War and Semiotics: Signs, Communication Systems, and the Preparation, Legitimization, and Commemoration of Collective Mass Violence 9780367504069, 9781003049838

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War and Semiotics

Wars create their own dynamics, especially with regard to images and lan­ guage. The semiotic and semantic codes are redefined, according to the need to create an enemy image, or in reference to the results of a war that are postevent defined as just or reasonable. The semiotic systems of wars are central to the discussion of the contributions within this volume, which highlight the interrelationship of semiotic systems and their constructions during wars in different periods of history. Frank Jacob is a professor of Global History at Nord University, Norway. He received his PhD in Japanese Studies from Erlangen University in 2012 and previously held positions at the University of Würzburg, Germany (2013/2014) and the City University of New York, United States (2014–2018).

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Routledge Studies in Modern History

The United Nations and Decolonization Edited by Nicole Eggers, Jessica Lynne Pearson and Aurora Almada e Santos The Grand Strategies of Great Powers Tudor A. Onea Ruler Personality Cults from Empires to Nation-States and Beyond Edited by Kirill Postoutenko and Darin Stephanov Embassies in Crisis Studies of Diplomatic Missions in Testing Situations Edited by Rogelia Pastor-Castro and Martin Thomas Redefining Propaganda in Modern China The Mao Era and its Legacies Edited by James Farley and Matthew D. Johnson War and Semiotics Signs, Communication Systems, and the Preparation, Legitimization, and Commemoration of Collective Mass Violence Edited by Frank Jacob German-East Asian Encounters and Entanglements Affinity in Culture and Politics Since 1945 Edited by Joanne Miyang Cho Corporate Policing, Yellow Unionism, and Strikebreaking, 1890–1930 In Defence of Freedom Edited by Matteo Millan and Alessandro Saluppo For a full list of titles, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/history/series/ MODHIST

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War and Semiotics

Signs, Communication Systems, and the Preparation, Legitimization, and Commemoration of Collective Mass Violence Edited by Frank Jacob

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First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Frank Jacob; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Frank Jacob to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved: No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalogue record has been requested for this book ISBN: 9780367504069 (hbk) ISBN: 9781003049838 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

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Contents

List of figures List of contributors War and semiotics, war semiotics, and the semiotics of war: An introduction

vii viii

1

FRANK JACOB

PART I

War, semiotics, and the question of interpretation 1

Media constructions of war and peace during the war of the Spanish succession

15 17

MAX PHILIPP WEHN

2

The Red Cross “Shield”: The semiotic duality of the Red Cross during the occupation of Norway, 1940–1945

37

JAMES CROSSLAND AND GAUTE LUND RØNNEBU

3

The semiotics of collaboration

56

EIRIK HOLMEN

PART II

War, semiotics, and identity constructions 4

(Re-)Negotiating internment: Language, semiotics, and the German internment experience in the United States during the First World War

77

79

KARL DARGEL

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vi Contents 5

The semiotic construction of Judeo-Bolshevism in Germany, 1918–1933

106

FRANK JACOB

6

The semiotics of British print propaganda in Spain during the Second World War

128

MARTA GARCÍA CABRERA

7

The semiotics of collaboration and resistance during the Nazi German occupation of Norway 1940–1945

158

STEINAR AAS

8

Postage stamps, war memory, and commemoration: A case study of the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971

183

MANU SHARMA

9

Semiotics beyond agency: Violence and meaning in the theater of war

201

GAL HERTZ

PART III

War, semiotics, and politics

227

10 “National decay and national resurrection”: The semiotics of Quisling’s conception of history

229

FREDRIK WILHELMSEN

11 Legitimate or improper economic collaboration? The struggle about the past after the German occupation of Norway

259

HANS OTTO FRØLAND AND MARTIN STEFFENSEN

12 Eastern Europe in the shadow of a propaganda war: Józef Mackiewicz and totalitarian propaganda

282

KATARZYNA BAŁŻEWSKA

EPILOGUE

War semiotics in the post-cold war world

299

13 Brinkmanship: A cold war parody of statesmanship

301

ROLF HUGOSON

Index

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List of figures

3.1 Signs and hermeneutics 4.1 This type of two-storey wooden barrack was the most

common one at Oglethorpe 4.2 View of a guard tower from within camp grounds 4.3 Inside view of one of the guard towers 4.4 The evolution of the front covers: Nos. 1, 7, and 10 4.5 Lithography showing the idealized barracks in Camp B

by Max von Recklinghausen 4.6 In this poem, the last two words of the Latin motto

“Per aspera ad astra” are replaced by two dashes 6.1 Neutral shipping and British blockade, in Spain’s Place

in the Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20 6.2 Spanish commercial dependence, in Spain’s Place in the

Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20 6.3 The Mask Comes Off, n.d. [ca. 1942], TNA, London, INF 2/20 6.4 Depiction of German breach of treaties, in El arte

de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection 6.5 Drawing that depicts the Third Reich’s attacks on culture,

in El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection 6.6 Representation of Nazi peace, in El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection 6.7 Paganism and anti-Catholicism of the Third Reich, in

El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection 6.8 Front cover of the pamphlet El arte de la mentira, n.d.

[ca. 1944], Private Collection 7.1 Election results for the NS party during the interwar period 7.2 Findings of the words “landssvik,” “landsforræder” and

“quisling” in Norwegian literature from the National Library

Database of all books published in Norwegian between

1900 and 2010 7.3 Findings of the use of the word “landsvikoppgjør”

(Legal Proceedings of Treason) in Norwegian Publications

between 1945 and 2010 7.4 One of the posters used in the campaign against NS in Bodø

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60

89

89

90

95

96

99

138

140

141

147

147

148

149

150

161

163

164

177

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Contributors

Steinar Aas is a professor of Modern History at Nord University, Norway. He received his PhD from the Arctic University in Tromsø in 2007. His main fields of research are Modern Norwegian History, especially during the Second World War and the Cold War, as well as Urban History and Polar History. His latest works include “Narvik, a Swedish Norwegian Border Town” (2019) and “Il punto di vista Norvegese su Renato Alessandrini” (2019). Katarzyna Bałżewska is a graduate of Polish philology at the University of Gdańsk. Her doctorate was devoted to the Polish literary reception of Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain. She was a recipient of the Swedish Institute Scholarship and worked at Stockholm University on a postdoctoral project (literary representation of Sovietization process in Jozef Mackiewicz’s works). Currently, she is a recipient of the August Cieszkowski Foundation Scholarship. She has published in The Polish Review, Sarmatian Review, Telos and various Polish periodicals. She is the author of Przestrzenie totalitarnego zniewolenia. Doświadczenie wojny i okupacji w twórczości Józefa Mackiewicza (2020). James Crossland is a reader in International History at Liverpool John Moores University. His research interests lie in the history of the laws of war, propaganda and conflict, and he is a specialist in the history of the Red Cross. He is the author of War, Law and Humanity: The Campaign to Control Warfare, 1853–1914 (2018), Britain and the International Committee of the Red Cross, 1939–1945 (2014) and the co-editor of a recent collection, The Red Cross Movement: Myths, Practices and Turning Points (2020). Karl Dargel is an advanced master student in the joint-degree Global History MA program at Freie Universität Berlin and Humboldt University Berlin. Prior he studied psychology, English studies, linguistics and history in Kassel, Berlin and at Duke University, North Carolina. His main fields of interest and research are Modern German and US History, Intellectual History and Global History with an emphasis on its manifold linguistic entanglements. He is currently working as student assistant at

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the chair of Contemporary History at the Friedrich-Meinecke-Institut of Freie Universität Berlin. Hans Otto Frøland is a professor in Contemporary European History at the Department of Modern History and Society, Norwegian University of Science and Technology. He defended his doctoral thesis on Scandinavian incomes policy and wage bargaining at the University of Trondheim in 1993. His research has consistently revolved around historical political economy and he has published widely on the history of European integration, the Second World War and its post-war legacy, nation-states and globalization, the global aluminium industry and the international political economy of natural resources. He has been directing several international research projects. His latest publication (with Mats Ingulstad) is “Be prepared! Emergency stockpiles of oil among Western consumer countries prior to the International Energy Agency system,” in Handbook of OPEC and the Global Energy Order (2020). Marta García Cabrera is a PhD student and researcher at the Department of Historical Sciences of the University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (ULPGC), Spain. Her work has been co-financed by the Canarian Agency for Research, Innovation and Information Society (ACIISI) of the Regional Ministry of Economy, Industry, Trade and Knowledge and by the European Social Fund (ESF). She obtained her BA in History and her MA in Teaching in Secondary Levels from University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria in 2013 and 2014 respectively, as well as an MA in War, Media and Society from the University of Kent, UK in 2016, with specialization in the study of History, Communication and War Propaganda. Her main fields of research and interest are Modern European History, International Relations History and Cultural History, especially European Propaganda and Communication during World Wars. Marta has authored important scientific articles on war intelligence, sabotage and propaganda, revealing the effects of the international wars in Spain and the Canary Islands. Gal Hertz’s field of study is the genealogy of social disciplines, and the connections between literary, legal and political knowledge in the modern German–speaking world around 1900. He completed his doctoral studies at the Cohen Institute in 2014, and his dissertation examines the critique of language, identity and ideology in the work of the Viennese critic Karl Kraus. He worked on the project “Language Criticism as Moral Criticism: Kraus, Adorno, Arendt and Brecht.” He is currently working on a book project: “Graz 1900 – Human Sciences and the Politics of Normality.” He is the co-director of the “Humanities in Conflict Zones” Initiative, within the Minerva Humanities Center and the Jewish-Arab Cultural Studies Program at Tel Aviv University. In addition, he founded the Humanities Clinic.

