historians Tsuchida Hiroshige and Kuroda Yasuhiro have shown, military personnel drew parallels between the city fire caused by the Kantō Earthquake and the experiences of aerial bombing in Europe during the First World War. Awareness of aerial warfare and its destructive potential was very low in Japan at that time since the Japanese had only peripherally participated in the First World War and had not experienced aerial warfare themselves. But now, the Great Kantō Earthquake provided a powerful image of what aerial warfare could potentially do to Japanese cities and was subsequently used as a threatening reminder to promote aerial defence measures. 7 Thus, natural disasters became increasingly conflated with the impending danger of aerial warfare as the 1930s progressed. Fireproofing cities became as much a matter of national defence as of preparedness against disasters. Thus, the discourse on disasters, aerial warfare and fireproofing permeated contemporary urban planning, urban governance and became reflected in urban landscapes. Urban history has always recognized the influence of urban conflagration on shaping urban landscapes, but in recent years, they have also been increasingly discussed within the context of historical disaster research. Fires, as well as earthquakes, are most commonly perceived as disasters, but this can have multiple implications. In historical disaster research, the perception, explanation, and mitigation processes of disasters are studied to shed light on the societies in which the disaster occurred. Disasters can reveal things as diverse as a society’s religious beliefs and knowledge systems, relationship to nature, or ideas of good governance. Furthermore, several different, or even contradictory explanation patterns can exist simultaneously. 8 A disaster can be seen as a risk which 6

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For descriptions of the Great Kantō Earthquake, see Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake (cf. n. 2), pp. 13–46; Noel F. Busch, Two Minutes to Noon: The Story of the Great Tokyo Earthquake and Fire of 1923, New York: Simon & Schuster 1962; Yoshimura Akira, Kantō daishinsai [The Great Kantō Earthquake], Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū 1973. Tsuchida Hiroshige, Kindai Nihon no “kokumin bōkū” taisei [The “citizen aerial defence” system of modern Japan], Tokyo: Kanda Gaigo Daigaku Shuppankyoku and Perikansha 2010; Kuroda Yasuhiro, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku: Mokuzō kaoku misshū toshi to kūshū [The aerial defence policies of Imperial Japan: Cities crowded with wooden dwellings and air raids], Tokyo: Shinjinbutsu Ōraisha 2010; Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake (cf. n. 2), pp. 110–115. Historical Disaster Research has become a popular research field in the last 20 years. Anthony Oliver-Smith, What Is a Disaster? Anthropological Perspectives on a Persistent Question, in:

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has to be prepared against and be solved by means of technology. Fires in particular have also been perceived as “cleansing” and, especially by urban planners, as an opportunity to redesign destroyed areas from scratch. 9 Disaster destruction has often provided a blank space where new urban designs could be put into practice. In Japan, this often meant newly adopted urban planning ideas from Europe and North America, making disaster reconstructions the testing ground for Western technologies and practices. Analysing the process of fireproofing Japanese cities in the early 20th century provides a more nuanced understanding of the modernisation process in Japan, which was more than simply implementing Western modernity in Japan. It entailed negotiating local traditions and Western practices as well as further developing urban planning and construction technologies to better fit Japanese needs, creating their own urban modernity in the sense of Eisenstadt’s multiple modernities. 10 Greg Bankoff and his co-authors define cities as “fire regimes”, which “is meant as the nexus of environmental conditions, including climate, topography, and natural resources, with the political system that organizes and sustains concentrated settlement”. When political conditions change, so does the fire regime. 11 Japan’s fire regime in the Edo period (1603–1868) was based on light wooden constructions and early detection of fires by social control. Most possessions and interiors were easy to remove, and houses were meant to be disposable and easily reconstructed. 12 This fire regime proved persistent despite urban planners and politicians trying to implement elements from a modern, Western-born fire regime relying on urban planning, non-flammable building materials and professionalised fire brigades using modern technology. This paper analyses the discussions about, and the implementation of, fireproofing cities in Japan between 1923 and 1945. In particular, it illuminates how Anthony Oliver-Smith / Susanna M. Hoffman (eds.), The Angry Earth. Disaster in Anthropological Perspective, London: Routledge 1999, pp. 18–34; Andrea Janku / Gerrit J. Schenk / Franz Mauelshagen (eds.), Historical Disasters in Context. Science, Religion, and Politics, New York: Routledge 2012; François Walter, Catastrophes: Une histoire culturelle XVIe– XXIe siècle, Paris: Seuil 2008. 9 Greg Bankoff / Uwe Lübken / Jordan Sand, Introduction, in: Greg Bankoff / Uwe Lübken / Jordan Sand (eds.), Flammable Cities: Urban Conflagration and the Making of the Modern World, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press 2012, pp. 3–20, here pp. 9–12. In Edo Japan, earthquakes were also seen and depicted as commercial opportunities. The earthquake rectified uneven distribution of wealth, and some professions, especially construction-related ones such as carpenters and construction workers, profited from them. Gregory Smits, Shaking up Japan: Edo Society and the 1855 Catfish Picture Prints, in: Journal of Social History 39, 2006, pp. 1045–1078. 10 Carola Hein, Shaping Tokyo: Land Development and Planning Practice in the Early Modern Japanese Metropolis, in: Journal of Urban History 36, 4, 2010, pp. 447–484; Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, Multiple Modernities, in: Daedalus 129, 1, 2000, pp. 1–29. 11 Bankoff et al., Flammable Cities (cf. n. 9), p. 8. 12 Jordan Sand / Steven Willis, Governance, Arson, and Firefighting in Edo, 1600–1868, in: Greg Bankoff / Uwe Lübken / Jordan Sand (eds.), Flammable Cities: Urban Conflagration and the Making of the Modern World, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press 2012, pp. 44–62; Hein, Shaping Tokyo (cf. n. 10), p. 449.

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urban fires such as the Great Kantō Earthquake influenced the process of knowledge adaptation from the West, and what role environmental conditions such as seismicity and the legacies of the traditional Japanese fire regime played in this process. This paper follows the fireproofing process regarding three different aspects: Urban planning, discussions about fireproof building materials such as reinforced concrete, and social engineering with respect to fire prevention. URBAN PLANNING AND URBAN CONFLAGRATION BETWEEN THE GREAT KANTŌ EARTHQUAKE AND AERIAL WARFARE Western-style urban planning had been introduced to Japan in the late 19th century but became an increasingly pressing issue for Japanese bureaucrats by the early 20th century because urban problems such as overcrowding, poor hygienic conditions and diseases plagued Japan, too, during the age of industrialisation. 13 Tokyo experienced a rapid influx of workers following Japan’s boom in the First World War, thus the Great Kantō Earthquake hit a city that was already severely overcrowded with around 4 million inhabitants.14 Bureaucrats, politicians and intellectuals studied urban planning as a solution to urban problems – planning and technocratic solutions to urban problems became as popular amongst the Japanese elite as they were for their Western counterparts in the early 20th century. Several Western countries and their urban planning techniques were studied as potential models. Among those, German practices enjoyed significant popularity. 15 This was also the case for Gotō Shinpei, who had been trained as a medical doctor in Germany. 16 He was the driving force behind the Urban Planning Law 13 For an overall introduction to urban planning in Japan see André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century, London: Routledge 2002; Uta Hohn, Stadtplanung in Japan: Geschichte – Recht – Praxis – Theorie, Dortmund: Dortmunder Vertrieb für Bau- und Planungsliteratur 2000; Ishida Yorifusa, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai: 1868–2003 [The development of modern Japanese town planning, 1868–2003], Tokyo: Jichitai Kenkyūsha 2004; see Katja Schmidtpott’s paper in this volume as well. 14 Tokyo Metropolitan Government, Tokyo’s History, Geography, and Population, https://www. metro.tokyo.lg.jp/ENGLISH/ABOUT/HISTORY/history03.htm; accessed 15.7.2020. 15 Carola Hein / Yorifusa Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung und ihre deutschen Wurzeln, in: Die Alte Stadt 25, 3, 1998, pp. 189–211. 16 Proof of Gotō Shinpei’s ongoing popularity and influence are several recent collections of his writings: Gotō Shinpei, Seiki no fukkō keikaku: Gotō Shinpei kaku katariki [The reconstruction plan of the century: Thus spoke Gotō Shinpei], Tokyo: Mainichi Wanzu 2011; Kojita Yasunao (ed.), Gotō Shinpei to teikoku to jichi [Gotō Shinpei and empire and selfgovernment], Tokyo: Yumani Shobō 2003; Gotō Shinpei Botsu Hachijūnen Kinen Jigyō Jikkō I’inkai (ed.), Shirīzu Gotō Shinpei to wa nani ka: Jichi, kōkyō, kyōsei, heiwa [Series: Who was Gotō Shinpei: Self-government, public, symbiosis, peace], 3 vols., Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten 2009/2010; Takushoku Daigaku Soritsu Hyakunenshi Hensanshitsu (ed.), Gotō Shinpei: Sebone no aru kokusaijin [Gotō Shinpei: A cosmopolitan with a spine], Tokyo: Takushoku Daigaku 2001. Recently, there were two TV documentaries focusing on Gotō Shinpei’s contribution to Tokyo’s reconstruction: “Fukkō seyo! Gotō Shinpei to daishinsai 2400 nichi

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(toshi keikaku hō) of 1919 and, while serving as mayor of Tokyo from 1920 to 1923, he created the research organization for urban planning with the Tokyo Institute for Municipal Research (Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai). This institute was designed to inform urban governance and support policies by means of scientific research, and became the main centre for urban planning research. 17 This reflects a more elitist approach to urban planning than in Germany, where urban planning was widely supported by civil society and a broader interest amongst the middle class. In Japan, urban planning was carried out by a limited group of elite bureaucrats and experts close to the government. 18 Consequently, the support for the Urban Planning Law was weak, even within the ministries. At first only applied to the six largest cities in Japan, the Urban Planning Law had no specified financial backup and was thus chronically underfunded, lacking support from the Ministry of Finance (Ōkurashō). Thus, reconstruction funds were one of the few opportunities to secure funding for urban planning purposes. During the process, it was crucial for urban planners to convince landowners of the benefits of their plans because contributions by beneficiaries constituted one of the few possibilities to raise funds inscribed into the Urban Planning Law of 1919. 19 Another obstacle to urban planning in Japan could be found in strong property rights guaranteed by the Meiji Constitution, which made it very difficult for urban planners to expropriate land owners. Complicated relations of land ownership (for example, land owners and owners of a house built on it were often not identical) aggravated the difficulties even more, resulting in time-consuming negotiations with land and home owners. 20 The opposition to the budget of the reconstruction plan after the Great Kantō Earthquake also reflects this lack of acceptance regarding urban planning. Japan historian J. Charles Schencking has shown the lack of understanding and the unwillingness of the delegates to pay money for the reconstruction the capital. 21 Gotō had overblown the budget of the reconstruction plan, mainly because he had stipulated zone expropriation (chōka shuyō), which would have entailed forcefully buying up burnt areas to redesign them from scratch. The technique was adopted

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no tatakai [Recover! Gotō Shinpei and the 2,400 days fight after the great earthquake]” on Yomiuri (22.1.2012), and “Eiyū no sentaku: Kantō daishinsai Gotō Shinpei fukutsu no fukkō purojekuto [The choice of the hero: The Great Kantō Earthquake and Gotō Shinpei, the unbroken recovery project]” on NHK (4.9.2014). Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai (ed.), Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai hachijū nenshi [Eighty year history of the Tokyo Institute for Municipal Research], Tokyo: Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai 2002. Sorensen, Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 13), pp. 85–91. Suzuki Tomoyuki, Juekisha futan no seiritsu katei: Toshi keikaku hō seitei katei saikō [Establishing “Betterment” in 1919: A New Look at the Process of Forming City Planning Law], in: Rekishi to keizai 62, 2020, pp. 1–17. Hein, Shaping Tokyo (cf. n. 10), pp. 479–480. André Sorensen, Land, Property Rights, and Planning in Japan: Institutional Design and Institutional Change in Land Management, in: Planning Perspectives 25, 2010, pp. 279–302. Schencking, Catastrophe, Opportunism, Contestation (cf. n. 2).

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from Germany (Zonenenteignung). 22 When the budget was massively reduced, Gotō turned to the far less costly land readjustment (kukaku seiri), which he explicitly credited as an adaptation of the German Lex Adickes of 1902. 23 This was a better fit for the Japanese purpose since it was similar to redistribution practices already in use since the Edo period and was also codified in Meiji law.24 Still, land adjustment faced considerable resistance and led to a lengthy negotiation process with the land owners. 25 This was often exacerbated by the fact that many home owners had already rebuilt temporary or quickly. The necessity for land distribution was therefore justified by the need for disaster prevention. To appeal to citizens, the reconstruction of Tokyo was not necessarily advertised as creating a modern, representative capital befitting a successful empire, but as driven by the necessity to rebuild it in a more fireproof style, to avoid a repetition of the tragedies of the Great Kantō Earthquake. Land readjustment was necessary to widen the streets and create parks as spaces for evacuating the population. When the districts subjected to land readjustment were announced on 27 March, 1924, Tokyo mayor Nagata Hidejirō (1876–1943) gave a speech to “all Tokyo citizens”: 26 For this, we have at least, on this occasion, had to widen the streets, bridges and to build fire prevention zones and readjust streets and blocks. If we, by any chance, dislike the small trouble we are now presented and leave the townscapes and streets as they are, our 100,000 compatriots will have died completely in vain, several billions worth of property will have burnt in vain. It can’t be that we still don’t wake up after facing such a disaster. On this occasion, 22 Hein/Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung (cf. n. 15), p. 202. It has also been debated that Haussmann’s plan of Paris, which was mainly based on zone condemnation, had some influence. Akimoto Fukuo, Chōka shūyō saikō: Seki Hajime – Ikeda Hiroshi e no Doitsu Amerika no eikyō to sono go [“Excess Condemnation” revisited: German and American influences on Hajime Seki and Hiroshi Ikeda and thereafter], in: Toshi keikaku ronbunshū 50, 2015, pp. 1238–1243. 23 Lex Adickes was used to justify that land readjustment allowed the expropriation of 10 per cent without compensation, because it allowed even higher expropriation rates than the Japanese law, up to 30 per cent. Hein and Ishida point out that the Japanese commentators overlooked that the 30 per cent expropriation in Lex Adickes only applied to areas of urban development where a significant rise in land prices was expected according to forecasts. They see it as a sign of limited understanding on the part of the Japanese. Hein/Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung (cf. n. 15), p. 201. 24 Forms of land redistribution had already been practiced on farmland in the Edo Period, going back as early as 17th century. It had been codified in the Arable Land Distribution Law (kōchi seiri hō) in 1899, borrowing heavily from German law. Ishida Yorifusa, Nihon ni okeru tochi kukaku seiri seidoshi gaisetsu 1870–1980 [A Short History of Japanese Land Readjustment (1870–1980)], in: Sōgō toshi kenkyū 28, 1986, pp. 45–87; Yanase Norihiko, Tochi kukaku seiri no seido keisei ni kansuru shiteki kōsatsu [A historical view on the modern legal system for land readjustment], in: Doboku Gakkai ronbunshū D2 (Dobokushi) 70, 2014, pp. 53–65. 25 Members of the Reconstruction Committee negotiated with neighbourhood units which then made arrangements among themselves. Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake (cf. n. 2), pp. 263–283. 26 Nagata Hidejirō, Kukaku seiri ni tsuite shimin shokunin ni tsugu [To all the citizens on land readjustment], in Kōseikai (ed.), Teito tochi kukaku seiri ni tsuite, Tokyo: Kōseikai 1924, pp. 1–15, here pp. 3 ff., 7 f. Emphases by the author.

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In his speech, Nagata declared that now was the occasion to render the city safer and defended land readjustment as the least painful method to do so. Now, the measure was without a realistic alternative – the choice was either to support land readjustment or else to die in a future disaster by not assuming the responsibility to prevent them. Through the reconstruction process, streets were broadened and the water supply improved. Prestigious, wide roads were attributed the role of firebreaks, while smaller, winding streets and neighbourhoods were straightened to provide better evacuation and access for firefighters. About one hundred small parks and school yards were created, which also served as open spaces for evacuation, although the share of parks only rose from 1.7 to 3.7 per cent of Tokyo’s total urban space through the reconstruction. 27 Japan historian Janet Borland points out that local, small parks had been considered for improving the health of Tokyo’s children, but they only came to pass as a measure to create safe spaces after the reconstruction. 28 They were often combined with schools built from reinforced concrete as safe evacuation spaces in case of disasters, as will be described below. The rising concern with fireproofing led to the increased popularity of Western urban planning concepts that included open and green spaces, such as broad avenues, garden cities and greenbelts, in the decades following the Great Kantō Earthquake. 29 With an increasing concern about aerial bombing, open cities and green spaces were praised and advertised by Japanese architects and planners as beneficial for fireproofing cities. Building broader roads and open spaces as firebreaks, which was at the core of the reconstruction plan from the Great Kantō Earthquake, had already been part of traditional measures for fire prevention in Japan. This was no coincidence. Open spaces as firebreaks (hiyokechi) had been established as early as 1657, as a reaction to the Great Meireki Fire. One reason given for the devastation of the Great Kantō Earthquake was that the traditional hiyokechi had been in decline and destroyed by rapid urbanization in the Meiji Period. 30 In this logic, urban planning was only a return to Edo period fire prevention. One way of establishing firebreaks was a reimagination of avenues of European type, with their lines of trees or larger shrubs. In the 1930s, avenues became reconceptualized as firebreak roads, and even called fire prevention roads (bōka dōro). In contrast to standard 27 Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake (cf. n. 2), pp. 263–283. 28 Janet Borland, Small Parks, Big Designs: Reconstructed Tokyo’s New Green Spaces, 1923– 1931, in: Urban History 7, 2019, pp. 1–19. 29 Hein/Ishida, Japanische Stadtplanung (cf. n. 15), pp. 205 f. 30 Yoshimura, Kantō daishinsai (cf. n. 6), pp. 130 f. On the establishment and use of hiyokechi see Watanabe Tatsuzō, Kinsei hiroba no seiritsu / tenkai II: Hiyokechi hiroba no seiritsu to tenkai [The establishment and development of open spaces in the Early Modern Period: The establishment and development of fire prevention spaces], 2 parts, in: Zōen zasshi 36, 1972, pp. 13–22, 27–34.

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European avenues, Japanese fire prevention roads had strips of vegetation in the centre of the road instead of having them flank them. Trees had been observed to be potential firebreaks during fires. After the Great Kantō Earthquake, the forestry division of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce (Nōshōmushō) and the Garden Society of Japan (Nihon Teien Kyōkai), conducted studies to determine which types of tree had fared best during the fires and were therefore most desirable as firebreaks. As a result, evergreen trees with dense, water rich leaves but without much tree gum were deemed most effective. 31 During the reconstruction following the devastating Great Fire of Hakodate of 1934, central roads were built to divide the city and protect it by preventing fires in other parts of the town from spreading. The roads were stipulated as green avenues in three different categories of width, 55 metres, 36 metres and 25 metres. The broadest avenue thus became the widest road in Japan at the time, even surpassing the ones in reconstructed Tokyo. The greening of the avenues was even supported by the local population: The Hakodate Branch of the Women’s Patriotic League (Aikoku Fujinkai) founded a women’s charity that collected donations for planting trees in the firebreak roads. 32

Fig. 1: Plan for a firebreak road (bōka dōro) for the reconstruction plan from the Great Fire of Shizuoka of 1940

The most elaborate firebreak avenues were developed during the reconstruction following the Great Fire of Shizuoka of 1940 (Fig. 1). This fire, being the first to hit after the Air Defence Law (bōkū hō) of 1937 was passed, was explicitly stud-

31 Nakajima Usaburō, Bōkaju no shokusai no hitsuyō ni tsuite [About the importance of planting fire prevention trees], in: Teien 26, 1944, pp. 4 ff.; Tanaka Yaohachi, Taishō no daijishin oyobi taika to teito no juen [The great earthquake of the Shōwa period and the forest vegetation of the imperial capital], Tokyo: Nōshōmushō Sanrinkyoku 1923; Uchida Yoshibumi, Kenchiku to kasai [Architecture and fire], Tokyo: Sagami Shobō 21953, pp. 240–243. 32 Koshizawa Akira, Daisaigai no fūkkyu fukkō keikaku [The recovery – reconstruction plans from great disasters], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2012, pp. 38–42; Koshizawa Akira, Fukkō keikaku: Bakumatsu-Meiji no taika kara Hanshin-Awaji daishinsai made [Reconstruction Plans: From the great fires of the Bakumatsu-Meiji Period to the Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake], Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Shinsha 2005, pp. 116–120.

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ied in the context of air defence preparation. 33 As a consequence, the streets were classified by width, and it was decided that firebreak roads had to be 36m wide and had to be flanked by a fireproof house front. The reconstruction guidelines also stipulated a belt of evergreen trees, as well as a stream in the middle to provide water for firefighting purposes. 34 The addition of a stream can be attributed to a learning process from past earthquake disasters, where damage to water pipes had a disastrous effect on the ability to extinguish city fires. It was also a reaction to a recent trend in urban planning since the 1920s, namely that open streams and rivers, which had been quite common in Japanese cityscapes, were increasingly covered up or transferred underground to create more usable space. 35 Tragically, Shizuoka was destroyed by an air raid only shortly after its reconstruction was completed and, as a consequence, did not stand a chance to leave a mark on postwar reconstruction. 36 With the economic upturn and the construction boom of the post-war period, the expanding Japanese cities, which had long been “water cities”, lost many of their open rivers, canals and streams, either to land reclamation or to the resumed trend to cover up rivers. 37 In most dire need of improvement, according to contemporary architects, were the narrow and cramped neighbourhoods where fire could spread uncontrollably. The reimagination of Japanese housing and neighbourhoods by architect Uchida Yoshibumi (1913–1946) is a good example of how modern Western architecture and urban planning were put into service for fire prevention and air defence. Uchida has been reported to have been interested in modern architecture, but in his work he felt obliged to contribute to the zeitgeist by concentrating on fireproofing, for which he published the textbook “Architecture and fire” (“Kenchiku to kasai”) in 1942. 38 His written works and designs reflect his way of 33 For example, the Great Japanese Air Defence Association (Dainihon Bōkū Kyōkai) conducted an extensive study: Dainihon Bōkū Kyōkai (ed.), Shizuoka daikasai chōsa hōkokusho [Report on the Great Fire Disaster of Shizuoka], Tokyo: Dainihon Bōkū Kyōkai 1940. The study conducted by the Disaster Science Institute in Osaka (Saigai Kagaku Kenkyūjo) in cooperation with the University of Tokyo also mentions this point: Kanamori Toshirō, Saigai kagaku kenkyūjo hōkoku dai 5 gō: Shizuoka taika ni tsuite [Report of the Disaster Science Institute: On the great fire of Shizuoka], Osaka: Nihon Gakujutsu Shinkōkai Saigai Kagaku Kenkyūjo 1941, p. 1. 34 Sugawara Shin’ichi, Toshi no taika to bōka kenchiku: Sono rekishi to taisaku no ayumi [Great urban fires and fireproof architecture: Its history and the development of countermeasures], Tokyo: Nihon Kenchiku Bōsai Kyōkai and Kyōritsu Shuppan 2003, pp. 103–113; Shundō Shinzō, Shizuoka taika to sono fukkō keikaku [The Great Fire of Shizuoka and its reconstruction plan], in: Doboku Gakkaishi 26, 4, 1940, pp. 413–416. 35 Suetsugu Tadashi / Uchida Naoki, Taishō Shōwa jidai no mizu kanri gijutsu [Water and flood control technology in the Taisho and Showa period], in: Suiri kagaku 62, 2018, p. 70. 36 Koshizawa, Fukkō keikaku (cf. n. 32), p. 123. 37 Rutger de Graaf / Fransje Hooimeijer (ed.), Urban Water in Japan, London: Taylor and Francis 2008, pp. 47–50. 38 On the biography of Uchida Yoshibumi see Takeuchi Kōji et al., Kenchikuka Uchida Yoshibumi no “kokumin jūtaku” kōsō ni kansuru kenkyū [Yoshibumi Uchida’s philosophy of the “kokumin jūtaku” (national housing)], in: Jūtaku sōgō kenkyū ronbunshū 36, 2010, pp. 177–188. His textbook was published as Uchida Yoshibumi, Kenchiku to kasai [Architec-

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drawing on principles of modern architecture for the aim of fireproofing Japan, as well as his efforts to reconciliate these principles with both the realities of Japan and the ideological demands of the time. In January 1941, together with a few other young architects, Uchida presented new urban designs for Tokyo at an exhibition at the Kinokuniya bookstore in Tokyo’s Ginza district. 39 Uchida’s plan for Tokyo was an ideal vision of a fireproof city, which at the time meant the same as air raid proof city (Fig. 2).

Fig. 2: Uchida Yoshibumi’s plan for an ideal air raid proof city (1941)

His “plan for an ideal city in terms of air defence” (bōkūteki risō toshi keikaku) did not only stress the aesthetic beauty of the future city, but followed certain

ture and fire], Tokyo: Sagami Shobō 1942. After the Second World War, an expanded edition featuring Yoshibumi’s wartime papers was republished by Uchida Yoshikazu in 1953 (cf. n. 31). The pages in the footnotes are taken from the 1953 edition. 39 This exhibition was published as a special issue on the new city (atarashiki toshi) of the architecture magazine Shinkenchiku. Uchida Yoshikazu et al., Atarashiki toshi tokushūgō [Special issue new city], in: Shinkenchiku 17, 4, 1941.

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planning principles that were designed to make the city air raid proof. 40 The city consisted of block units that were again divided in four sections with apartment complexes made of reinforced concrete, grouped around schools and other public facilities. The schools were not only meant as the centre of the community but this arrangement also followed the government’s strategy of turning schools into safe places and emergency evacuation points. The fireproof apartment complexes were placed within a spacious green designed to prevent fire from spreading. Each apartment complex had a pond nearby to provide water for firefighting. 41 Whereas Uchida’s ideal city was not realistic for resource-deprived wartime Japan, the architect applied the same planning principles to smaller-scaled designs as well. This is true for his competition-winning designs for a “national house” (kokumin jūtaku), a program to ease housing shortages for workers, and also for reconstruction principles he drew up in 1943 for cases where dense wooden neighbourhoods were destroyed by air raids. In these instances, instead of the concrete apartment buildings, it was neighbourhood clusters that were grouped around a primary school, designed as shelters and evacuation places, and a communal space that provided water tanks for firefighting and playgrounds. 42 The core element of Uchida’s air raid proof city was the concrete apartment building. To prove his point, Uchida referenced the idea of French military strategist and air defence expert Lieutenant Colonel Paul Vauthier (1885–1879) that concrete apartment complexes were a more cost-effective bomb shelter solution than underground bunkers. According to Vauthier, Le Corbusier’s (1887–1965) famous 1925 “Plan Voisin”, a utopian urban concept for Paris that intended to house 3 million people in a series of skyscrapers, provided an ideal model, which clearly influenced Uchida’s work. 43 Another reason why the concept of the apartment building played such a role was an idea Uchida had taken from the 1940 work of political economist and planning consultant at the Ministry of Commerce and Industry (Shōkōshō), Yoshida Hideo (1906–1953) on national planning. This work drew heavily on German Raumplanung, which meant that 40 Uchida Yoshibumi, Zaitaku no bōkūteki arikata ni tsuite: Jūtaku no toshi keikakuteki kōsatsu [On the air defence way of living: A view on housing from an urban planning perspective], Fudōsan jihō 3, 1943, pp. 34–39, here p. 34. 41 Uchida et al., Atarashiki toshi (cf. n. 39), pp. 170–175. 42 Gregory Clancey, Designing a Home for the Yamato Minzoku: Race, Housing and Modernity in Wartime Japan, in: Asian Studies Review 29, 2005, pp. 123–141; Takeuchi et al., Kenchikuka Uchida Yoshibumi (cf. n. 38), pp. 177–188; Uchida Yoshibumi, Kokumin jūtaku ni tsuite [On the “national house”], Kenchiku zasshi 56, 1942, pp. 60–66. Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), pp. 248–253. Kenchiku Gakkai Toshi Bōkū Ni Kansuru Chōsa I’inkai, Mokuzō misshū gaiku ni okeru fukkō keikaku sakusei yōkōan, in: Kenchiku zasshi 60, 1943, pp. 169–183. 43 Uchida, Zaitaku no bōkūteki arikata (cf. n. 40), pp. 36 f. Paul Vauthier had also penned a treatise on air defence: Paul Vauthier, Le danger aérienne et l’avenir du pays, Paris: BergerLevrault 1930. On the collaboration between Vauthier and Le Corbusier, see M. Christine Boyer, Urban Operations and Network Centric Warfare, in: Michael Sorkin (ed.), Indefensible Space: The Architecture of the National Insecurity State, New York: Routledge 2008, pp. 31– 78.

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planning should reflect and strengthen the sense of Gemeinschaft (gemainshafuto). 44 Uchida’s use of that wording can be understood as a reference to Nazi Germany’s neighbourhood air defence units, which were called Luftschutzgemeinschaften. 45 Thus, Uchida’s designs for air raid proof cities were intended to reflect and encourage Japanese neighbourhood communities as firefighting units. As will also be explained below, the Japanese Empire came to rely on neighbourhood organizations as firefighting units: The home front became responsible for the fire safety of their neighbourhoods and for protecting the cities. 46 Uchida’s design provided them not only with the means for extinguishing fires in the form of water tanks but also with evacuation routes and shelters. 47 Fire safety and the Japanese Empire’s firefighting practices were an underlying guiding principle for Uchida’s version of Western garden cities and modern housing concepts. He also learned from various European theorists who utilised planning for air defence purposes. These were mostly German engineers and planners specialising in air defence, like Paul Wolf (1879–1957), Hans Schoszberger (1907–1997) and Alexander Löfken (1891–1971), but also French and Russians. 48 Uchida’s neighbourhood designs did not stand alone but were embedded in larger-scale forms of urban and regional planning. Learning mostly from German urban planners like Paul Wolf, Japanese planners designed greenbelts for major Japanese cities to protect larger urban areas from fire. 49 Greenbelts (ryokuchi, translated from the German Grünflächen) had been discussed in Japan since the 1924 International City Planning Conference in Amsterdam, which was famously attended by Ishikawa Hideaki (1893–1955). Ishikawa became not only one of the most important planners involved in national planning in the 1940s, which intended to make Japan less vulnerable to air raids and secure wartime supplies, but also

44 Uchida, Zaitaku no bōkūteki arikata (cf. n. 40), pp. 23–36. Yoshida Hideo, Kokudo keikakuron [Treatise on national planning], Tokyo: Kawade Shobō 1940. Yoshida himself does not use the expression Gemeinschaft. 45 On German air defence, see Bernd Lemke, Luftschutz in Großbritannien und Deutschland 1923 bis 1939: Zivile Kriegsvorbereitungen als Ausdruck der staats- und gesellschaftspolitischen Grundlagen von Demokratie und Diktatur, Munich: Oldenbourg 2005. 46 Sheldon Garon, Defending Civilians against Aerial Bombardment: A Comparative/Transnational History of Japanese, German, and British Home Fronts, 1918–1945, in: The AsiaPacific Journal 14, 23, 2, 2016. https://apjjf.org/2016/23/Garon.html; accessed 26.9.2022; Katja Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft und Urbanisierung in Japan, 1890–1970, Munich: Iudicium 2009, pp. 139–172. 47 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), pp. 248–257. 48 Uchida, Zaitaku no bōkūteki arikata (cf. n. 40), pp. 34–39. 49 Paul Wolf successfully designed urban plans including greenbelts and pioneered modern suburbs in Hanover and Dresden. Mostly a hands-on architect, he also wrote some treatises on urban planning, promoting a moderate form of modern architecture. Paul Wolf, Städtebau. Das Formproblem der Stadt in Vergangenheit und Zukunft, Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann 1919.

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of the post-war reconstruction of Tokyo. 50 The planners involved in the greenbelt planning encountered the same obstacles as the other planning solutions described above, but on an even larger scale, because they required large-scale expropriation from home- and landowners. Only after the passing of the Air Defence Law did greenbelts become draft measures for fireproofing Japan’s larger cities, beginning in 1939. But these were not put into practice until 1943, when the imminent danger of air raids finally resulted in the allocation of a budget. By 1944, out of necessity and practical considerations, the government resolved to forcefully remove buildings to create open space (tatemono sokai, lit.: evacuation of buildings, related to the German concept of Auflockerung). After the war, expropriated land was mostly restored to the former owners, reversing war-time efforts to create greenbelts in Japanese metropoles. Still, some land was retained as open space and integrated into post-war urban planning. For example, Osaka retained the Tsurumi Ryokuchi park from the greenbelt plan, while Kyoto used the cleared patches of land to create the largest road in the city centre, Oike Dōri. 51 FIREPROOFING THROUGH BUILDING MATERIALS: INTRODUCING REINFORCED CONCRETE INTO THE URBAN LANDSCAPE While the Great Kantō Earthquake was a major incentive to test and implement Western urban planning practices, it was also a major turning point for improving fireproofing by choosing specific materials. Researchers hailed reinforced concrete as the ultimate disaster-proof building material which did not only resist fires but earthquakes as well. Japanese architects and engineers were confident that their research on reinforced concrete was on a par with the Western counterparts they had learned from, or that it even surpassed them. Though not entirely foreign to the premodern Japanese fire regime, fireproofing by materials was only partially used. For example, house fronts were at times rendered with fire-retarding materials. Merchants built warehouses (dozō) with wood frames and walls made of clay and plaster as thick as 60 centimetres in order to protect their goods and earnings. 52 The Westernisation following the Meiji Restoration had brought new building materials, such as brick, which had potential for fireproofing. However, brick buildings proved weak in the face of the Great Nōbi Earthquake in 1891. As Japan historian Gregory Clancey has shown, the failure of 50 Satō Shun’ichi, Ishikawa Hideaki: Toshi keikaku shisō no henten to shimin jichi [Ishikawa Hideaki: The change of the urban planning thought and the self-governance of citizen], in: Jichi sōken 40, 2014, pp. 1–44; Ishikawa Hideaki, Kokudo keikakuron [Treatise on national planning], Tokyo: Hachigensha 1941. 51 Koshizawa, Fukkō keikaku (cf. n. 32), pp. 136–151; Kawaguchi Akiko, “Hisensai toshi” Kyōto ni okeru tatemono sokai no sengo shori to hōteki kitei [The post-war treatment and law regulation on building evacuation in Kyoto, a “city spared from war destruction”], in: Jinbun gakuhō 104, 2013, pp. 113–136. 52 Sand/Willis, Governance, Arson, and Firefighting in Edo (cf. n. 12), pp. 47, 55.

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Western brick construction was highlighted in the Japanese media at that time, while traditional earthquake-resistant wooden architecture was pitted against it. The earthquake elevated the value of wooden construction, which mostly remained the method of choice during the subsequent efforts at earthquake engineering by Japanese scientists and architects. 53 Nonetheless, when the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 caused terrible damage mostly through fires, 54 the Japanese government sent a delegation of scientists to study its effects. Part of this delegation was architect Sano Toshikata (1880–1956), who concluded that reinforced concrete was an especially valuable material that was not only resistant to earthquakes but withstood fires as well, while brick and stone constructions were more hazardous. 55 Architects felt themselves validated on Japanese soil when the Great Kantō Earthquake seemed to prove the point that reinforced concrete structures were best at withstanding the earthquake and fires, while brick, stone and wooden buildings exacerbated the disastrous effect. Observations on how buildings had performed were widely and extensively discussed in the popular media. 56 Brick buildings performed particularly poorly during the earthquake. Most notably, the top three floors broke off the popular Asakusa Jūnikai (lit.: The twelve stories of Asakusa) tower, the first Japanese skyscraper made of brick in the Western style. Formerly a major landmark, the pictures of its destruction became one of the symbols of the devastation caused by the earthquake. 57 Reinforced concrete buildings withstood both the earthquake and fire with considerably less damage. For example, the Marunouchi Building of the 53 Gregory Clancey, Earthquake Nation. The Cultural Politics of Japanese Seismicity, 1868– 1930, Berkeley: University of California Press 2006. 54 Kevin Rozario, The Culture of Calamity: Disaster and the Making of Modern America, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 2007. 55 On the Japanese delegation to San Francisco after the earthquake see Clancey, Earthquake Nation (cf. n. 53), pp. 212 f.; Sano Toshikata, Beikoku kashū shinsaidan 1 [Talk on the earthquake disaster in the State of California in America], in: Kenchiku zasshi 20, 1906, pp. 646– 656; Sano Toshikata, Beikoku kashū shinsaidan 2, in: Kenchiku zasshi 20, 1906, pp. 693– 705; Sano Toshikata, Beikoku kashū shinsaidan 3, Kenchiku zasshi 21, 1907, pp. 29–44. Sano Toshikata later published his dissertation on earthquake-proof construction. Sano Toshikata, Kaoku taishin kozōrōn jōhen [Treatise on earthquake-proof construction of houses, first volume], in: Shinsai Yobō Chōsakai hōkoku 83, 1, 1916, pp. 1–142; Sano Toshikata, Kaoku taishin kozōrōn gehen [Treatise on earthquake-proof construction of houses, second volume], in: Shinsai Yobō Chōsakai hōkoku 83, 2, 1917, pp. 1–137. 56 Disaster reports in popular magazines from the Great Kantō Earthquake typically included inventories of damages and descriptions in the style of city tours. This is well represented in the then very popular Kōdansha, (ed.), Taishō daishinsai daikasai [The great earthquake and the great fire disaster of the Taishō period], Tokyo: Kōdansha 1923, pp. 33–46, pp. 207–217, pp. 226–229. On city descriptions of Tokyo after the Great Kantō Earthquake see Evelyn Schulz, Stadt-Diskurse in den “Aufzeichnungen über das Prosperieren von Tōkyō” (Tōkyō hanjō ki): Eine Gattung der topografischen Literatur Japans und ihre Bilder von Tōkyō (1832–1958), München: Iudicium 2004, pp. 206–211. 57 The image of the broken tower featured prominently on many pictures and postcards. The aforementioned Kōdansha (ed.), Kantō daishinsai daikasai (cf. n. 56) used it on its cover.

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Mitsubishi Corporation, which had just been newly built from 1920 to 1923, became a symbol for successful earthquake-proof reinforced concrete construction. The originally American design had been reworked by Japanese architect Naitō Tachū (1886–1970) after another earthquake in 1922. Thus, the Marunouchi Building was seen all the more as a success of Japanese earthquake engineering principles. 58 Following these experiences, Japanese architects turned towards reinforced concrete while bricks fell out of favour. Uchida for example wrote “if not for very special circumstances, it was unnecessary” to use these forms of construction in Japan “at all”. 59 Interestingly, German engineer Rudolf Briske (1884– 1967), who was involved in the construction of the Tokyo subway after the Great Kantō Earthquake and published a dissertation on earthquake-proof construction based on his experience gained from the disaster, did not necessarily agree with his Japanese colleagues: He stated that reinforced concrete faced its own problems during earthquakes and that pillars were strained by earthquake forces – a problem not much discussed by Japanese earthquake engineers until an earthquake in 1968. Briske pointed out that well-built brick buildings were indeed able to resist earthquakes better than poorly executed reinforced concrete ones, and he favoured steel frame constructions. 60 However, the leading group of Japanese architects, especially Sano and Naitō, were less in favour of steel frame constructions because they regarded them as weaker during fires and easily destructible without the cement protection which reinforced concrete has. They had been influenced by the sight of steel constructions bend and collapse from the intense heat of fires (Fig. 3), some of which they had constructed themselves. Thus, experiences of fire damage from the Great Kantō Earthquake shaped the direction of earthquake engineering in Japan for the next decades: Buildings had to resist both earthquakes and fires. 61 58 Clancey, Earthquake Nation (cf. n. 53), pp. 222 f. Regarding another reinforced concrete building, it was reported that a group of people survived on the upper floors of the building, subsisting on two bottles of sake for days before they could escape, whereas the lower floors had been affected by the fire. Kōdansha (ed.), Kantō daishinsai daikasai (cf. n. 56), pp. 194 f. 59 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), p. 144. 60 Rudolf Briske, Die Erdbebensicherheit von Bauwerken, Berlin: Ernst 1927. On Rudolf Briske, cf. Shūichi Takashima’s paper in this volume. 61 Fujimori Terunobu, Kenchikushiteki mondai [Problems in Architecture History], Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō 2008. Sano Toshikata / Taniguchi Tadashi, Taishin kōzō hanron [General theory of earthquake resistant construction], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 1934, pp. 16 f., 169 ff. Today’s earthquake-proof construction is more in favour of the flexibility that steel frame construction allows. In the 1930s, a debate whether rigid or flexible construction was more earthquake-proof resulted in the dominance of Sano and his peers who favoured rigid frame constructions such as reinforced concrete, an opinion influenced by its performance during fires as well. Ishiyama Yūji, Taishin kōzō ni kanren suru gijutsu – kijun no hensen [The development of technologies and standards concerning earthquake resistant construction], in: Nihon Kenchiku Bōsai Kyōkai (ed.), 20 seiki no saigai to kenchiku bōsai no gijutsu [Disasters of the 20th century and the technology of architectural disaster prevention], Tokyo: Gihōdō Shuppan 2002, pp. 292–297. Takayama Mineo, Jūgō ronsō: Tatemono no taishin seinō wa doko made wakatta ka [Flexible vs. Rigid Structure], in: Nihon Kikai Gakkaishi 113, 2010, pp. 253–256.

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Fig. 3: Steel frame construction destroyed by the Great Kantō Earthquake, most likely the Yokohama Specie Bank (Yokohama Shōkin Ginkō) building, which today hosts the Kanagawa Prefectural Museum of Cultural History (Kanagawa Kenritsu Rekishi Hakubutsukan)

However, for effective earthquake and fire proof construction, the quality of the concrete was also deemed important, since Sano and his peers blamed the failures of reinforced concrete on bad execution. 62 Exploring construction methods and standardising reinforced concrete had been a popular research focus since Sano’s trip to San Francisco, but after the Great Kantō Earthquake attention shifted to ensuring and maintaining the quality of reinforced concrete in the face of strain from earthquakes. 63 At the same time, Japanese engineers deplored the shortage of testing facilities in Japan. Regarding the matter of how to test construction materials, researchers again looked to Germany. The expert on reinforced concrete Tanabe Heigaku (1898–1954) studied in Germany for one and a half years 62 Sano, Beikoku kashū shinsaidan 3 (cf. n. 55). 63 Inoue Shūji, Tekkin konkurīto [Reinforced concrete], Tokyo: Maruzen 1906. Uchida Yoshikazu et al., Tekkin konkurīto ni kansuru yakugo narabi ni kigō shian [Translated terms on reinforced concrete and suggestions on symbols], in: Kenchiku zasshi 29, 1915, pp. 788–792 attempts a standardisation of technical terms around reinforced concrete. Doboku Gakkai (ed.), Tekkin konkurīto hyōjun shihōsho [Specifications on reinforced concrete standards], Tokyo: Doboku Gakkai 1932; Miyamoto Takenosuke, Tekkin konkurīto [Reinforced concrete], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 1934; Tanabe Heigaku / Futami Hideo, Tekkin konkurīto kōzō [Reinforced concrete construction], Tokyo: Tokiwa Shobō 1934; Miyamoto Takenosuke, Verdrehungsversuche mit unbewehrten und bewehrten Betonkörpern, in: Doboku gakkaishi 13, 1927, pp. 89–140; Uchida Yoshikazu / Hamada Minoru, Tetsu oyobi konkurīto no taikyū shiken [Tests of durability on steel and concrete], Kenchiku zasshi 42, 1928, pp. 1287–1303; Hamada Minoru, Semento oyobi konkurīto jikkenhō [Experiment methodology on cement and concrete], Tokyo: Kyōritsusha 1933.