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Contributors

Eirik Holmen is a PhD researcher in the Department of History at Volda University College, where he is currently writing a thesis on the mobilization of the Norwegian shipyard industry during occupation (1940–1945). He has seen 2016 been a participant of the larger research project, “In a World of Total War: Norway 1939–1945.” His wider research interests include Fishery and Maritime History, the Second World War, Nationalism and Global History. Rolf Hugoson is an assistant professor in Political Science at Umeå University, Sweden, where he has been teaching since 2008, and where he finished his PhD in 2000 on the political theory of cultural policy. Interested in diplomatic affairs, policy studies and urban history, his research continuously explores historical contexts where words are used rhetorically and contribute to the development of conceptual fields. In Swedish, he has published studies of Rhetoric and War, of 1848, of Machiavelli, of Sartre. In English, there is an article on “The Swedish Discipline at the end of the Cold War” (in Militärhistorisk tidskrift 2013) and on the concept of Liquidity (in Contributions to the History of Concepts 2019). He is currently working on the concept of Sovereignty in the context of Queen Christina of Sweden’s abdication in 1654. Frank Jacob is professor of Global History at Nord University, Norway. He received his PhD in Japanese Studies from Erlangen University in 2012 and previously held positions at the University of Würzburg, Germany (2013/2014) and the City University of New York, United States (2014–2018). His main fields of research and interest are Modern Japanese History, Military History and Comparative History, especially Transatlantic Anarchism. Jacob has authored or edited more than 70 books and his latest works include Japanese War Crimes During World War II (2018), War and Art (co-ed. with Mor Presiado, 2020), War and Veterans (co-ed. with Stefan Karner, 2020), 1917: Die korrumpierte Revolution (2020), Emma Goldman and the Russian Revolution (2020) and Gallipoli 1915/1916 (2020). Gaute Lund Rønnebu is a doctoral research fellow at UiT – The Arctic University of Norway and The Narvik War and Peace Centre. The topic of his PhD thesis is the work of the humanitarian organizations during the Nazi occupation of Norway 1940–1945. His main fields of research and interest are the Second World War in the high north and the Norwegian Labour Movement. Manu Sharma is currently a PhD candidate in the Diplomacy and Disarmament Division of the Centre for International Politics, Organization and Disarmament at the School of International Studies (CIPOD), Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) in New Delhi, India. His PhD thesis examines the visual iconography of postage stamps and its role in articulating a postcolonial national identity and state-building efforts

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in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. He completed his Master of Arts in International Relations from Sikkim Central University, Gangtok. In August 2016, he completed his Master of Philosophy (Diplomacy and Disarmament) from JNU titled “Nuclear iconography in Indian Popular Culture.” His research interests include visual studies, popular culture, nuclear humanities, India–Pakistan Relations, Kashmir, and Indian Foreign Policy. Martin Steffensen holds an MA in History and is currently working as a teacher at Kuben Upper Secondary in Oslo, Norway. Max Philipp Wehn is a research associate for Early Modern History at Philipps-University Marburg, Germany. He received his BA in History and Journalism from Justus-Liebig University Gießen in 2014, MA in History of International Politics from Philipp-University Marburg in 2017 and is currently doing his PhD in Historical Peace Studies (“Media Constructions of Peace in Europe, 1710–1714”). His main fields of research and interest are Historical Peace and Security Studies, Media History and History of International Relations. Fredrik Wilhelmsen is a PhD research fellow at the Faculty of Social Sciences at Nord University, Norway. He holds an MA in History of ideas from University of Oslo, and his main fields of research and interest are fascism and the extreme right, the history of political ideas and critical and social theory.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics, and the semiotics of war An introduction Frank Jacob

Introduction Semiotics surround us, and as a scientific approach, the study of signs, to use the easiest definition here, helps us to learn more about “meaning-making”1 or how these signs around us came into existence and what they intend to tell us.2 The meaning3 or the intention4 of specific semiotics is usually what scientists, mostly semioticians, are especially interested in. How the mean­ ing or intention of sign systems is created and how specific signs become generally interpreted according to their existence within a specific system are the main aspects of semiotic studies.5 Since these “systems of signifi­ cation,” as the famous French scholar Roland Barthes (1915–1980) called them, are created by “images, gestures, musical sounds, objects, and the complex associations of all these,”6 studies that intend to take a closer look at the systematization of signs, i.e. semiotics, have to be aware that there are many aspects to consider if the system itself should be made visible in its widest sense and existence. Every culture, every national context, every society in abstraction to an “other” is consequently based on a specific sign system or specific catego­ ries that are “necessary to communicate” and provide a “level of meaning,”7 1 Gary Genosko, Critical Semiotics: Theory, from Information to Affect (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016), 1. 2 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London/New York: Routledge, 2017), 1. 3 Julia Kristeva, “Introduction: Le Lieu Sémiotique,” in Essays in Semiotics/Essais de Sémiotique, ed. Julia Kristeva et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971), 1. 4 Kalevi Kull, “On the Limits of Semiotics, or the Thresholds of/in Knowing,” in Umberto Eco in His Own Words, ed. Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 42. 5 Genosko, Critical Semiotics, 1. 6 Roland Barthes, Elements of Semiology, trans. Annette Lavers and Colin Smith (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 9. For a recent reflection on Barthes and his works from a semiotic perspective, see Gianfranco Marrone, Roland Barthes: Parole chiave (Rome: Carocci editore, 2016). 7 Anna Maria Lorusso, Cultural Semiotics: For a Cultural Perspective in Semiotics (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 119.

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which builds the fundament of the named contexts. It would be limiting the scientific approach towards such systems if we based the analysis only on language or texts, as there are also visual or auditive sign systems of equal importance.8 As these different systems are referring to “codes and structures that lie at the root of all meaningful exchanges,”9 it is impor­ tant to properly identify them in their current form of existence or from a historian’s perspective, as they existed in a concrete historical context. Especially with regard to the wars of the past, such codes and structures can be identified, which is why a semiotic approach to these violent epi­ sodes of human history seems to be particularly interesting and promising. Consequently, the present volume intends to shed some light on formerly existent semiotics in their war-related context and to show the extent to which these were decisive for the historical events or their later perception by the societies that shared them as their past. As mentioned before, there can be different semiotic systems in existence that overlap at one moment in time, although, very often, the focus is usually put on the union of text and image, i.e. semantics or textual semiotics and images or visual semiotics.10 The late Italian semiotician Umberto Eco (1932–2016), in his classic work A Theory of Semiotics (1976), argued with regard to the semiotic methodol­ ogy, “[a] design for a general semiotics should consider: (a) a theory of codes and (b) a theory of sign production—the latter taking into account a large range of phenomena such as the common use of languages, the evolution of codes, aesthetic communication, different types of international commu­ nicative behavior, the use of signs in order to mention things or states of the world and so on.”11 Both a theory of codes as well as a theory of sign produc­ tion can also be applied to the study of wars, as codes, especially military ones, are necessary to wage them, while sign production is important to prepare the acceptance for the use of violence, i.e. its legitimization as well as the commemoration of the wars of the past. However, and regardless of the many possibilities for semiotics, as Daniel Chandler argued in his introduction to Semiotics, it “is still not widely institutionalized as an aca­ demic discipline.”12 One reason might be that since it is “the study of signi­ fication, semiotics is intrinsically interdisciplinary”13 and developed strong ties to the fields of philosophy and linguistics in the past, however military

8 D. Jean Umiker-Sebeok, “Semiotics of Culture: Great Britain and North America,” Annual Review of Anthropology 6 (1977): 122. 9 Lorusso, Cultural Semiotics, 4. 10 Thomas Friedrich and Gerhard Schweppenhäuser, Bildsemiotik: Grundlagen und exem­ plarische Analysen visueller Kommunikation (Basel/Boston/Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2010), 16. Also see John Lyons, Semantics, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009 [1977]) and Tony Jappy, Introduction to Peircean Visual Semiotics (London: Bloomsbury, 2013). 11 Umberto Eco, A Theory of Semiotics (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1979), 3.

12 Chandler, Semiotics, 3.

13 Chandler, Semiotics, 4.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics 3 historians have paid comparatively less attention to semiotics in relation to wars.14 A main aspect of interest was textual analysis,15 although there have also been studies about specific media of visual semiotics in the context of historical wars.16 Nevertheless, semiotics does not exist as a vivid subcate­ gory of military history or of the cultural study of wars. Semiotics always need to look at signs as a creation or their systemati­ zation of the human mind, as objects or things by themselves could hardly offer anything to be studied by semioticians or a semiotic approach, as Estonian biosemiotician Kalevi Kull emphasized, “[S]emiotics has nothing to add to physical and chemical knowledge … [and] is about knowledge, or knowing. Thus, it means that semiotics may have something to say about the description of [things], without a possibility to say anything reasonable about [things] themselves.”17 When using semiotics as a theoretical approach for the study of military history, it can be researched in relation to wars as actual and/or historical events, what should be called war semiotics here. In addition, semiotics can also be studied with regard to their existence in peaceful societies that use codes and sign systems, here referred to as semi­ otics of war, with regard to the commemoration of the violent struggles of the past – for example through war memorials.18

War and semiotics That semiotics can be applied to war is relatively unsurprising, considering that war per se is a form of order – in the double sense of namely with regard to the use and legitimization of (collective) violence applied by professionals to defeat an enemy due to economic, political, religious, or other reasons. Applying a systematization of war, almost like a general systems theory would attempt to do,19 we try to explain the genesis, course, and impact of wars, 14 There have been, of course, historical studies that have dealt with related issues; see, among others, Robin Tolmach Lakoff, The Language of War (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000) and Markus Kink, Die Sprache des Krieges: Zur diskursiven Ermöglichung präventiver Kriegsführung (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2011). 15 Chandler, Semiotics, 97. 16 Some examples with regard to the US context are Cameron C. Nickels, Civil War Humor (Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi, 2010), Clémentine Tholas-Disset and Karen A. Ritzenhoff, eds., Humor, Entertainment, and Popular Culture during World War I (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015) and Sepp Linhart, “The Japanese Soldier in American Popular Songs: A Comparison of Songs from the Russo-Japanese War (1904–05) and from the Pacific War (1941–1945),” in War and Stereotypes: Images of the Japan’s Military Abroad, ed. Frank Jacob and Sepp Linhart (Paderborn: Brill/Schöningh, 2020), 119–153. 17 Kull, “On the Limits of Semiotics,” 42. 18 Frank Jacob and Kenneth Pearl, eds., War and Memorials, 2 vols. (Paderborn: Brill/ Schöningh, 2019). 19 Ludwig von Bertalanffy, “General Theory of Systems: Application to Psychology,” in Essays in Semiotics/Essais de Sémiotique, ed. Julia Kristeva et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971), 191.

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almost always in a comparative perspective, as studies naturally have to take a look at the enemy of the studied subject or subject group as well. Since war is understood as something ordered, namely that violence is used in a dosed form against a specifically determined enemy or target to achieve a preset tar­ get, it makes sense to study the forces that order it, as well as the rules that war as an ordered event follows. When we look at anomalies, e.g. outbursts of vio­ lence, we are naturally interested in the aspects that do not comply with the preset order. If there is no clear designation of the enemy anymore, to name just one example, the ordered aspect of war would disappear, and violence would often become senseless and more an expression of chaos than of order. The order of war, however, is reliant on many things, including signs that have been systematized and loaded with meaning to make them understandable by everyone involved. These sign systems can better be studied. I would like to argue here, if semiotics were applied as a method by military historians, a chance for a true perspective that matches the demands of the so-called “new military history”20 to be used. Although semiotics is often criticized for being “insufficiently specialised” and “does not always fit into disciplinary com­ pounds or institutional enclaves,”21 it is especially this interdisciplinarity that makes it so attractive to widen the analytical scope of military history with regard to the study of war and the sign systems in relation to it. While being essentially interdisciplinary, semiotics goes back to antiq­ uity, and Aristotle’s (385–323 bce) work On Interpretation (ca. 350 bce)22 is often referred to as the seminal work on semiotics, followed by semiotic theory by the Stoics in the following century.23 Another famous figure that is often named when the origins of semiotics are discussed is the theolo­ gian and philosopher Augustine of Hippo (354–430 ce).24 Regardless of the discussion about the origin of the discipline, the theoretical approaches semiotics provide seem rather clear. The internationally well-known semio­ ticians Susan Petrilli and Augusto Ponzio have provided a profound defini­ tion, which shall be quoted here in some detail: “Semiotics” refers to both the specificity of human semiosis and the general science of signs. Under the first meaning, semiotics relates to the specific 20 Joanna Bourke, “New Military History,” in Palgrave Advances in Modern Military History, ed. Matthew Hughes and William J. Philpott (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 258–280. 21 Paul Cobley, “What the Humanities Are For: A Semiotic Perspective,” in Semiotics and Its Masters, vol. 1, ed. Kristian Bankov and Paul Cobley (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 4. 22 Aristotle, On Interpretation, trans. E.M. Edghill, accessed May 20, 2020, http://classics. mit.edu/Aristotle/interpretation.html. 23 Chandler, Semiotics, 2. 24 For more detail, see Remo Gramigna, Augustine’s Theory of Signs, Signification, and Lying (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020). More generally on medieval semiotics, see Stephan Meier-Oeser, “Medieval Semiotics,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta, accessed May 20, 2020, https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2011/ entries/semiotics-medieval/.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics 5 human capacity for metasemiosis. In the world of life that encompasses semiosis, human semiosis is characterized as metasemiosis – that is, as the possibility of reflecting on signs. We can approach signs as objects of inter­ pretation indistinguishable from our responses to them. But we can also approach signs in such a way that we suspend our responses to them so that deliberation is possible. … Human semiosis, anthroposemiosis, presents itself as semiotics. Semiotics as human semiosis or anthroposemiosis can scour the entire universe for meanings and senses that can then be treated as signs. … Under the second meaning, semiotics is the study of signs.25 Considering this definition, the use of semiotics as a theoretical approach to military history could turn out to be quite different than those that other disciplines of the humanities and social sciences are able to provide; how­ ever, since semiotics is based on a quite interdisciplinary method, the result would be a kind of reflective dialogue that could offer new insights into aspects of military history as well.26 Historically, semiotics refer to two different theoretical models, namely the logical–philosophical model represented by Charles S. Peirce (1839–1914) and a linguistic-structural one related to the works of Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913).27 The former provided a definition of signs, which are important and the base for any semiotic study, no matter if they are considered from a textual or a visual perspective. Peirce defined “a Sign as anything which is so determined by something else, called its Object, and so determines an effect upon a person, which effect I call its interpretant, that the latter is thereby mediately determined by the former.”28 Saussure,29 working around the same time as Peirce, was “the first to clearly postulate the possibility and the need to found a science of systems of meaning in natural languages,”30 but it was ultimately Eco who would combine these two approaches into one theory of semiotics. Chandler, in his introduction to Semiotics, provides a short but detailed explanation of Saussure’s theoretical reflections: For Saussure, there are two kinds of relations between signs: syntagmatic relations, or structural combinations, and associative relations (rapports associatifs), or systemic alternatives. For him, syntagmatic relations in 25 Susan Petrilli and Augusto Ponzio, Semiotics Unbounded: Interpretive Routes through the Open Network of Signs (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), 3. 26 Lorusso, Cultural Semiotics, 2. 27 Chandler, Semiotics, 2–3; Lorusso, Cultural Semiotics, 3; Kaja Silverman, The Subject of Semiotics (New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), 3. 28 Charles S. Peirce, The Essential Peirce, vol. 2, ed. Peirce Edition Project (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1998), 478, cited in Albert Atkin, “Peirce’s Theory of Signs,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta, accessed May 20, 2020, https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2013/entries/peirce-semiotics/. 29 Silverman, The Subject of Semiotics, 4–14. 30 Kristeva, “Introduction,” 3.

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Frank Jacob language are those between a linguistic unit and others preceding or following it in the context of a chain (such as in a sentence). Associative relations are those between a particular word and others, which are brought to mind in its current context because they have something in common with it (in form or meaning). Linguistic units are related to each other both syntagmatically and associatively and linguistic units have no significance apart from these relations.31

The semiotic discourse, however, was not solely limited to the fields of phi­ losophy or linguistics. Jakob von Uexküll (1864–1944), a biologist born in Estonia and who worked in Germany, is considered to be the founding father of a different study field for semiotics, namely biosemiotics. Uexküll, as Petrilli and Ponzio highlight, “conducted his research in biology in dialogue with the sign sciences and evi­ denced the species-specific character of human modelling – which precedes and is the condition for human communication through verbal and nonver­ bal signs.”32 In his research, Uexküll argues that organisms create their own environment (Umwelt) and, due to the specific processes in which these envi­ ronments are modeled, sign systems are also created and applied.33 The first, however, who linked existent thoughts about semiotics into a solid theoreti­ cal and very interdisciplinary approach was Umberto Eco,34 who based his ideas on those of his famous predecessors but condensed them into a clearer and more applicable form in his own works.35 What is probably more impor­ tant is that Eco, who “may also be the most famous semiotician, … within and outside the field,”36 also used his well-known novels,37 e.g. The Name of the Rose (1980) or Foucault’s Pendulum (1988), not only to display semiotics but to also use it to connect with the more common popular reader of his 31 Chandler, Semiotics, 98. 32 Susan Petrilli and Augusto Ponzio, “Semioethics as a Vocation of Semiotics: In the Wake of Welby, Morris, Sebeok, Rossi-Landi,” in Semiotics and Its Masters, vol. 1, ed. Kristian Bankov and Paul Cobley (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 25. 33 For a more detailed discussion of this relationship, see Kalevi Kull, “Jakob von Uexküll: An Introduction,” Semiotica 134, no. 1/4 (2001): 1–59 and Kalevi Kull, “Umwelt and Modelling,” in The Routledge Companion to Semiotics, ed. Paul Cobley (London: Routledge, 2010), 43–56. Uexküll published his ideas in Streifzüge durch die Umwelten von Tieren und Menschen: Ein Bilderbuch unsichtbarer Welten (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1956 [1934]). 34 A short survey of Eco’s life and work is provided by Clinton Hale, “Umberto Eco Takes Semiotics to the Masses,” ETC: A Review of General Semantics 68, no. 3 (2011): 256–257. 35 Jürgen Trabant, “Semiotics, Semiology, Sematology,” in Umberto Eco in His Own Words, ed. Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 176. 36 Marcel Danesi, “Eco’s Definition of Semiotics as the Discipline of Lying,” in Umberto Eco in His Own Words, ed. Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 19. 37 David Robey, “Introduction: Interpretation and Uncertainty,” in Illuminating Eco: On the Boundaries of Interpretation, ed. Charlott Ross and Rochelle Sibley (London: Routledge, 2004), 1–3.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics 7 work.38 He was consequently responsible for the public attention semiotics received, especially from the early 1980s, although this trend never seemed to really reach historically working disciplines to the extent that a strong semiotic tradition of historical studies was established. Eco used semiotics not only as “a form of social analysis” but also as an “intervention” to deal with the existent world and its sign systems.39 Eco, in this regard, argued, “semiotics is also a form of social criticism and therefore one among the many forms of social practice,”40 as it would help to make existent signs visible, which also means debatable. For Eco, culture itself, as Anna Maria Lorusso described so well, “not only could be perceived as a semiotic object, but rather the whole of culture should be studied as a communicative phenomenon based on signification systems.”41 And since culture is based on the communication of signs to make sure their meaning is accurately understood, Eco was more than right to claim, “a semiotics of communication entails a theory of sign production.”42 It will consequently look at everything, as Barthes claimed before, that is able to be understood as a sign in the widest sense of the word, no matter if written, painted, or otherwise created or expressed by human beings.43 Consequently, “semiot­ ics studies all cultural processes as processes of communication,” and Eco highlighted with regard to the latter that “[w]hen the destination [of a com­ municative process] is a human being … we are … witnessing a process of signification – provided that the signal is not merely a stimulus but arouses an interpretive response in the addressee. This process is made possible by the existence of a code.”44 Considering these basic assumptions for semi­ otic studies, it is only natural to apply these theoretical reflections to war as a specific space-time continuum, which is created by the establishment and use of specifically created sign systems. The sign systems as they exist within such a war-related space-time continuum should, as already men­ tioned before, be referred to as war semiotics.