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between 1922 and 1924 and was fascinated by the testing system in Germany, which included official testing laboratories and technical universities. Tanabe concluded that undertaking thorough stress testing as well as fire-resistance testing would be an essential necessity for disaster and fire-ridden Japan. 64 Whilst referring to the Germans as models for how to go about using reinforced concrete construction and honouring them by using German terminology,65 Japanese researchers also started to regard their own work as genuinely their own, parallel, endeavour by the 1930s. This can be seen as a part of the emancipation and professionalisation of engineers in the 1930s. The engineers, most notably, civil engineer Miyamoto Takenosuke (1892–1941), claimed in their writings how their advanced technological knowledge qualified them for greater societal responsibility. 66 This also meant their emancipation from their European counterparts. This was especially true for earthquake engineering using reinforced concrete. 67 The concrete industry in the 1930s also prided itself of producing one of the world’s leading, high-quality Portland cements and credited the experiences from the Great Kantō Earthquake for this. 68 The newly found pride can also be seen in the case of a civil engineering dictionary explaining German, English and French engineering terms that had to defend its existence by pointing out that it was still important to read foreign publications, even though Japanese civil engineering had become a world leader. 69 64 Tanabe Heigaku, Doitsu no zairyō shikenjo [Construction material testing facilities in Germany], in: Kenchiku zasshi 39, 1925, pp. 17–41. Doi Matsuichi also mentioned American testing facilities, Doi Matsuichi, Shinsai ni kansuru dai3 kōen kairoku: Shingai to konkurīto [Transcripts of the third lecture on the earthquake disaster: Earthquake damage and concrete], in: Kenchiku zasshi 38, 1924, pp. 562–569. 65 In the 1930s, it became popular to refer to frame construction by rāmen, as if to acknowledge its German origins (Rahmen). However, contrary to German where Rahmen denominates all kinds of frames including wooden ones, the Japanese rāmen usually refers to steel frames in reinforced concrete construction. Frame construction is still referred to by its German name today and remains one of the leading principles in earthquake engineering. Sano/Taniguchi, Taishin kōzō hanron (cf. n. 61), pp. 1–26. 66 Erich Pauer, Die Mobilisierung der Ingenieure in der Zwischenkriegszeit: Von der Technokratie zum “wissenschaftsgeleiteten Industrialismus”, in: Nachrichten der Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 175–176, 2004, pp. 93–128. 67 This can be seen as being in the tradition of Clancey’s “Earthquake Nation”. Clancey, Earthquake Nation (cf. n. 53). Techno-nationalism in earthquake engineering can be traced back to the 1891 Nōbi Earthquake, when traditional Japanese architecture was discovered to be more earthquake resistant than new Western buildings, and was passed on to the earthquake engineering of the 1920s and 30s. For example, an engineer named Ikehara Eiji (1887–1933) mocks in an essay how Rudolf Briske looked down on Japanese engineers but was helplessly behind Japanese earthquake engineering knowledge. Ikehara Eiji, Ikehara Eiji ikōshū [Posthumous manuscript collection of Ikehara Eiji], Tōkyō: Kōgyō Zasshisha 1933, pp. 61 ff. 68 Akiyama Kei’ichi et al., Semento Zadankai [Round-table on cement], in: Nihon Yōgyō Kyōkai zasshi 46, 1938, pp. 33–39, here p. 34. 69 Kenchiku Shiryō Kenkyūkai (ed.), Ei-Wa Doku-Futsu – Doku-Wa Ei-Futsu doboku kenchiku yōgo shinjiten [New English–Japanese–German–French and German–Japanese–English– French dictionary of civil engineering and architecture], Tokyo: Taiyōdō Shoten 1938, p. 1.

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Preferences of building materials were also reflected in the building code. The same core group around Sano and Uchida was responsible for drafting the stipulations on building safety in the Urban Buildings Law (shigaichi kenchikubutsu hō), which was passed together with the Urban Planning Law of 1919. For example, it had introduced zoning into to Japanese urban planning according to the German model, but less strictly so. It also incorporated fire prevention zones, which were an expansion of existing fire prevention districts from the 1880s. Type one zones were restricted to fireproof materials like brick, stone and reinforced concrete. Type two allowed wooden buildings which were fireproofed with tile roofs and some form of cladding with fireproof materials. 70 To enforce the regulations in the fire prevention zones, the government introduced subsidies for fireproofing, but these were never utilised fully and failed to reach their goals. 71 Not only did the citizens lack understanding or simply did not have the means to build earthquake-proof and fireproof houses, the realities of reconstructed cities were densely-built, wooden temporary shelters (barakku) that, in many cases, persisted for years. 72 Accordingly, building with reinforced concrete was mostly in the hands of public construction departments and wealthy companies and corporations. For example, Mitsubishi built a showcase of modern earthquake and fireproof construction in the Marunouchi business district in the centre of Tokyo. 73 To provide shelter also to poorer, and therefore mostly wooden, neighbourhoods, building schools systematically to serve as evacuation spots in emergency situations became an important strategy for the government. This was achieved by not only assigning more free space, as mentioned above, but also by building them, if possible, with reinforced concrete. At first, these reinforced concrete schools were mostly limited to reconstructed Tokyo, where they were dubbed the “reconstruction elementary schools” (fukkō shōgakkō). 74 However, the policy only spread slowly to the rest of Japan. 75

70 Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 13), pp. 115–118. 71 Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 29–32; Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), pp. 213–216; Kayanoki Madoka, 20 seiki no jūtaku seisaku: Fukkō kensetsu josei kabushiki gaisha – Kantō daishinsai fukkōki no taika kenchiku josei to kyōdō kenchiku [Housing politics in the 20th century: the Recovery Construction Support Company – the support of fireproof construction during the reconstruction from the Great Kantō Earthquake and communal building], in: Jūtaku 51, 2002, pp. 53–59. 72 Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 28–31. 73 Clancey, Earthquake Nation (cf. n. 53), p. 201. 74 Kaneyama Mahito et al., Teito fukkō jigyō ni okeru shōgakkō kensetsu jigyō: Tōkyōshi no fukkō shōgakkō ni tsuite [The construction of elementary schools within the reconstruction of the imperial capital: About the reconstruction elementary schools in Tokyo city], Dobokushi kenkyū: Kōenshū 34, 2014, pp. 45–48. 75 See school building guidelines roughly ten years later, Kyōiku Keiei Henshūbu (ed.), Monbushō kunrei junkyo. Gakkō saigai no bōbi to hijō kunren [In accordance with the Ministry of Education’s Paragraph. Defence and emergency training against school disasters], Tokyo: Dai’ichi Shuppan Kyōkai 1934, pp. 21 ff.

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To cope with the massive shortage of housing after the Great Kantō Earthquake, a housing corporation named Dōjunkai was founded in 1924, in part with relief donations, and was tasked with carrying out remedial measures (zengo shochi) against the disaster by the Home Ministry. This measure did not only concern hygiene and elevating general living conditions, but also explicitly addressed solving the problem of the cramped wooden neighbourhoods by providing better suited apartment buildings. 76 Dōjunkai built 16 reinforced concrete apartment buildings between 1924 and 1934. Dōjunkai apartments are regarded as revolutionary and influential for the construction of apartments in Japan because research on how to adapt the foreign concept of apartment housing to fit Japanese needs was done to great success. 77 They mostly survived the bombing in the Second World War. Dōjunkai not only promoted reinforced concrete buildings, but also engaged in the removal of the ever-persisting wooden temporary shelters as well as improving especially cramped and unhygienic neighbourhoods. However, a lack of funds stalled the construction of reinforced concrete buildings in the 1930s and forced the Dōjunkai to switch entirely to the construction of wooden buildings. 78 Reinforced concrete apartment buildings remained in favour with architects who promoted them as effective against air raids and the best means to construct a fireproof city. 79 However, the lack of funds for reinforced concrete construction became evident in the 1930s, and the war-related shortage of steel and concrete made building them less and less realistic. Relying on constructing buildings entirely from fireproof materials was thus not a generally applicable solution. Researchers therefore turned to the possibilities of how to render the traditional wooden housing safer: partial fireproofing and retrofitting wooden houses. From the 1930s onwards, the same researchers dedicated to fireproofing the cities also tested several kinds of other materials and their fire resistance. These experiments drew on fireproofing standard measurements of materials from Germany, Britain, and the United States. 80 Likewise, forms of partial fireproofing were tested, such as equipping a house with one wall made of fire-resistant materials, fire doors, shutters, and windows that were infused with wire nets to prevent them from breaking from the heat (Fig. 4). 81 The most successful to emerge from this partial and less costly way of 76 Dōjunkai, Dōjunkai jūhachi nenshi, Tokyo: Dōjunkai 1942, pp. 1–10. 77 Dōjunkai, Dōjunkai jūhachi nenshi (cf. n. 76), p. 73; Shilpi Tewari / David Beynon, Tokyo’s Dojunkai Experiment: Courtyard Apartment Blocks 1926–1932, in: Planning Perspectives 31, 2016, pp. 469–483. 78 Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 32–43. 79 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), pp. 260–263; Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 49–52; Tanabe Heigaku, Bōkū kōkyūsaku to shite funen toshi no kensetsu o dankō subeshi [To make air defence permanent, the construction of fireproof cities should be rigorously carried out], in: Kenchiku zasshi 57, 1943, pp. 507–513. 80 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), pp. 192–203. 81 It was known that sparks entering houses made fire spread faster by setting the interiors alight and thus were more dangerous than fire encroaching from outside. Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai

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fireproofing was the popularisation of plastering wooden houses with fire resistant cement mortar, which was credited to the research done by Uchida Yoshibumi.82 In 1939, newly passed building regulations concerning air defence made the retrofitting of wooden houses mandatory, which was followed by a 1942 law that set a budget for this endeavour. However, since even the materials required to retrofit wooden houses directly competed with military supply needs, the set budget was actually never exhausted. Thus, fireproofing houses was only accomplished, even in Tokyo, in only 10 per cent of the buildings in 1943. 83

Fig. 4: Windows with integrated steel sashes successfully withstanding a fire experiment

Although Japanese scientists had taken their own path in researching fireproof materials, Japanese fireproofing experts Tanabe Heigaku and Hamada Minoru (1902–1974) still went on an expedition to Germany and Italy in 1941 to learn from their air defence preparations. They described the model preparation of (cf. n. 31), pp. 147–187. 82 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), pp. 3, 156–169. Uchida’s research had shown that cement mortar, regardless of how thick it was applied, was suitable for fireproofing wooden houses. 83 Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 170–178, 338.

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Germany’s cities, factories, and bunkers with much admiration. Only carefully did Tanabe point out that Japan still had a lot to catch up on since Germany had built its cities fireproof for centuries, and Hamada even says that Germany could not serve as a model for Japan since German cities already contained large areas constructed from fireproof materials and had cellars that could be used as bomb shelters. When the Pacific War started in December 1941, transnational learning had reached its limits. 84 Researchers wrote that the protection of Japanese cities had to rely on the “spirit” (seishin) of the population, and authorities intensified social engineering efforts to commit citizens to fire fighting. 85 NEIGHBOURHOOD ORGANIZATIONS AND EARLY DETECTION OF FIRE The Great Kantō Earthquake resulted in a two-day inferno created by countless kitchen fires. After buildings collapsed, people fled leaving their fires unattended. Many took their belongings with them, causing even more fire hazards by blocking evacuation routes and refuges. The fire brigades themselves were also affected by the earthquake. The modern fire trucks were easily rendered unusable because roads had collapsed from the earthquake and fuel was scarce. The remaining fire brigades were overwhelmed by the multitude of blazes. 86 With so many sources of fires came rumours that the Korean minority or criminals had set fire on purpose. With all communication networks breaking down and the resulting lack of information, these rumours spread like wildfire. Neighbourhood vigilante groups (jikeidan) were spontaneously formed who murdered an estimated 6,000 people, mostly Korean immigrants. The government reacted to this major breakdown of social order by declaring martial law. The army needed several days to calm the riots down. 87

84 Tanabe Heigaku, Doitsu no bōkū [Air defence in Germany], Tokyo: Ishi’i Shi Kanreki Kinen Kōenkai 1942. Hamada Minoru, Doitsu ni okeru kūshū to bōkū [Air raids and air defence in Germany], in: Denki Gakkai zasshi 62, 1942, pp. 294–298. On transnational learning in air defence, see Sheldon Garon, On the Transnational Destruction of Cities: What Japan and the United States Learned from the Bombing of Britain and Germany in the Second World War, in: Past & Present 247, 1, 2020, pp. 235–271, and Garon, Defending Civilians (cf. n. 46). 85 Hamada, Doitsu ni okeru kūshū (cf. n. 84), p. 297. Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), p. 217. 86 Suzuki Jun, Kantō daishinsai: Shōbō, iryō, borantia kara kenshō suru [The Great Kantō Earthquake: Revisited from the perspective of firefighters, medical professionals, and volunteers], Tokyo: Kōdansha 22016, pp. 57–89; Ogata Yui’ichirō, Kantō daishinsai ni yoreru Tōkyō no daikasai [The great fire of Tokyo caused by the Great Kantō Earthquake], in: Shinsai Yobō Chōsakai hōkoku 100, 6, 1925, pp. 1–79; Nakamura Seiji, Daishinsai ni yoru Tōkyō kasai chōsa hōkoku [Report on the Tokyo fire caused by the great earthquake], in: Shinsai Yobō Chōsakai hōkoku 100, 5, 1925, pp. 81–135. 87 However, some soldiers took part in the riots themselves or engaged in the murder of anarchists under the cover of martial law. Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake (cf. n. 2), pp. 49–54. Narita Ryūichi, Taishō demokurashī [Taishō democracy], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten

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Thus, the Great Kantō Earthquake exposed how easily firefighting and social order could break down in extraordinary times or times of emergency (hijōji). 88 This sent shockwaves through the government and the military. In view of a potential war, controlling social order and preventing public disarray also formed a vital part of the air defence preparations. On the other hand, some officials saw potential in the ad-hoc neighbourhood vigilante groups during the Great Kantō Earthquake, but only if they were redirected to more meaningful purposes. Organising and training hijōji became an important endeavour. 89 Beginning in 1928, air drills involving army, police, youth, women’s and veterans’ associations were conducted in major Japanese cities. 90 These drills had the purpose of organising responses and maintaining authority in emergency situations, while also including citizens through the various forms of neighbourhood organisations. In the 1930s, citizens were to be re-educated to shoulder much of firefighting by detecting fires early and extinguishing them themselves in an emergency. Transnational learning, especially from Germany, played an important role for organising and training citizens to deal with new air raid technologies. 91 However, Japan also had a social tradition of fire control to fall back on, which was heavily used in campaigning for citizen firefighting. Uchida Yoshibumi pointed out that even with the devastating effects of fire on wooden neighbourhoods, the number of fires breaking out was very low by international standards. Japan had roughly about 0.25 to 0.3 fires per 1,000 people, while Britain averaged 1.3 and the US even 6.3. From this, Uchida concludes that the majority of the fires in Japan were put out before the fire departments were involved. Traditional practices to take care of fire in wooden housing and social control, he implied, still played an important part for fire prevention in Japan. 92 This did not mean that the Japanese fire regime enjoyed a successful continuity from the Edo period onwards. For example, during the Great Kantō Earthquake, many citizens worsened the situation by bringing their belongings with them, making them fire hazards during evacuation. They blocked evacuation routes and caused overcrowded bridges to burn down. At the site of the former

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2007; Matsuo Shōichi, Kantō daishinsai to kaigenrei [The Great Kantō Earthquake and martial law], Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan 2003. The term hijōji was first popularised by the emperor and in the combination hijō hensai ji (times of emergency and disaster) it soon became a slogan which could cover both disasters and public disarray, and was even applied to war-like situations. Minami Orihara / Gregory Clancey, The Nature of Emergency: The Great Kanto Earthquake and the Crisis of Reason in Late Imperial Japan, in: Science in Context 25, 2012, pp. 103–126. Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake (cf. n. 2), pp. 212 f. Tsuchida, Kindai Nihon no “kokumin bōkū” taisei (cf. n. 7), pp. 85–88; Daiyon Shidan Shireibu, Ōsaka bōkū enshū kiji [Account of the Osaka air drill], Tokyo: Kyōdōsha Shuppanbu 1929; Senda Tetsuo, Bōkū enshūshi [The history of air drills], Tokyo: Bōkū Enshūshi Hensanjo 1935, pp. 5, 31. Garon, Defending Civilians (cf. n. 46). Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), p. 17. Uchida admits that the numbers in Japan only account for the blazes the fire departments got involved in while the numbers for Western countries came from fire insurances, which might also include smaller breakouts.

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military clothing depot in the Honjo ward, one of the few large evacuation sites during the Great Kantō Earthquake, the evacuees even brought mattresses and furniture. Approximately 40,000 people died when a firestorm burned through the site, making it one of the most gruesome sites of the earthquake. Edo officials had known of the dangers of fleeing with belongings and banned the practice. However, several bans suggest that many people did not abide and brought their belongings with them nonetheless while evacuating from a fire. 93 Since the Meiji Period, such bans were no longer enforced. With the introduction of modern firefighting, the number of great urban fires had decreased significantly. 94 However, because of the earthquake damages, many fire trucks were rendered unusable: Water pipes had been destroyed and water for extinguishing fires was unavailable. Trucks could not operate because of earthquake damage to roads or due to blockages. In addition to that, fuel ran out very quickly. In these extreme circumstances, people had to fall back on premodern firefighting practices such as demolishing houses to deprive the fire of fuel and early detection of fires to keep them from spreading, practices that had been abandoned decades ago. In reality, most fires were left to burn unchallenged. 95 In a rare case later dubbed as a miracle, the neighbourhoods of Kanda Izumichō and Sakumachō successfully protected themselves from fires during the Great Kantō Earthquake, while adjacent neighbourhoods in all directions had burned down. The neighbourhood is said to have had a history of successfully fighting a fire during the Edo period, motivating them to fight for itself rather than letting it burn. By conjoined efforts of local citizens and neighbourhood organisations, they removed flammable materials, demolished houses, and organised bucket chains to nearby water sources. The historian of technology Suzuki Jun has pointed out that this was only possible because of especially lucky conditions: The neighbourhood was surrounded by fireproof architecture and had river water at their disposal as well as a gasoline-powered water pump from a nearby factory. These details were quickly forgotten, however, when this story was told as a success story of the heroism of neighbourhood organisations in order to use it in propaganda materials to educate citizens for air defence. 96 Thus, Japanese officials, especially fire departments, which were part of the police force at that time, set out to re-educate citizens as allies in the early detection and extinguishing of fire as well as setting up neighbourhood organisations to mobilise civilians for firefighting. In 1930, the Metropolitan Police Department 93 Yoshimura, Kantō daishinsai (cf. n. 6), pp. 77–108, 116–124. 94 On the modernisation of firefighting see Suzuki Jun, Machibikeshi tachi no kindai: Tōkyō no shōbōshi [The modernity of the town firemen: The firefighting history of Tokyo], Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan 1999. 95 Suzuki, Kantō daishinsai (cf. n. 86), pp. 57–85. 96 Yoshimura, Kantō daishinsai (cf. n. 6), pp. 126–131. Suzuki, Kantō daishinsai (cf. n. 86), pp. 85–94. Suzuki Jun, Shisha o meguru rekishi to monogatari: Kantō daishinsai o rei to shite [The history and stories around the dead: The Great Kantō Earthquake as an example], in: Akiyama Satoru / Nozaki Kan (eds.), Jinbunchi 2: Shisha to no taiwa, Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2014, pp. 133–151, here pp. 141–146.

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(Keishichō) issued the “Regulation on the protection from fires in times of emergency” (hijōji kasai keibō kitei) which stipulated regular emergency drills for fire departments in close connection with the local neighbourhood organisations and mandated information campaigns aimed at citizens on the early detection of fires. In the following years, officials from the firefighting departments engaged in popularising knowledge on firefighting and fire prevention, using exhibitions, public lectures, and radio programmes. 97 With guidelines on school safety released in 1934, fire and air defence drills following guidelines from the fire departments also became mandatory at Japanese schools. 98 In 1936, stories on how to behave during disasters were inserted into moral education textbooks. 99 After the beginning of the Pacific War, home economics textbooks shifted towards air defence and were expanded with information on how to behave during an air raid and how to design makeshift firefighting gear. 100 In moral education textbooks, a story about a fire drill together with firefighting units was included for younger children, and for the older children the success story of the brave citizens of Kanda, who during the Great Kantō Earthquake provided water in bucket chains and prevented fire from spreading by removing easily inflammable materials and closing windows. This story was intentionally beautified to teach children the sense of community that would make them fight fires instead of evacuating, but it also gives a detailed description of the bucket chain and other measures that were advocated for air defence at the time. 101 The organisation of air defence in neighbourhood groups and the Air Defence Law of 1937, which compelled citizens to participate, mostly followed a German model. Apart from learning from German writings, two research delegations were sent to Germany. 102 During the research delegation of 1941, fireproofing expert Tanabe Heigaku closely inspected the organisation of air defence in Nazi Germa97 Takagishi Saeka, Shōwa zenki ni okeru Keishichō to “kokumin shōbō” [“Civilian firefighting” during the early pre-wartime Showa Era: Fire prevention activities within the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Agency], in: Shigaku zasshi 127, 2018, pp. 1013–1026; Dainihon Shōbō Kyōkai, Bōka kōenshū [Fire prevention lecture collection], 2 volumes, Tokyo: Dainihon Shōbō Kyōkai 1931; Tōkyōfu Shōbō Kyōkai, Hijō hensaiji. kasai keibō tenrankai yōkō [Outline of the exhibition on protection from fire in times of emergency and disaster], in: Shōbō 57, 1932, pp. 72 f. 98 Kyōiku Keiei Henshūbu, Monbushō kunrei junkyo (cf. n. 75), pp. 70–85. 99 Monbushō, Monogoto ni awateru na [Do not panic], in: Jinjō shūshinsho 3, Tokyo: Tōkyō Shoseki 1936, pp. 36–40. Monbushō, Chinchaku [Composure], in: Jinjō shūshinsho 4, Tokyo: Tōkyō Shoseki 1936, pp. 36–40. 100 This was especially apparent in highschool textbooks, Monbushō, Seinen katei 1, Tokyo: Seinen Gakkō Kyōkasho 1944, pp. 112–150. 101 Monbushō, Shōbō enshū [Fire drill], in: Shotōka shūshin 1, Tokyo: Tōkyō Shoseki 1942, pp. 71–76; Monbushō, Yakenakatta machi [The quarter that did not burn down], in: Shotōka shūshin 2, Tokyo: Tōkyō Shoseki 1942, pp. 35–39; Suzuki, Shisha o meguru rekishi to monogatari (cf. n. 96), pp. 141–144. 102 Garon, Defending Civilians (cf. n. 46), pp. 8–10. Okuda Noritomo, Bōkū kōgaku [Air defence engineering], Tokyo: Koronasha 1942.

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ny, and was very impressed by its tight organisation. 103 However, he explained during a talk in 1942 that the German air defence was unified under the Reichsluftschutzbund (National Air Defence Union), with a mandatory membership that enlisted 20 per cent of the population, while the Japanese air defence was divided between military and civil authorities, and the Great Japanese Air Defence Association (Dainihon Bōkū Kyōkai) had far less competence than its German counterpart. 104 Historian Takahashi Misa argues that the Japanese were reluctant to make air defence mandatory for all civilians as the Germans did. Therefore, the Association’s main purpose was to popularise knowledge on air defence through its magazine. 105 This might have been the case because not many people imagined that aircrafts would really be able to reach Japan to bomb the cities. Even after the first American air raid on Tokyo, the Doolittle Raid in April 1942, proved that air raids on Japan were indeed possible, the reactions were still mixed, as historian Kuroda Yasuhiro describes. With reports of Japanese victories coming in, people let their guard down again. Air defence always operated on a fine line between preparing civilians and not making them insecure. 106 The Air Defence Law was intensified in 1941 and 1943 requiring citizens to stay put during air raids and thus mandated them to be first-response firefighters. Evacuation, except for the weak and sick, was forbidden. 107 Even if the firefighting capacity was not enough to fireproof the Japanese city, holding the civilians responsible was a way to keep up morale at the home front and to maintain social order during wartime. 108 This practice is blamed for a multitude of unnecessary deaths among civilians. 109 CONCLUSION AND POST-WAR LEGACIES OF THE INTERWAR FIREPROOFING MOVEMENT Disasters, especially the Great Kantō Earthquake, played a major role in the fireproofing discussion in interwar Japan, because they were closer to Japanese people’s experiences than aerial warfare, which only was a distant possibility and was 103 Tanabe Heigaku, Doitsu: Bōkū – kagaku – kokumin seikatsu [Germany: Air defence – science – daily life of the people], Tokyo: Sagami Shobō 1942. Tanabe Heigaku, Sora to kuni: Bōkū kengaku – Ō-Bei kikō [Sky and land: Observations on air defence – travel records of Europe and America], Tokyo: Sagami Shobō 1943. 104 Tanabe, Doitsu no bōkū (cf. n. 84), pp. 4 f. 105 Takahashi Misa, Shōwa senzenki no bōkū shisō: Dainihon bōkū kyōkai o chūshin ni [The air defence thought: Focusing on the Dainihon Bōkū Kyōkai], in: Shigaku zasshi 120, 2011, p. 103. 106 Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 306–312. 107 Mizushima Asaho / Ōmae Osamu, Kenshō bōkūhō: Kūshūka de kinjirareta hinan [The Air Defence Law revisited: The evacuation that was forbidden during air raids], Kyoto: Hōritsu Bunkasha 2014, pp. 38–70. 108 Mizushima/Ōmae, Kenshō bōkūhō (cf. n. 107), pp. 43 ff., 83–86, 102 f. Kuroda, Teikoku Nihon no bōkū taisaku (cf. n. 7), pp. 306–312, 318–321. 109 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), p. 217. Mizushima/Ōmae, Kenshō bōkūhō (cf. n. 107), pp. 84–103.

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not taken seriously until the firebombing of Japan actually commenced. Looking at discussions in urban planning, research on building materials, and the organisation of civilian fire prevention, it becomes clear that disasters had several varied effects on the fireproofing process: Disasters and the subsequent reconstruction process were seen as an opportunity for urban planners to create and put urban designs into practice which would not be possible without. However, this also meant that without a disaster, large scale changes to the urban landscape were not realistic. In the period between the Great Kantō Earthquake and the Second World War, construction with fireproof materials, such as reinforced concrete, and new forms of housing were as much researched and pioneered as enhancing and retrofitting wooden housing, with the goal of protecting Japanese cities from firebombing. But ironically and tragically, comprehensive fireproofing of cities was only achieved following the next big disaster that burned down many Japanese cities, namely the air raids of the Second World War. Disasters can also serve as an argument for the introduction of new measures and technologies. In the wake of a disaster, there is a heightened awareness of the dangers and risks which can be used to argue for accepting mitigating measures. This prompted the proponents of urban planning practices to advertise them as countermeasures for disasters, even if this was not the context why the adapted measures had been developed in Europe, nor the primary reason why these practices had been adopted in the first place. This was the case, for example, when small parks originally intended for improving children’s health were realised as evacuation spaces, when representative avenues were framed as firebreak roads, or when housing improvement was presented as fireproofing cities. This argument could be taken to extremes, such as using disasters to threaten citizens into obeying new measures. This happened, for example, when Tokyo mayor Nagata predicted that the disaster was going to keep repeating itself if Tokyo citizens did not accept land readjustment. In other cases, only the immediate threat of aerial bombing led to the implementation of the measures, as in the case of greenbelts. Securing space for greenbelts seemed impossible, a budget for acquiring land was only granted after Japan’s entry into the Pacific War, and the forceful removal of houses did not happen until firebombing actually started. Although natural disasters can serve as an incentive to adopt certain technologies from abroad, they can also derail such efforts. Since natural disasters expose the dangers of certain environments, they also provided the opportunity to reconsider the suitability of construction materials for the given environment. In the Meiji Period, the Japanese began introducing foreign construction materials like brick, steel frames, and concrete. Western building materials, especially bricks, represented modernity as well as promised safety. However, earthquakes exposed their weakness in Japan’s seismic environment during the Great Nōbi Earthquake in 1891. Learning from the San Francisco Earthquake in 1906, reinforced concrete became the favourite fireproof and earthquake-proof material among Japanese architects and engineers. The Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923 cemented this view and brick definitively fell out of favour. In the case of steel frame construction,

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structures proved strong against earthquakes but performed much less well during fires than reinforced concrete, making reinforced concrete more popular with Japanese architects during the interwar period. The fireproofing discourse in Japan was thus strongly entangled with the discourse on earthquake engineering. One can even argue that fireproofing in Japan cannot be discussed without taking earthquake safety into account. Many contemporary key players like Uchida Yoshikazu and Tanabe Heigaku engaged in both discussions. In addition, disasters can also create obstacles to implementing urban planning in cities. After the disaster, it was important to restore the city to functionality as quickly as possible, without much regard for quality. Especially in Japan, where the traditional fire regime was based on the easy disposal and destruction of cheap housing and quick reconstruction after a disaster, sustainable reconstruction with fireproof materials was difficult to implement. 110 Large parts of the city were hastily rebuilt with temporary wooden shelters and poor construction which were difficult to fight from a planner’s perspective. Fireproofing was expensive, and not many housebuilders were willing or able to pay for it after experiencing a massive loss of fortune. As financial incentives did not have much effect on the population, it fell on the state to pioneer fireproof construction. However, the state was also not willing to prioritise the fireproofing of cities in the face of a growing, war-related material shortage. As a consequence, researchers began to regard the fireproofing efforts of the interwar period as a failure. 111 Even though disasters can encourage innovation in their aftermath, during the actual disaster the opposite occurs as people fall back on tried and trusted methods: Natural disasters mostly become disasters precisely because they destroy infrastructure and stop technology from functioning. When the streets and waterpipes were destroyed during the Great Kantō Earthquake, it rendered most of the fire brigades useless, allowing the fires to burn down two thirds of Tokyo. In this case, falling back on older and simpler technologies such as bucket chains was the only option, as was seemingly proved by the Kanda case. In the following years, the experiences from the Great Kantō Earthquake were used to explore how to cope with fires in times of emergency and to educate and force civilians to protect their cities from air raids with the most basic and makeshift tools, leading to devastating losses. Material shortages led to the scaling back of research on the fireproofing efforts to retrofit wooden houses, which was cheaper than building with reinforced concrete. Despite falling back on wooden construction, research on fireproofing reveals a remarkable creativity and variety of measures, which led to a unique way of fireproofing Japanese cities: The amalgamation of the traditional idea of partial fireproofing of wooden houses with a variety of modern materials. 110 Sand/Willis, Governance, Arson, and Firefighting in Edo (cf. n. 12). This phenomenon is by no means unique to Japan and can also be observed in other regions prone to disasters, for example during the reconstruction of San Francisco after the earthquake of 1906, see Rozario, The Culture of Calamity (cf. n. 54). 111 See for example a short history of fireproofing by Hamada Minoru from the post-war period. Hamada Minoru, Bōka kenchiku nangyōdan [The tales of the difficult trials of fireproof construction], in: Kasai 3, 1953, pp. 97–100.

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It would be an oversimplification to portray the reconstruction after the Great Kantō Earthquake as a failure that exacerbated wartime damage, since many factors contributed to this outcome. What is more important to emphasise here is that a discourse on fireproofing was sparked in the aftermath of the Great Kantō Earthquake, which encouraged the adaptation of Western urban planning practices and technologies to Japanese needs and amalgamated them with traditional forms of urban construction. While the insights that emerged from these discussions were not fully deployed at the time, they were put into practice in the post-war period. After initial material shortages, reconstruction after the war eventually saw a boom of reinforced concrete apartments, which included social housing such as danchi. 112 Rendering wooden houses with cement mortar became a widespread method of fireproofing in post-war Japan. 113 The same architects who had lobbied for fireproof cities in the interwar period also organised interest groups for fire prevention in the post-war period, influencing legislation. 114 This ultimately led to the change of the Japanese fireproofing regime to one which prevents fires by relying on construction materials and urban planning and which is based on their own research tradition, thus creating a Japanese form of urban modernity.

112 Laura Neitzel, The Life We Longed For: Danchi Housing and the Middle Class Dream in Postwar Japan, Portland: Merwin Asia 2016. The insistence on inflammable materials and modern housing then created other problems, as described in Ann Waswo, Housing in Postwar Japan: A Social History, London: Routledge 2002, pp. 62–85. 113 Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai (cf. n. 31), p. 3. 114 Hatsuda Kōsei, Sengo ni okeru toshi funenka undō no shoki no kōsō no hensen ni kansuru kenkyū: Taika kenchiku sokushinhō seiritsu no haikei [A study about the transformation of early concepts of the urban fireproofing movement: The background of the enactment of fireproof building promotion law], Toshi keikaku ronbunshū 42, 2007, pp. 415–420.

THE GERMAN INFLUENCE ON THE FIRST SUBWAY IN TOKYO Shūichi Takashima INTRODUCTION Today, both Berlin and Tokyo are cities with well-developed subway systems. The total length of the subway in Tokyo is 304 km, whereas, as of 2020, it stands at 140 km in Berlin. There is little relationship between these transport systems, either in terms of technology or management. However, Tokyo’s subway was built in the 1920s under the strong influence of foreign countries, especially Germany. This article looks into this development with a particular focus on the role of the German engineer Rudolf Briske (1884–1967) and technological exchange between Germany and Japan in the early 20th century. Looking at the U-Bahn in Berlin (Fig. 1) and the Ginza line, the oldest subway line in Tokyo (Fig. 2), some similarities between these two subways can be established. First, the size of the coaches is smaller than those of regular trains such as those run by DB (Deutsche Bahn) or JR (Japan Rail; formerly the national rail). This accounts for the steep curves and smaller cross-section of the subway tunnels. Second, electricity is supplied using the same method: via a third rail and the use of collecting shoes that are put under the train floor (and not from an overhead wire by pantographs). Finally, the cross-section of the tunnel is square for both instead of round.

Fig. 1: U-Bahn (U2) in Berlin (left); Fig. 2: Ginza Line in Tokyo (right)

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These similarities are not accidental but demonstrate that the first subway in Japan was constructed under the influence of German technology. The construction of Tokyo’s first subway was a new experience for all involved, and the operator at the time hired the German engineer Rudolf Eduard Briske to assist with the project. However, it should be noted that his influence was limited because, as I will discuss later, this type of subway did not continue in Tokyo after the Second World War. Although Briske acted as technical adviser to the subway operators, little is known about his life history until now. Focusing on Briske’s activities in the larger history of Tokyo’s subway, I intend to address the larger issue of technology transfer in1920s. Before this discussion, a brief explanation of the urban transport history of Tokyo is necessary. Today, Tokyo is one of the largest cities in the world. In 2019, the total population of Tokyo was about 14,000,000, of which about 9,600,000 resided in the city centre wards. 1 Even in the Shogunate period (1603– 1868), Edo (the former name of Tokyo) was already one of the world’s largest cities with a population of more than 1,000,000 in the 18th century. 2 However, the city of Tokyo was not simply formed by the continuous expansion of Edo. After the Meiji Restoration (1868), Tokyo went into decline. However, by the end of the century, it was expected that it would develop into the Japanese capital in name and substance, and, after undergoing major material and social changes, it eventually became a modern city. 3 Although the Shogunate castle had been transformed into the Imperial Palace and some old temples and shrines had survived, it should be noted that there was a major disconnection between Edo and Tokyo. 4 At the beginning of the 20th century, Tokyo shared certain urban issues with major European and American cities and learned its policies from the West, with transportation being the most notable of them.5 The first railway in Tokyo opened in 1872; however, it could not be considered urban transport 6 as it mainly served as a connection between Tokyo and the treaty port of Yokohama, which was developing into Japan’s biggest international harbour at that time and was home to a growing foreign merchant community. Next came the opening of the horse tram in 1882. When the line was finally electrified in 1903, the network expanded rap1 2 3 4 5 6

Tōkyō Tochō, Sōmukyoku, “Tōkyōto no jinkō (suikei)” no gaiyō [Overview of the “Population of the Tokyo metropolitan area (Estimation)”], 2019. https://www.metro.tokyo.lg.jp/ tosei/hodohappyo/press/2019/10/31/06.html; accessed 16.11.2021. Kitō Hiroshi, Edo Tōkyō no jinkō hatten: Meiji ishin no mae to ato [Population growth in Edo and Tokyo], Jōchi keizai ronshū, 34, 1–2, 1989, pp. 48–69. Ogi Shinzō, Tōkei jidai [Tokyo in the Early Meiji Period], Tokyo: Nippon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai 1980. Matsuyama Megumi, Edo Tōkyō no toshishi: Kindai ikōki no toshi, kenchiku, shakai [An Urban History of Edo-Tokyo: city, architecture, and society in the changing capital of Japan, 1850–1920], Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2014. Takashima Shūichi, Toshi tetsudō no gijutsu shakaishi [A Technological and Social History of Urban Railway in Tokyo], Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha 2019. The term “urban transit” cannot be defined unambiguously by gauge, ownership, distance between stations, or policy. In this paper, “urban transit” shall be defined as transportation that primarily provides travel that is completed within a city or urban area.

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idly. The first rapid transit system was introduced by a private company in 1904, and the network expanded as a result of its nationalisation 7. By 1914, a frequent commuter train service had been established between Tokyo and Yokohama (a distance of about 25 km). In the interwar period, rapid train services expanded to suburban areas. The national rail network was extensively developed, and several private lines also opened. Private railway companies had grown into conglomerates, operating both housing and retail businesses in addition to the railway business. 8 However, in the city centre, tramways continued to be the main method of transportation. Although the national rail lines did reach the inner city, they were not sufficient to cope with commuters’ demand. It was under these circumstances that the Tokyo Underground Railway Co., Ltd. (Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō, TUR), which will be the main focus of this chapter, opened its line. The service started in 1927, covering a distance of just 2.2 km, but it was notable as the first subway not just in Japan but also in Asia in general. Later, the line expanded to provide more extensive and practical transport. Although the operating entity has since changed, it remains active today as the Tokyo Metro Ginza Line. THE BEGINNING OF THE SUBWAY IN TOKYO Introducing the Subway System to Japan The TUR Company was granted its railway installation license in 1919. 9 In that year, the Japanese government promulgated a new city plan for Tokyo (Tōkyō shiku kaisei jōrei), and three other companies also received licenses for lines in the inner city areas, totalling 72 km. However, TUR was the only company to actually open its line. The other companies failed to begin construction, and their licenses were revoked in 1924. According to a magazine for urban planners at the time, a combination of the post-war depression of 1920 and the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923 had a critical effect. 10 For the opening of the TUR line, one manager’s effort made all the difference: Hayakawa Noritsugu (1881–1942), who has since been called The Father of the Japanese Subway. Hayakawa was an entrepreneur from Yamanashi Prefecture (adjacent to the west of Tokyo), home to several business managers and investors in the late 19th 7

Under the Railway Nationalisation Act of 1906, 17 private railways were nationalised by 1907. The purpose of this was to consolidate the country’s mainline railways, but it also provided an opportunity for the national railways to operate urban transportation systems. 8 Cf. Deguchi’s article in this volume. 9 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken [A History of the TUR Company, Vol. 1], Tokyo: Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha 1934. The following description on TUR is based on this book. 10 Chika tetsudō no menkyo o torikeshi [The revoking of subway licenses], in: Toshi kōron 7, 9, 1924, p. 106.

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century. He graduated from the school of law, Waseda University in Tokyo, one of Japan’s most prestigious private universities, in 1908 and went to work at the South Manchuria Railway Co., Ltd. (Minami Manshū Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha) and the Japanese Governmental Railway (JGR), not as a white-collar employee but as an ordinary worker, an unusual choice for a Waseda graduate. However, in performing these roles, he deepened his knowledge and understanding of the railway business. His talents were detected by Nezu Ka’ichirō (1860–1940), an influential railway tycoon who was also from Yamanashi Prefecture. Hayakawa became acquainted with Nezu through his wife’s uncle, Mochizuki Kotarō (1866– 1927), a member of the House of Representatives. Nezu entrusted Hayakawa with the management of some railway companies, with great success. In 1914, Hayakawa travelled to Europe and investigated both the London Underground and Glasgow Metro systems. He went on to inspect the subways in France and other European countries, as well as the New York Subway. During this technological grand tour, he conceived the idea of introducing a subway system to Tokyo. Some said that it would be impossible to construct a subway line in Tokyo due to the soft subsoil, as the ground the city and its surrounding areas are built on what used to be seabed. At the same time, Hayakawa understood the problems that underground water springs could cause for a subway system. It was a problem already encountered in London. However, Hayakawa conducted a number of surveys upon his return to Tokyo in 1916, which revealed that a subway had the potential to be technically and economically successful in Tokyo. However, the biggest challenge Hayakawa faced were the political negotiations that were required to obtain a license. He succeeded by making the acquaintance of Shibusawa Ei’ichi (1840–1931), a major figure in Japanese business circles who became known as the father of Japanese capitalism, gaining his backing and benefitting from his great influence 11. Hayakawa also met with Tokyo Mayor Okuda Yoshito (1860–1917) and gained his support for the plan. Despite much opposition from Tokyo City Council (Tōkyō Shikai), the mayor’s support gave the plan the decisive push and Hayakawa was able to apply for the license in 1917. Next, Hayakawa embarked on publicity for the subway. He gave a lecture to members of the Imperial Association of Railroads (Teikoku Tetsudō Kyōkai), an organisation comprising politicians, business people, and bureaucrats. He also published a pamphlet titled “Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō ni tsukite” (What’s TUR?), in which he mentioned the effects of the San Francisco earthquake on the subway. According to him, although the 1906 earthquake may have destroyed buildings on the ground, the tram tunnels had not collapsed. He used foreign subways as examples throughout, suggesting in another part of the pamphlet that the cost of removing soil would actually be lower in Tokyo than in New York. In an attempt to show that his project would be an excellent investment, Hayakawa reported the business performance of the Interborough Rapid Transit Company in New York.

11 Shibusawa was involved in the management of some 500 companies, including Dai’ichi Bank (today’s Mizuho Bank, one of Japan’s major banking companies).