War semiotics War is usually systematized violence, even if the latter can go to extreme lev­ els, e.g. when genocides are carried out under the cover of war. The violence used in wartime is sanctioned, although war-related environments often lead to a reconsideration or reframing of the violence level that can be toler­ ated by the soldiers, especially when used in a decontextualized way against 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Hale, “Umberto Eco,” 255. Lorusso, Cultural Semiotics, 117. Eco, A Theory of Semiotics, 298. Lorusso, Cultural Semiotics, 118. Eco, A Theory of Semiotics, 4. Eco, A Theory of Semiotics, 7. Eco, A Theory of Semiotics, 8.

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civilians. Often, soldiers will begin to change their ideas or images about who the enemy actually is and thereby re-systematize the signs related to an enemy, who, especially in guerrilla wars, cannot clearly be identified by usu­ ally existent and war-related sign systems.45 Uniforms are probably the most obvious sign in a war context, as they divide not only the antagonist armies but also civilians from soldiers. Orders are related to a specific sign system expressed by a specific military language, often only properly understood by soldiers themselves. Signs or symbols can be seen everywhere, usually in offi­ cial and rather unofficial contexts. War is related to code, be it an operational code that is written down or an imagined code of honor. War consequently offers a variety of signs that could be approached by a semiotic study of it. The signs and code systems that actually apply while a war is waged are termed war semiotics here, while the later discussed semiotics of war are rather relevant for the discussion or remembrance and commemoration of war in peaceful times. War semiotics is often also related to ideologies that are in place as a legitimizing force of a war to make it a just one, a bel­ lum iustum.46 Ideologies, as Australian scholar Annabelle Lukin correctly remarked, offer “the power and place of meaning in how humans behave and organize our ways of living”47 and are therefore probably one of the sign sys­ tems of the most relevance for the study of war, as the ideologies in place, be they fascist or communist, religiously or otherwise motivated, are relevant for the self-perception of the soldiers, for the legitimization of their violent acts, as well as for the creation of any enemy against whom a war seems to be inevitable, necessary, or even both. Or, to quote Lukin once more: The power of ideology appears limitless. So too, its reach: ideology touches every scale of human life, from our scientific theories, the geo­ politics of nation states and our mechanisms of schooling, to how we eat, birth and die, make love and war. And ideology could not have its power without language. Like ideology, language reaches across all domains of our lives, being active in creating, maintaining or changing every vector in human relations.48 The language of a society often changes in times of war, as it needs to express the power of the nation and, at the same time, calls for the uncontested

45 For a more detailed discussion of norms in wars and violence in its relation to a specific space-time continuum, see Frank Jacob, Japanese War Crimes during World War II: Atrocity and the Psychology of Collective Violence (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2018), 14–37. 46 Mark Evans, ed., Just War Theory: A Reappraisal (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005). 47 Annabelle Lukin, War and Its Ideologies: A Social-Semiotic Theory and Description (Singapore: Springer, 2019), 1. 48 Annabelle Lukin, War and Its Ideologies: A Social-Semiotic Theory and Description (Singapore: Springer, 2019), 55.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics 9 support of the war effort. This transformation of an existent sign system is very much necessary due to “[t]he tension between our dependence on war and our rejection of violence has ensured that ideology has a very powerful role to play in legitimising war.”49 Wars consequently change whole socie­ ties, their values, and their freedom due to the necessities the official appli­ cation of violence against another party demands.50 Ideologies are naturally related to semiotics, as the former are by them­ selves relevant sign systems necessary for the study of the latter, as Barthes has already highlighted in his studies about mythologies.51 Lorusso also empha­ sized, “ideology is a wealth of knowledge units”52 and therefore, without any doubt, can offer many overlapping sign systems of relevance for the studies of existent war semiotics. Ideology is not only “the knowledge of the speaker but also the cultural framework of the receiver”53 and, therefore, cannot be omitted when war semiotics are supposed to be discussed in more detail. In a way, ideological values are particularly advertised during a war, as the com­ pliance and support of soldiers and civilians are tremendously important for waging it and using aggressive violence in the first place. Considering that “[t] he term advertising comes down to us from the medieval Latin verb advertere ‘to direct one’s attention to’,”54 a study of war semiotics consequently can make use of studies related to war-related ideologies and the way these were advertized, i.e. propaganda as it existed for and during an act of ordered col­ lective violence. Semiotic studies of war, however, not only must look at the actual events but can also deal with the semiotics of war, i.e. how the violence of the past is remembered in later or currently peaceful societies.

The semiotics of war How wars and acts of collective violence are remembered are relevant ques­ tions, especially when one takes into consideration that “language is the instrument of empire”55 and that the commemoration of the past is usually related to a specific agenda in the present. When Jeremy Black, to name just

49 Annabelle Lukin, War and Its Ideologies: A Social-Semiotic Theory and Description (Singapore: Springer, 2019), 197. 50 As an exemplar for some of the aspects that change within war societies, see Frank Jacob, Jeffrey Shaw and Timothy Demy, eds., War and the Humanities: The Cultural Impact of the First World War (Paderborn: Brill/Schnöningh, 2018). 51 Roland Barthes, Mythologies (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1957). 52 Anna Maria Lorusso, “Looking at Culture Through Ideological Discourse,” in Umberto Eco in His Own Words, ed. Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 48. 53 Anna Maria Lorusso, “Looking at Culture Through Ideological Discourse,” in Umberto Eco in His Own Words, ed. Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 49. 54 Ron Beasley and Marcel Danesi, Persuasive Signs: The Semiotics of Advertising (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2002), 1. 55 David Damrosch, “The Semiotics of Conquest,” American Literary History 8, no. 3 (1996): 516.

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one example, offers an “alternative account”56 of the legacy of the British Empire, it is praised by those who still want to see this empire remembered in a positive way, while more critical scholars and historians, like Kim A. Wagner, simply call it what it is, namely a “whitewash for Britain’s atroci­ ties”57 during the centuries of colonial and imperial rule around the globe. The establishment, interpretation, continuation, and challenge of war semi­ otics are consequently important for every society, no matter if they had been societies of warmongers, collaborators, or victims in the past. The commemoration of the wars of the past, e.g. who is commemorated where and for what, plays an especially important role in the establishment of sign systems, i.e. semiotics of war, in societies that are in a state of peace. Since, as Kaja Silverman emphasized, “[s]emiotics involves the study of signification, but signification cannot be isolated from the human subject who uses it and is defined by means of it, or from the cultural system which generates it,”58 it seems to be particularly important to understand this sig­ nification of semiotics of war in peaceful societies. When one observes the current protests against the memorials of the past, we can observe a rene­ gotiation of the remembrance and consequently of the semiotics of war in our lifetimes, and studies as well as discussions should try to include the semiotic level of these events. The present volume intends to provide some critical reflections about war semiotics and the semiotics of war in different chronological and geographical contexts to stimulate further studies about war that will also consider the semiotic level of their topics of interest.