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It is clear that Hayakawa had obtained information on various overseas subway networks, but had not included German systems at this time, due to the war. In the pamphlet, he referred to a skew tunnel structure in which oblique arch construction was applied, an idea taken not from Germany but from London and Glasgow. However, he had not yet decided on the details of how to construct the first subway in Tokyo and was not necessarily aware of the Berlin’s system with its mostly quadrangular tunnels or the Hamburg system with its elevated tracks, probably because he had not been to Germany due to World War I. 12 Traffic Conditions in Tokyo before the Subway The background of the subway construction in Tokyo was formed by a serious shortage in the transport capacity of the existing tram network. 13 The first tramway service in Tokyo had started in 1882 as a horse tram, and was constructed by a private company called Tōkyō Basha Tetsudō (Tokyo Horse Tram). The line ran through the city centre, and its frequency improved as the number of passengers increased. By the end of the 19th century, the company wanted to electrify their line. As carriages departed up to 70 times per hour, the hygiene problems caused by horse urine had become serious. This problem encouraged electrification, but the government did not allow it immediately. The Tokyo City Council held influence over governmental policy, 14 but it could not arrive at a clear decision whether the company’s plan was appropriate or not. A large number of applicants competing for a license envisioned the construction of new lines in addition to the existing horse tram line, and when each tried to lobby the city council, a political conflict emerged. Some lobbyists intended to introduce different traction systems, including battery, steam and gas, and argued that electricity would have a negative impact on the overhead telephone lines and on water pipes already underground. The situation eventually evolved into a political battle that centred on controversy over technology superiority. Finally, three companies were issued with licenses, including the existing Tōkyō Basha Tetsudō. The electric tramway service eventually started in 1903. These three companies merged into one in 1906 and became municipalised in 1911. Around the time of the First World War Japan prospered economically and the number of passengers a year rose steeply from 262,000,000 to 400,000,000. This trend outpaced the increase in network length, although the flat fare system 12 Before the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923, there was no elevated railroad, except for a short section of JGR line, and few other plans were in place. JGR compared a steel viaduct (like in Hamburg, New York or Chicago) with a brick viaduct and adopted the latter due to its superiority in terms of noise and cost. 13 Takashima, Toshi tetsudō no gijutsu shakaishi (cf. n. 5). The following description is based on the book. 14 When a private railroad company applied for a license to the government, the opinion of the local government was attached to the application.

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and city expansion to the suburbs boosted each other. These factors combined, however, caused terrible congestion. According to a survey conducted by The Tokyo Institute for Municipal Research (Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai), 15 school students who used the trams every day were complaining about this a great deal. People were incredibly frustrated due to congestion in the tramcars, which resulted in fights and crimes. Even before the tram service was introduced, capacity shortages had been predicted. However, the Electricity Bureau of Tokyo’s City Government (Tōkyōshi Denkikyoku), which ran the trams, had few solutions. Tram trailers were prohibited by governmental regulations, and the maximum speed was kept under 8–9 miles/h. One solution actually implemented was to introduce large rolling stock with bogie trucks (carriages with four axles), but the effectiveness of this was limited. The city bureau also attempted an express service that skipped several stops, but this too had little effect. An expected solution was the introduction of new commuter transportation facilities such as a rapid transit or metro system. The first rapid transit system in Tokyo was introduced by the Kōbu Railway Co. Ltd., a company that was already operating a line between Tokyo and Hachiōji, a gateway town to the surrounding countryside. 16 They were permitted to electrify a 10.6 km section in Tokyo city and its suburbs (between Iidamachi station and Nakano station) for use by a frequent service in 1904. The rolling stock was equipped with a multiple-unit control system, which enabled a train driver in the leading carriage to control multiple powered carriage. Although the company often ran the trains with just one carriage, this system was deemed to be suitable for mass transit. The line was nationalised in 1906 and became part of the JGR network. In 1906 and 1907, the government nationalised several large private railway companies, including the Nippon Railway Co., Ltd which was the largest railway company at the time. After obtaining its line, JGR introduced a frequent service on the Yamanote Line, which would later develop into a loop line which encircled the inner city area of Tokyo, electrifying the western edge of Tokyo city in 1909. JGR’s Keihin Line proved to be a breakthrough case. This service had been introduced between Tokyo and Yokohama in 1914, the year a new track was laid just for use by commuter trains alongside the existing track. For each train, an electric multiple unit system was used. We can consider the Keihin Line the first fully fledged urban mass transport, and its launch coincided with the opening of the Tokyo Central Station. The station’s main building was designed by Japanese architect Tatsuno Kingo (1854–1919), but the plan for the overall layout was drawn by a German civil engineer named Franz Baltzer (1857–1927). Baltzer also designed the viaduct approach to Tokyo’s central station in cooperation with Hermann Rumschöttel (1844–1918), another German engineer. This viaduct – 15 Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai, Shō shimin wa Tōkyōshi ni nani o kibō shite iru ka [What Do Young People Want from the City of Tokyo?], Tokyo: Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai 1925. 16 Tōkyō Tetsudōkyoku Denshagakari (ed.), Shōsen denshashi kōyō [A Brief History of JGR Electric Trains in the Tokyo area], Tokyo: Tōkyō Tetsudōkyoku 1927. The following description of JGR’s rapid transit services is based on this book.

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still in existance today – was built from brick and was reminiscent of one in Berlin. 17 Its similarity to that in Berlin can be understood by comparing the viaduct near Tokyo Station with that near Jannowitzbrücke Station. Nonetheless, these JGR lines were not sufficient to fill the role that the tramway had occupied, because the network was simply not as dense (Fig. 3). JGR aimed to expand its network and partially realised this goal; however, as it was a bureau of the Ministry of Railways (Tetsudōshō) at the time, pressure from parliament and political parties who aimed to induce profits in rural areas shifted the focus to the provision of rural lines. The political parties of the time sent influential people from all parts of the country to the House of Representatives as members. They attracted roads, railways, ports and institutions of higher learning to their hometowns. 18 Consequently due to the political focus on providing rural connections, JGR was not allowed to invest capital into just one specific region of Tokyo; as a result, the construction of other routes was left to private companies or the Tokyo City Government. That a national rail company could provide just the framework of an urban transport system is also a phenomenon found in the case of the DRG (Deutsche Reichsbahn Gesellschaft)-built S-Bahn in Berlin. 19 The First Subway Line in Tokyo In 1917, Hayakawa and six other founders (mainly company owners, not of railways but of publishers’, leather treatment businesses, etc.) applied for a subway license from the Ministry of Railways. 20 However, a series of difficulties followed. After their applications were submitted, a number of competitors also applied for subway licenses. The routes they planned did not directly compete with Hayakawa’s plan, but as these competitors were older business tycoons they had significant resources and attempted to merge with the company that Hayakawa was trying to establish. Although Hayakawa succeeded in continuing with his commitment to the business, he would encounter this situation again. The legitimacy of the business plan was also threatened. Some felt that the subway was by its nature a public business and should thus be coordinated by a public agency. In a 1919 survey report, Tōkyōshi Naigai Kōtsū Chōsakai (Tokyo Metropolitan Traffic Research Committee), a semi-municipal and semi-private research organisation, proposed a route plan for a kōsoku tetsudō (rapid transit or 17 F. Baltzer, Die Hochbahn von Tokio, in: Zeitschrift des Vereines deutscher Ingenieure 47, 47, 21.11.1903, 1689–1698. A Japanese translation is included in: Shima Hideo, Tokyō eki tanjō [The birth of Tokyo Station], Tokyo: Kashima Shuppankai 1990. 18 Mitani Ta’ichirō, Nihon seitō seiji no keisei [The Formation of Party Politics in Japan], Tokyo: Tokyō Daigaku Shuppankai 1995. 19 Paolo Capuzzo, Spatial Structures, Transport Networks, Urban Mobility. Vienna and Berlin, 1870–1914, in: Andrea Giuntini / Peter Hertner / Gregorio Núñez (eds.), Urban Growth on Two Continents in the 19th and 20th Centuries. Technology, Networks, Finance and Public Regulation, Granada: Editorial Comares 2004, pp. 117–128. 20 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken (cf. n. 9).

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subway) to be constructed in the future. This report only included the proposal for the lines that Hayakawa was planning and did not mention which organisation would manage them. A little later, the national organisation Tōkyō Shiku Kaisei I’inkai (Tokyo Metropolitan Reform Commission) finally decided on a plan for a subway route (in total about 72 km) in the city of Tokyo. This proposal was legally binding and included the route that Hayakawa intended to construct. In response, the Tokyo City Council expressed its own intention of building a municipal subway and effectively opposed construction by the private sector. However, the city of Tokyo lacked the financial resources to go through with this plan, and despite the city’s intention to manage a municipal subway, the Ministry of Railways decided to give the license to the private sector. 21 The whole planning process reveals conflicting foreign influences. In the commission’s proposal, all routes to be constructed in the future took a through route that crossed the city centre. The Tokyo City Council argued in favour of adding a loop line to the plan, stating that the “loop line may be an old system, but it is necessary”. 22 This statement was largely influenced by American urban planning. The through route was based on a new idea proposed by American city planner Daniel Lawrence Turner (1869–1942) that Japanese city planners had become aware of. In Japan during this period, urban planners emerged from among the ranks of civil engineers. They aggressively imported specialised knowledge on urban planning. The license was finally issued in 1919, and TUR was established in 1920. However, the difficulties did not end there, as further financial problems plagued Hayakawa. First, the governmental subsidy was not approved, even though such grants were being paid to a number of private railway companies at this time. Second, and more seriously, Japan was hit by a major depression in 1920. Japan had fought Germany in the First World War as part of an alliance with the United Kingdom and had suffered little direct damage; on the contrary, Japan had enjoyed a boom due to increased exports, which continued after the war. This boom created a bubble economy, which finally burst in March 1920. The depression had a catastrophic effect when TUR tried to raise the envisaged capital of 40,000,000 JPY. They then attempted to obtain foreign capital through Sale and Fraser Co., a British trading company that had operated in Yokohama since the 19th century. A further plan to secure 20,000,000 JPY from a US fund company was almost realised, but when the Great Kantō Earthquake occurred on 1 September 1923, the company’s CEO refused the funds for fear of an expected economic crisis due to the quake. As a result, TUR was forced to reduce its planned capital expenditure to 10,000,000 JPY and decided to build only 2.2 km of subway between Ueno (one of the largest railway junctions in Tokyo) and Asakusa (the most crowded downtown area at the time), which represented just a small part of the planned route (Fig. 3). 21 Takashima, Toshi tetsudō no gijutsu shakaishi (cf. n. 5). 22 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken (cf. n. 9), p. 145.

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Fig. 3: The Subway System Plan in Tokyo around 1939

Furthermore, Ōkuragumi, one of the largest contractors in Japan, proposed that payment for most of the construction expenses could wait until after the service had opened. Their aim was to accumulate technological know-how by experiencing the first subway construction, so that they would subsequently be able to use this technology and their experience to dominate the industry. Finally, TUR opened the first section in 1927, before extending its line to Shinbashi by 1934. To extend the line, the company raised funds by issuing bonds and borrowing from the government-affiliated Japan Industrial Bank (Nippon Kōgyō Ginkō). 23 TUR adopted a new standard for rolling stock and buildings. The track gauge was 1435 mm, while the JGR was 1067 mm and the tram was 1372 mm. Electrici23 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken (cf. n. 9).

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ty was not taken from the overhead catenary but from a third rail beside the track. Due to these differences, the line was isolated from existing lines. The carriage was about 15.5m long and 2.6 m wide, which was larger than the tramcar but smaller than the JGR’s, which measure 16.2 m in length (extended to 19.3 m in the 1930s) and 2.8 m in width. Stations were set up every 500 m to 1 km, while every 1 to 2 km on the JGR’s commuter lines. Overall, the TUR’s transport capacity was between that of JGR and the tramway, similar to European cities. THE GERMAN INFLUENCE Rudolf Briske, German Chief Engineer In April 1923, TUR invited a German engineer to Tokyo who had been staying in Shanghai. At that time, Westerners staying in Shanghai often visited Japan, for either business or a holiday. The following year, the company appointed him as a temporary technical adviser. His name was Rudolf Eduard Briske (Fig. 4), a civil engineer who worked at Siemens-Bauunion GmbH. Very little about his life in Japan is known. An official book about the company’s history is almost the only source and the above description the only fact revealed in it. 24 However, my research has identified the “Briske Family Collection, 1888–1948”, an online document from the Center for Jewish History Digital Collections,25 provided by the New York Center for Jewish History. This section will discuss Briske in light of this new evidence.

Fig. 4: Rudolf Eduard Briske (1884–1967)

As evidenced by the location of the collection, Briske was a German of Jewish origin. He was born in Breslau on July 23 in 1884, and baptised as a Protestant in 1907. In 1908, he received his diploma in civil engineering from the Technische Hochschule Charlottenburg in Berlin, specialising in iron construction. After graduating from the technical university, he worked as a chief engineer at the Berlin Railway Directorate (Eisenbahndirektion Berlin) from 1909 to 1912. That year 24 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken (cf. n. 9). 25 Briske, Rudolf, Briske Family Collection, 1888–1948, Leo Baeck Institute Archives Berlin, MF 847. Via the Center for Jewish History’s Digital Collection: http://digital.cjh.org:1801/ webclient/DeliveryManager?pid=1038207; accessed 17.11.2021.

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he entered the design offices of several construction companies, including, among others, the AEG rapid transit railway construction department (AEG SchnellbahnBauabteilung), and received his master’s degree in railway construction. Also in 1912, Briske married Franziska Karoline Johanna Mortensen. During the First World War, he served as a volunteer soldier. Briske worked at AEG until he entered Siemens-Bauunion GmbH in 1920. At the latter company he was head of the advertising department from 1921 to 1923 before he was dispatched to China with a special task in 1923. Although the document does not indicate where Briske stayed during his time in China, the company history of TUR tells us that he was in Shanghai, probably in the international settlement. It was during his tenure at Siemens-Bauunion that he was asked to act as a technical adviser for TUR. It is not known why he was chosen to be the only foreign adviser for the company. Briske’s position was reminiscent of the hired supervising foreigners (oyatoi gaikokujin) invited by the Japanese government during the Meiji era (1868– 1912). During this period, the government hired a total of 3,000 foreigners, and private companies also hired foreign workers. They were given huge salaries (in some cases higher than even that of the Prime Minister) in exchange for providing their professional skills and knowledge. In actuality, Briske received a salary of 10,000 JPY per year for an average of three work hours per day, an amount ten times that paid to Japanese engineers. It is difficult to define whether Briske was an oyatoi gaikokujin or not, but if he was, he was certainly part of one of the last generations to take this role. According to the historian of technology Erich Pauer, a number of German engineers were employed by Japanese companies in the 1920s. 26 Pauer notes that this phenomenon was distinct from the Meiji era, however, because they were not employed via diplomatic channels and their employment finished at the end of the decade. In the case of Briske, yet another difference can be seen that sets him apart from the Western experts invited to Japan in the Meiji period. Japan’s railway construction technology was already self-sustaining at this time, and ordinary railways were no longer in need of foreign assistance. TUR had hired a Japanese veteran who had retired from the Ministry of Railways as a chief engineer, but after the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923, he went back to working as a government official on the Reconstruction Bureau (Fukkōkyoku). After his departure, the company invited another person from the Ministry: Tōtake Yūkuma (1873–1942). He was a civil engineer with extensive experience in railway construction in the Hokkaidō region. Briske’s role was not, therefore, to supervise all of the construction. Nonetheless, the fact that he continued to work for TUR until 1926 suggests that his contribution must have been considerable.

26 Erich Pauer, The Transfer of Technology between Germany and Japan from 1890 to 1945, in: Kudō Akira / Tajima Nobuo / Erich Pauer (eds.), Japan and Germany: Two Latecomers on the World Stage, 1890–1945, Folkestone: Global Oriental 2009, pp. 466–510.

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It is not known if Briske experienced the Great Kantō Earthquake. However, he was certainly present in Japan right after the quake, if not earlier, and gained a lot of information from it. During his time in Japan, he proceeded to investigate the quake disaster and upon his return to Germany made use of that in his dissertation entitled “Die Erdbebensicherheit von Bauwerken” (The quake protection of buildings). He was awarded a doctoral degree in engineering in 1927. After his return to Berlin, Briske’s experience in Tokyo helped him to increase his reputation as an engineer, and he produced reports for the building of subways in Stockholm, Prague and Moscow. In 1938, he was fired for being nonAryan. However, as his wife was not Jewish, his status of privilegierte Mischehe (privileged mixed marriage) helped him escape the worst fate possible. He became an independent engineer working in the design and calculation of building with reinforced concrete, finding work in Potsdam and Berlin. After the war, he returned to the Siemens-Bauunion Company and worked there until 1950. He passed away in Berkheim (Erft) on 11 February 1967. German Influence on Underground Tunnel Construction Very few historical sources have been found that attest to Briske’s contribution to the first subway system in Japan. Although some Japanese articles note that Briske gave advice in both planning and tunnel construction, they lack detail. 27 For the most part, Erich Pauer also accepted these sources. However, we do find more information in Briske’s doctoral dissertation, 28 in which he asserts that the first subway in Tokyo was designed and executed according to his information (Angaben). It is therefore possible that he provided information and advice from a broad perspective as a supervisor, while leaving the specific design to the Japanese side. Briske’s most significant impact on the technical aspect of the Japanese subway was the adoption of the rāmen (frame, from the German word Rahmen) construction method. Although there were various kinds of cross-sectional shaped tunnels (Fig. 5), TUR adopted a box design. In constructing a box tunnel, there were two primary methods: (i) a simple method of laying the beams between columns and (ii) the rāmen method, where the columns and beams were joined together (Fig. 6). Although the latter required more complicated structural calculations, it had the advantage that steel consumption could be reduced.

27 The most recent article is Tetsudōshi Gakkai (ed.), Tetsudōshi jinbutsu jiten [Who’s Who in Japanese Railway History], Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Hyōronsha 2013. 28 Rudolf Briske, Die Erdbebensicherheit von Bauwerken, Ph.D. thesis, Technische Hochschule Berlin 1927.

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Fig. 5: Three types of tunnel cross-sections. From left to right: box, arch, and tube type. The designs along the bottom are for the station section.

Fig. 6: Example of a ramen construction; drawing for Ginza Station, which opened in 1934.

The AEG Tunnel in Berlin was constructed by the Allgemeine ElektricitätsGesellschaft (AEG) in 1897. It was the first subway tunnel in Germany, intended to carry the factory’s workers and materials, and was a test case for the construction of subways as public transport. The tunnel was built with reference to the London Underground, and two cross-sectional methods were tested: arch and

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box. 29 After comparing the two, the AEG adopted a box cross-section for the Berlin U-Bahn, the first line of which was opened in 1902. The construction of this tunnel facilitated the development of the rāmen construction method, and Briske must have gained his experience of the rāmen method through this early tenure. Briske stated in his thesis that Berlin’s subway tunnels had only to withstand the ground pressure, whereas those in Tokyo had to consider seismic resistance. 30 In view of the earthquake hazard, to ensure strong longitudinal reinforcement of the tunnel, Briske preferred to use iron concrete construction as well as the rāmen construction method, despite the additional costs incurred. In addition, Briske provided invaluable advice on waterproofing the inside of the tunnel to the struggling Japanese engineers. His thesis also pointed out the particular importance of waterproof sealing in the earthquake zone. He stated that several layers of asphalt of alternating thicknesses up to more than 1 cm, shaped like corrugated cardboard (Fig. 7), could prevent a crack from spreading. With such a strong construction of the tunnel and the comparatively small amount of groundwater, he argued that the risk of water entering the tunnel in the event of an earthquake was very low.

Fig. 7: Wall in tunnel

According to a book by Tōtake, 31 Briske stated that the sandy terrain in Berlin meant that elevated lines were built first, before the invention of a drainage method based on burying iron cylinders in the ground made it possible to construct the subway. Each cylinder contained several thin tubes, and a net was attached to the end of each so that only water could be pumped through. Although Berlin and Tokyo had different soil properties, the same method also proved to be effective in Tokyo. 29 Axel Mauruszat, Berlins erster Bahntunnel: Die Verbindungsbahn der AEG-Fabriken im Wedding, in: Verkehrsgeschichtliche Blätter 45, 3, 2018, pp. 61–66. 30 Briske, Die Erdbebensicherheit von Bauwerken (cf. n. 28). 31 Tōtake Yūkuma, Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō narabi ni sono jisshi ni kansuru kenkyū shiryō [A report of TUR construction], Sapporo: Sapporo Kōgaku Dōsōkai 1932, pp. 183–185.

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A further contribution was Briske’s introduction of German machinery such as the piling machine, electric regulator, and so on. 32 For the import of construction machinery, Briske’s connections with German companies obviously proved useful because Japanese engineers had neither the know-how nor the contacts to select the right machines. At the same time, this transaction also benefitted the German economy, which had temporarily recovered but was still struggling with the crisis brought about by hyper-inflation. Thus, Briske’s contribution to procurement was probably one of the special missions he had been assigned by the German company. Despite these important factors, it should be noted that TUR did not depend entirely on Briske for these new ventures. Tōtake had more than 20 years of experience in railroad construction (including the construction of tunnels) at JGR by this time. Which parts of Briske’s advice were to be incorporated and which were to be rejected was therefore entirely his decision. Tōtake also made improvements to the German method, modifying the piling machine to fold its long, 12-m-tall arm so that it could pass under the overhead electrical and telephone wires so prevalent in Japan at the time. 33 Briske’s advice was certainly helpful for Japanese engineers who had little experience in subway construction. It is clear that although he assisted with the initial section, all the subsequent extension work was carried out by the Japanese team. Here, we encounter one example of technical independence: when work was carried out to construct a sewer to cross under the subway, thus following the siphon principle used in Berlin, Briske had already returned to Germany. 34 Although his assistance was not necessarily always required, Briske nonetheless provides us with one example to evaluate the role played by the last generation of hired foreigners in the rapid technological advancement of Japan in the 1920s. Influence on Station Design and Line Planning Briske certainly provided Japanese engineers with more knowledge on urban railways. In 1925, he gave a lecture to members of the Imperial Association of Railways. The summary of his lecture was published in the institution’s magazine, the title of which was “Tōkyōshi no kōsoku tetsudō ni tsukite” (About the Rapid Transit in Tokyo). 35 Briske gave the lecture not as a technical adviser of TUR, but as a chief engineer in the division of civil engineering at the Siemens-Bauunion Company. In it, he discussed the following five themes: types of rapid transit, 32 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, kon [A History of the TUR Company, Vol. 2], Tokyo: Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha 1934. 33 Tōtake Yūkuma, Kikō seru Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō [Start of TUR Construction], in: Kōgyō hyōron 11, 6, 1925, pp. 59–62. 34 Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, kon (cf. n. 32), pp. 187 ff. 35 Rudolf Briske, Tōkyōshi no kōsoku tetsudō ni tsukite [About the Rapid Transit in Tokyo], in: Teikoku Tetsudō Kyōkai kaihō 26, 3, 1925, pp. 123–130.

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network planning, track layout at stations, appropriate priority of construction, and profitability of the subway. Briske cited three types of rapid transit: elevated lines, subways with deep underground tunnel, and lines running through shallow underground tunnels. Of these three types, his preference was for the third one, as in Berlin. He emphasised the safety of underground construction and outlined the following reasons for adopting the surface tunnel in Tokyo: high groundwater levels, no elevators required, convenient ventilation, and safety during earthquakes (especially the possibility of being protected from flooding). Other details were similar to those mentioned in his later doctoral dissertation, including the groundwater drainage method in Berlin mentioned above. In his discussion of network planning, Briske rejected the former plans made separately by the private companies for Tokyo. He pointed out their lack of cohesion as a network and applauded the plan drawn up by Ōta Enzō (1881–1926), a Japanese city planner at the Home Office (Naimushō). The network planned by Ōta consisted of some through routes, linking one suburb to another via the inner city. In terms of track layout at stations, he presented two ideas for intersections. One was placing the platforms in a cross, one above other, and the other was placing them in parallel (Fig. 8). It should also be noted that in the latter case crossovers were used rather than turnouts because trains with different directions coming and going on the same level would make frequent service more difficult. The adoption of this plan would enable the more efficient transfer of passengers and allow more frequent train operation. Furthermore, Briske emphasised the importance of expanding existing roads and securing land in advance because the installation of stations required both large roads and open spaces.

Fig. 8: A Track Layout Plan at a Station Enabling Passengers from A to C to Change Trains at the Same Platform.

This method was later adopted at Shinbashi Station. Yet, as will be described in detail later, the infrastructure that was built ended up not being used for its original purpose of changing directions because a planned branch line was not realised. Instead, the platform was just used to transfer trains of the two railway companies (TUR and Tōkyō Kōsoku Tetsudō (Tokyo Rapid Railway Ltd. Co.)) that connect-

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ed at the station. Although it is unclear whether this decision was influenced by Briske or not, the concept was adopted in the reconstruction work of the JGR station at Ochanomizu, which was conducted from 1932 to 1933 due to increased passenger numbers. The major difference between Tokyo and Berlin in terms of platform placement was the approach from the ground level to the platform. In Berlin, staircases at both ends of the island platform enabled people to get up to the ground, and the exit/entrance often opened directly onto the road. However, in Tokyo, the platforms for each direction were placed face-to-face, and the exit/entrance went up to meet the sidewalk. Such an approach cost much more money, but it also increased scalability in the future extension of platforms. 36 Briske also made recommendations for the priority of construction of the future subway. He suggested that a north–south main line and its connecting branch lines be constructed first, followed by another north–south stem and branches, before they were then connected by an east–west line and so on. He concluded the lecture by endorsing the subway as a highly lucrative business. Despite this information, it is difficult to determine just how much of an effect Briske had on the later subway construction. In terms of route planning, he may not have accurately grasped the level reached by the Japanese engineers. Briske felt that Ōta’s plan was similar to that in Hamburg, enabling passengers to get anywhere in the city with just one transfer. In truth, Ōta was more influenced by the city planner Daniel Lawrence Turner who had worked on the New York Subway system and published a book titled “The fundamentals of transit planning for cities” in 1923. Although Ōta did not mention this book directly, he used the phrase “Turner system” to explain network planning in his own article. 37 The important point, however, is not who the originator was. It is worth noting that both Briske and the Japanese engineers received further education as railway civil engineers and possessed a great deal of practical experience. They were able to exchange information and ideas, and could influence one another in various ways. Therefore, the Japanese did not adopt Briske’s advice as it was given, but instead modified it to suit the Japanese city. AFTER BRISKE’S RETURN Discontinuation of German Technology Unfortunately, Briske’s teachings were not passed on. No further subway line was built in Tokyo during either the pre-war or wartime periods, because of the war itself and the financial difficulties it posed, with just one exception. Tokyo Rapid Railway Ltd. Co. (TKT) opened its line between Shibuya and Shinbashi between 36 Tōtake, Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō (cf. n. 31). 37 Ōta Enzō, Tōkyōshi no kōsoku tetsudō ni tsukite [About the Rapid Transit in Tokyo], in: Kōseikai (ed.), Kōsokudo tetsudō ni tsukite, Tokyo: Kōseikai 1924, pp. 2–20.

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1938 and 1939. 38 The company was poised to take over the construction license that Tokyo City had been holding. Although the city had been hoping to construct the municipal subway lines they had acquired licenses for, no construction could start due to financial difficulty. Private companies were more than willing to step up and take over the licenses. Even though TKT was the only company working on its lines, they too suffered from a shortage of money. The well-known entrepreneur Gotō Keita (1882– 1959) was therefore invited to be a founding member, becoming the virtual CEO of Tōkyō Yokohama Dentetsu (Tokyo Yokohama Electric Railway Ltd. Co., today’s Tokyu Ltd., Co.), a prestigious private conglomerate for transport, real estate, retail, and resort development. His company’s line was a suburban transit connecting Shibuya, a junction connecting the suburban lines with the tram network and National Rail, and Yokohama. Gotō was not satisfied with this situation and intended to extend his line to the inner city, and TKT looked like the ideal means by which to achieve this goal. Gotō’s TKT hoped to create a through service from Shinbashi Station to the TUR line, but TUR did not like the plan, preferring instead to extend their line in the other direction. This difference in opinion resulted in an intense conflict between the two companies, with TKT finally trying to merge with TUR by obtaining its stocks. Although this failed, TKT won eventually because the government supported Gotō’s plan. When the through service started in 1939, the two companies made up a single line of operation. By 1941, both companies had been taken over by a newly established public cooperation, Teito Kōsokudo Kōtsū Eidan (Teito Rapid Transit Authority, TRTA), under the transport coordination policy at the time. Despite the fierce battle between the two companies, TKT set the standards for rolling stock and buildings, as well as the standard gauge of 1435 mm and a third-rail electricity collection system, that made the through service possible. This was akin to the U-Bahn system in Berlin, the standards of which were adopted by the entire network. 39 However, in Tokyo a disparity in standards emerged after the war, an issue I will return to in the next section. Another cause of stagnation was the argument between city planners about whether the new routes should be built above or below ground. 40 In Berlin, it did not matter whether the tracks were elevated or underground, and the U-Bahn was a mixture of the two building techniques. The decision was made depending on both costs and geology. Whether the tracks were elevated or underground was not essential. Yet in Tokyo at this time, urban planners and engineers focused only on whether the new lines should be elevated or underground. 38 Teito Kōsokudo Kōtsū Eidan (ed.), Eidan Chikatetsu gojūnenshi [A History of 50 Years of TRTA], Tokyo: Teito Kōsokudo Kōtsū Eidan 1991. 39 In Berlin, the width of carriages initially was 2.3 m before a new standard of 2.65 m was launched for today’s U6 which opened in 1923 (while it was 3.0 m for the S-Bahn in that period). TUR and TKT adopted a width of 8 feet 6 inches (2.6 m). The gauge of U-Bahn in Berlin is standardised at 1435 mm and the electricity is DC 750 V. TUR and TKT chose 1435 mm gauge and DC 600 V. 40 Takashima, Toshi tetsudō no gijutsu shakaishi (cf. n. 5).

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Such confusion may have been caused by literal translations of technical terms about urban transport. Urban transport in Berlin had a three-layer structure: the S-Bahn providing mass transit, trams or buses as neighbourhood transport, and the U-Bahn in the middle. The same was also true in other European cities (e. g. London or Paris). The same was becoming true for Tokyo. JGR started a ring line service on the Yamanote Line in 1925 which linked the main line junctions, and it was also used for the commuter service to the suburbs. The existing tramways formed the inner-city network. And new transportation in the form of the subway was starting to appear. In European cities, a distinction was made between mass transit and mediumvolume transit, and different terms were used for each. In Japan, too, passengers used three different terms; shōsen densha for JGR commuter service, chikatetsu for subway, and shiden for tram. However, Japanese city planners did not distinguish between JGR and the subway. They used just one technical term kōsoku tetsudō, which is close in meaning to rapid transit. I do not know whether Japanese planners and engineers understood the three-layer structure in Europe or not, but this literal translation resulted in a cultural misinterpretation, thus hindering the planning of an urban transport system with a hierarchical structure. TUR and TKT were, after all, medium-volume transit. However, this was not the case in Osaka. In Osaka, the municipal subway opened in 1933, a little later than in Tokyo, under the influence of mayor Seki Hajime (1873–1935), a specialist in social policy studies and urban planning. 41 The Osaka Municipal Subway (Ōsaka Shiei Chikatetsu) differed from the Tokyo subway in a number of ways. The most significant difference was that the Osaka subway was a highly developed mass transit system with similar standards in the size of carriages or buildings as inter-urban transit. 42 Indeed, plans were put in place to extend the subway to the suburbs, making it an inter-urban as well as a city transit system. They planned to use elevated tracks in the suburban areas, although this extension was not carried out during the pre-war period. This type of transit was introduced in European cities after the Second World War (e. g. in Munich in 1971 43). Subways after the Second World War Subways constructed in Japan after the Second World War were very different from those in Europe, and followed their own path of development. After the Second World War, TRTA began to construct new lines without using the German ways of construction. 44 In 1954, the Marunouchi Line was the first subway to 41 Fuji’i Hideto, Kōtsū ron no sokei; Seki Hajime kenkyū [A Study on Seki Hajime and his Policy], Tokyo: Hassakusha 2000. 42 Ōsakashi Kōtsūkyoku (ed.), Ōsakashi chikatetsu kensetsu gojūnenshi [50 Years of Subway Construction in Osaka], Osaka: Ōsakashi Kōtsūkyoku 1983. 43 Nihon Chikatetsu Kyōkai (ed.), Sekai no chikatetsu [A Data Book of the World’s Subways], Tokyo: Gyōsei 2020, p. 68. 44 Teito Kōsokudo Kōtsū Eidan (ed.), Eidan Chikatetsu gojūnenshi (cf. n. 38).

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open after the war. It took the open-cut construction method that had been used on earlier lines, and adopted the same gauge and third rail electricity system too. However, the standards of rolling stock and buildings were modified to increase capacity, and a through passenger service was prevented between the new and old lines. During the construction of this line, the shield method was introduced in 1959. Since then, the shield method has become the dominant method of tunnelling in subway construction. TRTA’s Hibiya Line, which opened in 1962, was a far cry from the more conventional ones. A through service from the inner city to the suburbs was planned, with trains running from the Hibiya line to another private one, the Tōbu line. To do this, completely different standards were adopted. These trains used Tōbu’s track gauge of 1067 mm, smaller than the 1435 mm on existing lines, and electricity was provided by an overhead catenary system. These rolling stock and building standards matched those of the Tōbu Railway, the through service partner. Now, the subway was no different from other standard railways. All lines built after 1962 also provided a through service with other private and national lines. Thus, one train could physically function both as a service terminating in the city centre and as rapid transit to the suburbs. In German terms, the standards of both S-Bahn and U-Bahn were unified, and the distinction between the two became blurred. In 1943, the Tokyo city government was merged with the Tokyo prefectural government (Tōkyōfu) to become the metropolitan government of Tokyo (Tōkyōto). 45 It had been aiming to operate a municipal subway and finally received a license in 1956 enabling it to open its line between 1960 and 1968. As a result, Tokyo’s subway system had two operators. Both operators (TRTA and the Municipal Transport Bureau) expanded their networks, and the result was a complicated transport system with two individual fare systems. Physical standards also increasingly diverged. To provide a through service with other private lines, the Municipal Transport Bureau adopted a gauge of 1435 mm. However, a gauge of 1067 mm was chosen for the following Mita Line, and a gauge of 1372 mm for the Shinjuku Line. Thus, the Tokyo subway came to follow a wide range of standards. In Osaka, as in Tokyo, a full expansion of the subway network was realised after the war. As in Tokyo, various standards were adopted, depending on the standards of the operators that provided a direct service together. Other cities also opened subways, including Nagoya in 1957, Sapporo in 1971, Yokohama in 1972, Kōbe in 1977, Kyoto and Fukuoka in 1981, and Sendai in 1987.

45 Tōkyōto Kōtsūkyoku (ed.), Tōkyōto Kōtsūkyoku gojūnenshi [50 Years of the Tokyo Metropolitan Transport Bureau], Tokyo: Tōkyōto Kōtsūkyoku 1961.

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CONCLUSION In this chapter, I described the history of subways in Tokyo, and focused on the hitherto unrecognised role played by the German technical adviser Rudolf Briske. Briske arrived in Japan sometime in 1923. Unlike his forerunners, namely the hired foreigners in the Meiji era, he was not the sole source of advanced knowledge and skills necessary for his role (perhaps we should also question this premise, but it is beyond the scope of this paper). Rather, Japanese railway construction and technology had already reached a level of self-reliance, and the Japanese chief engineer had gained ample experience with the Ministry of Railways. Nevertheless, Briske’s role was not inconsiderable. His advice had major implications for the seismic and waterproofing aspects of tunnel construction. It may have been a rather limited contribution, but it was one that was helpful to those with a similarly high level of expertise. Not all of his advice worked in the same way. The advice on station design may have been meaningful, but opportunities for its implementation were not available before the Second World War. As for the line plan, it might be more accurate to say that Briske endorsed the Japanese engineers’ plan rather than presenting his own. However, the plan provided the premise for the subway network that would be completed after the Second World War. It is difficult to gauge Briske’s influence on the subway lines built after the war, but it cannot be said that it was entirely negligible. Briske’s stay in Japan also benefitted his own career, for he wrote his doctoral dissertation on the Great Kantō Earthquake. Unlike the hired foreigners in the period before him, he did not have to carry out ground-breaking research where no data was available, but he could rely on data provided by individuals and institutions in Japan. There can also be no doubt that his accomplishments in Japan (and elsewhere) enhanced his reputation as a civil engineer back in Germany. The above demonstrates the characteristics of technology transfer in the 1920s. It was not based on an asymmetrical relationship. Rather, it could be considered more as a technological exchange than a technology transfer. Although the contact may have been instantaneous, the lasting impact could be felt on both sides. Even though there were other opportunities for both sides to influence each other, Briske’s visit in the role of consultant had a profound effect on the subsequent activities of both Briske and the Japanese engineers.

FROM HAMBURG TO OSAKA? Organising Leisure through Kraft durch Freude and Kōsei Undō* Takahito Mori One of the significant parallel phenomena in Japanese and European cities in the 1930s was the increasing attention to leisure as a subject of social policy and as an essential prerequisite for the birth of mass-consumption society. This phenomenon was mainly caused by the increasing prevalence of the eight-hour workday, which the International Labour Organisation (hereafter ILO) had adopted in 1919 as its first convention. The interwar period, according to Daniela Liebscher, was characterised as the phase of “competition among internationalist modernisation models” of social policy, such as the collectivist model of the Soviet Union; the liberal–capitalist model of the New Deal; the social–democratic model of Belgium, France and Sweden; the social planning model of the ILO; and the totalitarian internationalism of Germany and Italy. Hence, the increasing attention to leisure aroused an international discussion on its organisation, for example, at the 14th International Labour Conference of the ILO in 1930, at which recreation policy began to be the object of international social policy, and at the first World Recreation Congress (hereafter WRC) held in Los Angeles in 1932, at which experiences with recreation policies were exchanged. 1 One of the most famous models for recreation organisations in that period was the Kraft durch Freude (Strength through Joy, hereafter KdF) established in 1933 as a subordinate organisation of the Deutsche Arbeitsfront (German Labour Front, hereafter DAF) with the aim of providing “all working German[s]” with rest and relaxation by means of holidays. The KdF provided its members – about 36 million in 1936 – with the opportunity to enjoy recreation programmes such as cruises to the Atlantic Ocean, the fjords of Norway, or the Mediterranean Sea, nationwide train trips, hikes, sport programmes, and visiting theatres, concerts and operas. 2 According to Robert Ley (1890–1945), the founder of the KdF and the head of the DAF, the KdF would function to promote the reproduction of the employ* 1 2

The work of this chapter was financially supported by JSPS KAKENHI Grant Numbers JP20K01788 and JP20KK0279 as well as by Mitsubishi Foundation Grant 2020. Daniela Liebscher, Freude und Arbeit. Zur internationalen Freizeit- und Sozialpolitik des faschistischen Italien und des NS-Regimes, Cologne: SH-Verlag 2009, pp. 19, 140–143. For an overview of the KdF, see Wolfhard Buchholz, Die nationalsozialistische Gemeinschaft “Kraft durch Freude”. Freizeitgestaltung und Arbeiterschaft im Dritten Reich, Ph.D. thesis, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität zu München 1976.

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ees’ capacity for work, which could compensate for the accelerated working pace caused by the introduction of the eight-hour workday and by rationalised, mechanised working processes. Furthermore, providing access to cultural values that had previously been reserved for the bourgeoisie would give the workers a feeling of “happiness and gratitude” and abolish their inferiority complexes. These activities were expected to contribute finally to strengthen solidarity among members of a “racial community” (Volksgemeinschaft). The KdF prioritised the socialisation of the people, namely, promoting the ideology of National Socialism and integrating participants, especially those belonging to the working class, into the racial community via reproduction of their capacity for work. 3 It is, however, widely accepted that these efforts of the KdF achieved more limited results than expected. 4 On the other hand, the KdF made, according to Baranowski, a significant contribution to solving “the Nazi regime’s guns-and-butter dilemma”, that is the tension between the regime’s need to put rearmament above consumer goods and the individual desires for better living conditions, “until the realization of a prosperous German empire”. 5 From the perspective of transnational history, it is not to be overlooked that the KdF was established along the model of the Opera Nazionale Dopolavoro (National Operation for Afterwork Hours, hereafter OND) of the Italian Fascists, established in 1925. According to Liebscher, the OND was a successful medium for the fascist regime’s image campaign to maintain its international reputation and overcome the antifascist boycott by the members of the ILO. Hence, in the context of transnational history, the establishment of the KdF could be considered “the most consequential result of the image campaign of the Italian Fascist” rather than “the original expression of the National Socialist ideology of leisure”. 6 Starting from this viewpoint, Liebscher clarified not only the similarities and affinities between the KdF and the OND but their bilateral relationship in the form of a competition in exporting totalitarian-style organised leisure to European countries, especially to the Southeast European countries, or in the form of a mutual transfer of knowledge for achieving hegemony in this field, especially against the reform programmes of the ILO. However, the totalitarian manner of organising leisure was not limited to Germany and Italy. In Japan, a national recreation campaign developed based mainly on the model of the KdF. This campaign, called the Kōsei Undō (Japanese Recreation Campaign), was launched in April 1938 by the Japan Recreation Association (Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai), and its stated purpose was as follows, “We innovate the lifestyle of the people […] by [promoting] the best use of leisure, 3 4 5 6

Hermann Weiß, Ideologie der Freizeit im Dritten Reich. Die NS-Gemeinschaft Kraft durch Freude, in: Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 33, 1993, pp. 289–303, here p. 294. See e. g. Michael Schneider, Unterm Hakenkreuz. Arbeiter und Arbeiterbewegung 1933 bis 1939, Bonn: Dietz 1999, pp. 677 f. Shelly Baranowski, Strength through Joy. Consumerism and Mass Tourism in the Third Reich, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2003, p. 233. Liebscher, Freude und Arbeit (cf. n. 1), pp. 53 f.

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namely, training the body and cultivating the spirit”. 7 For this purpose, the Kōsei Undō offered a variety of sports festivals, gymnastics broadcasts on the radio, hiking trips, railway excursions and cultural events, all of which activities were mainly for employees in big cities. Takaoka Hiroyuki, a pioneer of the studies on the Kōsei Undō, defined it as “a campaign that prepared the social mobilisation of the total war system, which was introduced after the beginning of the war against China in 1937, through organising leisure on the model of fascism”. 8 Takaoka divided the history of the Kōsei Undō into three periods: (1) building the campaign (1938–1940), during which the basic and practical policies were discussed and the merits of the campaign mainly appealed to residents of big cities; (2) expansion of the campaign (1941 and 1942), which was controlled by the central government, which was attempting to mobilise society for war; and (3) decline of the campaign (1943– 1945), caused by insufficient resources due to Japan’s increasingly compromised position in the war. Takaoka suggested with this division into periods that the Kōsei Undō did not succeed in expanding a genuinely modern, all-encompassing culture of recreation, which had emerged in urban districts in the interwar period, for society as a whole, because of the unfavourable impact of the war for Japan. 9 In the study by Yanagisawa Osamu on the connections between the Kōsei Undō and the KdF under the perspective of economic history, it was found, on the one hand, that the board members of the Japan Recreation Association, especially those from the business world, accepted the programmes of the KdF as an ideal way to rationalise the labour managements and to promote the reproduction of employees’ capacity for work. It showed, on the other hand, that the delegation of the KdF invited to the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development (Kōa Kōsei Taikai), the first international event of the Kōsei Undō held in October 1940 as mentioned below, not only played an important role in strengthening the relationship between the two campaigns but functioned as an advisory committee of the DAF for Japanese business leaders trying to establish a new order of national economy (keizai shintaisei) for preparing the total war. 10 The study by Yanagisawa indicates that the influence of the National Socialist economic policies on establishing the total war system in Japan could not be clarified without mention of the national leisure organisations in both countries. 7

Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai setsuritsu shuisho [Statement of the Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai about its establishment], in: Kōsei no Nippon 1, 1, 1939, p. 176. 8 Takaoka Hiroyuki, Sōryokusen to toshi: Kōsei Undō o chūshin ni [Total War and City: Focussing on the Kōsei Undō], in: Nihonshi kenkyū 415, 1997, pp. 145–175, here p. 154. Takaoka uses the term fascism not only for the regime of the Italian Fascists but for that of National Socialism in Germany, too. 9 Ibid., pp. 151–169. 10 Yanagisawa Osamu, Nazis keizai seisaku to “keizai shintaisei”: Nihon keizaikai no juyō [Influence of the National Socialist Policies on the “New Order of National Economy”: Study on the acceptance of the policies among business leaders in Japan], in: Kudō Akira / Tajima Nobuo (eds.), Nichi-Doku kankeishi III. Taisei hendō no shakaiteki shōgeki, Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai 2008, pp. 275–322.