The contributions The present volume, the result of a workshop at Nord Universitet in Bodø, Norway, could have been ordered according to the chronological or geo­ graphical contexts of its chapters, with its specific focus on Norwegian aspects in relation to war semiotics and the semiotics of war. However, the editor decided to arrange them differently, namely in three sections that cover different questions that should be related to the semiotic study of war. The first section deals with interpretations of war and the establishment of relevant sign systems, be they textual or visual. Max Philipp Wehn conse­ quently explores the semantics of war and peace as related to the War of the Spanish Succession. He analyzes the news coverage related to that war between 1710 and 1714 in five different newspapers and show how the semantics related to war and peace changed according to the political intentions of the involved 56 Jeremy Black, Imperial Legacies: The British Empire Around the World (New York: Encounter Books, 2019), ix. 57 Kim A. Wagner, “Imperial Legacies by Jeremy Black Review – Whitewash for Britain’s Atrocities,” The Guardian, August 10, 2019, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/ aug/10/imperial-legacies-jeremy-black-review-empire-multiculturalism. 58 Silverman, The Subject of Semiotics, 3.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics 11 powers. The active search or request for peace by a monarchical ruler, often interpreted as weakness, tried to change the existent semiotic system according to the political necessities. James Crossland and Gaute Lund Rønnebu then deal with the “Red Cross” and discuss how this symbol has been reinterpreted with regard to the Second World War “in order to understand some of the consistencies and contradictions of the Red Cross symbol’s semiotic meaning in times of war.” Eirik Holmen’s chapter closes the first theoretical section with a detailed reflection of the term collaboration, i.e. a systematic application of a linguistic sign which falls into the category of the semiotics of war. By offer­ ing a Norwegian case study, Holmen consequently also shows how semiotic systems are also an expression of the actual necessities of post-war societies. The second section of the present volume deals with identity construc­ tions and shows how semiotic systems are used or abused to create antag­ onistic or other war-related identities. Opening the section, Karl Dargel’s case study highlights the sign system related to the perceptions of as well as responses to German internment in the United States during the Great War, focusing in particular on a publication within the internment camp of Fort Oglethorpe, namely the German camp journal Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel. As will be shown, the construction of a specific German identity seemed to be necessary for those who interned and those who were interned alike, and Dargel shows which signs and symbols were used to create specific German semiotics in First World War, America. That semiotic constructions were not only used to create a sense of belonging but also conspiracies and the image of an arch-enemy will be highlighted in Frank Jacob’s chapter on the semi­ otic construction of Judeo–Bolshevism in interwar Germany. Jacob traces the impact of the end of the First World War and the German Revolution of 1918/19 for the semiotic creation of Judeo–Bolshevism, a stereotypical image of the Jewish revolutionary that would be used for Nazi propaganda in the interwar period, especially to create an enemy for the future. That similar visual sign systems could have been used for other forms of propa­ ganda as well is highlighted by Marta García Cabrera, whose chapter takes a closer look at the semiotics of British print propaganda in Spain during the Second World War. She therefore semiotically analyzes some propa­ ganda publications designed or distributed by Great Britain in Spain during the war. Steinar Aas continues the questions of identity with regard to the German occupation of Norway. There, the bystanders and collaborators were also embedded in a specific semiotic system, and Aas intends to reflect on the sign systems that were established in the Norwegian context to divide between traitors and “good Norwegians.” How the semiotics of war play a role in creating victim identities is analyzed by Manu Sharma, whose chap­ ter offers a case study in relation to war memory and the commemoration of the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971, namely on eight postage stamps the Provisional Government of Bangladesh issued on 29 July 1971. Gal Hertz’s chapter rounds off the section with an examination of the semiotics of war through the prism of the theatrical staging of violence. Three case studies

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from different contexts – Bertolt Brecht’s opera The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny (1930), the Israeli playwright Hanoch Levin’s Murder (1997), and the piece New Middle East (2013) by contemporary Palestinian writers Moataz Abu Saleh and Bashar Murkus – will show how theater uses the function of signs in relation to the performance of violence. The third and final section of the book pays closer attention to war semi­ otics and the semiotics of war from the perspective of the ruling politicians. The first chapter in this section by Fredrik Wilhelmsen discusses the use of semiotics in war-related politics in occupied Norway. He examines “the semi­ otics structuring Vidkun Quisling’s (1887–1945) conception of history” and shows how history was interpreted in a way that would match a specific system of signs, one that would support the ideas of “National decay and national res­ urrection.” The following two chapters show how a government’s legal system as well as intellectuals dealt with the semiotics of war. First, Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen “show how the fixing of a penal demarcation through the notion of ‘improper’ (utilbørlig) behavior set the boundary between legal and illegal economic relations with the enemy” in post-WWII Norway and “elaborate the semiotic meaning of ‘improper’ from the period from its warrelated inception and through the post-occupation legal purges.” Katarzyna Bałżewska then shows how the Polish author, reporter, and political commen­ tator Józef Mackiewicz (1902–1985) dealt with German and Soviet war semi­ otics during the occupation of his home country by two different regimes. Last but not least, Rolf Hugoson provides some kind of epilog, reaching into the 21st century. His chapter shows how the semiotic system of politi­ cal language and brinkmanship in international political relations changed with the end of the Cold War and how its semantics have been brutalized ever since, which could be understood as a continuation of an older sign system in a world that had totally changed. Hugoson will thereby point to the impor­ tance to actively deal with the semiotics of war, especially from a political per­ spective and especially for those who want to change the existent sign system accurately to match the actual realities of 21st-century international relations. The present anthology, like many edited volumes, provides a broad survey of aspects and questions for those interested in semiotics and the study of war alike. The editor hopes that it will stimulate research that will further com­ bine the two and help to import further theoretical and semiotic approaches into military history. If the reader ends the book with more questions on which to do research, this aim must be considered to have been reached.

Works cited Atkin, Albert. “Peirce’s Theory of Signs.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta. Accessed May 20, 2020. https://plato. stanford.edu/archives/sum2013/entries/peirce-semiotics/. Barthes, Roland. Elements of Semiology, translated by Annette Lavers and Colin Smith. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977.

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War and semiotics, war semiotics 13 Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1957. Beasley, Ron and Marcel Danesi. Persuasive Signs: The Semiotics of Advertising. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2002. Bertalanffy, Ludwig von. “General Theory of Systems: Application to Psychology.” In Essays in Semiotics/Essais de Sémiotique, edited by Julia Kristeva et al., 191–203. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971. Black, Jeremy. Imperial Legacies: The British Empire Around the World. New York: Encounter Books, 2019. Bourke, Joanna. “New Military History.” In Palgrave Advances in Modern Military History, edited by Matthew Hughes and William J. Philpott, 258–280. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. London/New York: Routledge, 2017. Cobley, Paul. “What the Humanities Are For: A Semiotic Perspective.” In Semiotics and Its Masters, vol. 1, edited by Kristian Bankov and Paul Cobley, 3–23. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Damrosch, David. “The Semiotics of Conquest,” American Literary History 8, no. 3 (1996): 516–532. Danesi, Marcel. “Eco’s Definition of Semiotics as the Discipline of Lying.” In Umberto Eco in His Own Words, edited by Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen, 19–25. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Eco, Umberto. A Theory of Semiotics. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1979. Evans, Mark, ed. Just War Theory: A Reappraisal. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005. Friedrich, Thomas and Gerhard Schweppenhäuser. Bildsemiotik: Grundlagen und exemplarische Analysen visueller Kommunikation. Basel/Boston/Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2010. Genosko, Gary. Critical Semiotics: Theory, from Information to Affect. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016. Gramigna, Remo. Augustine’s Theory of Signs, Signification, and Lying. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020. Hale, Clinton. “Umberto Eco Takes Semiotics to the Masses,” ETC: A Review of General Semantics 68, no. 3 (2011): 255–263. Jacob, Frank. Japanese War Crimes during World War II: Atrocity and the Psychology of Collective Violence. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2018. Jacob, Frank and Kenneth Pearl, eds. War and Memorials, 2 vols. Paderborn: Brill/ Schöningh, 2019. Jacob, Frank, Jeffrey Shaw and Timothy Demy, eds. War and the Humanities: The Cultural Impact of the First World War. Paderborn: Brill/Schöningh, 2018. Jappy, Tony. Introduction to Peircean Visual Semiotics. London: Bloomsbury, 2013. Kink, Markus. Die Sprache des Krieges: Zur diskursiven Ermöglichung präventiver Kriegsführung. Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2011. Kristeva, Julia. “Introduction: Le Lieu Sémiotique.” In Essays in Semiotics/Essais de Sémiotique, edited by Julia Kristeva et al., 1–7. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971. Kull, Kalevi. “On the Limits of Semiotics, or the Thresholds of/in Knowing.” In Umberto Eco in His Own Words, edited by Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen, 41–47. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Kull, Kalevi. “Jakob von Uexküll: An Introduction,” Semiotica 134, no. 1/4 (2001): 1–59.

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Kull, Kalevi. “Umwelt and Modelling.” In The Routledge Companion to Semiotics, edited by Paul Cobley, 43–56. London: Routledge, 2010. Lakoff, Robin Tolmach. The Language of War. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. Linhart, Sepp. “The Japanese Soldier in American Popular Songs: A Comparison of Songs from the Russo-Japanese War (1904-05) and from the Pacific War (1941­ 1945).” In War and Stereotypes: Images of the Japan’s Military Abroad, edited by Frank Jacob and Sepp Linhart, 119–153. Paderborn: Brill/Schöningh, 2020. Lorusso, Anna Maria. Cultural Semiotics: For a Cultural Perspective in Semiotics. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Lorusso, Anna Maria. “Looking at Culture through Ideological Discourse.” In Umberto Eco in His Own Words, edited by Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen, 48–56. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Lukin, Annabelle. War and Its Ideologies: A Social-Semiotic Theory and Description. Singapore: Springer, 2019. Lyons, John. Semantics, vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009 [1977]. Marrone, Gianfranco. Roland Barthes: Parole Chiave. Rome: Carocci Editore, 2016. Meier-Oeser, Stephan. “Medieval Semiotics.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta. Accessed May 20, 2020. https://plato. stanford.edu/archives/sum2011/entries/semiotics-medieval/. Nickels, Cameron C. Civil War Humor. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi, 2010. Petrilli, Susan and Augusto Ponzio. “Semioethics as a Vocation of Semiotics: In the Wake of Welby, Morris, Sebeok, Rossi-Landi.” In Semiotics and Its Masters, vol. 1, edited by Kristian Bankov and Paul Cobley, 25–44. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Petrilli, Susan and Augusto Ponzio. Semiotics Unbounded: Interpretive Routes through the Open Network of Signs. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Robey, David. “Introduction: Interpretation and Uncertainty.” In Illuminating Eco: On the Boundaries of Interpretation, edited by Charlott Ross and Rochelle Sibley, 1–10. London: Routledge, 2004. Silverman, Kaja. The Subject of Semiotics. New York: Oxford University Press, 1984. Tholas-Disset, Clémentine and Karen A. Ritzenhoff, eds. Humor, Entertainment, and Popular Culture during World War I. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Trabant, Jürgen. “Semiotics, Semiology, Sematology.” In Umberto Eco in His Own Words, edited by Torkild Thellefsen and Bent Sørensen, 174–180. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Uexküll, Jakob von. Streifzüge durch die Umwelten von Tieren und Menschen: Ein Bilderbuch unsichtbarer Welten. Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1956 [1934]. Umiker-Sebeok, D. Jean. “Semiotics of Culture: Great Britain and North America,” Annual Review of Anthropology 6 (1977): 121–135.

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Part I

War, semiotics, and the

question of interpretation

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1

Media constructions of war and peace during the war of the Spanish succession Max Philipp Wehn

Linking semantics of war with questions of peace can hardly come as a surprise since it was considered to be an essential criterion of early mod­ ern war to justify its purpose, which was ultimately the reestablishment of peace.1 The desirability of peace was a common topos in early modern political rhetoric, and the duty of a king to uphold the peace for the benefit of his subjects was a long-established tradition. However, there was a sharp discrepancy between a general expectation for peace and war experiences, because there has hardly been a year without war anywhere in Europe. The War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714) was not an exception but the rule, not only in this respect but also in that throne vacancies and inher­ itance disputes were one of the most common causes of international con­ flicts at this time.2 Linguistically speaking, there was a discrepancy between the general agreement on peace and the social usage of war.3 While his­ toriography makes use of approaches that understand key concepts as constructivist, subjective and volatile factors, there is still no fundamental reassessment in historical semantics and Begriffsgeschichte (history of ter­ minology). The common conception of modern concepts of war and peace consider the Peace of Westphalia in 1648 to be a caesura, which subdivides the Begriffsgeschichte into before and afterward. Thus, after the age of reli­ gious wars, war and peace were decoupled from any ideas of justice, while the ius ad bellum was subjected to the principle of sovereignty and peace was reduced to law and order.4 But does the previous research stand up

1 Antoine Furetière mentions this proverbial use of “war” in the French Dictionnaire uni­ versel: “On ne dit la guerre que pour faire enfin la paix, pour dire, qu’il faut s’accorder à la fin.” Antoine Furetière, Dictionnaire universel (Den Haag, 1690), 992. Accessed June 4, 2019. https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k50614b. 2 On the relation between war and peace, see Johannes Burkhardt, “Die Friedlosigkeit der Frühen Neuzeit: Grundlegung einer Theorie der Bellizität Europas,” Historische Zeitschrift 24, no. 4 (1997): 509–574; Axel Gotthard, Der liebe vnd werthe Fried: Kriegskonzepte und Neutralitätsvorstellungen in der Frühen Neuzeit (Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2014), 84. 3 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London: Routledge, 2017), 20.

4 Axel Gotthard, Der liebe vnd werthe Fried, 81.

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to a wider source-based review? The lexical function of war is essential as a non–self-implicating term, which implies two dimensions: war embodies both an act of violence and a state of “disturbed peace,”5 whose meaning remains untouched by semantic change, which is caused by discord and hos­ tility between states or superior sovereigns in contrast to peace.6 War con­ stitutes a state of strife between something or somebody (reference object) with something or somebody (threat narrative), which means that peace is the absence of the specific threat narrative, i.e. war relating to a specific reference object. This lexical meaning was already available in dictionaries of the period under examination.7 Based on these methodological consider­ ations, it is possible to reconstruct ideas of war by analyzing communicated threat narratives and their reference objects. In this way, subjective ideas of war can be studied where the relationship between the threat narrative and the reference object is expressed through the use of war and terms of the associated semantic field (discord and hostility). This approach is based on Werner Schirmer’s model of “threat communication” and asks which reference object is endangered by which actor by which threat narrative.8 The communication of threat narratives also refers also to ideas of peace, because peace and war remained inseparable and often in coexistent states. They represent two concepts, what Saussure calls the “contrastive relation­ ship”: “They are defined not by their content but by relations of contrast with other terms within the system.”9 War signifies the state of strife as part of a relational system in which peace is taken to be the absence of strife. Of course, there is a large semantic area between war and peace, and what

5 Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm, “Krieg,” in Deutsches Wörterbuch 11 (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch-Verlag, 1999), 2216. Accessed June 4, 2019. http://woerterbuch­ netz.de/cgi-bin/WBNetz/wbgui_py?sigle=DWB. 6 Adelung, Johann Christoph, Grammatisch-kritisches Wörterbuch der Hochdeutschen Mundart (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1801), 1784–1785. 7 Furetière, Dictionnaire universel, 992, 993: “GUERRE. f.f. Different entre des Estats ou des Princes souverains, qui ne se peut terminer par la Justice, & qu’on ne vuide que par la force. […] GUERRE, se dit proverbialement en ces phrases. On ne dit la guerre que pour faire enfin la paix, pour dire, qu’il faut s’accorder à la fin.”; “Im gewöhnlichsten Verstande, der Zustand der öffentlichen Gewaltthätigkeiten zwischen Staaten oder beträchtlichen Theilen derselben; im Gegensatze des Friedens,” in: Adelung, Grammatisch-kritisches Wörterbuch der Hochdeutschen Mundart, 1784–1785; “WAR. f. [werre, old Dutch] I. The exercise of violence unter sovereign command, II. The instruments of war, 3. forces, army, 4. the profession of arms, 5. hostility: state of opposition, act of opposition. To WAR v.n. [from the noun] To make war, to be in a state of hostility,” in: Samuel Johnson, A dictionary of the English language (Dublin: W.G. Jones, 1768). Accessed June 4, 2019. https://books. google.de/books?id=bXsCAAAAQAAJ. 8 Werner Schirmer, Bedrohungskommunikation: Eine gesellschaftstheoretische Studie zu Sicherheit und Unsicherheit (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, 2008). 9 Chandler, S emiotics, 22; Ernst Müller and Falko Schmieder, Begriffsgeschichte und historische Semantik: Ein kritisches Kompendium (Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2016), 443–450.

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they signify varies greatly by their use in the historical context10 —or, lin­ guistically speaking, the connection between semantics and pragmatics.11 As war demands its own narrative to successfully engage with its support­ ers, one principal aim of war narratives is to justify its purpose, which is ultimately the rearrangement of peace.12 Therefore, the period between war and peace negotiations is of particular importance. This article will explore the semantics of war and peace in their historical context of use within newspapers from 1710 to 1714, since international newspapers have been top-selling news items and, therefore, intensely displayed ever since the Thirty Years” War.13 As a case study, the news coverage of five different newspapers will be scrutinized from July 1710—when the first peace talks at Geertruidenberg failed—until the execution of peace treaties at Utrecht in 1713/1714. In order not only to make simple quantitative statements but also to capture the aforementioned complexity of references, it makes sense to make use of the possibilities of computer-aided text analysis (CAQDA). Programs such as MAXQDA, which enable the capture and coding of large amounts of texts and offer instruments for complex query combinations, are helpful for this purpose.14 For the present work, samples of 1836 news­ paper issues from the Gazette d’Amsterdam (Dutch Republic), Hamburger Relations-Courier, Frankfurter Journal, Wiennerisches Diarium (all from the Holy Roman Empire) and the Gazette de France (France) were evaluated with regard to the concepts of war and peace around the peace negotiations at Utrecht. The sources examined include pamphlets, poems, sermons, 10 Rolf Reichardt, “Historische Semantik zwischen lexicométrie und New Cultural History,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 21 (1998): 12. 11 For criticism on Saussure, see Hans-Jürgen Lüsebrink, “Begriffsgeschichte, Diskursanalyse und Narrativität,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 21 (1998): 32. 12 See also Mark Hengerer, “The War of the Spanish Succession and Habsburg Politics of Representation,” in The War of the Spanish Succession. New Perspectives, eds. Matthias Pohlig and Michael Schaich (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 205–234. 13 For outlines of the role of newspapers in the diplomatic sphere and interna­ tional relations, see Sonja Schultheiß-Heinz, “Zur öffentlichen Wahrnehmung von Friedensverhandlungen und Friedenskongressen: Eine Studie anhand der Zeitungsberichterstattung des 17. Jahrhunderts,” in L’Art de la paix. Kongresswesen und Friedensstiftung im Zeitalter des Westfälischen Friedens, ed. Christoph Kampmann (Münster: Aschendorff, 2011), 167–196; Sonja Schultheiß-Heinz, “Politik in der europäis­ chen Publizistik: Eine historische Inhaltsanalyse von Zeitungen im 17. Jahrhundert” (PhD diss., University of Bayreuth, 2007); Stefan Mayer-Gürr, “Die Hoffnung zum Frieden wird täglich besser. Der Westfälische Friedenskongress in den Medien seiner Zeit” (PhD diss., University of Bonn, 2007); Ulrich Rousseaux, “Friedensverhandlungen und Öffentlichkeit: Der Westfälische Friedenskongress in den zeitgenössischen gedruck­ ten Zeitungen,” in Diplomatie, Medien, Rezeption: Aus der editorischen Arbeit an den Acta Pacis Westphalicae, eds. Maria-Elisabeth Brunert and Maximilian Lanzinner (Münster: Aschendorff, 2010), 21–54. 14 The programs and methods were primarily developed for qualitative social research. Vincent E. Faherty, Wordcraft: Applied Qualitative Data Analysis (QDA). Tools for Public and Voluntary Social Services (Los Angeles: SAGE Publications, 2010).