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According to the study by Tano Daisuke on the mutual perceptions between the two campaigns, the Kōsei Undō was regarded by the members of the KdF as unnoteworthy, even as backward, in contrast with the high reputation of the latter in Japan. The reason for this asymmetrical relation, as pointed out by Tano, was that the leaders of the Kōsei Undō could never bring about integrated principles for the campaign due to their wide variety of opinions. Some leaders attempted to imitate the innovative programmes of the KdF, whereas others insisted on creating their own programmes for Japanese society because the idea of joie de vivre, fixed by European individualism, was considered unsuitable for the majority of the Japanese because of the influence of their paternalistic tradition. 11 This suggests that the Kōsei Undō was not a mere copy of the KdF and had a unique historical path in Japan. However, some points remain undiscussed in the context of urban history because the surveys by Yanagisawa and Tano were limited to the discourses of the leaders of both campaigns. What elements of the KdF were introduced into the Kōsei Undō, and for what reason? What was the impetus for the introduction of the KdF? Where did the practice of the Kōsei Undō diverge from the German model, showing genuinely Japanese characteristics? This chapter examines these questions through a case study of Osaka, called the “centre of the Kōsei Undō”, 12 with some reference to the case of Hamburg, which was called the “City of the KdF”. 13 In addition to the significant role that both cities played in the respective campaigns or organisations, Osaka and Hamburg shared structural similarities in their history. Both cities had developed as commercial centres based on maritime trade since the premodern era. The industrialisation that began in the second half of the 19th century accelerated these cities’ development to such an extent that both were the second-biggest cities in their countries in the 1930s: Hamburg had a population over one million, while Osaka had more than two million, and since 1936, over three million inhabitants. 14 The case of Osaka will be analysed from the perspective of urban governance. The concept of urban governance is defined here as a social order of urban space created by the interactions of actors in the fields of urban planning, infrastructure, housing policy, public hygiene and social policy, namely central 11 Tano Daisuke, “Strength through Joy” in Japan: Mutual Perceptions of Leisure Movements in Germany and Japan, 1935–1942, in: Sven Saaler / Kudō Akira / Tajima Nobuo (eds.), Mutual Perceptions and Images in Japanese-German Relations, 1860–2010, London: Brill, 2017, pp. 289–312; Tano Daisuke, “Achse der Freizeit”: Der Weltkongress für Freizeit und Erholung 1936 und Japans Blick auf Deutschland, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 58, 9, 2010, pp. 709–729. 12 Takaoka Hiroyuki, Senjiki Ōsaka no Kōsei Undō [Kōsei Undō in Wartime Osaka], in: Hirokawa Tadahide (ed.), Kindai Ōsaka no gyōsei, shakai, keizai, Tokyo: Aoki Shoten 1998, pp. 243–271, here pp. 245. 13 Hamburger Fremdenblatt 178, 29.7.1935. 14 On the overview of the two cities in the 1900–1930s, cf. Werner Jochmann (ed.), Hamburg. Geschichte der Stadt und ihrer Bewohner. Bd. 2. Vom Kaiserreich bis zur Gegenwart, Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe 1986; Shinshū Ōsaka Shishi Hensan I’inkai (ed.), Shinshū Ōsaka shishi [New Edition of the History of Osaka] Vols. 6–7, Osaka: Ōsakashi 1994.

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and local governments, the army, private companies, voluntary associations, city planners and others. This concept enables us not only to point out the variety of actors who contributed to organising leisure but also capture the dynamism of the relationships among them in the urban space. 15 THE SECOND WORLD RECREATION CONGRESS 1936 IN HAMBURG AND THE KŌSEI UNDŌ The campaign to bring the Olympic Games to Tokyo in 1940, which were later called the missing Olympics, resulted in the establishment of the Kōsei Undō. The campaign was launched by the city of Tokyo in 1930, when the reconstruction of the city following the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 was officially completed. In addition to the campaign for the Olympics, the city also launched a campaign to host the World Expo in Tokyo in the same year. It was accepted among the greater part of the Japanese at that time that the year 1940 had a particular meaning: it was the 2,600th Japanese Imperial Year (kōki) since B.C. 660 when the mythical first Emperor Jinmu was believed to have acceded the throne. The aim of the city was to celebrate the 2,600th Japanese Imperial Year on a grand scale by attracting thousands of foreign tourists, to increase its international reputation.16 During these campaigns, the Japan Recreation Association was established as the national organisation of the Kōsei Undō. The key person in this process was Isomura Ei’ichi (1903–1997), an official of the city of Tokyo. He was sent to Germany by the city in 1936 to inspect the Olympic Games in Berlin. In addition to the original task, Isomura surveyed the second WRC in Hamburg, held by the KdF from July 23 to 30 in the same year, just before the Olympic Games (from August 1 to 15). Hamburg was chosen as the host city of the second WRC because of its status as the “City of the KdF” and remained the venue for the annual national congresses of the KdF from 1935 onwards. The reason for the moniker “City of the KdF” was based on the following, “thousands of people have taken the KdF’s recreational sea trips from this port city being Germany’s gate to the World”. 17 “Joy is the best way to help people to understand each other”; 18 said Robert Ley as president of the conference at the opening of the second WRC in Hamburg. A total of 141 presentations were given by representatives from 61 countries at the plenary meetings and at the sessions of the 12 committees. Parallel to the presentations, several events, such as sports events, folk dances and songs, exhibitions of crafts and paintings by the members of KdF, and the “Olympic Pageant of 15 On the concept of “urban governance” cf. Shane Ewen, What is Urban History?, Cambridge: Polity Press 2016, ch. 3. 16 On the missing Olympics in Tokyo, cf. Sandra Collins, The 1940 Tokyo Games: The missing Olympics. Japan, the Asian Olympics and the Olympic movement, London: Routledge 2007. 17 Hamburger Fremdenblatt 178 (cf. n. 13). 18 Bericht: Weltkongreß für Freizeit und Erholung Hamburg vom 23. bis 30. Juli 1936, Hamburg: Hanseatische Verlagsanstalt 1937, p. 10.

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German Folk”, were held in various parts of the city during the conference and attracted many spectators. The highlight was the Olympic Pageant, attended by approximately 1.5 million spectators, including 800,000 foreign guests. The KdF used the conference successfully as an occasion to propagate its achievements to the world, for example leading to the international central bureau of Joy and Work, established just after the second WRC, moving to Berlin. With this move, the KdF became a core organisation of the international recreation campaign in name and reality. 19 For Isomura, “the success of the second WRC was as great as that of the Olympic Games in Berlin”. According to him, “it played a decisive role for the rise of the recreation campaign as the basis for international cooperation, which brings the individual lives into ideal balance”. Hence, he was convinced that organising the recreation campaign would be an effective means to integrate the Japanese nation. Furthermore, the meeting with Arthur Manthey, who had been at the second WRC and was appointed to be secretary-general of the International Advisory Committee of Joy and Work, gave Isomura the idea to host the fourth WRC in Japan during the Olympic Games in 1940. The idea was also supported by Gustavus Town Kirby (1874–1956), president of the International Advisory Committee of Joy and Work, whom Isomura met in New York in May 1937 on his return trip from Berlin to Tokyo. After Isomura’s return to Japan, he was engaged in preparing a campaign to host the fourth WRC in Japan, and as a core member, participated in establishing the Japan Recreation Association in April 1938, which would be the host organisation of the Congress. 20 Isomura’s efforts were encouraged by his praise for the programmes of the KdF and for the social policy of National Socialism in general. He found that the KdF had erased “the destructive influence of the Great Depression”, especially the problem of unemployment, from the hearts and minds of the Germans and gave them “the joy of work and pride in working” which constituted “self-respect as an employee”. He regarded these achievements as the contributions of the KdF toward the social policy of National Socialism, which aimed to give work a “spiritual and mental meaning”, in other words, “the original meanings of work”. 21 Similar opinions were shared among other leaders of the Kōsei Undō. For example, Hoshina Atsushi (1902–1941), a leading member of the Japan Recreation Association, defined the KdF as “the platform for a cultural mobilisation that should keep the ethical value of work high also in its practice through improving the productivity of the Germans under mental aspects, fostering their manifold 19 On the overview of the second WRC in Hamburg, cf. Karsten Linne, “Wir tragen die Freude in die Welt”. Der Hamburger “Weltkongreß für Freizeit und Erholung” 1936, in: Zeitschrift des Vereins für Hamburgische Geschichte 80, 1994, pp. 153–175; Tano, “Achse der Freizeit” (cf. n. 11), pp. 709–720. 20 Isomura Ei’ichi, Kōsei Undō gaisetsu [Outline of the Kōsei Undō], Tokyo: Tokiwa Shobō 1939, pp. 45–49. On the meeting of Isomura with Manthey, see also Tano, “Achse der Freizeit” (cf. n. 11), p. 721. 21 Isomura, Kōsei Undō gaisetsu (cf. n. 20), pp. 243 f. On the view of Isomura about the KdF, see also, Tano, “Achse der Freizeit” (cf. n. 11), p. 715.

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talents and utilising their spiritual and physical energy as far as possible”. 22 Gonda Yasunosuke (1887–1951), a famous researcher of popular entertainment, considered the programmes of the KdF as the trials to put joy and pleasure into aspects of daily life, such as work, leisure, time with family, and social life; in his perspective, this would increase people’s productivity because they would recover from work-induced fatigue and it would encourage them to cooperate in building the national community. 23 The concept of the KdF was also considered by Murata Gorō (1899–1982), a bureaucrat of the Ministry of Health and Welfare (Kōseishō), as an ideological matter of the national community. “The aim of the KdF is”, according to Murata, “to let the people make a great contribution toward the development of the whole nation, through improving their mental and physical power. […] If one considers the programmes of the KdF only superficially as those for trips or recreation, this would mean to underestimate their true value”. 24 Of these three, Hoshina and Murata, as members of a delegation of the Japan Recreation Association, attended the Fourth National Congress of the KdF in Hamburg from June 9 to 13, 1938, and then the third WRC in Rome from June 26 to 29 of the same year. The opinions of these two men were influenced greatly by the propaganda of the KdF in Hamburg, as in the case of Isomura. 25 On the way from Hamburg to Rome, Hoshina had an opportunity to board the Wilhelm Gustloff, one of the biggest KdF cruise ships. Some of the cabins on this ship were offered by the National Socialist government to the foreign delegations that attended both congresses. The experience of the voyage to Naples via Lisbon and Madeira – and from Naples to Rome by train – provided Hoshina with a further fascination for the KdF. 26 In Rome, the delegation of the Japan Recreation Association – also attracted to the propaganda of the OND – had success in approaching the board members of the third WRC regarding hosting the fourth WRC in Osaka. 27 The campaign launched based on the idea of Isomura had finally achieved its goal. However, in July 1938, due to the intensifying war against China, and a few days after the close of the WRC in Rome, the Japanese government cancelled all international events planned for 1940, namely, the Olympic Games, the World Expo and the fourth WRC. 28

22 Hoshina Atsushi, Kokumin Kōsei Undō [National Kōsei Undō], Tokyo: Kurita Shoten 1942, p. 104 f. On the view of Hoshina about the KdF, see also, Tano, “Achse der Freizeit” (cf. n. 11), pp. 719 f. 23 Gonda Yasunosuke, Nachisu Kōseidan [Nazi Association “Kraft durch Freude”], Tokyo: Kurita Shoten 1942, pp. 10 f. 24 Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Dai 1kai Nihon Kōsei Taikai hōkokusho [Report on the First Japan Recreation Congress], Tokyo: Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai 1939, p. 35. 25 Ibid., pp. 17–21; Hoshina, Kokumin Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 22), pp. 25–35. 26 Hoshina, Kokumin Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 22), pp. 36–48. 27 Osaka was chosen as the host city just after the establishment of the Japan Recreation Association (cf. Yomiuri Shinbun [Yomiuri Newspaper], 29.4.1938). 28 Collins, The 1940 Tokyo Games (cf. n. 16), ch. 6; Hoshina, Kokumin Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 22), pp. 61 ff.

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EMERGENCE OF THE KŌSEI UNDŌ AS A NATIONAL CAMPAIGN Even after the cancellation of the fourth WRC, the Kōsei Undō was carried out by the Japan Recreation Association. The bureaucrats of the Ministry of Health and Welfare and the mayors and officials of big cities belonged to the board of the Japan Recreation Association because it was established as the affiliated organisation of the Ministry of Health and Welfare. The Ministry was set up in January 1938 to administer healthcare, public hygiene, social welfare, working conditions, social insurance and measures for increasing the physical strength of the nation. Although almost all these fields had been administered by the Home Ministry, the establishment of the Ministry of Health and Welfare was strongly demanded by the Japanese Imperial Army to improve the physique of recruits. Based on the perspective that the Japanese Army lagged far behind Western armies in mechanising the equipment and that it would be difficult to overcome the gap, due to the lower level of Japanese industry and economy, the Japanese Army endeavoured to compensate for its weaknesses by increasing its human power, namely, ensuring recruits had great physical strength. 29 Thus, the first task for the Japan Recreation Association was urgent: to determine basic and practical policies for organising the Kōsei Undō. For this purpose, the first Japan Recreation Congress (Nihon Kōsei Taikai) was held in November 1938 in Tokyo. The main topic of the 25 presentations was how to “strengthen the human resources as the driving force for the development of the whole nation” through “organising recreation programmes for factory workers and retail shop staff effectively”. Subsequent to Tokyo, Nagoya became the venue of the second Japan Recreation Congress in November 1939. The remarkable trend in the 22 presentations in Nagoya was that under the slogan “Strengthen the vitality of the whole nation for constructing the new order of Asia”, recreation programmes for homemakers and children were discussed in as much depth as those for employees. This phenomenon suggests that the reproduction not only of the labour power but of the next generation had come to the fore as the main impetus of the campaign. In addition to the presentations on the policies of the Kōsei Undō, various events such as sport festivals, music festivals, and traditional dances were held at both congresses, in Tokyo and Nagoya, as occurred at the national congress of the KdF. 30 In addition to both congresses, many recreation and sporting events, called kōsei, were held by, for example, municipalities, newspaper companies and department stores, especially in big cities, and the companies of several sectors organised sports events for their employees, which led the Kōsei Undō to become 29 On the establishment of the Ministry of Health and Welfare, cf. Takaoka Hiroyuki, Sōryokusen taisei to fukushi kokka: Senjiki Nihon no shakai kaikaku kōsō [The Total War System and the Welfare State: Social Reform Programmes in Japan during the War], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2011, especially ch. 1. 30 On the first and second Japan Recreation Congress, cf. Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Dai 1kai Nihon Kōsei Taikai hōkokusho (cf. n. 24); Nagoyashi (ed.), Dai 2kai Nihon Kōsei Taikai kaishi [Documents on the Second Japan Recreation Congress], Nagoya: Nagoyashi 1940.

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a national campaign. The development of the campaign was described vividly by Asahi Graph (Asahi Picture News), a weekly magazine famous for its illustrations of social trends, in its special issue, “Promoting Health for the Defence of Our Homeland” (February 1939). The issue presented a photo of the radio gymnastics performed by the employees of Hattori Tokei, the watchmaking company that later became SEIKO, on the roof of its building in Ginza (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1: “Promoting Health for the Defence of Our Homeland”

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Fig. 2: “Total Mobilisation of Three Thousand Employees of Osaka Gas Company for Sports Programmes”

Fig. 3: “Gymnastics Fever in the City”

The phrase “during their break, free from the telephone bells and the cracks of the abacuses”, is written under the photo, and the text goes on saying, “they get away from the gloomy office rooms, in which they need electric light even in the daytime, and begin to do deep breathing under the blue sky in the office districts at

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noon. The outside air is a bit dusty. It must be, however, much better than that of the office rooms polluted by cigarette smoke. It’s time to start the radio gymnastics!” On the following pages, “the Total Mobilisation of Three Thousand Employees of Osaka Gas Company for Sports Programmes” is described through examples such as volleyball; skipping; a contest of lung capacity; and kendo, judo and sumo matches (Fig. 2). These programmes were, according to the comments between pictures, led by Kataoka Naomasa (1882–1942), chairman of the board of the company, who was called the Bill Tilden of Japan for his prowess as a tennis player. He prepared sport facilities and kits for the programmes and obligated every employee to participate in at least one programme to receive a salary increase. The leaders of the Kōsei Undō thought that the development of the campaign across the wide range of the nation was, however, less welcomed than problematic. For example, Shirayama Genzaburō (1898–1985), a professor of economics at Kantō Gakuin College, commented: Once the Kōsei Undō was introduced into Japan, everybody was so enthusiastically absorbed in it that the campaign swept all over the country. In this process, the other matters seemed to be never thought about. Something new with the word kōsei appeared soon one after another, such as Kōsei sports festival, evening of Kōsei, Kōsei trip, Kōsei house or Kōsei Day and so on. Some of them were copies of the programmes of the KdF or the OND, others were based on the own idea of Japanese. Our society seems, anyway, to be overflowing with the word kōsei. 31

Isomura also condemned the following trend: “the word kōsei was used as a buzzword so widely that the original concept of the campaign seemed to be almost lost”. The trend was, according to him, caused by the absence of organisation, which should have integrated and controlled the campaign on the national level, such as in the relationship between the DAF and the KdF. 32 To formulate the basic concept of the campaign against such a trend, in 1939, he published “Kōsei Undō gaisetsu” (Outline of the Kōsei Undō). The ultimate aim was, as explained in this book, to “strengthen human resources” 33, and the context was the outbreak of the war against China (1937), which had shifted the demographic concerns from overpopulation to increasing the number of “strong bodies”. 34 This demand was not only to fulfil military needs but was based on the national policy since 1932 toward developing Manchuria and Inner Mongolia (Man-Mō) under the control of Japan, through Japanese settlement, to create the “New Order of East Asia” (Tōa shinchitsujo). 35 31 Shirayama Genzaburō, Wagakuni Kōsei Undō no shinten o megutte [On the Development of the Kōsei Undō in Japan], in: Kōsei no Nippon 1, 1, 1939, pp. 10 ff., here pp. 10 f. 32 Isomura Ei’ichi, Shōwa 14nen Nihon Kōsei Undō kaiko [Looking Back on the Kōsei Undō in Japan in 1939], in: Kōsei no Nippon 1, 3, 1939, pp. 10–17, here pp. 14, 16. 33 Isomura, Kōsei Undō gaisetsu (cf. n. 20), p. 1. 34 Ibid., p. 177. 35 Official slogan of the Japanese Government to justify expanding its control on the continent. Especially in 1937, the programme for resettling one million Japanese households (ca. five

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For this purpose, Isomura emphasised the family as the basic unit of the campaign. 36 The Kōsei Undō should, according to him, focus on the recreation of homemakers exhausted by Japan’s paternalistic conventions. 37 His argument was based not only on the demands of demographic reproduction but on the view that the development of capitalism and individualism, both imported from Western society, weakened family ties, which would have serious effects on Japanese society because the family was “the core element of the national entity of Japan”. This idea, shared by the majority of the nation, was crystallised in “Kokutai no hongi” (Cardinal Principles of the National Entity of Japan), a guidebook for teachers published by the Ministry of Education (Monbushō) in 1941, which defined Japan as “one great family state [comprising] a union of sovereign and subject, having the Imperial Household as the head family, and looking up to the Emperor as the focal point from of old to the present”. 38 The relationship between the national entity and the family was described as follows: In our country filial piety is as way of the highest importance. Filial piety originates with one’s family as its basis, and in its larger sense has the nation for its foundation. Filial piety directly has for its object one’s parents, but in its relationship toward the Emperor finds a place within loyalty. […] The harmonious merging under the head of a family, in line with our national entity, of a united group of relatives that come together and help each other with the relationship between parent and child for its basis is our nation’s home. Consequently, a family is not a body of people established for profit, nor is it anything founded on such a thing as individual or correlative love. 39

Following these viewpoints, Isomura insisted that the Kōsei Undō should reinforce this function of the family to promote a paradigm shift from Gesellschaft (society) to Gemeinschaft (community) and from individualism to a totalitarian society. 40 These arguments were the basic concepts through which Isomura attempted to differentiate the Kōsei Undō from the recreation campaigns in Western societies.

36 37 38 39 40

million people) to Manchuria over the following twenty years was launched on the initiative of the Kwantung Army (Kantōgun), a part of the Japanese Imperial Army for defending the area under Japanese control in Manchuria and Inner Mongolia (cf. Katō Kiyofumi, Man-Mō kaitakudan: Kyomō no “Nichi-Man ittai” [Japanese Settler-Groups in Manchuria and Inner Mongolia: Illusion of the “Unity between Japanese and Manchurian Societies”], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten 2017, pp. 107–115). On this issue see also Anke Scherer, Japanese Emigration to Manchuria: Local Activities and the Making of the Village-Division Campaign, Ph.D. thesis, Ruhr-Universität Bochum 2006. Isomura, Kōsei Undō gaisetsu (cf. n. 20), pp. 74–77. Ibid., pp. 178–182. Kokutai no hongi [Cardinal Principles of the National Entity of Japan], translated by John Owen Gauntlett and edited with an introduction by Robert King Hall, Newton: Crofton Publishing Corporation 1974, p. 83. The original Japanese version was published in 1941. Ibid., p. 87. Isomura, Kōsei Undō gaisetsu (cf. n. 20), p. 286.

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Fig. 4: Guests Invited to the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development

The family, the core element of Isomura’s concept, was also one of the main topics at the third and last Japan Recreation Congress in Osaka, in October 1940. A notable characteristic of this conference was that the living conditions in the city, including family life, were debated as the main subject of the Kōsei Undō. The other point, which is much more noteworthy, was that the conference was held for the first time as an international event hosted by the Japan Recreation Association. The congress in Osaka was officially named the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development (Kōa Kōsei Taikai) and used the following slogan: “we determine to strengthen the power of Asian countries for constructing the new order of the world, by increasing the vitality of the nation, the basic source for developing the country, through making their lives sound and joyful”. Guests were invited from several regions of the “Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere” (Daitōa Kyōeiken), named by Japanese government, and from Germany and Italy, because the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development functioned not only as the municipal celebration for the 2,600th Japanese Imperial Year but as the substitute for the fourth WRC (Fig. 4). During the conference, several events were held also outside the city and thousands of people in Osaka were mobilised to attend them. For example, a mass game was played by 10,000 schoolchildren at the stadium next to the Kashiwara Jingū shrine, dedicated to the mythical first emperor of Japan, Jinmu, in Nara prefecture; another mass game was played by 40,000 people at Japan’s most famous baseball stadium Kōshien in Hyōgo prefecture; and an international evening of Kōsei was held at Takarazuka

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Fig. 5: Mass Game at the Stadium next to the Kashiwara Jingū Shrine

Fig. 6: Mass Game at the Baseball Stadium Kōshien

Theatre in Hyōgo prefecture (Figs. 5, 6). 41 According to a report of Shirayama, the Congress could not achieve a meaningful result as an international congress because the exchanges of ideas about organising leisure between the Japanese participants and the foreign guests were ineffectual due to the lack of preparation. Meanwhile, not only the number of the participants, spectators and presentations but the size of the events at the Congress in Osaka exceeded those at the former 41 On the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development, cf. Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku (ed.), Kōa Kōsei Taikaishi [Report on the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development], Osaka: Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku 1941; Tano, “Achse der Freizeit” (cf. n. 11), pp. 723 f.; Yanagisawa, Nazis keizai seisaku to “keizai shintaisei” (cf. n. 10), pp. 298–301.

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conferences in Tokyo and Nagoya. From these facts Shirayama concluded, on the one hand, that it was an “epoch-making event in the history of the Kōsei Undō, owing to its great successful role in enlightening the whole nation about its significance”, on the other hand, that the success established “the leading position of Osaka in the campaign definitely”. 42 THE KŌSEI UNDŌ IN OSAKA Establishment of the Ōsaka Kōsei Kyōkai The reason why Osaka was the host city of the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development and of the missing fourth WRC was that the city was considered the “central place of the Kōsei Undō” since its inception, against the background that the city established the Osaka Recreation Association (Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai) in September 1938, ahead of all other big cities, and the campaign was carried out vigorously. On the one hand, the Osaka Recreation Association was established as an independent organisation and not as a subordinate organisation of the Japan Recreation Association; 43on the other hand, it was strongly supported by the fourth division of the Japanese Imperial Army in Osaka, whose headquarters noticed the problem that the “physiques of the recruits” from the city were at a lower level than those from other cities. 44 The rate of failure at the physical examination for conscription in Osaka was, according to the report of the Municipal Health Office (Ōsakashi Hokenkyoku), 46 per cent in 1935, whereas the national average was only 39 per cent in the same year. The health office pointed out that the results were due to the increasing numbers of recruit candidates categorised as weakly built or emaciated. 45 Furthermore, a regimental commander under the fourth division lamented his experience on the battlefields in China that the soldiers of his regiment often had insufficient stamina in decisive situations, such as in pursuit of the enemy. 46 The reason Osaka was named the “central place of the Kōsei Undō” is in stark contrast with the case of Hamburg as the “City of the KdF” – because of its role 42 Shirayama Genzaburō, Kōa wa kōsei yori: Kōa Kōsei Taikai no inshō [Kōsei as the Basis for Asian Development: Report on the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development], in: Kōsei no Nippon 2, 12, 1940, pp. 44–53, here p. 44. According to Tano, the poor achievements as an international conference were also criticised by the German guests (Tano, “Strength through Joy” in Japan (cf. n. 11), pp. 297–303). 43 Ōsakashi hoken geppō [Monthly Report on the Public Hygiene in Osaka] 4, 44, 1938, pp. 3 ff. 44 Takaoka, Senjiki Ōsaka no Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 12), pp. 245 f. This article gives an overview of the development of the Kōsei Undō in Osaka, and the following description of the activities of the Osaka Recreation Association in this section owes a lot to the information provided in it. 45 Ōsakashi hoken geppō 4, 30, 1938, pp. 3 ff. 46 Ōsakashi hoken geppō 4, 43, 1938, pp. 4 f.

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as the home port of the “KdF fleet”, as aforementioned – and suggests the obvious differences in the character of the two campaigns. In addition to military demands, serious social problems in Osaka as an industrial city were also considered central for the establishment of the Osaka Recreation Association, as shown in its founding statement: In our industrial city Osaka, the high densities of factories, retail shops, office buildings and dwellings suffocate the people. Smoke and soot, polluted air and weak sunlight, all these elements represent nothing but the undesirable conditions for our health. How frequently we meet those who look pale and must be infected with tuberculosis, all around the city! To make matters worse, the majority of them are the working-age population who bear the future of Japan. Thus, we have to consider introducing the Kōsei Undō, especially for the workingage people, into the city as an urgent issue. […] Given these conditions, we established the Osaka Recreation Association with the aim to let the working people in the city improve their physiques and welfare, share the joy with each other, and cultivate their aesthetic sentiments. 47

The statement further on also mentions the great interest of the employers in the campaign. This interest was reflected in the board members of the Osaka Recreation Association, which included municipal officials, army and naval officers, and the presidents of the corporations representing the city, for example, the headquarters of the Sumitomo conglomerate, the Ōsaka Shōsen shipping company, the textile manufacturer Tōyō Bōseki and the Osaka Gas Company. 48 Physical Training Programmes The Osaka Recreation Association attached utmost importance to encouraging the soldiers on the industrial front (sangyō senshi) to engage in physical training to improve their productivity. Respective programmes comprised radio gymnastics, various types of sports festivals, cycling and hiking trips. Among these programmes, radio gymnastics gained the most participants through the cooperation of companies, schools, and neighbourhood communities (chōkai), with the latter representing the lowest, most locally-based organisational level of the municipal administration. The neighbourhood community – consisting of about 200 households as standard size – mobilised people of all generations to participate in the radio gymnastics programme early in the morning by obligating every household to make at least one family member participate in it (Fig. 7). According to the guidelines of the Osaka Recreation Association, participants should assemble at 5:30 a.m.; next, after hoisting the Japanese flag and singing the national anthem in unison, gymnastics started at 6:00 a.m. As the radio broadcast the music for the gymnastics, every participant performed the same motion simultaneously across the city and the region. Notably, radio gymnastics made the big47 Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō [Handbook of the Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai], Osaka: Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai 1940, pp. 2 f. 48 Ibid., pp. 84–95.

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gest contribution to the social mobilisation of the campaign. To “promote the right style of radio gymnastics among all the people in the city and mobilise them constantly to the programme”, in other words, to make the programme more effective, the Osaka Recreation Association offered training courses in gymnastics, to which almost every neighbourhood sent a trainee. Individuals who completed the course assumed a role as an instructor in their community, to guide their neighbours. 49

Fig. 7: Radio Gymnastics in a Neighbourhood Community in Miyakojima District, Osaka, 1941 50

Hence, the success of the Osaka Recreation Association depended on community members’ participation in radio gymnastics. The original function of the neighbourhood community was as a voluntary association to promote friendship among neighbours. This function was redefined in April 1938 to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the law of local autonomy. The new aim was to mobilise the community members to prioritise the war effort in their daily lives by “fostering the mutual help among every member of the neighbourhood through cultivating the love for country and hometown”. For this purpose, in August 1938, the campaign to reorganise the Japanese lifestyle for war was implemented in every neighbourhood community whose number in April 1938 was 2,669 or greater. The targets of 49 Ōsakashi hoken geppō 4, 43 (cf. n. 46), pp. 12 f. 50 The presence of the photographer in the foreground and of the banner above the participants featuring the phrase “May the Imperial Army have good fortune forever in commemoration of the 4th anniversary of the Holy War” and, above all, the inappropriately dense grouping of people for proper gymnastics suggest that this picture was staged rather than representing a snapshot of real radio gymnastics.

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the first scheme in the campaign were to promote a simple lifestyle to save money and supplies and to strengthen the body, namely, the subject of the Kōsei Undō. 51 In line with the scheme, the neighbourhood communities played the main role in the mobilisation of individuals to participate in other programmes of the Kōsei Undō, in addition to radio gymnastics. In November 1938, the Osaka Recreation Association organised the first municipal sports festival, and every neighbourhood community organised a team. The festival was held not only to strengthen the body and solidarity of the members of the community but to prepare for war, as demonstrated in its schedule, which included, for example, throwing hand grenades and a bucket relay for air defence. 52 Military influence was also observed in other sporting events held by the Osaka Recreation Association. It was reflected not only in the popularity of martial arts contests, such as jūdō, kendō and sumō, but in the programmes of the municipal swimming contest, for example, the drill of crossing a river and landing ahead of the enemy. 53 The events of the Osaka Recreation Association to encourage physical training were held beyond the municipal boundary. The 100 km cycling trip was held annually from 1938 to 1940 and had a total of 905 participants, who visited the Kashiwara Jingū shrine in Nara prefecture, Momoyama Goryō in the city of Kyoto, and the Minatogawa Jinja shrine in the city of Kōbe. 54 These spots had close relationships with the mythos and history of the Japanese Imperial Family. Kashiwara Jingū was built in 1890 to enshrine the first Emperor Jinmu, who was believed to have acceded the throne at this place, and Momoyama Goryō is the tomb of Emperor Meiji, the symbol of the modernisation of Japan. Minatogawa Jinja was built in 1872 to honour Kusunoki Masashige, a widely known loyal retainer of the Emperor Godaigo in the 14th century. Therefore, the Osaka Recreation Association organised the 100 km cycling trip for corrective physical training and to cultivate “the reverence for the deities and for the Imperial Ancestors”. 55 Many more people participated in the Kōsei Hikes offered on Kōsei Day (the first and third Sundays each month) than in the 100 km cycling trips. Various picturesque spots, popular shrines or temples and historic spots inside and outside of Osaka prefecture served as the destinations of Kōsei Hikes. Again, the neighbourhood community played a significant role in this programme by mobilising its members to bring about the “massive march from the city to the suburbs”. 56 This programme was financially supported by the seven private railway companies in 51 Daiōsaka [Greater Osaka] 14, 3, 1938, pp. 48–61. On the functions of the chōkai (chōnaikai) in the total war system in Japan, cf. Katja Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft und Urbanisierung in Japan, 1890–1970, Munich: Iudicium 2009, especially ch. 4; Erich Pauer, Nachbarschaftsgruppen und Versorgung in den japanischen Städten während des Zweiten Weltkriegs (Marburger Japan-Reihe, 9), Marburg: Förderverein Marburger Japan-Reihe 1993. 52 Naikaku Jōhōbu (ed.), Shashin shūhō [Weekly Graphic Magazine] 42, 1938, pp. 11 f. 53 Ōsakashi hoken geppō 4, 44 (cf. n. 43), p. 16. 54 Takaoka, Senjiki Ōsaka no Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 12), p. 252. 55 Ōsakashi Hokenbu (ed.), Ōsakashi hoken shisetsu gaiyō [Handbook of the Healthcare and Public Hygiene Institutions in Osaka], Osaka: Ōsakashi Hokenbu 1940, p. 235. 56 Ōsaka Asahi Shinbun [Osaka Asahi Newspaper], 9.8.1938.

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Osaka, who offered the participants a 40 per cent discount on their fare. 57 Among these companies, Nankai Dentetsu (Nankai Electric Railway) cooperated with the Osaka Recreation Association and offered one-day trips, such as the Kōsei Train event to the hot springs in Shirahama in Wakayama prefecture, and fishing trips at the boundary between Osaka and Wakayama prefectures. 58 Wholesome Recreation Programmes The Kōsei Train events were classified as “sound recreation programmes for recovery”, the second category of tasks of the Osaka Recreation Association. For this purpose, the Osaka Recreation Association also offered the Kōsei Ship trips to Shōdoshima Island and Awajishima Island. The participants boarded the ship at 10 p.m. on Saturday at the port of Osaka and were taken to their destination overnight. On Shōdoshima Island, they hiked around a picturesque spot with scarlettinged leaves, and on Awajishima Island, they watched the famous whirling current offshore; they then returned to the port of Osaka on Sunday evening.59 In addition, Kōsei Evenings, such as concerts, dance parties, folk song recitals, propaganda movies of the KdF, lectures by the leaders of the Kōsei Undō, were offered by the Osaka Recreation Association several times a month as cultural programmes for sound recreation. 60 The Osaka Recreation Association offered these programmes in the following context: the economic boom caused by the war against China had fostered an improper culture that included visiting bars, beer houses, vaudeville theatres, amusement parks and brothels among the workers, and especially among the military industry workers, who had experienced a rapid increase in wages. The development of an improper culture, according to the Osaka Recreation Association, would increase apathy for the war and weaken solidarity for the total war system. 61 The Osaka Recreation Association aimed to offer “wholesome recreation programmes” to eliminate the influence of “improper and wasteful amusements and entertainments”. 62 Although almost all the aforementioned programmes were also offered by the KdF in Hamburg, a great difference can be observed in the most popular programme, the trips. The holiday trips offered by the KdF were, for example in 1936, arranged for a minimum of four days and a maximum of two weeks. Their destinations were not only to places in Germany (e. g. the Allgaeu Alps, Lake Constance, the Harz Mountains, Upper Bavaria, the Black Forest, the Thuringian

57 58 59 60 61 62

Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 27 f. Ibid., pp. 40 f. Ibid., pp. 39 f.; Ōsaka Asahi Shinbun, 22.10.1938. Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 43 ff. Takaoka, Senjiki Ōsaka no Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 12), pp. 248 ff. Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 11 f.

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Forest, and the Moselle and Rhine Valleys) but also to the Norwegian fjords 63, whereas the Kōsei Trains and Kōsei Ships provided day trips to destinations within an approximate 100 km radius of Osaka (Fig. 8). Also, the number of participants on the trips – including the hiking trips and cruises on the KdF ships – offered by the KdF in Hamburg in 1935/36 was 195,080, approximately 17.5 per cent of the population of the city in 1936 (1,096,795), whereas in Osaka, in 1938/39, there were 50,652 participants (Kōsei Hiking 48,862, 100 km cycling 250, Kōsei Train or Ship 1,540), approximately 1.5 per cent of the population in 1939 (3,394,200). 64

Fig. 8: Destinations of Kōsei Hiking, 100 km Cycling, Kōsei Trains, and Kōsei Ships organised by the Osaka Recreation Association in 1938/39

These differences were caused by the working conditions in Japan that made taking a long vacation impossible. In 1938, approximately 75 per cent of the factory workers in Osaka had less than four days off per month, 28.9 per cent of the retail shops gave their staff no days off at all, and 41.9 per cent of workers had less than two days off. The reason for the working conditions of the latter was that regula63 On the trip programmes of the KdF in Hamburg, cf. Die Deutsche Arbeitsfront NS. Gemeinschaft Kraft durch Freude Gauamt Hamburg (ed.), Urlaubsreisen 1936, Hamburg 1936. 64 Aus Hamburgs Verwaltung und Wirtschaft 14, 1937, p. 21; Hamburger Tageblatt 326, 28.11.1937, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 135-1 I-IV, 7502; Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 79 f.; Ōsakashi Hokenbu (ed.), Ōsakashi hoken shisetsu gaiyō (cf. n. 55), p. 238; Ōsaka Shiyakusho (ed.), Shōwa 14nen Ōsakashi tōkeisho [Statistical Report on Osaka in 1939], Osaka: Ōsaka Shiyakusho 1941, p. Jinkō [Population] 2 f.

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tions regarding opening hours were only introduced in October 1938. Notably, even these regulations had a limited effect on the reduction of working hours because shop owners were allowed to stay open until 10 p.m. and were required to provide their staff with at least one day off per month. In addition, most of the retail shop employees lived in the house of the shop owners and were thus under their control even outside their work hours. 65 These working conditions were not limited to Osaka but were common in almost all Japanese cities. Thus, it was often maintained that “the Kōsei Undō should contribute greatly toward the reduction of working hours, because we could not discuss the best use of leisure until enough leisure was given to the working people”. 66 Programmes for Recovering from Fatigue Reducing working hours in a short time was difficult; thus, the Osaka Recreation Association prioritised recovering from fatigue (hirō kaifuku) – the third category of its task – over the other categories. Following this policy, the Osaka Recreation Association attempted to reform the living environment in the city because these circumstances would affect whether people’s recovery from fatigue could be successful. For this purpose, the Osaka Recreation Association launched campaigns against smoke and soot and for greening and the decontamination of the river. In the first campaign, the emissions patrol teams organised in every police district played a crucial role. They visited factories and public baths with emissions exceeding the standard amount to provide instruction on how to reform the combustion systems and improve coal feeding to decrease the smoke and soot emissions. In the second campaign, the Osaka Recreation Association supported a five-year greening project launched by the city of Osaka in 1938, in cooperation with Osaka prefecture and some neighbouring cities. The participants were mobilised mainly by the neighbourhood community to clean and weed public spaces, such as parks, squares, streets, and playgrounds and religious spaces, such as temples and shrines. In addition to maintaining the existing green spaces, the programmes also attempted to appeal to people’s sense of solidarity through collective activities and to influence public morale. 67 Finally, in the campaign to decontaminate the river, the relationship with religion came to the fore. The main programme in this campaign was to organise shōryō nagashi (lantern floating), a traditional event at the end of the Bon festival in mid-August, to enlighten people on the importance of water quality. According to Buddhism, the souls of the ancestors return from the jōdo, the heaven in the west, to their former homes on the first day of the Bon festival and remain there during the festival. Shōryō nagashi is an example of an event where people send 65 Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Dai 1kai Nihon Kōsei Taikai hōkokusho (cf. n. 30), pp. 72–76. 66 Nagano Junzō, Shakai jihyō [Comment on Current Social Affairs], in: Kōsei no Nippon 1, 1, 1939, pp. 122–126, here p. 124. 67 Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 55 f., 58.

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the souls of their ancestors off to the jōdo again. For this purpose, people make shōryō fune, tiny boats that transport the souls, from wood or straw and set them adrift on the water of a river or sea. In Osaka, on the day of the shōryō nagashi, thousands of shōryō fune had been floated on the several rivers that ran through the city. From the viewpoint of religion, this event was significant for ancestor worship; however, from the perspective of public hygiene, the rubbish in the river decreased the water quality. Hence, the Osaka Recreation Association and the Municipal Health Office had during the week before shōryō nagashi cooperated to enlighten the people on decontaminating the river, by distributing posters and offering lectures. In the evening of shōryō nagashi, the Municipal Health Office sent ships to approximately 20 points along the rivers to collect the floating shōryō fune. The following afternoon, a Buddhist memorial service was held to burn the gathered shōryō fune – approximately 262.5 tonnes in 1939. Through organising the shōryō nagashi in this manner, the Osaka Recreation Association attempted to minimise the damage to the rivers and use the traditional event as a programme of effective recreation, which provided people the opportunity to be in close contact with rivers and their family. 68 For recovering from fatigue, the Osaka Recreation Association also offered programmes which had a more direct effect on the body than programmes to reform the living environment. “The campaign for promoting nutritious and economical meals on the home front”, for example, was launched in this scheme. In addition to a series of lectures and meetings for homemakers, the recipes created by the Osaka Recreation Association in cooperation with the Osaka Municipal Institute of Research on Public Hygiene (Ōsaka Shiritsu Hoken Eisei Shikenjo) played a significant role in this campaign. Based on the three concepts (i. e. improving physical strength, maintaining food resources, and saving costs), the recipes were required to be nutritionally balanced meals with ca. 3,000 kcal per day for blue-collar workers and 2,500 kcal per day for white-collar workers, for example, rice and miso soup for breakfast; curry with rice for lunch; and rice and dried fish seasoned with sweetened sake for cooking (mirin), and vegetable broth, for dinner, which was a recipe for a Sunday in early summer. 69 Parallel to enlightening the population on nutrition, the Osaka Recreation Association launched the slogan “Physical check-ups keep your life healthy” (kenkō wa kenshin yori) and a campaign to promote it because whether an individual could recover from fatigue well depended on their specific physical condition. The Osaka Recreation Association periodically organised “weeks for healthcare” (kenkō zōshin shūkan), in which the companies were required to provide their employees with group physical check-ups. 70 Furthermore, the Osaka Recreation Association and the Municipal Health Office cooperated in organising 68 Ōsakashi hoken geppō 4, 43 (cf. n. 46), pp. 6–9; Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 56 f. 69 Ōsakashi hoken geppō 4, 43 (cf. n. 46), pp. 14–19; Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 45–49. 70 Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), pp. 51 ff.

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medical pre-examinations for individuals due to be conscripted into the army in the next two years. The first examinations were held in each district from May to July 1939. Of the 28,188 future conscripts, 93 per cent, or 26,224 individuals, underwent the pre-examination. Of these, only 9,631 (36.7 per cent) were diagnosed as unproblematic, whereas 16,593 (63.3 per cent) were required to receive medical treatment or undergo the examination again. The majority of the latter were diagnosed with tooth diseases, respiratory diseases, trachoma or sexually transmitted diseases. 71 The results re-enforced the worry of the fourth division of the Army about the weakened physiques of the recruits from the city. The Osaka Recreation Association also supported a group physical check-up for infants, organised by the Municipal Health Office through encouraging mothers to participate with their children. 72 Thus, the programmes for recovering from fatigue were provided to working-age people and children. The programmes for recovering from fatigue, in a broad sense of public hygiene, might be considered the original activities of the Osaka Recreation Association. The reason for this observation is that the Kōsei Undō in Osaka developed under the strong leadership of Fujiwara Kujūrō (1894–1978), a board member of the Osaka Recreation Association and the head of the Municipal Health Office. 73 FUJIWARA KUJŪRŌ AND THE SEIKATSU KAIZEN UNDŌ (DAILY LIFE IMPROVEMENT CAMPAIGN) Fujiwara was born in 1894 on the Gotō Islands in Nagasaki prefecture and studied medicine at Nagasaki Medical College (Nagasaki Igaku Senmon Gakkō) from 1912 to 1916. In 1922, he was appointed director of the Osaka Municipal Institute of Research on Public Hygiene just after obtaining a doctorate in medicine at the Imperial University of Kyoto, with a thesis on housing hygiene. In 1935, he was appointed head of the Municipal Health Office and led the Kōsei Undō. He has been called the father of public hygiene in Osaka because of his achievements, and in 1979, one year after his death, the Osaka Public Health Association established the “Fujiwara Award”. In the history of the Kōsei Undō, Fujiwara was an influential leader at the local and national level. As in the case of Isomura, he proposed that the campaign should contribute to the “quantitative increase of the nation” to extend the “Japa-

71 Ōsakashi Hokenbu (ed.), Ōsakashi sōtei yobi kenshin seiseki: Shōwa 14nen kamihanki [Report on the Physical Pre-Examination of Conscription in the First Half of 1939], Osaka: Ōsakashi Hokenbu 1939, pp. 2–5, and tables 1 and 6. 72 Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō (cf. n. 47), p. 52. 73 Takaoka also pointed out that the Kōsei Undō in Osaka was strongly influenced by the Municipal Health Office that put the public hygiene in the broad context of the campaign. The relation between the historical path of the administration of the public hygiene and the Kōsei Undō in Osaka remained, however, to be analysed (Takaoka, Senjiki Ōsaka no Kōsei Undō (cf. n. 12), p. 246).

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nese living space” on the continent, namely into Manchuria and Inner Mongolia. 74 In addition to the general opinion, he also argued that the campaign should “help the people along worthwhile paths in life by reforming and rationalising their lifestyles”. 75 Even if the first and second concepts were inextricably linked, he prioritised the second. Therefore, he had consistently insisted since the first Japan Recreation Congress in 1938 that “the Kōsei Undō should start from an attempt to reform the urban environment to reach its final goal”, 76 whereas the other leaders focused on the physical and mental effects of the recreation activities. The basis of his concept was that the mortality of individuals aged 15–35 years in Osaka was “unnaturally” higher than that in Western cities due to the unhygienic living conditions caused by rapid urbanisation and industrialisation. According to him, the most serious problem was that the mortality of women at those ages was much higher than that of men. Thus, he concluded that the main task of the Kōsei Undō was to reduce mortality at those ages, especially through focusing on the lifestyle of women. 77 The efforts of the Osaka Recreation Association to improve public hygiene were based on these views of Fujiwara’s. Most programmes had been implemented under his initiative, already before the establishment of the Osaka Recreation Association, such as the campaign for greening in 1937, the campaign for decontaminating the river in 1936, the campaign against smoke and soot in 1928, and the campaign for nutritious meals in 1924. In addition to these activities, starting in 1924, Fujiwara periodically held an exhibition of public hygiene, during which, in 1927, a provisional medical counselling room was opened for physical checkups. 78 Hence, it can be concluded that the programmes for “Recovering from Fatigue” were an extension of the activities of the Municipal Health Office or the Municipal Institute of Research on Public Hygiene – both under the initiative of Fujiwara – rather than new ones being realised by the Kōsei Undō. The municipal health centres and infant health centres in each district of the city functioned as institutional bases for Fujiwara’s efforts for the Kōsei Undō. The establishment of both institutions was based on the Health Centre Act (hokenjo hō) of 1937, whose introduction had been required by the Home Ministry and which had also been strongly promoted by Fujiwara. Ahead of all other cities, the first municipal health centre was established in 1938 in the Abeno district, to provide counselling on preventive measures against disease. In 1939, 30 infant health centres were founded for childcare counselling, group physical check-ups for infants, and home visits provided by nurses. Fujiwara had obtained the idea for both institutions from his year-long inspection tour of Western cities in 1930/31, 74 Fujiwara Kujūrō, Kōa to jinteki shigen [On the Importance of the Human Resource for the Asian Development], in: Kaji to eisei 16, 3, 1940, pp. 2–9, here p. 3. 75 Fujiwara Kujūrō, Kōsei Undō no mokuteki [The Goal of the Kōsei Undō] (1), in: Kaji to eisei 16, 1, 1940, pp. 2–8, here pp. 4 f. 76 Nihon Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Dai 1kai Nihon Kōsei Taikai hōkokusho (cf. n. 30), p. 67. 77 Ibid., pp. 68–72. 78 Ōsaka Shiritsu Eisei (ed.), Ōsaka Shiritsu Eisei Shikenjo jigyō enkakushi [History of the Osaka Municipal Institute of Research on the Public Hygiene], 1931, pp. 60–95.

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especially his visit to the Infant Welfare Centre in South Kensington, London. His observations of the home visit service by the nurses of the centre were influential: he became convinced of the significance of preventive measures to promote public hygiene. 79 Fujiwara had repeatedly insisted on implementing preventive measures since the 1920s. The essential part of his opinion is observed in his editor’s preface for the first issue of “Kaji to eisei” (Housekeeping and Hygiene) published in 1925: The cultural standard of a state or a society could not be found more clearly than in the physical strength of the people. It depends on the physical strength of the people, whether the state could be civilised and flourish. Needless to say, it is the improvement of the health services and the spread of the hygienical thought that would enable us to progress toward the prosperity of our country. 80

These remarks coincided with his definition of the Kōsei Undō: “improving the lifestyle by reforming the urban environment for the development of the nation” at the fundamental level. Kaji to eisei was the bulletin of the Association for the Research on Household Chores and Hygiene, established in 1925, which aimed to provide homemakers with useful information on public hygiene. Almost every year, Fujiwara contributed articles on topics such as housing hygiene, reforms for clothing and nutrition, and preventive measures against infectious diseases, to this bulletin. The most noteworthy article was “Serious health problems of housewives”, published in 1927, which insisted that most health problems of homemakers were caused by “their undesirable traditional convention and practice that they always put up with the minimum standard in all aspects of daily life”. One of the most remarkable problems in this context was, according to Fujiwara, malnutrition caused by the convention that homemakers should consume the poorest quality food if necessary, to supply their husbands and children with the highest quality food. Furthermore, Fujiwara pointed out that the probability of contracting tuberculosis had increased because of a particular pattern of behaviour, namely that homemakers were accustomed to confining themselves in a dark room with stagnant air almost all day. This convention was derived from their lifestyle, especially from wearing the traditional kimono, because women often hesitated to go outside because of the long time required to put on or take off the kimono. According to Fujiwara, wearing the kimono also caused dyspepsia because the obi (broad sash worn around the waist) pinched the body too tightly. Thus, Fujiwara concluded that homemakers should be free from those traditional conventions and adopt new lifestyles that included many opportunities to go outside and breathe fresh air. For this purpose, he recommended that families in the suburbs go hiking 79 Ōsakashi Hokenbu (ed.), Ōsakashi hoken shisetsu gaiyō (cf. n. 55), pp. 220–234; Higami Emiko, Senzen Ōsakashi hoken jigyō to Fujiwara Kujūrō [Public Hygiene in Osaka in the Prewar Period and Fujiwara Kujūrō], in: Ōsaka no rekishi [History of Osaka] 76, 2011, pp. 70 ff. 80 Fujiwara Kujūrō, Sōkan no ji [Editor’s Preface to the first Issue], in: Kaji to eisei 1, 1, 1925, p. 2.

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as the ideal means to keep homemakers in good health. 81 Notably, the idea of the Kōsei Undō was suggested more than ten years after this article was published. Fujiwara’s ideas and concepts recorded in Kaji to eisei were mainly based on the scientific knowledge of public hygiene imported from Western countries, whereas the fundamental elements of his ideas were formed by those of the Seikatsu Kaizen Undō (Daily Life Improvement Campaign), developing just after the end of the First World War. The Daily Life Improvement Campaign had been launched by the Ministry of Education to “civilise” people’s lifestyles and to improve the social prestige of Japan as one of the great powers after the First World War. The newspaper report about the Exhibition on the Improvement of Daily Life (seikatsu kaizen tenrankai), the kick-off event of the campaign held from December 1919 to February 1920 in Tokyo, shows the character of the campaign: Yesterday, on December 1st, the Exhibition on the Improvement of Daily Life opened eventually at the Museum for the Education (Kyōiku Hakubutsukan). Since yesterday was the first day of the period, about ten thousand people from every social class visited the hall and gazed at the displays. It was the beautiful reformed clothes displayed by kimono fabric shops and girls’ high schools that attracted the most attention. Next to them, models of reformed houses were also the centre of attention. Satirical posters brought the common evil of the double standards in daily life to the light. They depicted, for example, people wearing Western clothes and sitting on zabuton [traditional Japanese cushions], people eating Western meals at restaurants and Japanese ones at home, and a man, who looks like a gentleman at first glance, ignoring his wife carrying the baby on her back for reading the newspaper. […] The female spectators, especially homemakers, took seriously the notes of the reports on wasteful spending for empty formalities: e. g. five pieces of katsuobushi [dried bonito] sold in a simple bag at hand and three pieces sold in a luxurious gift box made from paulownia were equivalent in price. 82

A poster titled “A Home suited best for the Head of the Household” (shujin hon’i no jūtaku) (Fig. 9) was displayed at the Exhibition on the Improvement of Daily Life. In this poster, a paterfamilias wearing a kimono enjoys a conversation with his guest wearing Western clothes in a sunny, wide living room in the traditional Japanese style with a view through the large windows to a well-arranged garden, while his wife watches the children studying in a dark and narrow room without a window. Furthermore, the left side of the poster depicts a female servant cooking in a dark, unhygienic kitchen. The poster suggests that the Daily Life Improvement Campaign should promote the transformation in housing from the traditional layout that honours the paterfamilias to the new layout that promotes a comfortable life for all family members and considers hygiene and practical use.

81 Fujiwara Kujūrō, Yūryo subeki fujin no kenkō mondai: Nichijō seikatsu no kaizen [Serious Health Problems of Women: Reform of Everyday Life], in: Kaji to eisei 3, 5, 1927, pp. 4–7. 82 Yomiuri fujin ran [Yomiuri’s Column of Women’s Matters], in: Yomiuri Shinbun, 2.12.1919. The “double standards in the daily life” refer to the mix of the Western and the traditional Japanese lifestyle.

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Fig. 9: “A Home Suited best for the Head of the Household” (poster displayed at the Exhibition on the Improvement of Daily Life)

During the exhibition, the League for the Improvement of Daily Life (Seikatsu Kaizen Dōmeikai) was established to develop the Daily Life Improvement Campaign as a national campaign. The aim of the League for the Improvement of Daily Life was, according to its founding statement, to “reform the lifestyle of the people under the viewpoint of rationalisation through eliminating all types of empty formality from daily life”, in other words, eliminating wasteful spending on food, clothing, housing and social interactions. These lifestyle reforms were supposed to “contribute toward making Japan flourish through stabilising the life of people and improving their productivity”. 83 In this context, the League for the Improvement of Daily Life attempted to introduce new insights based on scientific knowledge into the wide range of daily life. For housing, another recommendation was to replace the traditional Japanese style of using low tables and Japanese cushions (Fig. 9) with Western-style tables and chairs. The reason for this change was that compared with the Japanese style, the Western-style was considered more practical for daily indoor activities because it was easier for people to switch from sitting down to standing up. Additionally, Western-style clothing was considered ideal because, compared with Japanese traditional clothing, the garments were more hygienic, practical, economical and aesthetically pleasing. Regarding diet, the dichotomy between the 83 Seikatsu Kaizen Dōmeikai (ed.), Seikatsu no shiori [Leaflet for Reforming the Lifestyle], 1924, p. 127.

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Western and Japanese styles was not emphasised; instead, the importance of nutrition based on medical knowledge was promoted. The most notable point, as aforementioned, was that the paternalistic convention that a “housewife should put up with poor food” was strongly criticised, as suggested by Fujiwara. 84 The aim of these efforts was clearly explained by Norisugi Yoshihisa (1878– 1947), a leader of the Daily Life Improvement Campaign and a bureaucrat at the Ministry of Education: The ascetical or simple life had been admired from the philosophical or religious view. In other words, it had been seen as the truth or as a virtue to put up with the minimum living standard that is just enough for maintaining the life. Such lifestyle makes it impossible for us, however, to understand the ultimate meaning of life. We have to be living a lifestyle that is not merely sufficient for maintaining our life but that is capable of improving the efficiency of our activities. [. . .] In other words, we have to make our life worthwhile. 85

Furthermore, Norisugi added that the reformed lifestyle should be “creative”. “The creative lifestyle means”, according to him, “the light, which leads us to the most worthwhile life, not only through making our life better in terms of morality, economic viability, rationality and hygiene, but through enlightening our innermost spirit”. 86 Norisugi’s concept suggests that the aim of the Daily Life Improvement Campaign was not merely to raise the material standards of life but to reform the spirit of the people through improving their lifestyle. This aspect of the campaign has been regarded, in recent studies on the Livelihood State (seikatsu kokka) regime after the First World War, as the reform “ultimately expected to build up the people who helped each other voluntarily to support the national community”. 87 Lifestyle, in this context, is defined as a path to integrating the nation by connecting individuals with the state, against the following historical backdrop: in Japan after the First World War, the word seikatsu meant quality of living, whereas until the 1900s, seikatsu had been understood as the daily food necessary for sustenance or as the linear lifetime from birth to death. Furthermore, according to this hypothe84 On the overview of the Seikatsu Kaizen Undō and the history of the Seikatsu Kaizen Dōmeikai, cf. Sheldon Garon, Molding Japanese minds: The state in everyday life, Princeton: Princeton University Press 1997; Katja Schmidtpott, “Stadt und Land, Männer und Frauen, Jung und Alt”: Die Reichweite der Kampagne für moderne Lebensführung (Bunka Seikatsu Undō) in Japan in den 1920er Jahren, in: Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienforschung 28, 2004, pp. 105–135; Hisai Eisuke, Shōwa zenki ni okeru Seikatsu Kaizen Chūōkai no soshiki to jigyō [The Organisation and Projects of the Central Association for the Improvement of Living in the Early Shōwa Era], in: Hyogo Kyōiku Daigaku kiyō 31, 2007, pp. 171–182; Nakagawa Kiyoshi, Seikatsu kaizen gensetsu no tokuchō to sono hen’yō [Characteristics of the Discourse on Lifestyle Improvement and its Transformation in Japan, 1920s–1930s], in: Shakai kagaku 42, 1, 2012, pp. 75–98. 85 Norisugi Yoshihisa, Shakai kyōiku no kenkyū [Study on Social Education], Dōbunkan: Tokyo 1923, p. 129. 86 Ibid., p. 130. 87 Mitsuzono Isamu, Nihon ni okeru seikatsu kaizen no shisōteki shatei: 1920 nendai – 1930 nendai [A History of Ideas that Shaped the Movements for Improvement of Lifestyle in the 1920s and 1930s], in: Shakai keizai shigaku 83, 4, 2018, pp. 5–20, here p. 19.

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sis, the people in Japan during the interwar period had no natural right but a duty to live in service of the state and society, which contrasted with the European welfare states constructed on the assumption of the natural right to live, and where welfare services functioned as a return for the mobilisation toward total war. The discourse on the “duty to live” was based on an ideology widely accepted in Japanese society during the interwar period, namely that “the true happiness of the people” could be found only in “taking part in the works of historical importance for realising the ideal nation”. 88 Hence, the hypothesis of the Livelihood State regime concludes that individual welfare achieved by improving an individual’s lifestyle would spread the promotion of welfare across the nation. 89 Thus, a linear continuity between the Seikatsu Kaizen Undō and the Kōsei Undō can be observed in Fujiwara’s activities and thinking. CONCLUSION The Kōsei Undō was launched in the context of the international movement of the 1930s to organise leisure. Because the KdF influenced the establishment of the Kōsei Undō, both had similarities in their totalitarian manner of mobilising people. The leaders of the Kōsei Undō also attempted to create their own concept of the campaign, tailored to Japanese society. This concept was demonstrated in the ideas of Isomura, who emphasised the family unit as “the core element of the national entity” for promoting the paradigm shift of Japanese society from Gesellschaft to Gemeinschaft. In addition, the case of Osaka shows that the Kōsei Undō was characterised more directly by military demands than in the case of the KdF. Hence, the programmes for physical training, such as sports festivals, radio gymnastics and cycling and hiking trips, played a significant role in the Kōsei Undō. These programmes were also expected to “strengthen human resources” to develop the Japanese living space in Manchuria and Inner Mongolia and to improve the labour productivity of industry and commerce in the city. The Kōsei Undō also offered programmes for relaxation based on the model of the KdF, such as the Kōsei Train, the Kōsei Ship and the Kōsei Evening, but did not succeed in realising the long-distance trip with long stays, which were the most popular part of the KdF’s programme. This difference was mainly caused by the insufficient amount of leisure time available to working people in Japan at that time. Therefore, the Kōsei Undō had to prioritise programmes for recovering from fatigue, which were expected to contribute to improving the living conditions through reforming the urban environment and promoting health care. The programmes, in the broad sense of public hygiene, were mainly fostered by Fujiwara and derived from the 88 Tomie Naoko, Kyūhin no naka no kindai Nihon: “Seizon no gimu” [A History of Modern Japan from the Perspective of the Poor Relief with a Focus on the “Duty to Live”], Kyoto: Mineruva Shobō 2007, p. 2. 89 Mitsuzono, Nihon ni okeru seikatsu kaizen no shisōteki shatei (cf. n. 87), p. 18.

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Daily Life Improvement Campaign in the 1920s, which aimed to promote the welfare of the whole nation through improving individual lifestyles, from the viewpoint of the duty to live. From this viewpoint, a conclusion that can be drawn from the case of Osaka is that the Kōsei Undō was derived from the Daily Life Improvement Campaign and that the KdF functioned as a catalyst for this process. From the perspective of urban governance defined in the introduction to this chapter, what defined the basic concepts of the Kōsei Undō was its inferior organisation compared to that of the KdF. Isomura saw this type of organising system as an obstacle to developing the campaign in an integrated manner. However this system enabled municipal officials, especially Fujiwara, to gain the initiative among several actors and to put their concepts into practice.

PART III OBSERVATIONS FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF EUROPEAN URBAN HISTORY

JAPANESE URBANISATION IN THE LIGHT OF URBAN ENVIRONMENTAL HISTORY Dieter Schott URBAN ENVIRONMENTAL HISTORY AND THE METABOLIC PERSPECTIVE The historical scholarship on European cities and the relationship with their environment in modern times has received a considerable boost over the last twenty years, not the least via a series of round tables and conferences which have developed a close interaction between American and European scholars on urban environmental history. 1 Apart from these smaller but very fertile events, urban environmental history has become a regular and well researched topic at the large conferences for urban history of the European Association for Urban History 2 and the conferences of the European Society for Environmental History (ESEH). Among the many approaches pursued in this endeavour, I consider particularly useful the notion of studying the flow of materials which arrive in and leave the city and enable it to sustain its functioning in individual (the single urban dweller) as well as collective terms (the city as a physical aggregate of buildings, infrastructure etc.). The notion of the city as a social metabolism has a longer history but was initiated by the environmental debate that has emerged since the late 1960s. 3 It basically focuses on the flow of resources through cities: They receive, by a variety of ways, an input of essential resources such as water, energy, food stuff, air, building materials and other raw materials. These resources are processed within the cities to sustain the biological metabolism of the urbanites as 1

2 3

See Christoph Bernhardt / Geneviève Massard-Guilbaud, Towards a new approach in urban history. The Round-Tables for Urban Environmental History (1998–2008), in: Moderne Stadtgeschichte 2, 2020 (“50 Jahre Moderne Stadtgeschichte”, ed. by Sebastian Haumann / Dieter Schott), pp. 95–103; Harold Platt, Follow the flows. A brief history of transnational urban environmental history, in: Moderne Stadtgeschichte 2, 2020 (“50 Jahre Moderne Stadtgeschichte”, ed. by Sebastian Haumann / Dieter Schott), pp. 104–111. See Marjaana Niemi, From National to Transnational and Global Approaches: The Contribution of the EAUH Conferences, in: Moderne Stadtgeschichte 2, 2020 (“50 Jahre Moderne Stadtgeschichte”, ed. by Sebastian Haumann / Dieter Schott), pp. 86–94. See Sabine Barles, Urban Metabolism, in: Sebastian Haumann / Martin Knoll / Detlev Mares (eds.), Concepts of Urban-Environmental History, Bielefeld: Transcript 2020, pp. 109–124. See for the formulation of the model Marina Fischer-Kowalski et al., Gesellschaftlicher Stoffwechsel und Kolonisierung von Natur. Ein Versuch in Sozialer Ökologie, Amsterdam: G+B Verlag Facultas 1997.

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well as the reproduction and growth of the physical city. This processing produces both waste and finished products. The former have to be disposed of or somehow handled in order not to endanger the life and health of urbanites; this is termed output in the terminology of urban metabolism. 4 Urban environmental history studies focusing on the urban metabolism now ask about the composition of resource flows into cities; about how these resources actually reach the city; how the distribution of resources to each individual urban household or consuming unit is organised; how the city and the urbanites deal with the waste products which are being generated; and they study which effects these waste products have on the health of urbanites and the general state of the city. 5 Networking the City As a result of industrialisation and increased population density in cities the process of providing essential resources and putting them at the disposal of urbanites has for a long time been comprehensively mechanised and industrialised. This process basically started with networks of gas provision in British cities of the early 19th century. In several European cities, networks for water provisioning bringing various water resources from out of town to selected urban households by tubes, usually gravity-fed, had existed since the late Middle Ages. 6 Industrial technology, particularly steam-driven pumps and since the early nineteenth century industrially produced tubes and pipes, made it possible to construct water provision networks at considerably lower cost. From the middle of the nineteenth century cities started to address the issue of faeces and wastes, produced by biological metabolism of human and animal urbanites within cities, by constructing sewage systems. These systems reacted to a major paradigmatic shift: Over many centuries urban human (and animal) excrements had been considered as a fertilizing resource for the peri-urban agriculture and horticulture. 7 In reaction to repeated epidemics, above all cholera, and the gradual introduction of water-supply systems to households, this traditional regime, transporting excrement and other organic waste by carts to the periphery where it was required as fertiliser, became more and more dysfunctional and the evacuation of faeces stalled, creating mas4 5 6

7

See Dieter Schott, Urban Development and Environment, in: Mauro Agnoletti / Simone Neri Serneri (eds.), The Basic Environmental History, Heidelberg: Springer 2014, pp. 171–198. See as an example of using urban metabolism as a guiding approach for a textbook on European urbanisation Dieter Schott, Europäische Urbanisierung (1000–2000). Eine umwelthistorische Einführung, Cologne: Böhlau 2014. See Ric Janssens / Tim Soens, Urbanizing Water: Looking Beyond the Transition to Water Modernity in the Cities of the Southern Low Countries, Thirteenth to Nineteenth Centuries, in: Tim Soens / Dieter Schott / Michael Toyka-Seid / Bert De Munck (eds.), Urbanizing Nature. Actors and Agency (Dis)Connecting Cities and Nature since 1500, New York: Routledge 2019, pp. 89–111. See Peter Atkins, The charmed circle, in: Idem. (ed.), Animal Cities. Beastly urban histories, Farnham: Ashgate 2012, pp. 53–76.

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sive public health problems. These were – since organic matter caused disagreeable smells – interpreted in the framework of the then dominant miasma approach as directly dangerous to human health. Thus, following the recommendations spelled out by Edwin Chadwick (1800–1890) and the Public Health School, faeces, now considered wastes, had to be removed from the urban environment as quickly and comprehensively as possible and gotten rid of in economical ways. 8 Towards the end of the nineteenth century we can then observe the installation of networked systems of lighting and energy provision, the setting up of electricity networks and networks of urban transit which in the medium term completely transformed the spatial relations of place of work and place of residence. 9 Thus, on the whole, a process of networking the city increasingly guaranteed the continuous provision of city and urbanites with essential resources and removed hazardous waste products from the urban orbit. 10 Networking the city transformed the ways in which urbanites gained access to essential resources; individual manual labour like fetching water from wells and fountains was replaced by machines, unsafe local resources were substituted by regional and transregional resources. This opened and enabled completely new patterns of cleanliness and bodily practices. 11 Networking the city also left physical imprints in the urban landscape such as public fountains, bath-houses, gas lights, tramway rails and stops. 12 But the majority of these urban networks remained hidden from the sight of urbanites. City streets in this new networked city were no longer simple traffic surfaces or – frequently also – places of work, they became complex machines, whose intestines were and still are essential for the undisturbed functioning of the urban organism.

8

Christopher Hamlin, Public Health and Social Justice in the Age of Chadwick. Britain, 1800– 1854, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1998. 9 As a foundational work for the role of electrification see Thomas P. Hughes, Networks of Power. Electrification in Western Society, 1880–1930, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1983. For the long-term reception of this work see Christian Zumbrägel, Dreissig Jahre danach: Thomas P. Hughes’ Networks of Power als Leitkonzept der Stadt- und Technikgeschichte, in: Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2015 (“Stadt und Infrastruktur”, ed. by Dieter Schott), pp. 93–98. 10 See on this networking the city: Joel Tarr / Gabriel Dupuy (eds.), Technology and the Rise of the Networked City in Europe and America, Philadelphia: Temple University Press 1988; Dieter Schott, Die Vernetzung der Stadt. Kommunale Energiepolitik, öffentlicher Nahverkehr und die Produktion der modernen Stadt. Darmstadt, Mainz, Mannheim 1880–1918, Darmstadt: WBG 1999; see also contributions in Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2015 (“Stadt und Infrastruktur”, ed. by the author). 11 See Dieter Schott, Technisiertes Wohnen in der modernen Stadt, in: Joachim Eibach / Inken Schmidt-Voges (eds.), Das Haus in der Geschichte Europas. Ein Handbuch, Berlin: De Gruyter 2015, pp. 255–271. 12 See Mikael Hård / Thomas J. Misa (eds.), Urban Machinery. Inside Modern European Cities, Cambridge/MA: MIT Press 2008; Vittorio M. Lampugnani, Bedeutsame Belanglosigkeiten. Kleine Dinge im Stadtraum, Berlin: Klaus Wagenbach 2019.

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Governing the City Networking the city furthermore thoroughly changed the governance of the city: In contrast to the rather rudimentary administration of pre-industrial cities, the networked city required increasingly large numbers of technically trained staff to plan, build and operate these networks. Urban networks thus became major economic and bureaucratic aggregates; however, their regulation and ownership was not the same in all countries. Notwithstanding the predominance of liberal economic thinking in this period, we can observe a general tendency setting in roughly after 1870 to bring these networks under municipal ownership. 13 Nevertheless, in some countries such as France and also the USA private enterprise in those utilities still prevailed. After about 1870, city administrations in most Northwest European countries developed into increasingly large and bureaucratic machines, which differed markedly from the municipal administrations predominant until the middle of the nineteenth century. In German urban historical research the difference is frequently captured by the juxtaposition of the terms Ordnungsverwaltung (administration of order) for the older type of municipal administration, and Leistungsverwaltung (service administration) for the emerging new type. 14 Whereas the older type focused on keeping order within the city, and the leading functions were mostly carried out by older members of local elites holding honorary positions without any substantial remuneration, the new type was characterised by providing an increasing range of material and social services to the urbanites. Leading functions such as mayors or heads of departments now came to be performed by middle-class professionals with academic training who increasingly no longer originated from the city they headed. Despite this bureaucratisation and professionalization, the local middle-classes, who at least in Germany and other countries with property-based suffrage had a dominant say in local politics, remained keenly interested in local affairs. There was therefore a very strong volunteer element in municipal services, staffing the immense range of committees and sub-committees of municipalities, but also in voluntary associations and societies engaged for public welfare. Cities and local municipal administrations in the period before World War One – and this seems to me a major difference to the Japanese urbanisation – were not just executors of general policies devised and decreed on the state level or, in the case of Germany, the imperial level. 15 Coping with problems of urbani-

13 See Uwe Kühl (ed.), Der Munizipalsozialismus in Europa, Munich: Oldenbourg 2002. 14 See Jürgen Reulecke, Geschichte der Urbanisierung in Deutschland, Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp 1985; Wolfgang R. Krabbe, Kommunalpolitik und Industrialisierung. Die Entfaltung der städtischen Leistungsverwaltung im 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer / Deutscher Gemeindeverlag 1985; for the European sphere see Friedrich Lenger, Metropolen der Moderne. Eine europäische Stadtgeschichte seit 1850, Munich: C. H. Beck 2013, especially ch. V: “Der Bau der modernen Stadt”, pp. 149–202. 15 This is particularly emphasised by André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century, London: Routledge 2002, particularly ch. 2,

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sation, with health hazards, infant mortality and insanitary living conditions were challenges to be confronted foremost on a local level, and municipal administrations and local volunteers frequently developed their own ways and methods of coping. This was made possible by the fact that in Germany towns were principally allowed to do what was not expressly by laws and ordinances determined as under the control of state or imperial governments. Since state regulation was initially rather scarce on these questions, cities had considerable latitude to develop their own approaches on these issues which they sometimes used intensively. This is for instance documented by the attempts of Frankfurt mayor Franz Adickes (1846–1915) to get his Lex Adickes passed by the Prussian parliament, which would enable the city of Frankfurt to pursue a differentiated zoning policy and which was – as Satoshi Baba shows – rather influential also for the evolution of Japanese town planning. 16 Jürgen Reulecke claims in his introduction to a volume on the city as service centre that cities acted as “pacemakers on the way towards social reform” because many of the elements of the later welfare state had been anticipated and tested out on the municipal level before 1914, thus one could talk about a Sozialstadt (social city) as the precursor of the Sozialstaat (welfare state). 17 A comparable development can also be observed in Japan, although somewhat later. Other favourable contextual conditions were the fact, that German cities were entitled to levy surcharge taxes on the state income tax, and the tax rate could – within certain limits – be set by the municipal council. 18 This meant that some German cities could and did engage in tax competition; especially cities with a high quality of living environment, such as spa towns (BadenBaden, Wiesbaden etc.) or princely residences with a large number of cultural establishments, aimed to attract wealthy pensioners as new residents by setting their local taxes at a lower rate than industrial towns with large expenditure for schools and social purposes could do. The assumption was that lower taxes would attract a larger number of wealthy residents which nevertheless would yield suffi-

pp. 45–84, who underscores the dominance of central control and the weakness of local government in Japan. 16 See on Adickes and his persistent attempts (Lex Adickes) to get a differentiated zoning ordinance through the Prussian parliament Wolfgang Klötzer, Der Haushaltssanierer und der Stadtentwickler. Zwei große Oberbürgermeister in wilhelminischer Zeit: Johannes Miquel und Franz Adickes, In: Evelyn Brockhoff / Lutz Becht (eds.), Frankfurter Stadtoberhäupter. Vom 14. Jahrhundert bis 1946 (Archiv für Frankfurts Geschichte und Kunst, 73), Frankfurt/M.: Societäts-Verlag 2012, pp. 155–164; Gerd Albers, Zur Entwicklung der Stadtplanung in Europa, Braunschweig: Vieweg 1997, p. 296. 17 Jürgen Reulecke, Einleitung, in: Idem. (ed.), Die Stadt als Dienstleistungszentrum. Beiträge zur Geschichte der “Sozialstadt” in Deutschland im 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert, St. Katharinen: Scripta Mercaturae 1995, pp. 1–17, quote (translated by author) on p. 9. 18 See on municipal finances Wolfgang R. Krabbe, Die deutsche Stadt im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 1989, pp. 155–165.

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cient income from local taxes to provide for an attractive quality and range of services. 19 A second contextual condition was the fact that cities were considered trustworthy debitors. Municipal obligations offered on the capital market to fund the large infrastructural investments of building sewage networks, tramway systems or schools, were considered mündelsicher (safe for wards), which meant that guardians could invest money they administered for their wards in these funds. Thus cities could borrow money at lower interest rates, compared to private companies. As a consequence of the crisis following the boom period of the early 1870s, there was a glut on the capital market in Germany, and lucrative as well as secure investments were rare for some time so that municipal obligations proved attractive, despite their low interest rate. German cities thus had little problem to mobilise sufficient capital for the long-term investments they undertook as part of their new quality as service cities. Thus German cities, but also cities in many other countries of North West Europe before World War One, turned into a sphere of innovative action. On the one hand new large technological systems emerged there which changed the relationship of urbanites to the natural resources they needed for their daily life. On the other hand cities became the preferred site for developing reform ideas which would tackle the diagnosed evils of modern industrial life and aim to create better living conditions for the mass of the urban population. 20 JAPANESE URBANISATION AS SEEN FROM THE EUROPEAN PERSPECTIVE As regards the papers assembled here in this volume on Japanese urbanisation with an emphasis on the urban environment, I noticed several major differences in relation to European urbanisation – here understood as the urbanisation patterns as they emerged in the more economically and technologically advanced societies of Northwestern Europe, e. g. Britain, France, Germany, the Benelux countries, Switzerland, Austria. 21 I will address these fields of difference briefly before moving on to a more detailed discussion of specific issues. 19 See Dieter Schott, Kunststadt – Pensionärsstadt – Industriestadt: Die Konstruktion von Stadtprofilen durch süddeutsche Stadtverwaltungen vor 1914, in: Die Alte Stadt 26, 1999, pp. 277– 299. 20 See Lenger, Metropolen (cf. n. 14), pp. 149–202. 21 This is the narrative of European urbanisation as it emerges from standard surveys such as Paul M. Hohenberg / Lynn H. Lees, The Making of Urban Europe. 1000–1994, Cambridge/MA: Harvard University Press 21996; Andrew Lees / Lynn H. Lees, Cities and the Making of Modern Europe, 1750–1914, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2007; Lenger, Metropolen (cf. n. 14). For the critique that these patterns do not represent European urbanisation in toto see Martin Baumeister / Rainer Liedtke: Probleme mit der “europäischen Stadt”: Städte in Südeuropa, in: Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2009 (“Städte in Südeuropa”, ed. by Martin Baumeister / Rainer Liedtke), pp. 5–14; Rainer Liedtke, How

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Timing An important difference between Japanese and European urbanisation seems to me to lie in the timing. For European urbanisation we can observe extremely high growth rates in the early centres of industry, such as Manchester, already in the early nineteenth century. Generally the effects of railways and massive population growth caused European metropoles to expand rapidly in the nineteenth century. 22 In Germany, following a lag in development in the first half of the nineteenth century, a massive acceleration set in after about 1860; cities like Hamburg, Leipzig, Cologne and Frankfurt grew three- to sixfold between 1870 and 1910, which of course also includes population gains through incorporating neighbouring villages and small towns. 23 After 1900 the population growth seems to have slackened. The First World War brought a differentiated development: Whereas administrative and cultural centres lost population, the hotspots of war-related heavy industry gained inhabitants. However, on the whole the 1920s and 1930s were no longer a period of such high growth rates but rather of consolidation and demographic stagnation. 24 In Japan, the boom period of urbanisation, especially the building up of the urban periphery, took place considerably later than in Europe. Important centres such as Tokyo and Osaka even declined in demographic terms immediately after the Meiji Restoration; the urbanisation boom in terms of urban growth beyond the formerly built-up areas does not seem to have taken place to the same extent as for instance in Germany from the 1860s onward. 25 The First World War here brought a major economic and demographic boom, since Japan, allied with the Entente, gained new strength in supplying the Entente economies with goods, which their own economies, focused on military goods, could no longer produce in sufficient quantities. Diagnosing the Urban Crisis: The Public Health Paradigm I see a major difference also in the way problems of urbanisation were being conceived and discussed as a comprehensive urban crisis. In Northwestern Europe I would locate the emergence of this debate over an urban crisis in the middle of the

22 23 24 25

“European” is the “European City”?, in: Moderne Stadtgeschichte 2, 2020 (“50 Jahre Moderne Stadtgeschichte”, ed. by Sebastian Haumann / Dieter Schott), pp. 152–156. See on urban population increase generally Lees/Lees, Cities and the Making (cf. n. 21), p. 5. See Reulecke, Geschichte der Urbanisierung (cf. n. 14), p. 203: The population of Hamburg multiplied by a factor of 3.2, that of Leipzig by 6.3, Cologne by 4.0, and Frankfurt by 4.6. See Reulecke, Geschichte der Urbanisierung (cf. n. 14), pp. 147–153; Lenger emphasizes the contrast between relative stagnation in the cities of Northwestern Europe and partly explosive growth in Eastern and Southern Europe, Lenger, Metropolen (cf. n. 14), pp. 319–324. See Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 15), pp. 45–60.

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nineteenth century, particularly in the major European cities. 26 There, the urban crisis came to be perceived first and foremost as a health crisis: The cholera, which haunted Europe in repeating pandemic waves from 1831 onwards, brought havoc to these cities and caused many casualties. However, even apart from these extreme pandemic events which – perhaps not by chance – coincided with major social upheavals such as the 1848 revolution or the 1866 German-German war, 27 the level of mortality and morbidity from endemic diseases such as typhus, typhoid fever etc. was very high. The new feature of this discourse on the urban crisis was that an increasing number of professionals from the educated middle classes were no longer ready to accept the level of mortality in cities as natural or God-given and actively sought remedies to redress that evil. And these remedies were sought after and found primarily on a societal, preventive level. In the long term most influential was the Public Health movement which grew out of Edwin Chadwick’s “Report on the sanitary conditions of the Labouring Population of Great Britain”, published in 1842. Chadwick identified organic matter present in the living environment of cities and the stench, the miasma, emanating from that organic matter as the main cause for debilitating diseases. Within the context of the idea of enabling the poor to learn to help themselves, Chadwick thought these miasmas and the resulting diseases would prevent the poor from taking care of themselves. In order to remove this dangerous organic matter, Chadwick proposed providing all households with clean water, collecting faeces and urine no longer in cess pools next to the houses but via water closets and evacuating the dirty waters by means of a comprehensive sewage system from the city as quickly as possible. 28 Based on Chadwick’s approach, movements and societies promoting public health developed in many countries, and chairs for public health (Hygiene in German) were established at medical faculties of universities. 29 Promoting public health by cleaning up the urban environment became the hegemonic paradigm and increasingly informed the policies of many cities in the second half of the nineteenth century. 30 This was the cultural background of networking the city in sani26 See on Paris: Peter Hall, Cities in Civilization, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson 1998, ch. 24: “The City of Perpetual Public Works. Paris 1850–1870”, pp. 706–745; on London: Richard Dennis, Modern London, in: Martin Daunton (ed.), The Cambridge Urban History of Britain. Vol. III 1840–1950, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2000, pp. 95–131. 27 See Richard Evans, Tod in Hamburg. Stadt, Gesellschaft und Politik in den Cholera-Jahren 1830–1910, Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt 1990, pp. 294–338; idem., Epidemics and Revolutions: cholera in the nineteenth-century Europe, in: Terence Ranger / Paul Slack (eds.), Epidemics and ideas. Essays on the Historical Perception of Pestilence, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1992, pp. 149–173. 28 See Hamlin, Public Health (cf. n. 8). 29 See Alfons Labisch, Homo hygienicus. Gesundheit und Medizin in der Neuzeit, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 1992, pp. 124–170; on Pettenkofer and the academic institutionalisation of hygiene Evans, Tod (cf. n. 27), pp. 307–314. 30 See Juan Rodriguez-Lores, Stadthygiene und Städtebau. Zur Dialektik von Ordnung und Unordnung in den Auseinandersetzungen des Deutschen Vereins für Öffentliche Gesundheitspflege 1868–1901, in: Gerhard Fehl / Juan Rodriguez-Lores (eds.), Städtebaureform

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tary respects. Enabling urban residents to lead a healthy life had acquired an enormous significance by the end of the nineteenth century. This is documented by the formation of a municipal health bureaucracy, the leaders of which became the local advocates and guardians of public health. 31 Public Health became the prism or perspective through which almost all aspects of public life were inspected and evaluated. 32 The concern for healthier urban living conditions – a focus on more ventilation was paramount – was also translated into town planning in the form of building by-laws and manuals of city planning such as those produced by Reinhard Baumeister (1833–1917), Josef Stuebben (1845–1936) and others. 33 The vitality and impact of the focus on hygiene rested to a considerable degree on the fact that there was a relatively large and comparably free civil society, whose members, predominantly the middle-classes, could develop and cultivate their concern for public health in the form of local, regional or national societies of public health and in their engagement for public welfare. 34 This remarkably strong role of civil society for promoting public health seems to differ markedly from the Japanese case, where – as André Sorensen argues – the focus on public health was above all a policy promoted by state officials such as the later Home Minister and Mayor of Tokyo, Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929). 35 Gotō’s biography – he was a physician by training and had studied in Germany in the 1890s with Max von Pettenkofer (1818–1901) and Robert Koch (1843–1910) – shows that public health was clearly on the mind of leading bureaucrats and politicians. However, there was no broad social movement advancing public health in Japanese cities that could be considered comparable to that in European cities. When Takahito Mori discusses the origins of Kōsei Undō in the municipal health policies of Fujiwara Kujūrō (1894–1978) in Osaka in the 1920s, he presents Fujiwara as a reforming bureaucrat aiming to implement modern hygiene policies on a city level but does not mention if and to what extent Fujiwara’s attempts met with positive responses from the public of Osaka.

31

32 33 34 35

1865–1900. Von Licht, Luft und Ordnung in der Gründerzeit, Bd. 1: Allgemeine Beiträge und Bebauungsplan, Hamburg: Christians 1985, pp. 19–58. See Beate Witzler, Großstadt und Hygiene. Kommunale Gesundheitspolitik in der Epoche der Urbanisierung, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner 1995; Anne I. Hardy, Ärzte, Ingenieure und städtische Gesundheit. Medizinische Theorien in der Hygienebewegung des 19. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 2005. For a British example see Michael Toyka-Seid, Gesundheit und Krankheit in der Stadt. Zur Entwicklung des Gesundheitswesens in Durham City 1831–1914, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 1996. See Dieter Schott, The “Handbuch der Hygiene”: A Manual of Proto-Environmental Science in Germany of 1900?, in: Victoria Berridge / Martin Gorsky (eds.), Environment, Health and History, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2012, pp. 69–93. See Anthony Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City: Germany, Britain, the United States and France 1780–1914, Oxford: Basil Blackwell 1981; Brian Ladd, Urban Planning and Civic Order in Germany, 1860–1914, Cambridge/MA: Harvard University Press 1990. See for the role of the professional middle classes in the fight against air pollution in British cities Stephen Mosley, The Chimney of the World. A History of Smoke Pollution in Victorian and Edwardian Manchester, Cambridge: White Horse Press 2001, pp. 117–180. See Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 15), p. 109.