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treaties, diplomatic correspondence and printed parliamentary debates. The text passages were first examined for terms regarding the concepts of war and peace, provided with corresponding codes or categories, and then associated with attributions. With the help of such coding, it is not only possible to determine trends regarding the quantitative use of vocabulary but also to create grids that provide information about the use of words and semantics. The attributions include the assignment of related words belong­ ing to their word fields, since these vary according to the discourse and can thus provide information on the semantic content of the concept of peace. In addition, both concepts were coded by describing attributes and terms that are directly related to the peace negotiations. Before immersing our­ selves in the flood of news, I will give a short survey of the war aims and how they were related to the different peace expectations of the involved actors.

The war of the Spanish succession in context15 The Spanish King, Charles II (1661–1700), died in 1700 without a legitimate heir, and two members of the leading dynasties of Habsburg and Bourbon, Charles III (1685–1740), Archduke of Austria, and Philip V of Anjou (1683– 1746), the grandson of Louis XIV (1638–1715), both claimed entitlement to his heritage. This prospect alerted other European powers like Great Britain and the States General of the Netherlands, since inheritance of the vast Spanish Empire with its many estates in Europe and colonial possessions abroad would have led to either France or Austria becoming overweighted with power, which had to be prevented. Several partition scenarios of the Spanish monarchy were discussed and fixed in partition treaties to main­ tain the balance of power in Europe when Charles II decided to designate Philip of Anjou as his sole heir. The French king accepted his last will and thus provoked the outbreak of war in 1701. Great Britain, the States General and the Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold I (1640–1705), forged the so-called Grand Alliance in the same year to fight France and Spain. Taking a look at the contract of the anti-French alliance shows that nothing less than the total ruin of Europe was imminent if France and Spain were to be ruled by one dynasty—a situation “more dangerous than war itself”16 —or, to put it another way, the dangerous peace as the result of the decision not to go to war appears as the antonym of war itself. That is why the members of the Grand Alliance decided to help Charles III to get just satisfaction for his succession rights to the Spanish throne, which could mean that the Allies 15 The following is based on Matthias Schnettger, Der spanische Erbfolgekrieg 1701–1713/14 (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2014). 16 Casimir Freschot, “Traité fondamental de la Grande Alliance entre l’Empereur, le Roy d’Angleterre, & les Etats Generaux des Provinces Unies,” in Actes, Memoires, & autres Pieces authentiques concernant la Paix d’Utrecht, eds. Guillaume van de Water and Jaques van Poolsum (Utrecht, 1714), 1–14.

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would fight until Philip of Anjou accepted the inheritance of his rival or that Charles would get fair compensation for his renunciation of the Spanish crown. Apart from the dynastic issues, Great Britain and the States General primarily sought to secure their own territorial and global trading interests that a fundamental change of system, in the case of a Bourbon succession, would put at risk. The States General and the Nördlinger Allianz (Alliance of Nördlingen), mainly southwestern territories that were part of the Holy Roman Empire, insisted on a barrier to secure their sovereignty and inde­ pendence against French invasion plans. Britain’s first aim was to secure the Protestant succession of Braunschweig-Lüneburg by obtaining the guarantees of France and the States General against the “Old Pretender,” James Francis Edward Stuart (1688–1766), who had lived in his French exile since the Glorious Revolution. A change in the ruling dynasty could imply far-reaching consequences for those who supported the defeated dynasty: territorial losses, access to resources and trading networks could be blocked and challenge the economic and political stability of a society. Therefore, the Spanish succession was not only a dynastic question that affected social elites, but only the war aims and the outcome of peace negotiations had to meet the expectations of the people and would prove crucial for the ruler’s legitimacy. This short survey proves how far the specific war aims went beyond the epon­ ymous dynastic dimension of the War of Spanish Succession, because dynas­ tic, confessional, economic and domestic affairs were closely intertwined, which made it difficult to meet expectations for peace.

Peace-making by war The first peace negotiations between France and the Allies took place at Geertruidenberg in 1710. Allied newspapers reported both on the events of the War of Spanish Succession as well as the negotiations at Geertruidenberg in 1710. The Allies proposed 37 peace articles, of which two were particu­ larly controversial: on the one hand, the expropriation of Philip V with regard to his inheritance rights to the Spanish monarchy, and on the other hand, compelling Louis XIV to proceed militarily against his grandson if he did not engage in his renunciation of the Spanish throne. Despite several pieces of news about battles detrimental to France, which certainly sped up the peace process according to the Hamburger Relations-Courier,17 the peace terms became unacceptable to France when the victory of the French armies at Almenara and Saragossa emerged,18 as it was quite common in 17 “Diese Zeitungen causieren allhier einige Bekümmerniß/ und vermuthet man ein großes Blut-Bad; jedoch tröstet man sich /daß eine Bataille/ sie mag ausfallen als sie wollte/ den Frieden ganz gewiß beschleunigen dürffte,” Hamburger Relations-Courier, June 3, 1710. 18 “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 2. Janvier 1711,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 2, 1711, 4.

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early modern Europe to carry out warfare simultaneously with peace nego­ tiations to improve one’s diplomatic position. Both the Allies and France were inclined to resume the war after the failed peace negotiations as soon as possible. In the first edition of the Dutch newspaper Gazette d’Amster­ dam, the author quite plainly shows his readers the need to continue the common war against France with greater effort than ever before in order to achieve the hoped-for peace. According to him, France had been at war for half a century to expand its borders at the expense of its neighbors to become the maître absolu of Europe. However, the French king warred against the will of his kingdom, while the Allies’ warfare was congruent with their subjects’ interests—“preserving their repose & liberty against the invasions of a crown which means to subjugate everything, & which has made them feel already so many fatal effects of its power’. The justice of war is attached to just reasons, tranquility and liberty, which Louis XIV cannot claim for himself because his subjects have no other interest in this war than to put an end to it.19 Especially after the failure of the peace negotiations at Geertruidenberg, the Allies endeavored to show their unity and to convey the image that their common continuation of warfare against France was indispensable for a secure, lasting and honorable peace. Accordingly, Duke Eberhard Louis of Württemberg (1676–1733) vigorously denied the French hoax that he would leave the Grand Alliance in the case of a French inva­ sion into his duchy. The newspaper commented on it in the following way: “Thus, he wishes nothing more than to find out about the slanderers of such defamatory statement and slipshod newspapers, to bring them to just pun­ ishment, and to express His Highness’ disfavor about such false and godless news coverage.”20 That war was considered to be the best way to make peace is evident in the following verses of a New Year’s ode, published in the first edition of the Relations-Courier in 1711, in which the author gives an outlook on the following year: “The Allied power stands firmly by CARLOS” throne/so the Spanish-German Empire crows with heart and mouth. The eagle must fly long to the sun/until the luck of his enemies lies in the dust.”21 Even though the editor takes up a biased position in the ongoing political events against the widespread journalistic ethos of noncommitted news coverage, the New Year’s ode reveals one fact that is characteristic of war narratives

19 “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 2 Janvier 1711,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 2, 1711, 4. In this respect, Axel Gotthard’s thesis that the public was unimportant in matters of war and peace, needs further sophisticated research. Gotthard, Der liebe vnd werthe Fried, 92. 20 “Dahero sie dem sichern Vernehmen nach/ nichts mehrers wünschen/ als den Diffamatorem, und solcher ungründlicher Zeitung Außsprengern/ in Erfahrung bringen zu können/ um die wohl verdiente Straffe an ihme zu vollziehen/ und dadurch der ganzen Welt das Mißfallen so Ihro Durchleuchtigkeit/an solcher falschen gottlosen Zeitungs-Debitirung hätten/vor Augen legen zu können,” Hamburger Relations-Courier, April 27, 1711, 92. 21 “Wunsch bei Anfang des 1711. Jahres,” Hamburger Relations-Courier, January 5, 1711, 1.

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in the first half of the 18th century—war as an instrument to make peace. It summons the unity of the Grand Alliance, which stands firmly by the side of the emperor, Charles VI (1685–1740), until the common war against his enemy is won and peace reigns again. If we look some months ahead, we can see that the luck of war was no longer on France’s side, and the defeat of the French armies against the Allies’ superiority could no longer be averted. French defeats were numerous, and the population suffered from the mas­ sive tax burden for the continuation of the war. For Louis XIV, it was incompatible with his self-fashioning as the “Warrior King” to admit to the defeats of the French armies directly, as it would have irreparably harmed his honor and royal standing.22 To prevent the king from such humiliation, the weekly French newspaper Gazette de France was founded. The paper played a major role in France’s news and information policy because its main purpose was, according to the editor, to increase the king’s glory and love among his subjects and abroad, so it served indirectly to stabilize the Crown’s central power. One can easily imagine that defeats did not match his royal image. Peace was not considered to be the result of negotiations but a truce imposed by the winner on the battlefield. There were only two possibilities to keep up the king’s image: by hiding defeats or by setting up defeats for the enemy. That is exactly what happened on the eve of the peace negotiations, because it was well known that the continued warfare would soon make France ready for peace, as the editor of the Hamburger Relations-Courier reported on the war in Spain. It was the beginning of the year 1711 when the reading public was confronted with confusing news coverage of a battle between the Allies and the Spanish army in Catalonia, for which both the Allies as well as the French claimed victory. The message was so explosive because the potential defeat of the French army related to the resumption of peace negotiations. Without knowing the exact outcome of the battle, rumors of the French court were spread that indicated a total French defeat. Thus, an unnamed informant was rumored to have leaked the defeat of the Spanish army, with the editors pointing out the personal risk that the informant had taken in ascertaining the truth. For this rea­ son, the spread of state affairs abroad and in foreign newspapers within the French realm was forbidden. Furthermore, the reading public was told that the French king distanced himself from his grandson, the Spanish king, as a result of the Spanish defeat. The speculation was suitable for prevent­ ing French hoaxes by undertaking their own efforts to manage information and opinions abroad. In addition, it becomes clear that the image of the “Warrior King,” always victorious and imposing peace on his enemies, was

22 Solange Rameix, “From the Warrior King to the Peaceful King: Louis XIV’s Public Image and the Peace of Utrecht,” in New Worlds? Transformations in the Culture of International Relations Around the Peace of Utrecht, ed. Inken Schmidt-Voges and Ana Crespo Solana (New York: Routledge, 2017), 194–208.