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In Europe the concern for public health was paralleled by a strong concern for individual health, particularly among the urban middle classes. By the late nineteenth century this expressed itself in individual as well as collective practices. From the middle of the century onwards, the preoccupation with miasma gave way to a growing concern with air pollution by 1900; the rapid industrialization of the last third of nineteenth century and the replacement of wood with coal as the dominant fuel for domestic heating and cooking had contributed to a severe deterioration of urban air quality. Many physicians linked this with the high incidence of tuberculosis as well as other pulmonary diseases in smoky and dusty cities. 36 There was then no cure for tuberculosis, but it was known that better air, more sunlight and better food slowed down the progress of the disease and supported recovery. As a consequence many middle-class households strove to leave the congested and polluted urban centres and set up their homes on the urban periphery, where the air quality was better and more living space, including more green space, could be bought or rented using the income they had available. Thus the secular trend towards suburbanisation, which in the United Kingdom had started already in the early nineteenth century, 37 accelerated towards the end of nineteenth century, when means of mass transit became available which proved affordable to larger sections of the urban population. 38 The rapid rise of the garden city concept not just in Britain but also on the continent, following the advent of the first garden city, Letchworth, has to be seen in this context. 39 This trend was obviously paralleled in Japan, although in a modified form and with a certain time lag. As Deguchi shows in this volume, the concept of the garden city held considerable attraction for middle-class households who wanted to and could afford to leave the congested and polluted cities, although the social utopian content of the original Howardian model does not seem to have had much relevance in Japan. The garden city – he argues, following Suzuki – appears more like a marketing concept for private housing estates set in greenery. These were being developed by the private railway companies which aimed to open up the periphery of large cities like Osaka by building electric suburban lines and – at the same time – acted as land developers, a feature we know from the USA. 40 When Deguchi concentrates on the aspect of land acquisition for garden cities, it 36 See Dieter Schott, Livability and Environmental Sustainability. From Smoky to Livable Cities, in: Carola Hein (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Planning History, New York: Routledge 2018, pp. 417–427. On tuberculosis see Flurin Condrau, Lungenheilanstalt und Patientenschicksal: Sozialgeschichte der Tuberkulose in Deutschland und England im späten 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2000. 37 See Robert Fishman, Bourgeois Utopia. The Rise and Fall of Suburbia, New York: Basic Books 1977; Mark Clapson, Suburban Century: Social Change and Urban Growth in England and the USA, New York: Berg Publishers 2003. 38 See Colin Divall / Winstan Bond (eds.), Suburbanizing the Masses. Public Transport and Urban Development in Historical Perspective, Aldershot: Ashgate 2003. 39 See Axel Schollmeier, Gartenstädte in Deutschland. Ihre Geschichte, städtebauliche Entwicklung und Architektur zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts, Münster: Lit 1990. 40 See Sam B. Warner, Streetcar Suburbs. The Process of Growth in Boston (1870–1900), Cambridge/MA: Harvard University Press 1962.

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becomes obvious that the local government legally in charge of the land to be developed had no means and practically no intention to direct this development and to provide the services required by the new residents. Thus, the actors which feature in his narrative are above all private actors: the Hankyū Corporation, which was also a transport company; the tenant-farmers cultivating the land that was to be turned into a garden city; the landowners who took diverging positions depending on whether they were ready to sell their land or not; and the residents, who organised a residents’ association to take care of essential services. Muko village, the settlement actually affected by the development, did not play any active role as far as I could tell. It seems significant, although Deguchi does not explicitly mention this, that the process of land acquisition fell into a period of severe agricultural crisis in the 1930s, when the prices of agricultural products – and as a consequence also land prices – were structurally depressed. Tenant farmers joined forces to prevent the sale of their lands to Hankyū Corporation and they succeeded in slowing down the land acquisition process until the state intervened and forced Hankyū Corporation to reduce the rent for the tenant farmers substantially for the remaining period until they had to clear their land. So their leaving the land of Mukonosō was somewhat sweetened and slowed down by economic concessions, but it was not prevented. The process of turning the land into housing estates, pursued energetically by the Hankyū Corporation, was being pushed through with help from the state. What happened, however, was that Muko village, including the farmers dispossessed of the land then developed as a garden city, closed itself to further development along similar lines. The new residential area Mukonosō, settled from the late 1930s, remained rather isolated: Obviously Hankyū Corporation did not – despite its promising PR – provide essential services such as water, gas, or social infrastructure such as kindergartens and elementary schools. Amagasaki City, to which Mukonosō legally belonged, refused to provide these services since it was preoccupied with taking care of the reconstruction of industrial districts destroyed during the war. Thus residents, most of whom belonged to middle-class and upper middle-class families, formed an association which lobbied for the setting up of those services and organised advances for companies such as the Osaka gas company in order to convince them to install gas networks in the housing estate. Residents also lobbied for a private elementary school to be set up, since the local school in Muko village was not deemed adequate to the education requirements of residents. This push, however, failed since the needs of residents were not homogenous in this respect. We can ask how meaningful it is to talk of Mukonosō as “the epitome of a garden city in Japan”. 41 In contrast to the British garden cities, Mukonosō was obviously not a unit of local government in its own right but depended on other municipalities, which were not substantially interested in its well-being. Perhaps the strong element of mutual cooperation in the founding of the association might point towards an element of garden city philosophy in terms of cooperative self-help. And the issue of controlling land speculation does not seem to have played a major role, at least 41 See Yūdai Deguchi’s paper in this volume.

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there is no mention if and in how far property rights of the Mukonosō residents were restricted, meaning whether they could sell or let their property without needing the consent of the larger community. It is also not entirely clear to me in how far we can talk about a garden city in terms of an estate with houses set in ample greenery. Deguchi gives the Mukonosō residential area as 30,000 square meters in toto and the residential area as 18,000 sqm. 42 Given that there were 550 housing units, this would leave 32 square meters for each housing unit, hardly enough to even build a house! At least the figures do not demonstrate that there was anything such as a garden in this garden city! To return to strategies of European urbanites to enhance individual health, a second strategy was the rapidly growing interest by house builders to have a separate bathroom included in their house or apartment. In Germany, the availability of running water and gas in almost all urban neighbourhoods had provided the technological basis. Consequently, since the 1890s the ratio of apartments and houses with a separate bathroom increased rapidly from 6.8 per cent in 1895 to 13.5 per cent in 1910 in Berlin and from 10.7 per cent to 20.9 per cent in Hamburg in the same period. 43 There is no pertinent information on this in the papers on Japan present in this volume, but the fact that the large majority of houses in Japanese cities was still built from timber would suggest that the ratio of bathrooms and sophisticated plumbing introduced into Japanese houses remained relatively low. Finally, the concern for individual as well as public health fed around 1900 into a broad movement for reforming modes of living, eating, drinking, dressing, exercising etc. which became a powerful cultural force especially in Germany but also many other Northwest European countries. 44 In Germany it was popularised under the heading of Lebensreform (life reform), and its several movements like the Wandervogel – a hiking movement originating from Berlin high school students in 1895 – had acquired a hegemonic influence by the time of the First World War. For the shape and functioning of cities the two most important strands of this comprehensive reform were first the housing reform and secondly the sports movement. Housing reform comprised the idea of situating family houses within gardens and equipping even houses for the lower classes with modern sanitary infrastructure in order to promote cleanliness and reduce smoke and soot from the kitchen by installing gas or electric cookers. Since municipalities in many European countries embraced the construction of large housing estates for lower income families in the interwar period, due to a failure of the private housing market but also due to a new self-conception of the city as a local welfare state, a 42 See ibid. 43 See Schott, Technisiertes Wohnen (cf. n. 11), p. 259; Christine Trupat, “Bade zu Hause!” Zur Geschichte des Badezimmers in Deutschland seit der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts, in: Technikgeschichte 63, 1996, pp. 219–236. 44 See Diethart Krebs / Jürgen Reulecke (eds.), Handbuch der deutschen Reformbewegungen 1880–1933, Wuppertal: Peter Hammer Verlag 1998; Kai Buchholz / Rita Latocha / Hilke Peckmann / Klaus Wolbert (eds.), Lebensreform. Entwürfe zur Neugestaltung von Leben und Kunst um 1900, Darmstadt: Häusser 2001.

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rapidly growing number of houses and apartments were constructed, which were inspired by the notions of housing reform. 45 The sports movement, which was the second strand of the life reform, took the form of rapidly growing interest of urban residents in outdoor sports, such as football, athletics and other sports, as opposed to indoor gymnastics, which had been well established already since the middle of the nineteenth century. The spatial outcome of the sports movement was a transformation of urban peripheries into a belt of sports grounds managed by private societies and clubs, catering for a range of outdoor sports. 46 Many of these sports grounds in German cities were established on former military training grounds after 1918 due to the fact that the military presence in German cities was massively diminished following the Versailles treaty. Promoting outdoor sports was conceived as a compensation for the missing physical fitness that had formerly been provided by the military for almost the whole young male population. This concern for the physical fitness of the urban population had already underpinned the British reaction to the fact that a significant share of the volunteers for the Boer war of 1899–1902 had been found unfit for service. This produced a general concern with national efficiency in a period of imperial competition, which promoted the acceptance of town planning measures in Britain by 1909. 47 In Germany a similar concern found expression in an impressive wave of constructing sports and leisure infrastructure, undertaken by cities particularly in the short period of relative prosperity from 1924 to 1929. Most stadiums catering for football matches or large sport competitions as well as large open-air swimming pools etc. were built or massively extended in this period, frequently funded by American loans. 48 In contrast to the Japanese Kōsei Undō which was initiated by the city of Tokyo but then further developed as a project by the state, the sports movement in Germany was basically a bottom-up movement by sports enthusiasts in the cities who managed to win majorities in local councils for the construction of public infrastructure for sports. Modern infrastructure for leisure and mass entertainment was also seen as an important factor in interurban competition. The German Imperial government on the other hand, particularly the Ministry of Finance, was frequently rather critical of the borrowing policy pursued by cities because this might undermine the govern45 See on the ambivalent reaction of the residents of these new housing estates towards the modern technology Martina Hessler, “Mrs. Modern Woman”. Zur Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte der Haushaltstechnisierung, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 2001. 46 See Noyan Dinçkal, Sportlandschaften. Sport, Raum und Massenkultur in Deutschland 1880– 1930, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2013; Stefan Nielsen, Sport und Großstadt 1870 bis 1930. Komparative Studien zur Entstehung bürgerlicher Freizeitkultur, Frankfurt/M.: Peter Lang 2002. 47 See Peter Thorsheim, Inventing Pollution. Coal, Smoke and Culture in Britain since 1800, Athens/OH: Ohio University Press 2006; Philip Harling, The State, in: Chris Williams (ed.), A Companion to Nineteenth Century Britain, Oxford: Blackwell 2004, pp. 110–124, here p. 123. 48 Examples of this are, among others, the Müngersdorfer Stadion Cologne 1923, the Volksparkstadion Hamburg 1925, and the Waldstadion Frankfurt 1925.

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ment’s policy of opposing reparations on the ground that Germany could not afford to pay them. 49 How, then, did the Japanese Kōsei Undō contrast with German/European attitudes and activities towards health, sports and leisure? Takahito Mori shows in his chapter how Fujiwara Kujūrō took similar concerns to those of the public health officials in German cities as his starting point in the 1920s. Due to Fujiwara’s academic focus on housing hygiene he attempted to raise awareness for urban environmental issues with campaigns against smoke and soot as well as campaigns for careful housekeeping in terms of nutritious meals. However, the situation in Japan seemed to differ in so far as there was no relatively widespread coverage of health insurance in the urban population. Some of his activities simply aimed to increase the knowledge of the municipal health bureaucracy about the state of health of particular sectors of the population such as infants. His argument from 1925 that the “cultural strength of a state or society could not be found more clearly than in the physical strength of the people” 50 reflects the eugenicist arguments of health reformers in Europe, too, where the health and physical resilience of the population were seen as a major factor for the power potential of a state in an elaboration of social Darwinist thinking. Within public health bureaucracies on municipal level even in German cities governed by Social Democrats, registers were kept about individuals and families who were considered problematic from a social hygiene perspective due to alcoholism, venereal diseases or mental disabilities. It was partly on the basis of such registers that the Nazi government could later put in place their policy of extermination of “unworthy lives”. By the early 1930s “racial hygiene” and eugenics had been firmly established within the body of health science. 51 Consequently, the Nazi government could build on widespread assumptions about the necessity of “improving the race” with positive measures such as more sports and better environmental conditions but also with negative measures such as the sterilisation of people considered “unworthy” to procreate and eventually the killing of the mentally disabled. There was no comparable euthanasia in Japan, but the general thinking about the physical resilience of the population which underpinned Kōsei Undō was on very similar lines as Eugenicist thinking in Europe. It is thus not by chance that the major intensification of health policies in Osaka, too, could only be put in place in the context of a massive drive for domestic militarisation which focused on the general state of health of the population. The problems which Fujiwara’s campaigns addressed were very similar to those in German cities, and activities such as the exhibition “Improvement of Daily Life” in 1919/20 demonstrate a general intention to modernise lifestyles, particularly among women, in order to improve their physical health. The same intention also inspired German exhibitions like the 1911

49 See Krabbe, Stadt (cf. n. 18), ch. VII: “Die städtischen Finanzen”, pp. 169–172. 50 See Yūdai Deguchi’s paper in this volume. 51 See Labisch, Homo hygienicus (cf. n. 29), pp. 192–208.

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Hygiene exhibition in Dresden or the large 1926 exhibition in Düsseldorf on health, social care and sports (GeSoLei). 52 Materiality of the City A major difference between Japanese and European cities in the early 20th century is obviously the question of building materials. In European cities the regulations by municipal authorities and/or the state as to which building materials could be used started already in the late Middle Ages. 53 Reacting to the frequency of urban fires, town councils issued building codes prescribing the use of fire resistant roof coverings, such as clay tiles, rather than thatched roofs. Plastering wooden fronts or using stone rather than wood as building materials was encouraged and frequently prescribed. 54 Most famous is the experience of the Great Fire of London in 1666, after which three classes of houses, depending on the width of the street, were prescribed in the building codes with plain stone fronts, shedding the former ornamental Tudor woodwork. These post-fire houses also featured the then new sash windows, to be opened by sliding up rather than swinging outward, since the traditional windows, which opened towards the street, had been identified as a major factor accelerating the rapid spread of fires. 55 The large urban conflagration was the maximum credible accident (GAU in German) for the early modern period, as Cornel Zwierlein highlights.56 By the late nineteenth century the urban fabric in most larger cities in northwestern Europe predominantly consisted of stone houses, although the proportion of wood used in their construction was still considerable, as the massive bombing raids of the Second World War and the urban fires in their wake were to demon-

52 See Hans Körner / Gabriele Genge / Angela Stercken (eds.), Kunst, Sport und Körper. Vol. 1. 1926–2002. Eine Ausstellung über die Ausstellung GeSoLei, Weimar: VDG 2002; on the role of GeSoLei for the urban representation see Jörg Vögele / Luisa Rittershaus, Vom Seuchenherd zur Traumstadt. Zur (Selbst-)Inszenierung von Stadt und Gesundheit während der Industrialisierung in Wort und Bild, in: Olga Fejtová / Václav Ledvinka / Martina Maříková / Jiří Pešek (eds.), From Veduta to Photography. The Staging of the City and its History, Prague: Scriptorium 2017, pp. 521–543. 53 See Eberhard Isenmann, Die deutsche Stadt im Mittelalter. 1150–1550, Cologne: Böhlau 2014, pp. 107–108. For the early modern city see Ulrich Rosseaux, Städte in der Frühen Neuzeit, Darmstadt: WBG 2006, p. 101. 54 See Cornel Zwierlein, Der gezähmte Prometheus: Feuer und Sicherheit zwischen Früher Neuzeit und Moderne, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2011, pp. 73–197. 55 See Stephen Porter, The Great Fire of London, Godalming: Bramley Books 1998; Timothy Baker, London. Rebuilding the City after the Great Fire, Chichester: Phillimore 2000; Schott, Europäische Urbanisierung (cf. n. 5), p. 178–181. 56 Cornel Zwierlein, Vom Londoner Brand 1966 zu 9/11. Feuergefahr und Feuerexperten seit dem 17. Jahrhundert, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 67, 2016, pp. 711–730, here p. 712.

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strate. 57 The combined effects of state building codes, stricter enforcement of the use of fireproof materials in construction by municipal authorities, more effective firefighting technology by professional fire brigades using modern pumps and the economic incentive to make better use of the land by moving towards building multi-storey blocks of flats led to a concentration on building in stone and brick. This mode of construction also facilitated the networking of the city by installing sinks, water closets and modern bathrooms. 58 Unlike European cities, those in Japan were by the late 19th century still predominantly built from timber, as Satoshi Baba claims for the 1880s. And, as Julia Mariko Jacoby shows, the problem of how to make the timber-built quarters of Japanese cities more fireproof was of high concern for Japanese planners and architects. With earthquakes being a relatively frequent phenomenon in Japan, as it is situated on the Rim of Fire, this was an additional problem to be addressed, which did not threaten (North) European cities to a comparable degree. The famous earthquake of Lisbon in 1755 marks a major exception and in this case, much as with the Kantō earthquake, most of the damage resulted from devastating fires raging due to the loss of control over domestic fires caused by the quake. 59 The consequence of the earthquake hazard was that the classical Western modernity in terms of building materials did not become accepted so easily in Japan. Jacoby argues that the Great Nobi earthquake of 1891 and the resulting collapse of a large number of brick buildings led to a critical attitude towards building with bricks and a reappreciation of traditional Japanese wooden architecture, which had better withstood the quake. Thus, the cheapest alternative to building with wood, namely using bricks which could be industrially mass-produced, was significantly impeded. Japan, as a new and aspiring country in the group of nations claiming to be modern, closely observed the experience of quakes and other natural disasters, such as the spectacular earthquake in San Francisco in 1906. Japanese experts drew the conclusion from the San Francisco disaster that the best building material to withstand both fires and earthquakes was reinforced concrete. What Jacoby does not write about the Japanese reading of the San Francisco earthquake is whether the Japanese experts also reported the fact that many of the fires following the quake resulted from broken gas pipes, which fed the fires in the also predominantly wooden city. Thus, the urban network of gas provision proved ambivalent in this case; while reducing smoke and soot where gas heating or cooking 57 See Jörg Friedrich, Der Brand. Deutschland im Bombenkrieg 1940–1945, Munich: List 2004; Richard Overy, Der Bombenkrieg. Europa 1939–1945, Berlin: Rowohlt 2014. 58 See Schott: Technisiertes Wohnen (cf. n. 11); Gert Kähler (ed.), Geschichte des Wohnens, Bd. 4, 1918–1945. Reform, Reaktion, Zerstörung, Stuttgart: DVA 1996; Clemens Zimmermann (ed.), Europäische Wohnungspolitik in vergleichender Perspektive 1900–1939, Stuttgart: Fraunhofer IRB 1997. 59 See Christiane Eifert, Das Erdbeben von Lissabon 1755. Zur Historizität einer Naturkatastrophe, in: Historische Zeitschrift 274, 2002, pp. 633–664; for a comparative perspective see Dieter Schott, Resilienz oder Niedergang? Zur Bedeutung von Naturkatastrophen für Städte in der Neuzeit, in: Ulrich Wagner (ed.), Stadt und Stadtverderben (Stadt in der Geschichte, 37), Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke 2012, pp. 11–32, here pp. 20–26.

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replaced wood- or coal-heated domestic open fires, it introduced a new technological risk into the urban fabric. Reinforced concrete, however, was a building material which was significantly more expensive than wood or bricks, especially when used for the construction of family housing. I would assume, although Jacoby does not write about this explicitly, that the construction of family housing in Japanese cities in the early twentieth century was still carried out by the house owners themselves, assisted by local artisans who consequently would not have at their disposal and probably would not be able to handle the technology needed to build in reinforced concrete. Thus, reinforced concrete as a technological alternative for family housing was not really a feasible alternative in terms of cost as well as technological handling. This probably explains why by the time of the Kantō earthquake the large majority of the residential buildings were still made from timber: not because of its ancient origin, but because the mass of the population simply had no alternative. Jacoby’s narrative is interesting regarding the way in which Japanese architects reacted to the multiple challenges of general fire hazard, earthquakes and then in the 1930s the perceived danger of aerial bombings. However, most of these suggestions and recipes remained on paper, as she herself admits, because the contextual conditions were not conducive to realising these proposals. Even low-cost measures such as plastering wooden houses with fireresistant mortar, a measure which was actually adopted and subsidised by the government, was carried out in Tokyo for only 10 per cent of the houses. 60 To what extent did these measures and solutions to improve the fire-proofing of Japanese cities thus constitute a particular Japanese modernity? There are many similarities between the ways in which architects like Uchida Yoshibumi (1913–1946) or Tanabe Heigaku (1898–1954) planned to improve the fire proofing of Japanese cities and the approaches that had been developed in European planning and building technology. Already in Haussmann’s large avenues the idea that houses which collapse due to fire should not damage the house fronts on the other side of the street was fundamental to defining the width of the streets, quite apart from hygienic as well as military considerations. Issues of fire safety had been instrumental in building codes; the increasing share of buildings made from stone and the professionalisation of fire brigades contributed to what research has termed the fire gap of the nineteenth century. 61 Large city fires, a rather frequent feature in early modern cities, became a rare exception after events like the Great Fire of Hamburg of 1842, which led to the reconstruction of the city centre in a new, more spacious layout and the introduction of the – then – most modern system of water provision and water control in existence in Europe, invented by William Lindley (1808–1900). 62 It was only in the Second World War and in the firestorms in cities such as Rotterdam, Warsaw, Hamburg, Dresden or Darmstadt, 60 See Julia Mariko Jacoby’s paper in this volume. 61 See on the fire gap Lionel Frost / Eric L. Jones, The Fire gap and the greater durability of nineteenth century cities, in: Planning Perspectives 4, 1989, pp. 333–347. 62 See Ortwin Pelc (ed.), Der Konstrukteur der modernen Stadt: William Lindley in Hamburg und Europa 1808–1900, Munich: Doelling & Gallitz 2008.

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produced by carefully planned bombing strategies, that huge urban conflagrations in North West European cities were to recur as major threats. Jacoby mentions a close interchange of German and Italian planning and technology during the war and, in fact, the reinforced concrete apartment buildings produced by Dōjunkai between 1924 and 1934 are reminiscent of the proposal for a bomb-proof apartment house as suggested by the German architect Ernst Neufert (1900–1986), who was a member of the planning staff assembled by Albert Speer (1905–1981) to produce blueprints for the reconstruction of war-damaged German cities. 63 The idea of creating fire breaks by inserting wider streets and avenues into the urban fabric is frequently represented in the planning tradition of Europe and the world, although there are undoubtedly also special features in the Japanese proposals such as the idea of having a row of trees and a water course in the middle of such avenues. 64 What I find most particular for Japan is the traditional fire regime mentioned in the last part of Jacoby’s paper. It is quite astonishing that the rate of fires was so low 65 compared to British and American cities. Despite the considerable risks in terms of the building fabric and the use of open fires in densely built neighbourhoods, a culture of attention and mutual help that found expression in the traditional practice of tearing down houses which had caught fire and defending the neighbourhood rather than fleeing with all one’s belongings seems to have prevented most fires from getting out of control. However, Jacoby also concedes that this traditional fire regime no longer prevailed and that the modern fire regime with professional fire brigades with fire engines and water pipes had partly replaced it. In the situation of impending war, Japanese authorities tried to reactivate the old fire regime in order to instil in the Japanese population a sense of duty and mutual cooperation in the case of fire. They attempted to achieve this by publicising examples of successful fights against the fire during the Kantō earthquake by inhabitants such as the Kanda Izumichō neighbourhood as patriotic exemplars. However, the huge fires in the wake of the massive bombing raids at the end of the war showed that such campaigns were only very partially successful; they had an important moral function for keeping up “morale at the home front” 66 but did not succeed where the scale of fires surpassed a certain threshold. What I would question in Jacoby’s paper is the hypothesis that disasters such as earthquakes had a levelling impact. At least the experience of urban disasters in European cities seems to point in a different direction: People of higher social strata, even though their possessions might have been destroyed as well, were usually in a better position to mobilise capital for reconstruction, whereas lower class inhabitants were frequently pushed to the periphery by reconstruction plans because they could not afford either the more expensive materials that were to be used in the rebuilding

63 See Ralf Dorn et al., Ernst Neufert 1900–1986 – Leben und Werk des Architekten. Darmstadt: TU Darmstadt 2011. 64 See Julia Mariko Jacoby’s paper in this volume. 65 See ibid. 66 Ibid.

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or the larger plots, whose size had been increased due to a redrawing of the town grid. 67

67 See Geneviève Massard-Guilbaud, Introduction – The Urban Catastrophe – Challenge to the social, economic and cultural order of the city, in: Geneviève Massard-Guilbaud / Harold Platt / Dieter Schott (eds.), Cities and Catastrophes / Villes et catastrophes. Coping with Emergency in European History / Réactions à l’urgence dans l’histoire européenne. Frankfurt/M.: Peter Lang 2002, pp. 9–42, esp. pp. 38 f.

OBSERVATIONS ON URBAN PLANNING IN JAPAN AND EUROPE IN A TRANSCULTURAL PERSPECTIVE Pathways and Entanglements, 1870–1940 Christoph Bernhardt Until recently the historical pathways and entanglements of urban planning in Japan and Europe have not received much scholarly attention in Western research, apart from some pioneering studies by Sorensen, Hein, Baba, Schmidtpott and a few other experts. 1 However, Baba’s, Schmidtpott’s, and Löffler’s contributions to this book widen the still dominating concepts of national histories to include perspectives of comparison and transfer. Some additional inspiration can be drawn from recent approaches in global history, following the concepts of “multiple modernities” (Eisenstadt) and “provincializing Europe” (Chakrabarty). 2 If transferred to the history of modern urban planning since the late 19th century, the traditional master narrative has to be revised, according to which Western concepts as developed in Great Britain, Germany and the US served as normative models on a global scale. In contrast, recent research has demonstrated the productivity of de-centered approaches in the fields of global planning history, urban sanitary infrastructure and beyond. 3

1

2

3

André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the TwentyFirst Century, London: Routledge 2002; Katja Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft und Urbanisierung in Japan, 1890–1970, Munich: Iudicium 2009; Carola Hein, Idioms of Japanese Planning Historiography, in: Carola Hein (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Planning History, New York: Routledge 2018, pp. 244–259; Ryuichi Narita / Kinichi Ogura / Akio Yoshie, Japan, in: Christian Engeli / Horst Matzerath (eds.), Moderne Stadtgeschichtsforschung in Europa, USA und Japan, Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer / Deutscher Gemeindeverlag 1989, pp. 85–103; see also Satoshi Baba’s, Katja Schmidtpott’s and Beate Löffler’s papers in this volume. Shmuel N. Eisenstadt (ed.), Multiple Modernities, New Brunswick: Transaction 2002; Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe. Postcolonial Thought and Historial Difference, Princeton/NJ: Princeton University Press 2000; see also Christopher A. Bayly, Die Geburt der modernen Welt. Eine Globalgeschichte 1780–1914, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 2006; Jürgen Osterhammel, Die Verwandlung der Welt. Eine Geschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts, Munich: C. H. Beck 2009. See Carola Hein (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Planning History, New York: Routledge 2018; Łukasz Stanek, Architecture in Global Socialism. Eastern Europe, West Africa, and the Middle East in the Cold War, Princeton/NJ: Princeton University Press 2020; Matthew Gandy, The Fabric of Space: Water, Modernity, and the Urban Imagination, Cambridge/MA: MIT Press 2014; Noyan Dinçkal, Istanbul und das Wasser, Munich: Oldenbourg 2004.

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As a result, scholarly attention has been increasingly directed towards multipolar exchanges of ideas, the global circulation and adaption of planning concepts 4 and the variety of pathways of urbanisation and urban planning in different countries, regions and cities. 5 Against this background, architecture and urban planning have been identified as pioneering arenas of early globalisation within the broader field of public policies. 6 Since around 1900 the transfer of planning ideas increasingly bridged national, cultural and political borders, even between hostile imperial regimes or capitalist and socialist states. 7 Critical empirical research has also shown the strong cultural and spatial limitations of the seemingly universal models of Western modern urban planning and sanitary infrastructure in cities of the Global South as well as in Europe. 8 This article intends to take up these fresh approaches to planning history using the cases of Japan and Europe. It will first discuss rhythms of urbanisation as major triggers of urban planning and the emergence of some key elements of town planning, like zoning. It will then reflect on key modes and infrastructures of professional interaction in urban planning, like international conferences, 9 transfer agents, 10 student exchange, the engagement of foreign experts etc. In addition to the dominating comparative perspective on Japan, Germany and Great Britain the cases of France and its capital Paris will be included, which provide some additional insights. 4

Mikael Hård / Thomas J. Misa (eds.), Urban Machinery. Inside modern European Cities, Cambridge/MA: MIT Press 2008. 5 Clemens Zimmermann, Zeit der Metropolen. Urbanisierung und Großstadtentwicklung, Frankfurt/M.: Fischer 1996. 6 Phillip Wagner, Stadtplanung für die Welt. Internationales Expertenwissen 1900–1960, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2016; Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2010 (“Der Wettbewerb Groß-Berlin 1910 im internationalen Kontext”, ed. by Christoph Bernhardt / Harald Bodenschatz); Harald Bodenschatz et al., Stadtvisionen 1910/2010: Berlin, Paris, London, Chicago. 100 Jahre Allgemeine Städtebau-Ausstellung in Berlin, Berlin: DOM 2010. 7 Harald Bodenschatz / Christiane Post (eds.): Städtebau im Schatten Stalins. Die internationale Suche nach der sozialistischen Stadt in der Sowjetunion 1929–35. Berlin: Braun 2003; Christoph Bernhardt / Andreas Butter / Monika Motylinska (eds.), Between Solidarity and Economic Constraints: Global Entanglements of Socialist Architecture and Planning in the Cold War Period, Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg 2023 (forthcoming). For a more recent case of cooperation between Japan and GDR in the 1970s/1980s see Max Hirsh, Postmodern Architectural Exchanges between East Germany and Japan, in: Akos Moravanszky / Torsten Lange (eds.), Re-Framing Identities. Architecture’s Turn to History, 1970–1990, Basel: Birkhäuser 2017, pp. 73–88. 8 Sarah Bell / Adriana Allen / Pascale Hofmann / Tse-Hui Teh (eds.), Urban Water Trajectories, Cham: Springer 2017. 9 William Whyte, “Exceedingly difficult to follow”: the Greater Berlin Competition at the RIBA Town Planning Conference of 1910, in: Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2010 (“Der Wettbewerb Groß-Berlin 1910 im internationalen Kontext”, ed. by Christoph Bernhardt / Harald Bodenschatz), pp. 28–41. 10 Martin Kohlrausch, Brokers of Modernity. East Central Europe and the Rise of Modernist Architects, 1910–1950, Leuven: Leuven University Press 2019; Caroline Flick, Werner Hegemann (1881–1936): Stadtplanung, Architektur, Politik. Ein Arbeitsleben in Europa und den USA, Munich: Saur 2005.

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RHYTHMS OF URBANISATION In a transnational perspective the dynamics of urban growth and urbanisation can be seen as the most powerful driving force for the emergence of urban planning since the late 19th century. There is a strong consensus amongst scholars in this field, that numbers on the share of the urban population in the national population reflect different rhythms and dynamics of urbanisation. On this basis, certain countries are often assigned the roles of forerunners or latecomers in modern urbanisation. This argument seems to be plausible but tends to follow the notion of a linear global trend of modernisation. In this logic of argument Sorensen stated: “Although certainly a late developer, Japan’s rapid industrialisation from the end of the nineteenth century to the end of the First World War meant that it was not in fact so very far behind other late developers such as Germany, France and Italy.” 11 Indeed, the main indicators of urbanisation since the middle of the 19th century suggest that in Japan the peak of urbanisation was achieved only after the turn to the 20th century which was clearly later than in England or Germany and especially in Prussia. 12 But in a more detailed view of Europe, Japanese urbanisation temporarily coincided with urbanisation in France and was ahead of Eastern and Southern Europe: While around 1910 in England and the Netherlands a large majority and in Germany about half of the population lived in towns with more than 5,000 inhabitants, France and Spain were still predominantly rural societies, as was Japan, and even more so Russia. 13 Within this Japanese pathway to modern urbanisation and industrialisation, from the beginning of 20th century onwards new types of towns emerged, like industrial cities and mining cities. At the same time Tokyo and Osaka were rapidly growing, as did European cities. As early as before the turn of the century some Western observers were surprised by the number of industrial spots and chimneys in the Japanese Urban landscape. 14 Besides economic growth, major political ruptures strongly shaped national rhythms of urbanisation. While urbanisation in Japan stagnated from 1868 onwards despite the Meiji reforms, the result of the German-French war of 1870/71 massively triggered urban growth in Germany. In contrast, the end of the First World War, the revolution of 1918/19 and the Great Inflation slowed down urban growth in Germany. While at that time Germany lost its role as a colonial power, Japan further expanded its empire by the occupation of Korea and parts of China between 1910 and Second World War. 15 Against these different political backgrounds both societies underwent a growing urban sprawl in the course of the 11 Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 1), p. 46. 12 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume and the numbers in Narita et al., Japan (cf. n. 1), p. 89; for Prussia see Horst Matzerath, Urbanisierung in Preußen 1815–1914, Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer / Deutscher Gemeindeverlag 1985. 13 Zimmermann, Zeit der Metropolen (cf. n. 5), p. 16. 14 See the travel report by the Berlin architect Wilhelm Böckmann from 1886 in: Klaus Strohmeyer, James Hobrecht (1825–1902) und die Modernisierung der Stadt, Potsdam: Verlag für Berlin-Brandenburg 2000, p. 148. 15 See Narita et al., Japan (cf. n. 1).

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1920s and a rise of heavy industries for military purposes in the 1930s, which stimulated the emergence of new urban and industrial landscapes. 16 Within these general trends the capital cities of Japan, Germany and France were also developing along different pathways: While Tokyo was still stagnating in the early 1870s 17 and started dynamic growth of population only from 1890 onwards up to 3.4 million in 1920, Berlin rapidly grew from 1870 to around 3.7 million in 1920. In contrast, Paris as the major continental European metropolis since pre-industrial times showed a slower expansion in the period before the First World War and achieved the number of around 4 million inhabitants in 1920. 18 As a result, at the end of the First World War for a short period of time the three capital cities had similar sized populations. But in the early 1920s Berlin entered into a period of demographic stagnation for nearly a century, while the two other capitals became world cities. The city Edo/Tokyo had already been, like Paris, a major metropolis in pre-industrial times and was elevated by the Meiji regime to a similar national key position as Paris was holding in France. As a result, Paris and Tokyo represented unique political and cultural centres within their nation states, while Berlin’s position in the federal German political and urban system was much more challenged by strong secondary cities, like Hamburg, Munich, or Frankfurt. Around 1920 the three capital regions also experienced rapid modernisation which was again caused by different political events: While Berlin through the “Greater Berlin law” from 1920 and the legal incorporation of neighbouring cities became the second largest city in the world, municipal reform in Paris and Tokyo stagnated. However, Paris was massively transformed by the removal of the fortification walls, 19 and Tokyo had to be completely redesigned as a result of the catastrophic Kantō earthquake in 1923. This earthquake had no equivalent in contemporary North-Western Europe but caused similar damage and challenges for reconstruction as the Messina earthquake in 1908 in Southern Italy, the San Francisco earthquake of 1905 or the great fire of 1917 in the Greek city of Thessaloniki. 20

16 See the numbers given by Baba in this volume and in Narita et al., Japan (cf. n. 1), p. 95. 17 Jürgen Osterhammel even speaks of “de-urbanisation” for this period. Osterhammel, Die Verwandlung (cf. n. 2), pp. 372 f. 18 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume and Christoph Bernhardt, Zwei Wege der Suburbanisierung im frühen 20. Jahrhundert. Die Stadtregionen Paris und Groß-Berlin 1900–1930, in: Clemens Zimmermann (ed.), Zentralität und Raumgefüge der Großstädte im 20. Jahrhundert. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner 2006, pp. 41–60, here pp. 45 f.. 19 Jean-Louis Cohen / André Lortie, Des Fortifs au Périf, Paris: Pavillon de l’Arsenal 2021. 20 Geneviève Massard-Guilbaud / Harold L. Platt / Dieter Schott (eds.), Cities and Catastrophes / Villes et catastrophes. Coping with Emergency in European History / Réactions à l’urgence dans l’histoire européenne. Frankfurt/M.: Peter Lang 2002.

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LINES OF URBAN PLANNING IN A CROSS-CULTURAL PERSPECTIVE Public urban planning was and always is only one intervention concerning the built environment amongst other powerful economic and social forces. In this article the important role of other forms of public social and economic planning according to Fordist and Keynesian visions will not be discussed, even though they have increasingly shaped societies in the global West and East since the 1920s. 21 In a more specific way private economic actors, like large enterprises, railways companies, and major landowners, projected and realized their own sectoral planning, massively shaping the physical landscape and setting strong frameworks for any kind of public spatial planning. 22 This was, for example, true for the projects of Mitsubishi enterprises and other private investors in Tokyo in the years after the "First Plan for Urban Area Improvement of Tokyo" of 1889.23 We find a similar impact of private urban planning in the activities of the Siemens trust for the large industrial area of Siemensstadt west of the German capital. 24 In the fields of public spatial planning, the distribution of power between state actors and local authorities differed substantially between Japan, France and Germany before the First World War. This was especially true of the capital cities. The Tokyo City Improvement Committee established in 1889 worked under the control of the Home Ministry, and in a similar way Paris was developed by the central state and its regional representative, the Préfet. In contrast, the competences of the Prussian government in the planning for Berlin were more limited, especially with regard to the institutional capacities of local authorities. 25 This was also true for the modern urban infrastructural networks, like water utilities and trams, which in Tokyo and Paris were constructed under the control of the state authorities mentioned above, while in Berlin the municipality and private actors took the lead. 26

21 Michel Christian / Sandrine Kott / Ondrej Matejka, Planning in Cold War Europe: Introduction, in: Michel Christian / Sandrine Kott / Ondrej Matejka (eds.), Planning in Cold War Europe. Competition, Cooperation, Circulations (1950s–1970s), Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg 2018, pp. 1–20; see also Christoph Bernhardt / Elsa Vonau, Zwischen Fordismus und Sozialreform: Rationalisierungsstrategien im deutschen und französischen Wohnungsbau 1900–1933, in: Zeithistorische Forschungen 6, 2, 2009, pp. 230–254; Richard Hu, Planning for Economic Development, in: Hein (ed.): The Routledge Handbook (cf. n. 3), pp. 313–324. 22 Ralf Roth (ed.), Städte im europäischen Raum. Verkehr, Kommunikation und Urbanität im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner 2009. 23 Carola Hein, Shaping Tokyo: Land Development and Planning Practice in the Early Modern Japanese Metropolis, in: Journal of Urban History 36, 4, 2010, pp. 447–484, here p. 453. 24 Wolfgang Ribbe / Wolfgang Schäche, Die Siemensstadt. Geschichte und Architektur eines Industriestandorts, Berlin: Ernst & Sohn 1985. 25 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume and Michael Erbe, Berlin im Kaiserreich, in: Wolfgang Ribbe (ed.), Geschichte Berlins. Bd. 2. Von der Märzrevolution bis zur Gegenwart, Munich: C. H. Beck 1987, pp. 691–795. 26 Elfi Bendikat, Öffentliche Nahverkehrspolitik in Berlin und Paris 1890–1914. Strukturbedingungen, politische Konzeptionen und Realisierungsprobleme, Berlin: De Gruyter 1999.

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Given the dominant role of Paris and Tokyo in their national contexts it is not surprising that the early initiatives in Japanese and French town planning concentrated on these two cities. Baba, Hein and Sorensen highlight the modernisation of Ginza district in Tokyo and the Tokyo Urban Improvement Ordinance of 1888 as two crucial initiatives of early town planning in Japan, which found some parallel and were partly inspired by the famous contemporary Haussmannian project for Paris. 27 In contrast, the pioneering Prussian Street and Building Line Act of 1875 (Fluchtliniengesetz) from 1875 regulated street building far beyond the Prussian capital city of Berlin, whereas the well-known “Hobrecht-Plan” for Berlin, which was launched in 1862, projected in contrast to the Haussmannian project a street grid for urban expansion instead of inner-urban renewal. 28 The end of the First World War marked a secular turning point towards the emergence of the welfare state and to a Fordist transformation of society in many states all over the world. As a result, large public housing schemes and the systematic introduction of town planning became two key instruments of modern urban planning in many countries. 29 Again, the parallels between Japan and France are more evident than those with Prussia: The transfer of the Tokyo City Improvement Ordinance to five other large cities in 1918 and the two Town Planning Acts of 1919 in Japan introduced a rule for systematic town planning in Japanese municipalities in a similar way as did the loi Cornudet of 1919 in France. 30 Obviously in both countries certain nationwide standards of obligatory town planning were only realised after the First World War while in Germany at that time local planning schemes were already well established. In German cities, as well as in France and in other European countries, housing shortage was regarded as the major social problem of post-war societies, which the governments tried to solve with public subsidies and laws, like the Prussian Housing law (Preußisches Wohnungsgesetz) of 1918. 31 In the 1920s, zoning was another important field of modernisation in town planning in Japan and Europe, as Baba underlines. Two different types of zoning are of importance here. The two Japanese Town Planning Acts of 1919 focused, according to Baba, on land-use zoning which mainly decreed the spatial separation of residential areas and other land uses, like industrial sites, and tried to limit the conflicts between these uses. 32 This type of zoning, which intentionally triggered functional segregation, had been developed by some German cities as early 27 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume, Hein, Idioms (cf. n. 1), p. 249, Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 1), pp. 61 f. 28 Erbe, Berlin (cf. n. 25); Bendikat, Öffentliche Nahverkehrspolitik (cf. n. 26); see also Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume. 29 Günter Schulz (ed.), Wohnungspolitik im Sozialstaat. Deutsche und Europäische Lösungen 1918–1960, Düsseldorf: Droste 1993; Clemens Zimmermann, Der Erste Weltkrieg und der Soziale Wohnungsbau, in: Rainer Hudemann / Francois Walter (eds.), Villes et guerres mondiales en Europe au XXè siècle, Paris: L’Harmattan 1997, pp. 51–76. 30 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume; Bernhardt, Zwei Wege (cf. n. 18), p. 52. 31 Zimmermann, Der Erste Weltkrieg (cf. n. 29). 32 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume.

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as from the mid-19th century onwards and was developed into a key instrument of town planning in Berlin and other cities in the 1920s. 33 The second type of zoning focused on restrictions on the height of buildings in different urban areas, aiming to limit the population density and overcrowded housing and to save open spaces. This type seems to have been less relevant in Japan but had rapidly gained in importance in Germany since 1900 through broad public campaigns against multistorey housing (like the contested Berliner Mietskaserne). Such restrictions on height in residential areas became a key element of German building laws in the 1920s and were popularised by the strong civil movements for housing reform and modern architecture in slogans like “more light, more air!” (“mehr Licht, mehr Luft!”). 34 At the same time rapid urbanisation increasingly triggered environmental nuisances, like problems of traffic, garbage, water pollution and environmental degradation. In Japanese as well as in German regions such environmental problems stimulated the emergence of urban and regional planning, as can be seen in the formation of the planning authority Siedlungsverband Ruhrkohlenbezirk in the Ruhr valley in 1920. 35 THE CIRCULATION OF IDEAS AND THE ROLE OF TRANSFER AGENTS In the history of transboundary cultural and political interaction, we see certain periods and specific patterns of mutual awareness, circulation of ideas and a variety of transfer agents between Japan and Europe. On the general political scale, Japan in the late 19th century was passing through several periods of exchange with European governments and experts in the field of legal reform. Sorensen has underlined the major importance of campaigns of “learning from the West” under the Meiji restoration started in 1868. 36 While according to Sokolowski in the early years French experts played an important role in the field of civil law, from the late 1870s onwards German or more precisely Prussian legal consultants were invited to advice the Japanese government in projects for a new national constitution and municipal legislation. 37 The Japanese municipal law from 1 April 1889 obviously amalgamated elements of Prussian legal rules with a top-down model of governance which was characterised by limited competences of local administrations. Narita et al. underline the interferences and conflicts between state

33 Christoph Bernhardt, The Contested Industrial City: Governing Pollution in France and Germany, 1810–1930, in Clemens Zimmermann (ed.), Industrial Cities: History and Future, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 2013, pp. 46–65. 34 Marianne Rodenstein, “Mehr Licht, mehr Luft”. Gesundheitskonzepte im Städtebau, Frankfurt/M.: Campus 22020. 35 Ursula von Petz, Vom Siedlungsverband Ruhrkohlenbezirk zum Kommunalverband Ruhrgebiet: 75 Jahre Landesplanung und Regionalpolitik im Revier, Dortmund: IRPUD 1995. 36 Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan (cf. n. 1), pp. 44, 50. 37 Christoph Sokolowski, 100 Jahre juristischer Austausch mit Japan, in: Zeitschrift für japanisches Recht 14, 28, 2009, pp. 53–71, here pp. 60, 64.

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control and popular movements in Japan and the important role of intermediary instances, like neighbourhoods associations. 38 A GERMAN CONNECTION IN 1880S TOWN PLANNING FOR TOKYO As early as in the 1880s leading German architects, like Wilhelm Böckmann, Hermann Ende, James Hobrecht and Franz Baltzer were engaged in urban planning for Tokyo. 39 A closer view of the activities of these German architects working in the Japanese capital shows that they were interacting as a strong network and as mutual door-openers, introducing each other to Japanese officials and professional partners. According to Meid’s research, the initiative for the bilateral cooperation had been started by Japanese architects Matsugasaki Tsumunaga (1858–1921) and Aoki Shūzō (1844–1914) – the latter being president of the Architectural Institute of Japan and later Japanese minister for foreign affairs – who had visited Berlin around 1883/84 and made contact with the leading Berlin architect Wilhelm Böckmann. Böckmann was recommended by Aoki Shūzō to the Japanese government and got the order to create an urban development plan with the key element of a new government district, for which he travelled to Tokyo in April 1886. 40 It was only a few months later that he proposed to his Japanese partners that they engage his well-known Berlin colleague James Hobrecht to design a drinking water system for the Japanese capital city. Hobrecht, after having received an invitation by the Japanese Ministery of Foreign Affairs in September 1886, signed a contract in January 1887. He started his voyage to Tokyo in spring 1887, where he lived in the governmental guest house and joined the busy German colony. In professional terms he intensively discussed Böckmann’s development plan, to which he proposed some changes, and explored the conditions for a new Tokyo drinking water system. However, the result must have been disappointing for his Japanese clients, as Hobrecht, when leaving some months later in May 1887, only gave a very general positive comment in favour of a new public drinking water canal but for economic reasons saw no chance for a large-scale integrated drinking and waste water system. 41 So we have to state that Hobrecht’s work in Tokyo in fact counted amongst the failed engagements of foreign experts by the Japanese government. According to Hein’s observations, other projects of the Berlin architects in Tokyo showed a similar result – at least their planning could not be realized in a simple logic of a one-way transfer of European ideas to Japan. In contrast, they experienced characteristic alterations and failures of their projects, as the mecha38 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume and Narita et al., Japan (cf. n. 1), pp. 89, 96. On the Japanese neighbourhood associations see Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft (cf. n. 1). 39 Hein, Idioms (cf. n. 1), p. 248. 40 Michiko Meid, Der Einführungsprozeß der europäischen und amerikanischen Architektur in Japan, Cologne: Abteilung Architektur des Kunsthistorischen Instituts der Universität Köln 1977, cited after Strohmeyer, James Hobrecht (cf. n. 14), p. 142. 41 Strohmeyer, James Hobrecht (cf. n. 14), pp. 147–159.

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nisms of a global circulation and appropriation of ideas generally assume. As an example Hein underlines that the “Grand Design” concepts proposed by the German architects in the 1880s failed as they followed a Haussmannian spirit of grand axes and representative buildings which did not fit with the Japanese planning culture. 42 But Meid and Strohmeyer suggest, that for the governments district this failing was the result of a more complex professional and political dynamic: After first drafts by Böckmann for several government buildings in a “European style”, public debate in Tokyo had called for a stronger representation of traditional Japanese architecture which, together with a shortage of cast stone, motivated Böckmann to deliver a second series of sketches. However, the provisional parliament building, which was constructed in traditional wooden architecture, burnt down after just a few weeks and a new government changed its mind, so that the Ministry and the Palace of Justice were again constructed in “European style”. Meid underlines that the public discussion about European and Japanese architectural styles in Tokyo showed complex interactions, national “sensibilities” and multifaceted controversial viewpoints between governments representatives, Japanese and European architects. 43 Natural disasters, like fires or the earthquake of 1894, repeatedly tended to influence the public opinion in favour of the stonemade “European architecture”. 44 MODES OF TRANSCULTURAL CIRCULATION AND ADAPTATION OF KNOWLEDGE Japanese planners and architects, in return, since the late 19th century appropriated western concepts, like boulevard design, in a special way, thereby creating a hybrid “mixture of Western and traditional forms”. 45 In fact a selection and adaptation of Western ideas by Japanese architects took place, as Schmidtpott put it. 46 Besides the direct engagement of experts in foreign countries, the exchange of students laid the foundations for strong and long-term personal, cultural and professional ties between Japan and Europe. In the field of planning and architecture, a rapidly growing number of study trips by Japanese students to departments of architecture at German technical universities around the First World War is reported by Baba and Löffler. The Japanese students – as well as a many Chinese students – counted amongst the rapidly growing number of international students which European cities attracted since the turn of the century. Major global conferences, which started taking place since around 1900, worked as another mode of professional interaction and transfer, as they were 42 Hein, Shaping Tokyo (cf. n. 23), p. 6. 43 This interpretation is given by Meid, Der Einführungsprozeß (cf. n. 40), cited in Strohmeyer, James Hobrecht (cf. n. 14), p.143 f. 44 Ibid. 45 Hein, Shaping Toyko (cf. n. 23), p. 7. 46 See Katja Schmidtpott’s paper in this volume.

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visited by leading Asian experts. These conferences were organised by newly founded international associations, like the “International Federation for Housing and Town Planning” (IFHTP) and the “International Garden City Society“ (IGCTPA). 47 The IGCTPA was promoted by leading European municipal officers and pioneers of urban reform, like the Belgian Emile Vinck or the French socialist Henri Sellier. Many of them followed the mission of socialist municipalism and created transnational networks with colleagues in Europe, the US and Japan whom the core group around Emile Vinck from Brussels invited to the founding congress of the IGCTPA in London 1913. 48 Ideas of liberal and socialist reform and citizens groups for bottom up local socialism represented a strong societal movement. In the interwar period, Japanese urban planners continued to amalgamate trends from Western countries and Russia with local traditions. Leading Japanese urban designers – like Ishikawa Hideaki (1893–1955) in his planning for Nagoya – took up ideas from British planner Raymond Unwin and other foreign thinkers. 49 Vice versa, German and European societies and architects repeatedly developed a strong interest in Asian societies, as various waves of high awareness in German public debates and experts travels indicate. Bruno Taut (1880–1938) and other Western architects, like the famous French designer Charlotte Perriand (1903–1999), strongly admired Japanese culture. Perriand, during her years in Japan in the 1940s, drew manifold inspiration for her own work in architecture and design. 50 The key role of transfer agents with a hybrid biography between the two cultures of Japan and Western countries is also of major importance for the scientific writing on planning history, as the case of Watanabe Shun’ichi, a key figure in the writing of Japanese planning history, illustrates. 51 ON THE ROLE OF CULTURAL BACKGROUNDS OF URBAN PLANNING Instead of a conclusion, this article ends with some more general reflections on the challenges of transcultural analysis of urban planning. First, such studies would ideally have to be rooted in a deeper understanding of urban vocabularies as well as of idioms and codes in both cultures, as Hein and others have insisted.52 One could discuss this along specific key terms and concepts, like the Japanese term machi, which according to Schmidtpott, expresses a specific cultural notion

47 48 49 50

Wagner, Stadtplanung für die Welt (cf. n. 6). Ibid., p. 61. Hein, Idioms (cf. n. 1), p. 250 Charlotte Benton, From Tubular Steel to Bamboo: Charlotte Perriand, the Migrating “Chaiselongue” and Japan, in: Journal of Design History 11, 1, 1998, pp. 31–58; Jacques Barsac / Sébastien Cheruet (eds.), Charlotte Perriand: Inventing A New World, Paris: Gallimard 2019. 51 Hein, Idioms (cf. n. 1), p. 247. 52 Ibid., p. 245; Christian Topalov / Laurent Coudroy De Lille / Jean-Charles Depaule / Brigitte Marin (eds.), L’aventure des mots de la ville, Paris: R. Laffont 2010.

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of the urban quarter. For Hein, the term “is relating both to neighbourhoods and small towns” and addresses aspects of urban living, density, transportation etc. 53 Second, some basic cultural institutions, like the role of Japanese neighbourhoods and eventually even the role of the Japanese imperial family in state and religion, would have to be included in a broader picture. 54 In a similar way the role of Zen religion and aesthetics in urban planning and architecture have to be taken into consideration. 55 Mager has convincingly demonstrated how deeply architecture and especially the preservation of monuments is rooted in the cultural history of Japan, taking the famous case of Ise Shrine, a center of Shinto religion which was also praised by Bruno Taut as a unique historical monument. In his study of the periodical destruction and reconstruction of the shrine over many centuries, Mager identified the major differences between Japanese and Western cultural thinking regarding the preservation of monuments, notions of authenticity towards the built heritage, and similar. 56 These observations can raise awareness for the variety of cultural backgrounds, mutual perceptions and adaptations of architectural styles, as well as for hybrid institutional and conceptual approaches that a historical analysis of transcultural urban planning should be able to reveal.

53 Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft (cf. n. 1), p. 40; Hein, Idioms (cf. n. 1), p. 247. 54 See Georg G. Iggers / Q. Edward Wang / Supriya Mukherjee, Geschichtskulturen. Weltgeschichte der Historiographie von 1750 bis heute, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2013, pp. 203–207. 55 See Tim Lomas et al., Zen and the Art of Living Mindfully. The Health-Enhancing Potential of Zen Aesthetics, in: Journal of Religion and Health 56, 5, 2017, pp. 1720–1739. 56 Tino Mager, Schillernde Unschärfe. Der Begriff der Authentizität im architektonischen Erbe, Berlin: De Gruyter 2016, pp. 10, 145.

THE ROLE OF INFRASTRUCTURE FOR JAPANESE AND EUROPEAN URBANISATION Ralf Roth SOME GENERAL ASSUMPTIONS City and infrastructure form per se a complex and multi-faceted relationship that depends on time and on space. It is of some importance to differentiate municipal infrastructure not only according to the size of a city but also the time at which its systems of urban technology, services and buildings, traffic and transport evolved. Moreover, this timeline was and is not synchronised all over the world but is fragmented and temporally staggered in different global areas. This contribution addresses the period between the mid-19th to mid-20th centuries, i. e. some decades before and after the turn of the century. In terms of space it focuses on cities in two regions: Europe, with a particular emphasis on the German city of Frankfurt, and Japan, while in single cases also referencing the United States. Using the focus on these areas of the globe the articles draws attention to a multitude of exchanges. The main research interest centres on the question: How did both spaces interact in reaction to similar transformation processes of cities? The interesting point is that these transformations did not happen at the same time but with a time gap of several decades. The focus here is on the so-called first urbanisation, in contrast to the second one that is currently taking place all over the world. Urbanisation means the tremendous growth of cities as a consequence of intense migration from the countryside into cities. For two hundred years this process has been attracting the attention of social research in Europe. The mainstream identified several causes, such as demographic transformations as well as changes in the productivity of agriculture and industry. The death rate declined faster than the birth rate did and parallel to this there developed an increase in productivity that diminished the size of the workforce needed in agriculture. It was these relative and absolute increases of population in the countryside that led to the so called rural exodus (in German Landflucht), i. e. migration from the countryside to towns and cities, and therefore created new dimensions of urban entities which made them attractive as places of manufacturing and industry. In Germany around 1800 a city with a population of 40,000, and in some cases even 100,000 inhabitants, could be called big. But one hundred years later those same cities were home to 400,000 or more than a million citizens. That also means decade-long construction activities to create numerous new areas for settlement, which extended the average diameter of big cities from a walking distance of half an hour to large city landscapes with diameters of

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often twenty or more kilometres. Moreover, a population of several thousands of inhabitants required a different infrastructure than a social complex of half a million or sometimes even several million people. The article by Satoshi Baba mentions a similarly speedy process of urbanisation in Japan and delivers an impressive insight by means of some key figures: In 1898 only 12 per cent of Japan’s population were living in urban environments, but four decades later this had risen to 40 per cent. In the five decades from 1890 to 1940 the number of Tokyo citizens skyrocketed from 1.2 to 6.8 million. Especially in the 1920s, “[u]rban areas expanded rapidly.” 1 The infrastructural requirements for growing cities in the first period of urbanisation are described well in many theories of city planning and are termed municipal systems of services of general interest or, in German, kommunale Systeme der Daseinsvorsorge (sometimes Daseinsfürsorge). The term was and is of some importance for all social sciences and it includes all public services that are necessary to enable humans to live in the landscape of big cities or metropolises. This comprises services as well as all the infrastructure needed to realise these services. Systems of services of general interest are traffic and transport infrastructure, supply of gas, water and electricity, sewage disposal and cleaning, garbage collection, school systems and cultural institutes, hospitals, cemeteries, sports facilities, and of course infrastructure to be used for mobility and transport. The German term Daseinsvorsorge was coined by Ernst Forsthoff under the influence of the philosopher Karl Jaspers and referred to the necessity to implement participation rights to access services of general interest for every individual inhabitant of a city. 2 Together with the concentration of bigger masses of population in limited space in big cities, which the industrial emancipation brought about in the 19th and 20th centuries, new conditions and requirements arose regarding individual lifestyles. 3

Forsthoff mentioned the loss of social norms that were in place in less densely populated territories, such as free access to water, land for farming or wood for heating. This was why, in contrast to life under rural conditions, every urban citizen depended on services of general interest, which in the first place enable the survival of concentrated masses of people. Forsthoff explicitly named some services of general interest as “gas, water, electricity, sewage systems, transport facilities and so on.” 4 1 2 3

4

See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume. Julia Brehme, Privatisierung und Regulierung der öffentlichen Wasserversorgung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2010, p. 134. Ernst Forsthoff, Der Staat der Industriegesellschaft, München: C. H. Beck 1971, p. 75. See also Jens Kersten, Die Entwicklung des Konzepts der Daseinsvorsorge im Werk von Ernst Forsthoff, in: Der Staat 44, 4, 2005, pp. 543–569. On municiple utility companies see Ulrich Hösch, Die kommunale Wirtschaftstätigkeit. Teilnahme am wirtschaftlichen Wettbewerb oder Daseinsvorsorge, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2000, and Claudia Neu (ed.), Daseinsvorsorge. Eine gesellschaftswissenschaftliche Annäherung, Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften 2009. Forsthoff, Der Staat (cf. n. 3), p. 76.

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This task of a primary care system “to keep [goods and services necessary for life] available for all on socially appropriate conditions” corresponded with the takeover of services of general interest by public and municipal utility companies. 5 Municipal infrastructure in times of urbanisation is inseparably intertwined with these systems of general interest. All activities therefore had to be realised at the same time or in quick succession over a time period of only two or three decades. Infrastructure in times of urbanisation formed a complex but fine-tuned system of single measures. In this respect, some European cities served as a model for many others: London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna but also Frankfurt, to mention only a few. Foreign delegations from North America admired the “beauty of German cities, their striking cleanliness”, but Frankfurt am Main especially – with its streets, promenades, parks, housing and settlement projects, land developing, zone planning, harbour construction and modern transport systems – was the highlight of their European travel routes. 6 This is comparable to the description by Japanese delegations that made Japanese town planning not only familiar with the town-planning theories of the Western world but also with the practice of city administrations and city planning. Very interesting in this context, as Baba highlights in his article, is that Japanese delegations did not favour just one model but looked for examples of the application of zone planning both to the experiences of New York and of Frankfurt. 7 Frankfurt’s attractions were the sewage canal systems and the water pipelines from surrounding hilly regions of the Spessart or the so-called Vogelsberg, once Europe’s biggest volcano, and also the central municipal slaughterhouse, tramways and gasworks as well as one of the first waste incineration plants. Moreover, delegations visited hospitals, schools, libraries and last but not least infrastructure for the modernisation of Frankfurt’s economy. Among these were large investments for making the river Main navigable, harbour construction and a total reorganisation of rail transport by separating goods from passenger transport and unifying four separate railway stations into one big central station, which for some decades became Europe’s largest railways station. 8 In total these investments in infrastructure achieved the goal of making Frankfurt attractive for industry to set5

6

7 8

See Reinhold Zippelius, Allgemeine Staatslehre. Politikwissenschaft. Ein Studienbuch, München: C. H. Beck 162010, § 35. See also Tobias Bringmann, Daseinsvorsorge heute und morgen – Zukunftsmodell Stadtwerke, in: Gerald G. Sander (ed.), Wasser, Strom, Gas. Kommunale Daseinsvorsorge im Umbruch. Zum Spannungsfeld von öffentlicher Daseinsvorsorge und EU-rechtlichen Vorgaben, Hamburg: Kovač 2010, pp. 9–32. See Frederic Howe, European Cities at Work, New York: C. Scribner’s Sons 1913, pp. 37; Frederic Howe, Socialized Germany, New York: C. Scribner’s Sons 1915, p. 198; Henry S. Lunn, Municipal Lessons from Southern Germany, London: Fisher Unwin 1908, p. 11. On the background see Brian Kenneth Ladd, City Planning and Social Reform in Cologne, Frankfurt and Düsseldorf 1866–1914, Ph.D. Thesis, Yale University 1986, pp. 4 f. See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume. See Ralf Roth, Stadt und Bürgertum in Frankfurt am Main. Ein besonderer Weg von der ständischen zur modernen Bürgergesellschaft 1760–1914, Munich: Oldenbourg 1996, pp. 548, 559.

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tle, also because of cheap access to coal, which was the main source of energy at that time. So far we have discussed the main infrastructural layers like water, sewage and garbage, the supply of energy for households and manufactures, infrastructure for the nourishment of citizens in the form of central slaughterhouses, market halls and hygienic measures in the public sphere, and systems of education and healthcare like school, research institutes and hospitals, and systems of transport like inner urban transport, railways, river or canal shipping, harbours and above all the dense networks of streets. We can consider these infrastructural issues to have played a similar role both in European and Japanese cities. WATER AND HYGIENE Let us look at the first layer: water and hygiene in public. The growth of urban spaces, the increasing number of households, and the enlargement of housing areas required a carefully planned creation or extension of the infrastructure for supplying water, sewage and garbage disposal, and hygienic measures. For all three elements in the system of services of general interest, laborious and costly infrastructure had to be built: water pipes leading to households, sewage canalisation coming from every house and, later, sewage treatment plants before the soiled and polluted liquid could be discharged back into rivers. Yūdai Deguchi draws attention to the importance of such services when he elaborates on the advertisement campaigns for settlements where water supply, sewage infrastructure and green parks were listed as advantages to attract settlers to the project of a Japanese-style garden city. 9 THE QUESTION OF ENERGY The same can be said about the second layer of urban infrastructure, the supply of energy for heating and industry. In pre-industrial times, wood served as the main raw material for both purposes, but then coal took over as the main energy resource. Another resource that was utilised for different purposes, such as light, heating and as a power source, was gas. The first gas works serving cities were built in the 1820s and have remained an integral part of urban infrastructure from the time of urbanisation up to the present. At the end of the 19th century, electricity became a third source for energy. It could be produced from waterpower, wind or coal. For that reason, this layer needed a certain infrastructure both for coal distribution and networks of gas pipes. Production and distribution of electricity on the municipal level started in the late 1880s. Thus, electricity, too, became part of municipal infrastructure, and the construction of power stations and networks of electricity lines attracted the attention of local politicians, city officials and 9

See Yūdai Deguchi’s paper in this volume.

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town planers. But this matter also led to intense debates about best practice. In Frankfurt, for example, gasworks were successfully established already in the 1820s, which was then replaced with British gasworks in 1844. In the 1860s a second one followed, which was municipalised in 1904. 10 At this time, coal and gas had lost their position as the primary energy source and were replaced with electricity on a large scale. Electricity was intended to illuminate public spaces and to power the machinery in factories as well as in artisans’ workshops. However, the discussion about a power station only arose at the end of the 1880s and did not immediately find a solution. Many speak about this as a time of radical change from the first to a second period of industrialisation, and it was the city of Frankfurt that once more became a hot spot of innovations for the electrification of advanced societies in the world and especially for municipal infrastructure of this kind. This was because in the former commercial and banking metropolis the so called war of currents was to be decided, which was of considerable importance for the distribution of electricity all over the world. The war of currents refers to the question whether AC or DC was the more suitable current for establishing large infrastructure networks. It evolved between the followers of Thomas Alva Edison (1847–1931) and George Westinghouse (1846–1914) in the United States, who were both engaged in this field. 11 It was a fundamental confrontation about the standard to be used in future and it was contained considerable risks for both private investors and municipal administrations. FOOD AND HYGIENE FOR THE CITY A third layer of infrastructure touches upon the issues of food supply, hygiene, health care, healthy environments and the strengthening of people’s physical condition. Takahito Mori refers in his contribution to campaigns for the greening of cities, the cleaning of rivers and the role and importance of Municipal Health Care Centres and touches upon a variety of infrastructural measures and buildings of different forms and sizes. 12 To improve hygienic standards numerous inner-city slaughterhouses were closed and replaced with one large central slaughterhouse with railway access and large areas for stables and cold stores. Grocery, fruit and 10 See Karl Maly, Die Macht der Honoratioren. Geschichte der Stadtverordnetenversammlung. Band 1. 1867–1990, Frankfurt/M.: Kramer 1992, pp. 48, 220; Alexander Spiess, Frankfurt am Main. Führer durch die Stadt mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der naturwissenschaftlichen, ärztlichen und hygienischen Anstalten und Einrichtungen, Frankfurt/M.: Mahlau 1896, pp. 38 f.; August Busch, Die Betriebe der Stadt Frankfurt a. M., in: Carl Johannes Fuchs (ed.), Die Gemeindebetriebe der Städte Magdeburg, Naumburg a. S., Frankfurt a. M., Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot 1909, pp. 119–174, here p. 136; and Volker Rödel, Ingenieurbaukunst in Frankfurt am Main. 1806–1914, Frankfurt/M.: Societäts-Verlag 1983, pp. 108–130, 148–164. 11 See the scholarly studies of Tom McNichol, AC/DC: The Savage Tale of the first Standards War, Hoboken/NJ: John Wiley and Sons 2006; and Jill Jonnes, Empires of Light: Edison, Tesla, Westinghouse, and the Race to Electrify the World, New York: Random House 2004. 12 See Takahito Mori’s paper in this volume.

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fresh seafood were delivered and sold in central market halls that met hygienic standards. Street cleaning was organised by the city administration, and rules and ordinances were issued to guarantee hygiene in public spaces. Health care already existed in the form of hospitals and medical research facilities such as, for example, the famous Senckenberg Institute, founded by the physician Johann Christian Senckenberg (1707–1772) that was established in 1763 and included an anatomy department and a hospital. Both were steadily enlarged in terms of patient numbers and in size as the cities grew. However, around 1900 a broad public debate ensued about unhealthy living conditions in big cities, especially the lack of access to nature. Town planners picked up the issue, but beforehand local politicians and city magistrates positioned themselves and made use of the so called Städtetage (assembly of city administrations). On one of these occasions Frankfurt’s mayor Franz Adickes (1846–1915) gave the advice to add municipal infrastructure for physical strengthening to young people’s education and schooling: Public parks, swimming pools and other baths, holiday colonies and school hikes – all of these as well as old German gymnastics meet with the most active public interest and contribute effectively to counteracting the terrifying alienation from nature in metropolitan young people caused by their artificial conditions of existence. 13

For physical strengthening, a long list of associations set up gymnasiums, and the city administration added swimming pools at the end of the 19th century. Many aspects of this debate were inspired by the movement for a reform of living (Lebensreformbewegung), which addressed many ways of how to achieve a healthy lifestyle. Exactly this is the topic of Takahito Mori’s article “From Hamburg to Osaka? Organising Leisure through Kraft durch Freude and Kōsei Undō”. He mentions a stadium for international events in the context of this movement and explores the activities of the Osaka Recreation Association, among them railway journeys to mass events, and even Kōsei train trips, or Kōsei ship excursions. This was intended to improve healthy living and provide a physical check-up. For that reason the movement co-operated with the Municipal Health Office and Municipal Institute of Research on Public Hygienic in Osaka. One common goal of the association and the city administration was their desire to decrease the mortality rate among young citizens and to reach a similar standard to Western cities. 14 Moreover, he identifies a large number of similarities between this Japanese movement in cities and the German Kraft durch Freude institution of the German NS government.

13 “Öffentliche Parks, Schwimm- und andere Bäder, Ferienkolonien und Schülerwanderungen – alles dies findet ebenso wie das alte deutsche Turnen das regste öffentliche Interesse und trägt wirksam dazu bei, der schreckenserregenden Entfremdung von der Natur in dem großstädtischen Nachwuchs mit seinen künstlichen Daseinsbedingungen entgegenzuarbeiten.” Franz Adickes, Die sozialen Aufgaben der deutschen Städte. Zwei Vorträge gehalten auf dem deutschen Städtetag zu Dresden am 2. September 1903, Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot 1903, p. 44. 14 See Takahito Mori’s paper in this volume.

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The Kōsei Undō was launched in the context of the international movement of the 1930s to organise leisure. Because the KdF influenced the establishment of the Kōsei Undō, both had similarities in their totalitarian manner of mobilising people. 15

Indeed, in ideology and practice there seem to be striking similarities. This derives from a common reference point, namely that life in urban environments meant shrinking direct access to nature and to life in rural landscapes. However, despite these similarities there are also striking differences. The German KdF can be seen in the tradition of the so-called hostility towards the metropolis (Großstadtfeindschaft) as part of the movement for the reform of living mentioned above. 16 The KdF adopted some ideas from there but transformed them into organised leisure in order to strengthen blue and white-collar workers sense of identification with the National Socialist regime. Boat trips to natural monuments or pleasant landscapes such as the Rhine valley, and even holidays at the seaside, opened up access for many not well-to-do to vacation like never before, which had previously been the preserve of upper and upper middle-class people. No fewer than 400,000 people took KdF-package tours in 1934, a number which rose to 1.7 million by 1937. An additional seven million made use of weekend excursions, and 1.6 million participated in organised hikes. 17 Of course, this required some necessary infrastructure, such as the railway network and also a fleet of KdF ships. Yet, this was not particular to cities but was of nationwide importance. The KdF was, furthermore, not a movement but part of the state and a subsidiary of the Deutsche Arbeitsfront (DAF). This was why it was positioned much closer to the NS movement than to the living of reform movement, and sometimes was in opposition to the reform movement. Access was strictly limited to Volksgenossen, i. e. Aryan people in the sense of the NS ideology. Non-Aryans and political opponents were excluded. The KdF activities presented an opportunity for spreading Nazi ideology. Moreover, many aspects of the KdF were intertwined with war preparation. Physical strength, living in camps in nature, and organised group dynamics provided useful side effects for military campaigns. Even the infrastructure, for instance the KdF fleet, later served as part of the German navy, being used as hospital ships, for military transport as well as for evacuation in the final phase of the war. Well investigated is the fate of the Wilhelm Gustloff, mentioned in Mori’s article. Commissioned shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War, on 23 March 1938, it only served as a ship for mass leisure for a few months. After this, it took part in the invasion of Norway in 1940 but is known mostly for being sunk during the evacuation of Eastern Pomerania in January 1945 when this part of Germany had been encircled by the Red Army.

15 Ibid. 16 Clemens Zimmermann / Jürgen Reulecke (eds.), Die Stadt als Moloch? Das Land als Kraftquell? Wahrnehmungen und Wirkungen der Großstädte um 1900, Basel: Birkhäuser 1999. 17 Timothy W. Mason, Social Policy in the Third Reich: The Working Class and the “National Community”, Oxford: Berg 1993, p. 160.

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There is one aspect which was very closely connected with ongoing urbanisation, namely the creation of a spa by means of expanding a tiny fishing village into a seaside resort that featured only one large building made up of originally eight identical buildings of six kilometres length in total, called the Colossus of Prora. This development was built between 1936 and 1939 to form part of the KdF organisation. Robert Ley (1890–1945), head of the Deutsche Arbeitsfront, envisioned this touristic resort at the shore of the isle of Rügen as a parallel to the British Butlins holiday resorts, which were commercially established to provide affordable holidays for the working class. But the plans for Prora were much more ambitious. Hitler wanted a mighty resort, designed to provide more than 20,000 beds. A huge building was meant to serve as a festival hall for a total of 20,000 guests and included a giant indoor arena. This building could in wartime easily be converted into a gigantic military hospital. The plans included two wave swimming pools, a cinema, a theatre, and large docks for passenger ships. Although the buildings were planned as a holiday resort, construction was not completed and they were never used for their original purpose. Instead, the largest building in Europe served as comfortable barracks for soldiers during the war. 18 However, it would be of general interest to continue this Japan-German comparison and enquire for example into similar interferences of Kōsei Undō with the state and the military expansion of Japan in the Second World War. EDUCATION AND KNOWLEDGE DURING URBANISATION The fourth layer of urban infrastructure are systems of education, i. e. schools, academies, research institutions, or universities. The general education on the level of schooling was one of the first main assets of German industrialisation. This was why the school system in every city was expanded during the whole of the nineteenth century, and especially during the first urbanisation the number of schools exploded in line with the growth in population. Moreover, since the mid19th century new types of schools emerged, such as Reform Schools, schools specialising in technical education, schools for particular religious groups such as Jews or Reformed Protestants, artisanal schools and polytechnic schools. But of most interest are research institutes for education and knowledge creation on the scientific level. They appeared beside traditional universities in cities in the second half of the 19th century. The tertiary systems of education and research institutes expanded during the growth of urbanisation and became more specialised. 18 There is some inspiring ongoing research, for example by Martin Kaule, Prora. Geschichte und Gegenwart des “KdF-Seebads Rügen”, Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag 2014; Jürgen Rostock / Franz Zadniček, Paradiesruinen. Das KdF-Seebad der Zwanzigtausend auf Rügen, Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag 2008; Hasso Spode, Fordism, Mass Tourism and the Third Reich: the Strength through Joy Seaside Resort as an Index Fossil, in: Journal of Social History 38, 2004, pp. 127–155; and Joachim Wernicke / Uwe Schwartz, Der Koloss von Prora auf Rügen – gestern – heute – morgen, Königstein im Taunus: Museum Putbus / Langewiesche Königstein 32015.

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Modern sciences subsequently split away from the traditional educational canon that emphasised literature, philosophy and ancient languages. This resulted in a move towards the above-mentioned practical research in laboratories, observatories and clinics. In total the number of students in Germany quintupled between 1865 and 1914, reaching a total of 60,000. 19 During the German Empire no less than ten universities were founded in prosperous cities, among them many trading cities which thus also became university cities. This list includes Stuttgart (1876), Darmstadt (1877), Freiburg i. Br. (1889), Ilmenau (1894), Leipzig (1898), Danzig (1904), Breslau (1910), Frankfurt am Main (1914), Hamburg (1919) and the re-established university of Cologne (1919). Among these, the citizens in Frankfurt established one of the first universities in Germany that enabled Jews to get a professorship. 20 Vice versa it had been upwardly mobile Jews who donated on a large scale for social and cultural purposes and established networks of foundations for libraries, research institutes and schools for higher education or clinics. They enriched the social and cultural capital which could then be employed for the purpose of setting up a whole university. Leipzig, Cologne, Frankfurt and, in some respects, Hamburg were striking examples of such an intense infrastructural expansion on the field of education and scientific research. 21 Education was an important topic for Japanese urbanisation as well. The article by Deguchi mentions schools and the necessity of constructing new schools.22 Also Jacoby pointed out that schools played an important role in this period of growing cities and directs our attention to a particularity of Japanese cities: to find secure places for schools because of the imminent danger of an earthquake, such as the Kantō earthquake in Tokyo that destroyed this metropolis within minutes.23 European cities suffered from this natural phenomenon only in the South and 19 Christophe Charle, Grundlagen, in: Walter Rüegg (ed.), Geschichte der Universität in Europa, Vol. 3, Vom 19. Jahrhundert zum Zweiten Weltkrieg (1800–1945), München: C. H. Beck 2004, pp. 43–80, here p. 63. 20 See next the author’s chapter in Historische Kommission Frankfurt (ed.), Geschichte der Stadt Frankfurt von den Anfängen bis in die Gegenwart. The volume will be published in 2023. 21 See Ralf Roth, Wilhelm Merton. Ein Weltbürger gründet eine Universität, Frankfurt/M.: Societäts-Verlag 2010; Ralf Roth, Jüdische Stiftungsaktivitäten und Universitätsgründungen. Die Beispiele Frankfurt und Hamburg, in: Thomas Adam / Manuel Frey / Rupert Graf Strachwitz (eds.), Stiftungen seit 1800. Kontinuitäten und Diskontinuitäten, Stuttgart: Lucius u. Lucius 2009, pp. 161–178, here pp. 161–163; Ralf Roth, Aufstieg und Krise des Stiftungswesens in Frankfurt am Main: Zur strukturellen Entwicklung eines kommunalen Stiftungsnetzwerkes im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, in: Rainer Liedtke / Klaus Weber (eds.), Religion und Philanthropie in den europäischen Zivilgesellschaften. Entwicklungen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Paderborn: Schöningh 2009, pp. 121–137, and Ralf Roth, German Urban Elites in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, in: Ralf Roth / Roben Beachy (eds.), Who Ran the Cities? City Elites and Urban Power Structures in Europe and North America. 1750–1940, Aldershot: Ashgate 2007, pp. 127–160, here pp. 157–160. 22 See Yūdai Deguchi’s paper in this volume. 23 See Julia Mariko Jacoby’s paper in this volume.

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South East of the continent, whereas in the rest of Europe earthquakes are very rare and much less destructive. URBAN TRANSPORT For the question of a comparison between European and Japanese cities the fifth layer, the systems of transport infrastructure, is of most interest because these infrastructural systems are inseparably connected with growing cities at this time. Here we find a multitude of very similar developments following the same logic: to make the growing spaces of city landscapes manageable. Inside the European and of course the North American city, the patterns of transport shifted from carts and coaches via horse-buses and horse tramways to the electrification and motorisation of both of the latter: tramways and motorbuses. Therefore, the street system, its widening, expansion and modernisation attracted a lot of attention, debates and public investment. Several articles in this volume paid attention to this infrastructural complex and its permanent improvement. In her overview of German literature on Japanese urban history, Katja Schmidtpott mentions that it has been shown that as consequence of the Kantō earthquake in 1923 town planers in Tokyo stressed the point of better transport infrastructure. This was why they not only developed zone planning and the Lex Adickes as a planning instrument, but also decided to create wider roads and squares in newly built up areas. 24 In a very similar vein, Satoshi Baba, Julia Mariko Jacoby and Beate Löffler discuss the 1919 town planning and road act for Tokyo and the situation only four years later when the Kantō earthquake changed everything. Town planners shared the somewhat heartless view that the tabula rasa of the destroyed city ought to be grasped as a chance for modern town planning following the model of George Haussmann (1809–1891) and Le Corbusier (1887–1965) which had a tremendous impact on the new road pattern. The Capital Reconstruction Board focused also on road restoration, and no less than 40 per cent of all investment was spent on road construction and reconstruction. 25 One could also mention rivers and canals as transport routes for cities, especially for the cheap supply of mass goods like grain or coal, and the necessity of harbour construction. But at the centre of the public debate about improvements in transport at the time of urbanisation was the debate about a metamorphosis of the railway. Growing cities meant increasing distances inside the urban sphere, and the inner-urban use of railways uncovered the disadvantages of the old railway system and streetbound traffic systems. Horse omnibuses and horse tramways did not allow a speedy traverse through the new urban spaces. This was why they became increasingly limited to the inner city or to routes between certain city quarters. Railways offering more capacity and speed were intended to connect periphery 24 See Katja Schmidtpott’s paper in this volume. 25 See Beate Löffler’s, Julia Mariko Jacoby’s and Satoshi Baba’s papers in this volume.

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and centre of the new metropolises. A striking example of this was the Ring and City Railway of Berlin, opened in the 1880s. However, steam-operated railways were far from ideal for large areas of densely settlement. The trains were sluggish in acceleration and required long distances between stations and stops. Also, rails, embankments and operating facilities required a lot of space, cut through the cityscape and hindered normal street traffic. Additionally, they caused a lot of complaints about smoke, soot and noise. The growing dissatisfaction with steam railways and the limited capacity and slowness of horse tramways started an intense search for the possibility of a metamorphosis of railways, making them more compatible with the conditions inside cities. Electrification turned out to be the solution, not in the form of electrified street railways but separated from the street level as elevated or underground railways. 26 This metamorphosis of railways from steam-driven, cumbersome railways to an elegant, silent, emission-free, speedy urban transport system took place in the transatlantic world and brought about intense technological exchange between London, Paris, New York, Chicago and Berlin. After initial successes in London, another milestone was the Chicago World Fair of 1893. Here a broader public became acquainted for the first time with the concept of electrical speed railways. An official delegation from the magistrate of Berlin enthusiastically admired the American solution: Advantages of electrical traction, as a German delegation from Berlin accentuated in their report, will be high speed, security and cleanliness, a reduction in space usage and noise, the possibility to manage an abrupt increase in traffic demands, but also a reduction in operating and maintenance costs. 27

But what fascinated the Berlin delegation did not meet with the approval of the citizens of Europe’s metropolises. Winding and narrow street patterns in the city centres did not allow a second transport level above the streets and therefore urban planners instead moved below the street level. The City and South London Line of 1890 was the first underground. 28 Paris based its metro on the model of London, 26 See Erich Giese, Das zukünftige Schnellbahnnetz für Groß-Berlin, Berlin: Moeser 1919, p. 12, and figures on p. 38 and p. 57. On the disadvantages of tramways see Michael Erbe, Probleme der Berliner Verkehrsplanung und Verkehrserschließung seit 1871, in: Dietrich Kurze (ed.), Aus Theorie und Praxis der Geschichtswissenschaft, Berlin: de Gruyter 1972, pp. 209–235, here p. 215; Elfie Bendikat, Öffentliche Nahverkehrspolitik in Berlin und Paris 1890–1914. Strukturbedingungen, politische Konzeptionen und Realisierungsprobleme, Berlin: de Gruyter 1999, pp. 112, 353 ff., and 519; and Gustav Kemman, Schnellverkehr in Städten, mit besonderer Berücksichtigung von London und Newyork, in: Archiv für Eisenbahnwesen 16, 1893, pp. 263–283, 449–471, here p. 272. 27 Giese, Schnellbahnnetz (cf. n. 26), p. 79. 28 See Julius Kollmann, Der Großstadt-Verkehr. Modernes Verkehrswesen der Großstädte, in: Moderne Zeitfragen 3, 1905, pp. 3–44, here p. 10; Theo C. Barker / Michael Robbins, A History of London Transport. Passenger Travel and the Development of the Metropolis. Vol. 2. The Twentieth Century to 1970, London: Allen & Unwin 1975, pp. 40 ff., 79 ff., 102 ff., 109 f., 137 ff. and 164 ff.; and Jack R. Simmons, The Pattern of Tube Railways in London, in: Journal of Transport History 7, 1965/66, pp. 234–240.

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and Berlin shifted from initially favouring elevated trains to an underground network modelled on London and Paris. 29 These new electric underground railways were essential for solving the traffic and transport problems of big cities and metropolises. These technical solutions were a serious attempt to diminish the potential of conflicts between cities and railways. This was why they were considered the most attractive means of transport of the 20th century. The developments in metropolises and urban agglomerations in Europe and North America, i. e. in Chicago, Berlin, Paris, London and Vienna, in the 1890s were observed intensely by delegations from Japan and had a severe impact on Japanese town planners and town planning in the interwar period, as Baba put it. 30 A young generation of Japanese urban planners and administrators, such as Seki Hajime (1873–1935), the mayor of Osaka, had become interested in modern urban infrastructure, and it is remarkable how they picked up the intense discussion about the relationship of city and railways: Seki pointed out in his book of 1923 that the prerequisite for large city formation was railway construction and that the transition from steam to electric railway had prompted the decentralisation of residential areas, and therefore the reconstruction of city centres had become possible. In other words, Seki held the view that separating living spaces from working spaces should be promoted due the opportunities arising through transportation development, basing his arguments on the cases of London and Berlin. 31

Beate Löffler, too, picks up this issue while debating the Kantō earthquake of 1923 and the fact that European delegations visiting Tokyo did not recognize the modern infrastructure of the capital, especially not the modern ship and railway infrastructure as well as modern harbours. She discovers an obvious contradiction between the delegations’ accounts and photo images from this time that impressively show details of modern infrastructure in urban landscapes as tramways and so on while the accounts were silent about this. 32 In a very similar way, Yūdai Deguchi touches upon the logic that the expansion of urban spaces made railway infrastructure necessary. He also explores the investments of a railway company, the Hankyū Corp., for building, in cooperation with the Hochbahngesellschaft of Siemens (Elevated Train Association), rail connections from big cities to settlements on the outskirts, using the example of Osaka. 33 In a very grippling contribution that includes very interesting details about processes of exchange between Europe and Japan, Shūichi Takashima presents 29 See Bendikat, Öffentliche Nahverkehrspolitik (cf. n. 26), p. 112 ff., 134 and 178, and René Londiche, Transports en commun à la surface dans la Région parisienne, Paris: Presses universitaires de France 1932, p. 45. On the reluctance of the German state railways regarding the establishment of a network of electrified speed railways see Karl Remy, Die Elektrisierung der Berliner Stadt-, Ring- und Vorortbahnen als Wirtschaftsproblem, Berlin: Springer 1931, pp. 17–63. On the general background see Ralf Roth, Das Jahrhundert der Eisenbahn. Die Herrschaft über Raum und Zeit 1800–1914, Ostfildern: Thorbecke 2005, pp. 227–236. 30 See Satoshi Baba’s paper in this volume. 31 Ibid. 32 See Beate Löffler’s paper in this volume. 33 See Yūdai Deguchi’s paper in this volume.

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details about the German influence on the first subway in Tokyo. Not very different from Berlin, in Tokyo tramways which had been electrified dominated at the same time as in Berlin or Frankfurt at the beginning of the 1880s and became municipalised in 1911. However, shortly afterwards the expanding city and increasing traffic between centre and suburbs caused more and more traffic jams because road transport conflicted with the increasing numbers of tramways. 34 While in Berlin discussion about an additional system of speed railways started shortly before 1900, in Tokyo it was only at the end of the First World War that the city reached a size that exceeded the distances for which tramways delivered comfortable services. This was why the discussion about electrified speed railways started in 1917 and led to the Town Planning act of 1919 that anticipated a network of subways of a total length of 72 kilometres to be added to the services of tramways as the main facility for public transport. As in other cases, several delegations had been sent to Europe, visiting London, Glasgow, France and other European countries as well as New York to familiarise themselves with systems of electrified and speedy rail passenger transport in the Western world, thus becoming part of the technological exchange in the transatlantic world. 35 Interestingly enough, the Tokyo Metropolitan Traffic Research Committee picked up the star structure with all lines running through the city centre. Like London, Tokyo shares the problem of having a sandy and wet geological set-up and being located at sea level. The technical problems arising from these circumstances were solved during the construction of the first underground line in 1890. But sandy and wet ground was not only a problem of London and Tokyo but also of Berlin. This was one reason why Siemens had favoured the system of an elevated railway rather than underground railways. Yet, as mentioned above, elevated speed railways did not meet with the approval of citizens in Europe’s big cities, which led Siemens to transform its Hochbahngesellschaft (Elevated Traffic Company) into a company that also provided the construction of underground railways. 36 This change, which had been enforced by protesting citizens, formed the precondition that made the Siemens company attractive for Japanese railway companies engaged in the expansion of the transport infrastructure of Tokyo. However, as Takashima pointed out, it was not the company itself but one of its employees who made possible the technological transfer from Germany to Japan, or rather from Berlin to Tokyo. Remarkable in this respect was the role played by the engineer Rudolf Briske, a former employee of Siemens, who provided the Japanese TUR with the technological know-how to master the sandy and wet ground of the Japanese capital. Briske had been sent to Shanghai by his company in 1923. From there he travelled to Japan. He was of Jewish origin, grew up in Breslau, got his Diploma from the Technical University of Berlin in 1908 and had been employed by the 34 See Shūichi Takashima’s paper in this volume. 35 See ibid. 36 Ralf Roth, Ab in den Untergrund. Zur Geschichte der Berliner Schnellbahnen, in: Damals 32, 11, 2000, pp. 36–42; and Roth, Das Jahrhundert der Eisenbahn (cf n. 29), pp. 230 ff.

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Reichsbahn, AEG, Siemens and then the Japanese TUR. He played an important role in tunnel construction, which adopted the AEG’s tunnel frame construction used in Berlin. Moreover, Briske managed to import German tunnel construction machines. Above all, the example of Briske delivers a striking example of the exchange of ideas, knowledge and technology between Europe and Asia in general and Berlin and Tokyo in particular. Similar conditions and the development of cities of new dimensions led to similar infrastructural solutions. Asia had the advantage of not having to reinvent the (electricity-propelled railway) wheel. Knowledge was accumulated by Japanese delegations as their town planners and city officials did the same as Europeans had done in North America and vice versa, namely observe and learn from each other, thus saving a lot of development costs. At the end, an international community of municipal politicians, town planners, city officials, engineers, and companies in the field of city technology formed a set of urban infrastructure to be used for all the municipal systems of services of general interest.

SOCIAL DIMENSIONS OF EUROPEAN AND JAPANESE URBANISATION Rainer Liedtke The contributions to this volume illustrate that Japanese urban development in the earlier twentieth century was not only highly diverse but also to some degree influenced by Western paths of urbanisation. However, that involved adaptation more than a plain copy of European or North American models. Moreover, this article aims at challenging the view that one single Western or European model of urbanisation influenced the process in Japan. Rather, Japanese urbanisation observed, imitated, modified, challenged or rejected various influences of how Western cities developed. This could happen consciously, unconsciously or even totally unrelated to what occurred elsewhere in the world and therefore possibly merely coincidentally. Everywhere, urban developments changed the way people lived, interacted socially, worked and produced together. The focus of this contribution is on some social and, related, economic aspects of urbanization primarily as materialised in Europe from the later nineteenth century to the 1930s. This was a period of rapid urban development in several parts of Europe, showing immense regional differences regarding both timing and periodisation as well as the actual extent of change. The central purpose here is to highlight a few important commonalities but also differences of the development of the European social urban fabric and to discuss them in their relation to the Japanese development. Of particular interest here are urban demographics, migration and social cohesion / civil society. URBAN DEMOGRAPHICS AND INFRASTRUCTURE Before some of these issues can be addressed, it needs to be made clear that there was no uniform European path of urban development in the period under consideration, either before or after for that matter. There are surely some common economic and social themes that applied to a fair number of cities, particularly in Western and Central Europe, but there was certainly no universal type of a European city, as has been argued by historically interested social scientists during parts of the twentieth century. 1 The social and economic development of Europe1

For an overview of this thesis see the introduction to and various contributions in this collection of essays: Walter Siebel (ed.), Die europäische Stadt, Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp 2004. A similar argument from a historian can be found in: Hartmut Kaelble, Die Besonderheiten

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an cities since the later 18th century was dynamic and diverse. Overall, the most important, but by no means the only factor was the level and speed of industrial development – or the lack of industrialisation in certain regions of the continent. Except for parts of Flanders, Great Britain, from 1801 the United Kingdom, industrialised much earlier than any other country, beginning this process already in the later eighteenth century. The German states and parts of France followed some decades later and experienced their industrial take off during the 1850s/60s, when the UK was already dominating European and world trade in industrial goods. Other northern, western and central regions of Europe, such as parts of Scandinavia, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Northern Italy or Habsburg Austria experienced some industrialisation towards the later nineteenth century, while this development was much slower and different in most of Southern, Eastern and Southeastern Europe. The degree of urbanisation was for the most part directly connected to the timing and strength of industrialisation, although there were some exceptions. One of these was France, where some regions industrialised strongly during the second half of the nineteenth century, but urbanisation was far weaker than in neighbouring Germany, which experienced a somewhat similar process of industrialisation. Overall, however, differences in economic development induced domestic as well as international migration and in Northwestern Europe this led to a growth of towns and cities as well as the development of new cities or, usually close to large coal deposits, industrial villages which turned into urban agglomeration areas. Urbanisation in countries or regions with weaker industrial development, including much of Eastern and Southern Europe as well as Ireland, experienced far less urbanisation. It should not be forgotten that even in the strongly industrialising parts of Europe urbanisation was by no means ubiquitous since there were quite a few regions which stayed rural and lost many migrants to industrial areas and cities. Moreover, in Britain, Germany, France and other industrialised countries, some older and important cities – in Britain especially some port cities on the eastern and southern coast, in Germany some traditional residential cities – shrunk and lost their significance during industrialisation because they were outside the newly emerging economic and infrastructure networks. Likewise, there were some significant urban developments in predominantly rural societies in the south and east of Europe, but these were usually limited to a few metropolises, including the capital cities, which experienced in-migration due to a flight of people from the countryside. 2

2

der europäischen Stadt im 20. Jahrhundert, in: Friedrich Lenger / Klaus Tenfelde (eds.), Die europäische Stadt im 20. Jahrhundert. Wahrnehmung, Entwicklung, Erosion, Cologne: Böhlau 2006, pp. 25–44. A partial refutation of the argument for a European city is provided by Friedrich Lenger in the introduction to the same volume, pp. 1–21. For a view of the concept from a Southern European perspective see the contributions in: Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2009 (“Städte in Südeuropa”, ed. by Martin Baumeister / Rainer Liedtke). For a comprehensive overview of European urbanisation since 1850 see Friedrich Lenger, Metropolen der Moderne. Eine europäische Stadtgeschichte seit 1850, Munich: C. H. Beck 2013.

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Urban demographics in Japan seemed to have followed a pattern which resembled a combination of urban developments of several European regions. Similar to the UK, Germany and France, early industrial development in Japan during the last third of the nineteenth century was facilitated by the textile industry. As in parts of Europe, this industry was initially dominated by smaller workshops and factories often located in smaller country towns which then grew, albeit not at a dramatic pace. When heavy industry increasingly began to dominate the Japanese economy from around 1900 and became the leading sector certainly during the interwar years, cities and urban industrial areas attracted large numbers of migrants in a short period of time and grew exponentially. The industry-induced urbanisation of Japan thus shows a similar pattern to that of the early and strong industrial economies of Europe, although with a time lag of around half a century or even more. This can also be illustrated with a quote provided in Takahito Mori’s contribution to this volume, who has researched the Kōsei Undō campaign with a view to its functioning in cities such as Osaka. In a report by the Osaka Recreation Association from 1940, which advocated bringing Kōsei Undō to Osaka, it was stated: “In our industrial city Osaka, the high densities of factories, retails shops, office buildings and dwellings suffocate the people. Smoke and soot, polluted air and weak sunlight, all these elements represent nothing but the undesirable conditions for our health.” This could have been taken directly from a report on mid- to late-Victorian London, Manchester or Sheffield. While this quote shows that the difference in industrial development is crucial for understanding differences in urbanisation, it should not be forgotten that the growth patterns of Japanese industry diverged strongly from the development of large parts of Europe which neither industrialised nor urbanised to a great extent before the Second World War, except for the massive and planned industrialisation of the Soviet Union from the late 1920s onwards. With such a differentiation in mind, it is clearly wrong to claim that Japanese industrialisation and urbanisation was similar and only different in timing to Europe, since the only partially viable unit of comparison for such a statement would be the industrialised NorthWest of the European continent. 3 This is also reflected in urban demographics. As pointed out by Satoshi Baba in this volume, the urban population of Japan was just above ten per cent in the early 1870s if one defines town as a settlement of more than 10,000 people. It then increased very slowly to around 12 per cent at the turn of the century but then climbed steadily at a faster pace over the next four decades to reach almost 38 per cent in 1940. Such a growth pattern is dissimilar to the large industrial nations of Europe, such as Germany or Britain, which both urbanised faster and reached levels of well over 60 or even 70 per cent of urban populations when they were highly industrialised around 1900. It is somewhat comparable to France, a country which preserved a significant rural element in its population structure well into the twentieth century. However, another aspect of Japanese urbanisation deviates 3

André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the TwentyFirst Century, London: Routledge 2002, chs. 1 ff.

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strongly from the North-Western European pattern of urbanisation, and that is the formation of some very large metropolitan areas early on. Already during early industrialisation, in 1890, the population of Tokyo reached 1.2 million, that of Osaka was close to half a million. These are figures that were not reached by European cities in predominantly non-industrial economies, with the one exception of London around 1800. The two Japanese metropolises continued to grow enormously during the four decades before the Second World War, although the overall urbanisation rate of the country was far lower than that of industrialised European countries. This pattern, with more modest absolute figures, is much more reminiscent of Southern or Eastern European metropolises in the later nineteenth and earlier twentieth century, which also showed strong growth rates, although the overall urbanisation rate of their countries remained rather low. Or it may be compared to urban growth in Europe’s South in the second half of the twentieth century when already dominant metropolises, such as Rome, Athens or Istanbul, grew exponentially due to strong migration of country dwellers in particular to their peripheries. Another feature of Japanese cities, mentioned in Mori’s contribution to this volume, is also far more reminiscent of Southern European conditions during much of the twentieth century. Most of the retail shop staff lived in the house of the shop owners, a pattern common in Osaka and almost all cities in Japan. This points to a city with much less social segregation than the classic European city; the Japanese pattern could also be found in parts of Southern Europe and the Balkans where many small independent businesses were the norm in cities. Here the working community sometimes equalled an enlarged family community, and working and living quarters were not very much separated. In sum, the urbanisation of Japan showed some rather unique demographic and growth patterns which, when viewed in connection with industrial growth, are not directly relatable to any one European development. Probably the most significant transformation many European cities underwent since the later nineteenth century is associated with changing urban settlement patterns, in particular suburbanisation. City centres, traditionally the most desirable and expensive areas to inhabit, became more and more congested, noisy and sometimes dangerous because of an increase in crime. The upper and middle classes therefore aspired to move to less crowded quarters further away, but only when convenient means of urban transport allowed fast and easy access to the workplace, schools, hospitals and cultural venues. The development first of electric tramlines, later of networks of urban motor busses and, parallel to that for some large metropolitan areas, urban railway and subway lines, allowed those who could afford the fares regularly to remain in striking distance of centres while inhabiting larger premises with gardens built further apart from each other. While many factors, including occupation, religion or heritage, could influence settlement patterns, and while these also differed according to the type of the city, suburbanisation – especially in Western and parts of Central Europe – added an important geographical dimension to social segregation. Such a movement can also be found in parts of Japan, although it occurred three or more decades later than in parts of Europe. As Yūdai Deguchi notes in his

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contribution to this volume, from about the 1920s the emerging Japanese middle class demanded well-built suburban homes with good access to public transport. As in Europe, better off people in Japan wanted to escape the congestion of city centres and yearned for a greener, open space living environment. There were strong discussions among Japanese city planners during the 1920s, too, as Satoshi Baba remarks in his contribution, who addressed overcrowding, partially by adopting the Garden City or Garden Suburb concept from the discussion in Western Europe. One difference to the European pattern of suburbanisation – albeit not to the US-American pattern – is possibly the stronger influence of private enterprises, chiefly the railway companies, on this development. They did not only build suburban railway lines but also successfully aimed at developing the surrounding land into settlements for the middle class. In contrast, in much of industrial Europe the development of urban infrastructure was guided by principles that may be described by the German term Daseinsvorsorge, which loosely translates as services of general public interest. Cities planned, among other things, transport lines, water and sewage networks or gas and electricity grids for purposeful enlargement, often incorporating surrounding villages or smaller towns. Private companies could play a role in that, but as the nineteenth century progressed, it was more and more the city administrations which guided the enlargement and invested significant capital into it. This seems to point into the direction that urban infrastructure, at least in Western and parts of Central Europe, was not primarily developed to further industrialisation but to make the cities “liveable” for people. In the context of comparing infrastructures an interesting observation by Deguchi in his research on the newly established township of Mukunosō needs to be mentioned. He argues that the company’s idea of creating a high-class residential area did not reflect the reality, which had largely to do with a lack of urban infrastructure, since not only gas and telephone lines were missing but also kindergartens and elementary schools. Local governments apparently could only partially make up for the lack of planning and investment of the railway corporation which had developed the area. As a result, the residents organised and founded a residents’ association which dedicated itself to securing access to gas and the establishment of an elementary school. Such a self-help approach to urban development is highly reminiscent of Southern and Southeastern European metropolitan areas during the middle-decades of the twentieth century, albeit under very different circumstances. In these countries in particular incoming migrants took it into their own hands to build their living quarters and often had to see to the appropriate infrastructure being put into place afterwards, as will be mentioned below in the context of civil society development. MIGRATION European urbanisation was based on migration. Depending on the region and sometimes even the individual cities, types of migration behind urban development could differ significantly. Many towns and cities grew especially because

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people living in close or medium proximity moved towards an urbanising entity in search of jobs in manufacturing because employment opportunities in the countryside were dwindling. Quite typical was the story of a country dweller who first moved from a village to a small country town close by, then onto a bigger town after some time and finally to a city or industrial area. A move straight from a village to a metropolis was the exception for domestic migrants. The story changes completely when we regard migration across borders or across large and diverse nations, such as Germans from the rural east of the country who went to work in the sprawling industrial areas in the west of the Empire in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. They were joined by many Poles, citizens or rather subjects of the Russian Empire until 1918, who travelled from completely rural surroundings to end up in urban areas where the population increased at immense speed. This pattern can also be found in the United Kingdom where, for example, rural Irish migrants – domestic migrants, since they were UK citizens – settled in large numbers in the fast-growing British, Scottish and Welsh cities or industrial areas. The story changes little if one regards Italian migrants, mostly from the south of the country, who settled in cities and urban areas in Northern Italy or France. Moreover, this was the usual pattern of urban migration of Eastern, Southeastern or Eastern European migrants who left Europe in large numbers and moved to North but also Latin America from the 1880s onwards. There these former country dwellers settled almost exclusively in cities, often the big metropolises of their new homelands. 4 Japanese urbanisation was also primarily facilitated by migrants moving from the countryside and smaller towns into the bigger city or metropolis. However, the important difference to Europe was that this was for much of the earlier part of the industrialisation and urbanisation process practically exclusively a domestic affair. Only after the Korean peninsula was annexed to become part of the Empire of Japan in 1910, at a time when Japanese industrialisation had already moved towards heavy industry and the economy was expanding strongly, did a significant number of non-Japanese immigrants enter the island. Up to half a million Koreans, no longer citizens of an independent country and almost all hailing from rural areas with a scarcity of employment opportunities, formed part of the industrial working class in Japanese cities until the Second World War. While numerically not insignificant, these migrants were too few to be regarded as shaping the Japanese urbanisation process in a country with well over 70 million inhabitants in the late 1930s. The Koreans were the only noticeable immigrant group during the period under consideration here. Moreover, only comparatively few Japanese left the country during the high period of industrialisation, mostly to Japanesecontrolled Manchukuo. Unlike in the industrialised countries of Europe, the popu-

4

Lenger, Metropolen der Moderne (cf. n. 2), pp. 85–97. More generally on migration: Klaus J. Bade, Europa in Bewegung. Migration vom späten 18. Jahrhundert bis zur Gegenwart, Munich: C. H. Beck 2000, pp. 59–168.

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lation of Japanese towns and cities was therefore extremely homogenous, with the sole exception of the Korean element. 5 The importance of this factor in the Japanese urbanisation process cannot be overestimated, especially if contrasted with much of Europe and practically all of North and Latin America. Either through migration or simply through a longerstanding historical genesis, Western cities were to varying degrees multi-ethnic, multireligious, multilingual and partially multi-national. In the Balkans, for example, these factors had shaped urban life for centuries almost everywhere. The city of Salonika, to select an extreme case, for most of the Ottoman period, was partially Greek, partially Muslim and partially Jewish and only lost this character through the combination of being incorporated into the Greek state in 1912, the ensuing expulsion of most of its Muslims and the annihilation of almost all of its Jewish inhabitants during German occupation in the 1940s. 6 Even in Britain, the country which experienced a strong degree of urbanisation earlier than elsewhere in Europe and whose population is generally regarded as fairly homogenous, religious and national belonging strongly shaped, if not divided cities like Belfast, Glasgow, Liverpool and parts of London in the nineteenth and twentieth century. 7 All social, economic and cultural interactions in the Western urban arena could be influenced or determined by such differences. That included the emergence of distinct living quarters generating multiple centres, the construction of rivalling religious buildings, educational establishments or entertainment venues, sometimes even parallel economic supply chains. All this did not have much of an impact on Japanese cities. URBAN COHESION AND CIVIL SOCIETY The concept of the European City strongly emphasizes the importance of engagement of citizens in creating a liveable urban environment by taking an active interest in managing the city, its affairs, finances, appearance or reputation. A strong civil society dominated by the bourgeoisie has been described as the backbone of this European model of the city. 8 In Western and parts of Central Europe, where such engagement undoubtedly existed and shaped cities during the 19th and 20th centuries, the educated and propertied urban middle class was its carrier. It may be argued that they primarily strove to create a liveable city for 5

6 7 8

Noriaki Hoshino, Migrations and the Formation of a diverse Japanese Nation during the first Half of the twentieth Century, in: Pedro Iacobelli / Danton Leary / Shinnosuke Takahashi (eds.), Transnational Japan as History. Empire, Migration and Social Movements, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2016, pp. 121–143. Mark Mazower, Salonica. City of Ghosts: Christians, Muslims and Jews 1430–1950, London: HarperCollins 2004. Roger Swift, The Outcast Irish in the British Victorian City: Problems and Perspectives, in: Irish Historical Studies 25, 1987, pp. 264–276. Walter Siebel, Einleitung: Die europäische Stadt, in: Ibid., Die europäische Stadt, Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp 2004, pp. 11–50.

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their own peer group, often neglecting the interests of the urban poor or working classes, since there was certainly a class bias in planning and zoning, urban beautification, the provision of the benefits from public utilities and the creation of transport infrastructure. What is more important, however, is the far less obvious manifestation of such citizen-lead activities in a lot of the Southern and Eastern European urban fabric. In the absence, or comparative weakness, of a dominant and city-conscious bourgeoisie, other concepts of an urban civil society applied, which focused on kinship, neighbourhood and, associated with the two, migratory heritage. People who knew each other from former regions of residence, possibly coupled with close or distant kinship and, most importantly, who dwelled near each other, by doing so faced the same challenges associated with urban life. In the fast-growing cities of the Southern and Eastern periphery of 20th century Europe, these challenges were usually associated with finding or rather creating accommodation opportunities, sometimes including building permits, and then ensuring that over time newly and often illegally established urban areas were included into the city plans to receive utilities, roads and public services in general. Neighbours, more often than not additionally welded together by clientelist structures, also provided support regarding jobs, educational opportunities, health care provisions and more. 9 Such structures could also be supplemented by formal associations, although these were, on the whole, of lesser importance than in Western and Central Europe, where either private associations or voluntary engagement in public offices, for example the various self-administrative Boards that were created in the rapidly industrialising cities of nineteenth-century Britain, were the underbelly of the urban civil society. Apart from providing important services in the cultural, educational or social, including charitable, sectors, they were also instrumental in defining and regulating social capital and status within the urban bourgeoisie. In parts of Western Europe, even basic city planning itself was something at least some segments of urban civil society got involved in. The educated and propertied bourgeoisie took an interest in drawing the broad outlines of city development since often the overall responsibility for that lay with local or regional governments, not the central state. As outlined in Baba’s contribution, this was in stark contrast to Japan, where town planning was controlled by the state. One example is the Tokyo City Improvement Land and Building Disposition Codes, implemented in 1889 by the Home Ministry (Naimushō) to expropriate and utilise land. Although it took almost three decades for it to be applied in 9

This is detailed in several local studies: Orhan Esen, Logiken der Stadtproduktion. Istanbul im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, in: Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2009 (“Städte in Südeuropa”, ed. by Martin Baumeister / Rainer Liedtke), pp. 15–23; Rainer Liedtke, Migration, Nachbarschaften, Netzwerke: Athen im 20. Jahrhundert, in: Ibid., pp. 24–33, Bruno Bonomo, From “Eternal City” to Unfinished Metropolis. The Development of Rome’s Urban Space and its Appropriation by City Dwellers from 1945 to the Present, in: Ibid., pp. 34–46; Martin Baumeister, Die Hydra der Moderne. Masseneinwanderung und Wohnungspolitik in Madrid unter der Franco-Diktatur, in: Ibid., pp. 47–59; Brigitte le Normand, Urban Development in Belgrade, 1945–1972, in: Ibid., pp. 60–69.

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most other large cities, the decision to do so was taken by the central government. The cities’ local authorities were not much involved in this decision-making process. Julia Mariko Jacoby emphasises this aspect as well when she mentions the Tokyo Institute for Municipal Research (Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai), founded by the highly influential urban planner Gotō Shinpei in the early 1920s, which made urban planning the exclusive prerogative of an elite group of bureaucrats and experts directed by the central government. However, as the process of Haussmannisation in Paris during the 1850s and 1860s showed, there were limits to citizen participation in Europe, too, and much of Southern and Eastern European city planning happened without significant input from the urban middle classes. Jacoby likewise points to the fact that urban planning was complicated in Japan by the laws guiding land ownership, especially since the owners of land did not need to be identical with the owners of buildings located on that land. For a related reason, land ownership also made urban planning difficult in parts of Europe, especially in some Mediterranean countries where there were many small landowners who had tiny parcels of land spread out over an urban area. The human or civil society factor in moulding cities, be it all apparent through deciding where to put buildings, roads or tracks, be it less obvious through social, work or consumption patterns and networks, is of course of immense importance when comparing city cultures from different regions of the world. It is a factor which is highly difficult to pinpoint, in particular since the people, their culture or patterns of social behaviour are usually cited first when one wants to explain, or fails to explain, why differences exist or maybe some commonalities can be ascertained between cities in different parts of the world. So, what about the – from a European or Western point of view – very different Japanese society and its capacity to influence urban development and conditions? This contribution cannot answer that question. Nevertheless, an observation may be of interest for putting the human factor in Japanese cities into perspective. Apart from the undoubtedly important national and regional political decision makers, the influence of individual urban planners, and the power of investments by company boards, one social formation that shaped Japanese cities from the civil society side were the neighbourhoods, which existed on two levels: the informal togetherness of people living close to each other and the formalised association of people living in a defined area of the city. The latter has its origin in central government requests to form self-administration groups (jichikai) in urban quarters or large cities, initially with the sole purpose of executing orders handed down by the political authorities. During the 1920s and 1930s these bodies were refined and given an internal leadership hierarchy. 10 In her contribution to this volume, Julia Mariko Jacoby emphasises the importance of these neighbourhoods for fire-prevention. In the densely populated urban areas of Japan, where wood was the main house-building material, early detection of fires was highly important and only functioned in close communities with a high degree of social cohesion and control. Likewise, 10 Katja Schmidtpott, Nachbarschaft und Urbanisierung in Japan, 1890–1970, Munich: Iudicium 2009, pp. 13–15.

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the neighbourhoods were also used, according to Jacoby, when land adjustment decisions had to be taken in order to rebuild neighbourhoods devasted by the Great Kantō earthquake in 1923. The organisational and mobilising power of the neighbourhood communities (chōkai) is also emphasised in the contribution of Takahito Mori, who details their importance for the implementation of Kōsei Undō. With all due caution, it may be suggested that for Japanese cities these organisations played a role somewhere in between the neighbourhood networks, described for Southern Europe, and the association-based civil society culture of Western and parts of Central Europe, which each in their own way shaped cities in Europe. Overall, however, societal or cultural differences between Japan and Europe or, for that matter, Japan and North America are a very abstract concept and, broadly speaking, seem to be neither more nor less important than differences between various parts of Europe, regions or even individual cities within some European nations. The above-mentioned significance of migration for the shaping of the urban fabric in the West only underlines this argument.

APPENDIX

TABLES AND FIGURES Chapter 2 (Satoshi Baba) Table 1:

Figure 1:

Table 2:

Sōmushō Tōkeikyoku, 2-7 Todōfuken – shibu – gunbubetsu jinkō, jinkō mitsudo, jinkō shūchū chiku jinkō oyobi menseki (Meiji 31nen – Heisei 17nen) [2-7 Population, Population Density, Population of Densely Inhabited Districts and Area by Prefecture, All Shi and All Gun (1898–2005)], 2012. https://warp.da.ndl.go.jp/ collections/content/info:ndljp/pid/11423429/www.stat.go.jp/data/ chouki/zuhyou/02-07.xls; accessed 6.1.2022. Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai (ed.), Nihon toshi nenkan, dai 1 [Japanese Urban Yearbook, Vol 1], Tokyo: Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai, 1931, p. 54; Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai (ed.), Nihon toshi nenkan, dai 12 [Japanese Urban Yearbook, Vol. 12], Tokyo: Tōkyō Shisei Chōsakai, 1943, p. 42. Ishida Yorifusa, Nihon kingendai toshi keikaku no tenkai, 1868– 2003 [The Development of modern Japanese town planning, 1868– 2003], Tokyo: Jichitai Kenkyūsha 2004, p. 64; André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First Century, London: Routledge 2002, p. 72.

Chapter 3 (Beate Löffler) Figure 1: Figure 2: Figure 3: Figure 4: Figure 5: Figure 6: Figure 7: Figure 8:

Aimé Humbert, Le Japon illustré, Vol. 1, Paris: L. Hachette 1870, p. 133. Aimé Humbert, Le Japon illustré, Vol. 2, Paris : L. Hachette 1870, p. 343. From the collection of Steve Sundberg. https://www.oldtokyo.com/ atagoyama-atago-hill-tokyo-c-1910-30/; accessed 22.8.2021. Author’s collection Author’s collection Tōkyō fūkei. Scenes in the Eastern capital of Japan, Tokyo: Ogawa Kazumasa Shuppanbu 1911, s. p. Tōkyō fūkei. Scenes in the Eastern capital of Japan, Tokyo: Ogawa Kazumasa Shuppanbu 1911, s. p. Peter Jessen, Reisestudien 4, in: Kunstgewerbeblatt 28, 5, 1917, p. 77.

266 Figure 9: Figure 10: Figure 11: Figure 12: Figure 13: Figure 14: Figure 15:

Figure 16: Figure 17: Figure 18: Figure 19: Figure 20:

Figure 21:

Figure 22:

Figure 23:

Figure 24:

Appendix

Peter Jessen, Reisestudien 4, in: Kunstgewerbeblatt 28, 5, 1917, p. 82. Franz Baltzer / Bernhard Berrens, Die Wirkungen des Erdbebens in Japan am 1. September 1923, in: Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 44, 9, 27.02.1924, pp. 69–74, here p. 71. Franz Baltzer / Bernhard Berrens, Die Wirkungen des Erdbebens in Japan am 1. September 1923, in: Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 44, 9, 27.02.1924, pp. 69–74, here p. 72. Author’s collection Author’s collection Author’s collection Tokyo and Yokohama, Japan, Earthquake September 1, 1923. A good idea of the tremendous devastation in Tokyo wrought by earthquake and fire, photograph taken by George A. Lang, 1923, USGS Denver Library Photographic Collection, lga00006. Via https://library.usgs.gov/photo/#/item/51dc5a83e4b097e4d3836807; accessed 5.12.2019. Author’s collection Author’s collection Author’s collection Author’s collection 100 Views of New Tokyo, Nihonbashi (#52) by Hiratsuka Un’ichi, 2.3.1929, Carnegie Museum of Art, 8A_052_1929_Hiratsuka. Via https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/tokyo_modern_03/kk_gal_03_ thumb.html; accessed 22.12.2019. 100 Views of New Tokyo, Kiyosu Bridge (#80) by Fukazawa Sakuichi, 2.1.1930, Carnegie Museum of Art, 8A_080_1930_ Fukazawa. Via https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/tokyo_modern_ 03/kk_gal_03_thumb.html; accesssed 22.12.2019. 100 Views of New Tokyo, The Kabuki Theatre at Night (#19) by Fujimori Shizuo, 6.1.1930, Carnegie Museum of Art, 8A_019_1930_Fujimori. Via https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/ tokyo_modern_03/kk_gal_03_thumb.html; accessed 22.12.2019. 100 Views of Great Tokyo in the Shōwa Era, Night View of Ginza in the Spring (#12a) by Koizumi Kishio, March 1931, The Wolfsonian–FIU, Miami Beach, FL, The Mitchell Wolfson, Jr. Collection, kk012a_1931_w095_ginza. Via https://visualizingcultu res.mit.edu/tokyo_modern_02/kk_gal_01_thumb.html; 22.8.2021. 100 Views of Great Tokyo in the Shōwa Era, Fudōdō Temple at Meguro (#69) by Koizumi Kishio, September 1935, The Wolfsonian–FIU, Miami Beach, FL, The Mitchell Wolfson, Jr. Collection, kk069_1935_w037_fudo. Via https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/ tokyo_modern_02/kk_gal_01_thumb.html; accessed 22.8.2021. External frame edited.

Tables and Figures

Figure 25:

267

100 Views of Great Tokyo in the Shōwa Era, Yanagi Bridge in the Night Rain (#29) by Koizumi Kishio, June 1932, The Wolfsonian– FIU, Miami Beach, FL, The Mitchell Wolfson, Jr. Collection, kk029_1932_w077_yanagi. Via https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/ tokyo_modern_02/kk_gal_01_thumb.html; accessed 22.8.2021. External frame edited.

Chapter 4 (Yūdai Deguchi) Table 1: Figure 1: Figure 2:

Figure 3: Figure 4: Table 2: Table 3:

Keihanshin Kyūkō Dentetsu Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Keihanshin Kyūkō Dentetsu 50 nenshi [Fifty Years of the Hankyū Corporation], Osaka: Keihanshin Kyūkō Dentetsu 1959, pp. 120–125. Created by the author Map by the author, based on Dainihon Teikoku Shichōson Chizu Kankōkai (ed.), Hyōgoken Mukogun Mukomura tochi hōten [Residential Map of Muko Village, Muko District, Hyōgo Prefecture], Tokyo: Dainihon Teikoku Shichōson Chizu Kankōkai 1941. Hankyū Corporation, Mukonosō Dai Jūtakuchi tokka ōuridashi [A Brochure of the Mukonosō Residential Area], Osaka: Hankyū Corporation 1937. Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakai 60 shūnen kinenshi [The History of the Sixty Years of the Mukonosō residents’ association], Amagasaki: Mukonosō Bunkakai 2010, p. 58. Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 128, 1961. Mukonosō Bunkakai, Mukonosō Bunkakaihō 128, 1961.

Chapter 5 (Julia Mariko Jacoby) Figure 1: Figure 2: Figure 3: Figure 4:

Shundō Shinzō, Shizuoka taika to sono fukkō keikaku [The Great Fire of Shizuoka and its reconstruction plan], in: Doboku Gakkaishi 26, 4, 1940, pp. 413–416, here p. 415. Uchida Yoshikazu et al., Atarashiki toshi tokushūgō [Special issue new city], in: Shinkenchiku 17, 4, 1941, p. 174. Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai [Architecture and fire], Tokyo: Sagami Shobō 1942, pp. 114 f. Uchida, Kenchiku to kasai [Architecture and fire], Tokyo: Sagami Shobō 1942, pp. 204 f.

Chapter 6 (Shūichi Takashima) Figure 1: Figure 2:

Photograph taken by the author Photograph taken by the author

268 Figure 3:

Figure 4: Figure 5: Figure 6: Figure 7: Figure 8:

Appendix

Map by the author, based on Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken [A History of the TUR Company, Vol. 1], Tokyo: Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha 1934, fig. 4 (s. p.). Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, ken [A History of the TUR Company, Vol. 1], Tokyo: Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha 1934, s. p. Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, kon [A History of the TUR Company, Vol. 2], Tokyo: Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha 1934, p. 27. Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha (ed.), Tōkyō Chika Tetsudōshi, kon [A History of the TUR Company, Vol. 2], Tokyo: Tōkyō Chika Tetsudō Kabushiki Gaisha 1934, fig. 68 (s. p.). Rudolf Briske, Die Erdbebensicherheit von Ingenieurbauten, in: Die Bautechnik 5, 39, 06.09.1927, pp. 547–555, here p. 554, fig. 34. Rudolf Briske, Tōkyōshi no kōsoku tetsudō ni tsukite [About the Rapid Transit in Tokyo], in: Teikoku Tetsudō Kyōkai kaihō 26, 3, 1925, pp. 123–130.

Chapter 7 (Takahito Mori) Figure 1: Figure 2: Figure 3: Figure 4: Figure 5: Figure 6: Figure 7:

Figure 8:

Asahi Graph [Asahi Picture News] 32, 8, 1939, p. 3. Asahi Graph [Asahi Picture News] 32, 8, 1939, pp. 4 f. Asahi Graph [Asahi Picture News] 32, 8, 1939, pp. 6 f; edited. Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku (ed.), Kōa Kōsei Taikaishi [Report on the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development], Osaka: Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku 1941. Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku (ed.), Kōa Kōsei Taikaishi [Report on the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development], Osaka: Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku 1941. Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku (ed.), Kōa Kōsei Taikaishi [Report on the International Recreation Congress for Asian Development], Osaka: Kōa Kōsei Taikai Jimukyoku 1941. Ōsakashi Miyakojima Kuyakusho Sōmuka, Miyakojima sengo 70nen kinen jigyō [Miyakojima: Picture Archive for Commemorating the 70th Anniversary of the End of the Second World War], 2016. https://www.city.osaka.lg.jp/miyakojima/page/0000312962. html; accessed 6.1.2022. Ōsakashi Hokenbu (ed.), Ōsakashi hoken shisetsu gaiyō [Handbook of the Healthcare and Public Hygiene Institutions in Osaka], Osaka: Ōsakashi Hokenbu 1940, p. 235; Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai (ed.), Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai gaiyō [Handbook of the Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai], Osaka: Ōsakashi Kōsei Kyōkai 1940, pp. 27 f., 40 f.

Tables and Figures

Figure 9:

269

Kokuritsu Kagaku Hakubutsukan, Rikō Denshi Shiryōkan, Seikatsu kaizen tenrankai shuppin posutā [Poster Collections of the Exhibition on the Improvement of Daily Life], undated. https://www.kahaku.go.jp/exhibitions/vm/past_parmanent/rikou/ other/poster.html; accessed 6.1.2022.

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CONTRIBUTORS Prof. Dr. Satoshi Baba Professor for Economic History, Faculty of Economics, Musashino University (Tokyo). Professor emeritus of the University of Tokyo. Major Publications: Economic History of Cities and Housing (as editor), Singapore: Springer 2017; Doitsu toshi keikaku no shakai keizaishi [Social and Economic History of Town Planning in Germany], Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 2016. Prof. Dr. Christoph Bernhardt Head of Research Area “Contemporary History and Archive” at Leibniz Institute for Research on Society and Space, Erkner/Berlin; adjunct Professor for Modern and Contemporary History at Humboldt University, Berlin. Major Publications: Christoph Bernhardt / Andreas Butter / Monika Motylińska (eds.), Between Solidarity and Economic Constraints. Global Entanglements of Socialist Architecture and Planning in the Cold War Period, Berlin: de Gruyter 2023 (forthcoming); Entanglements in Cartography and Architecture between Socialist Germany and India, 1949–1989, in: Anandita Bajpai (ed.), Cordial Cold War: Cultural Actors in India and the German Democratic, Los Angeles: Sage Publications 2021, pp. 131– 151. Assoc. Prof. Dr. Yūdai Deguchi Associate Professor for Social History of Japan, Graduate School of International Social Sciences, Yokohama National University. Major Publications: “Ka to hae no inai seikatsu jissen undō” to chi’iki shakai: Hankyū Mukonosō jūtakuchi o jirei ni [The new life movement for a “better life without mosquitoes and flies” and the local community: The case of Mukonosō residential area], in: Mita Gakkai zasshi 113, 4, 2021, pp. 81–102; Hankyū Mukonosō jūtakuchi ni okeru chi’iki shakai no keisei: Chi’iki jūmin soshiki no shiten kara [The process of local community formation in Mukonosō residential area: From the viewpoint of the residents’ association], in: Nihon rekishi 847, 2018, pp. 57–74. Dr. des. Julia Mariko Jacoby Postdoc at the Chair of Social and Economic History, Department of History, University of Duisburg-Essen. Major Publications: Learning from the Earthquake Nation. Japanese Science Diplomacy in the 20th Century, in: Journal of Contemporary History 56, 3, 2021, pp. 485–501; Taiheiyō ni okeru kokusaiteki na tsunami bōsai taisei no seiritsu [The Establishment of an International Tsunami Prevention System in the Pacific], in: Shigaku zasshi 127, 6, 2018, pp. 64–82.

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Prof. Dr. Rainer Liedtke Chair in European History (19th and 20th Century) at the University of Regensburg. Major publications: Geschichte Europas von 1815 bis zur Gegenwart, Paderborn: Schöningh UTB 2009; Informationen zur modernen Stadtgeschichte 1, 2009 (“Städte in Südeuropa”, ed. by Martin Baumeister / Rainer Liedtke). Dr. Beate Löffler University lecturer, History and Theory of Architecture, TU Dortmund. Major Publications: Constructing Japan. Knowledge production and identity building in late nineteenth century western architectural discourses, 2024 (forthcoming); Fremd und Eigen. Christlicher Sakralbau in Japan seit 1853, Berlin: Frank & Timme 2011. Prof. Dr. Takahito Mori Professor for European Socio-Economic History, Graduate School of Economics, Hitotsubashi University (Tokyo). Major Publications: Shitsugyō o umemodosu: Doitsu shakai toshi, shakai kokka no mosaku [The struggle for re-embedding the unemployment: Social City and Social State in Germany in the Long 20th Century], Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai 2022; Elektrifizierung als Urbanisierungsprozess: Frankfurt am Main 1886–1933, Darmstadt: Hessisches Wirtschaftsarchiv 2014. Prof. Dr. Ralf Roth Professor of Modern History at the Historische Seminar, Johann Wolfgang Goethe Universität in Frankfurt am Main. Major Publications: Ralf Roth / Paul van Heesvelde (eds.), The City and the Railway in the World from the Nineteenth Century to the Present, London: Routledge 2022; Ralf Roth / Robert Beachy (eds.), Who Ran the Cities? City Elites and Urban Power Structures in Europe and North America, 1750–1940, London: Routledge 2017. Prof. Dr. Katja Schmidtpott Professor of Japanese History, Faculty of East Asian Studies, Ruhr University Bochum. Major Publications: Die Propagierung moderner Zeitdisziplin in Japan (1906–1931), in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft, Sonderheft 25, 2015 (“Obsession der Gegenwart: Zeit im 20. Jahrhundert”, ed. by Alexander C. T. Geppert / Till Kössler), pp. 123–155; Indifferent communities: Neighbourhood associations, class and community consciousness in prewar Tokyo, in: Christoph Brumann / Evelyn Schulz (eds.), Urban spaces in Japan: The social scientific study of Japan and the “spatial turn”, London: Routledge 2012, pp. 125–147. Prof. em. Dr. Dieter Schott Until March 2020, Dieter Schott was Professor for Modern History with a focus on Urban and Environmental History at the History Department of Darmstadt University of Technology. Major Publications: Tim Soens / Dieter Schott / Michael Toyka-Seid / Bert de Munck (eds.), Urbanizing Nature. Actors and Agen-

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cy (Dis)Connecting Cities and Nature Since 1500, New York: Routledge 2019; Europäische Urbanisierung (1000–2000). Eine umwelthistorische Einführung, Köln: Böhlau 2014. Prof. Dr. Shūichi Takashima Professor for Japanese Socio-Economic History, School of Economics, Aoyama Gakuin University (Tokyo). Major Publications: The Unfinished Dream of “Workplace and Dwelling Proximity”: Development of Private Railway Companies and Areas on Railway Lines in Greater Tokyo Metropolitan Areas, in: Ralf Roth / Paul van Heesvelde (eds.), The City and the Railway in the World from the Nineteenth Century to the Present, London: Routledge 2022, pp. 288–306; Toshi tetsudō no gijutsu shakaishi [A Technological and Social History of Urban Railway in Tokyo], Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha 2019.

Broadening the global perspective is high on the agenda for the current study of urban history. It is widely accepted in contemporary Japanese urban history that the prototype of the modern city was formed in the decades between the 1900s and the 1930s, when, against the background of accelerating urbanisation, the ideas of modernity in terms of regularity, functionality and rationality contributed to the establishment of mass culture and ultimately to social mobilisation for ‚total war‘. These views coincide with those of European urban history.

ISBN 978-3-515-13408-8

9 783515 134088

In order to understand this coincidence, the volume is divided into three parts: 1. Surveys of mutual historiographical perceptions, 2. Case studies of urban architecture, the garden city concept, concepts of urban disaster prevention, infrastructure building and organised urban leisure, 3. Observations from the perspective of European urban history. The combination will not only elucidate the process of making the 20th century Japanese city, but also help the reader to rethink the modern European city in a global context.

www.steiner-verlag.de Franz Steiner Verlag