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not reserved for the court of Versailles alone but was also used by other European dynasties to justify political action. In fact, the Gazette de France responded as expected by questioning the credibility of the Allied press and spreading rumors about the impending rupture of the Grand Alliance, the source of which was in the imperial estates, “which are war-weary and destroyed by a war in which they did not have any interest and were pushed into by the emperor to maintain the two branches of the House of Austria, which is actually reduced to one Prince.”23 The periodical press articulated their concepts of war and peace by exercising two different concepts of news coverage, which the reader was able to deduce from the war news: first, edi­ tors picked up “fake news” from foreign newspapers and published coun­ ter statements, and second, gazetteers made use of the dense network of informants and correspondents by spreading rumors in order to weaken the enemy’s unity and to promote its division. This kind of reporting met the medieval representation of war as a sanction against unjust belliger­ ents: victory proved that the winner fought for just reasons, and his victory had to be total. The main threat narrative for the Grand Alliance came from France: according to Allied newspapers, France was constantly trying to instigate the Sublime Porte to breach the peace with the Habsburgs in order to engage the Emperor in a two-front war in the hope of getting a breather from the war.24 On the other hand, the French were trying to cause trouble and disunity among the Allies,25 and accordingly it was necessary for them to preserve the unity among themselves in order to prevent their enemies from taking advantage of their disunity, as Queen Anne (1665–1714) empha­ sized in her address to Parliament on December 18, 1711.26 On the part of the Allies, they were confident that France would fail in their attempt to nego­ tiate peace with Great Britain separately and in secret.27 However, evidence suggests their concern: from mid-1711 onward, rumors about peace talks 23 “De la Haye, le 7 May,” Gazette de France , May 16, 1711, 10–11. 24 “Daß man allda mit Brieffen/ so über Durazzo eingelauffen/ die Nachricht erhalten; wie daß die Franzosen alldorten noch immer viel Weesen machten/ und vorgebeten/ daß die Türken im künfftigem Feld-Zug/ unter dem Groß-Vezier/ Tartar Kam/ und eine solche Macht zu Wasser und Land beisammen zu bringen gedencken; die der jenigen/ unter dem Groß-Vezier Mustafa Cara, als er 1683. Wienn belagert/ nicht ungleich sein werde; in Hoffnung/ daß der König in Franckreich zu seinem Zweck kommen / und Lufft erhalten möge,” Wiennerisches Diarium, February 11–13, 1711, 3. “Wien/ den 17. Dito,” Frankfurter Journal, October 27, 1711, 3. 25 “Daß die Franzosen alldorten sich verlauten lassen/ fals nichts aus dem Frieden werden sollte/ ihr Möglichstes anzuwenden/ unter den Alliierten Uneinigkeiten zustifften/ und solche Sachen zuentdecken; daß man sich darüber verwunderen werde,” Wiennerisches Diaruum, January 23–26, 1712, 5. 26 “Schließlich wäre vor allem die Einigkeit sehr notwendig; damit durch die Uneinigkeit die Feinde nicht den grösten Nuzen ziehen mögten; […],” Wiennerisches Diarium, January 2–5, 1712, 5. 27 “Suite des Nouvelles de Londres du 6., du 9. & 13. De ce mois,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, October 20, 1711, 3.

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were afloat, unspecified peace proposals from France were circulating in the Allied news coverage and there was an increase in travel diplomacy between Paris and London. However, the Allied diplomats felt confident that Queen Anne would not do anything without the Allies’ consent.28 Accordingly, the Allied press took note of the peace preliminaries between France and Great Britain with surprise and incredulity. The media reactions ranged from gen­ eral skepticism to open rejection. Thus, the Wiennerisches Diarium doubted the credibility of the French peace offers. In order to add authority to their doubts, the editors claimed to have plausible news from Paris, according to which the French foreign minister, Colbert de Torcy (1665–1746), and the Marshal of Tallard (1652–1728) bet two thousand pistols that no peace would be made “because their king proposed such derisive peace articles, which the Allies cannot consent to without endangering themselves.”29 According to the Gazette d’Amsterdam, British contemporaries disapproved of the French peace proposals after an announcement in the British news­ paper Post-Boy: After a failed military campaign in Canada, the shares of British government bonds collapsed. In order to stop the financial down­ turn, the Post-Boy announced that the peace negotiations were making pro­ gress and that the peace conditions, “which are so glorious & beneficial to this nation and the Allies in such a way as peace will be lasting, safe & honorable,” would be published in a few days. After having published the peace preliminaries, the readers should have been disgusted about them as they were not as glorious and beneficial to Britain as announced.30 For this reason, the Post-Boy decided to publish six special articles on the agreement without informing the members of the Grand Alliance. In comparison, the news coverage on the French preliminaries in the Gazette de France was quite different: the seven preliminaries were published on November 14, 1711 with the indication that the announcement had caused much joy among the British and Dutch people. As a result of the publication of the peace preliminaries, the rupture no longer ran only between the Allies and France but also amid the Alliance’s members, who were split on the basic question of war or peace. To put it in a nutshell, the possibilities of ending the war were reduced to two possibilities: first, by continuing the war in order to impose the Allied peace conditions on France, or second, by submitting to the obscure French preliminaries and

28 “Mit Engl. Brieffen hat man/ daß den Gespräch nach/ der König in Frankreich neue Friedens-Propositiones allda gethan/ und solle deßwegen Mons. Prior/ so vorhin Secretarius der Ambassade in Pariß gewesen/ zu solchem Ende nach Franckreich gesandt worden. Als der Königl. Spanische Ambassadeur Graff von Gallas beym Graff von Oxford in Conferenz/ wegen dieses Projects gewesen/ hat er ihme zu verstehen gegeben/ daß Ihro Maj. die Königin darinnen ohne Consens aller Dero Hohen Herren Alliierten nichts thun werden,” Frankfurter Journal, September 26, 1711, 4. 29 “Auß der Schweiz/ von dem 13. Hornung,” Wiennerisches Diarium, February 20–23, 1712, 6. 30 “De Londres le 27 Octobre,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, November 3, 1711, 2.

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agreeing to a general peace conference, as the special envoy of Hanover at the British court, Hans Caspar von Bothmer (1656–1732), considered in his memorandum to Queen Anne.31 The positions can roughly be divided into adherents of and opponents to the preliminaries with which different semantics of war and peace were connected. The first point of criticism was raised particularly by the Emperor and Whigs against the ruling Tories and concerned the unlawful establishment of the preliminaries. They referred to article 8 of the Alliance Treaty of 1701, according to which no member of the Alliance may arbitrarily conduct peace negotiations with the enemy unless otherwise decided in agreement with the other Allies. On the other hand, the Emperor treated the regulations toward the Spanish succession as a threat narrative. Louis XIV promised to make an effort “that the crowns of France and Spain will not be ruled by one sovereign prince, because His Majesty is convinced that such superiority is detrimental to the peace of Europe.”32 With regard to the reference object, “Europe,” two main distinctions are made: superiority/balance and peace/war. The threat narrative comes from the succession to the Spanish throne of the grandson of Louis XIV, Philip of Anjou. Consequently, the Bourbon dynasty exerted such a preponderance of power within the European state system that it would contravene the peace of Europe and possibly lead to war. Interestingly, Philip of Anjou was only the implicit consequence of the explicitly communicated threat narra­ tive: the vacancy of the Spanish throne as a result of the childless death of Charles II of Spain in 1700 represents the implicit source of threat on which the concrete threat narrative is based. However, it is not explicitly communi­ cated as a threat, as throne vacancies were generally recognized as a source of threats to the peace, and so it was not a matter of perspective to discern it. From the observer’s point of view, defusing the source of the threat poses the real threat to the reference object, because superiority and peace can be regarded logically as independent from each other, or even supremacy as a precondition for peace in Europe, as it is inherent to the concept of “univer­ sal monarchy.” Von Bothmer, the Emperor and the Whigs considered a gen­ eral peace based on preliminaries to be the forerunner of the next conflict, because they did not provide any security for the Allies. The French pre­ liminaries consisted of undefined and general formulations, which reduces the prospect of fruitful peace negotiations. If the peace conference brought a general peace, this would mean the breach of the Grand Alliance, since without the joint participation of all, the Allies cannot secure peace. While a just war might secure a good peace, an ill-conceived peace could nurture

31 “De Londres, le 9 Decembre 1711,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 15, 1712, 1–2. 32 “2. Wolte er [Louis XIV] guter Treue consentiren/ daß man rechte Messures nehmen möge/ damit die Cronen Frankreich und Spanien sich nicht auff einen souverainen Prinzen vereinigen. Weile seine Maj. persuadirt/ daß solche grosse Ubermacht der Ruhe Europa contrair sei,” Frankfurter Journal, November 7, 1711, 4.

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further conflict: “Everyone wants peace, but also a good one, that puts an end to misery and evil of war & does not lay the foundations for the next con­ flict. Everyone agrees that war is a very great evil, but absolutely necessary in order to escape total oppression.”33 While the renunciation was considered to be the only means of restoring peace and the balance of power in Europe, the Emperor considered the renunciation of the Spanish throne as the total disregard of the Allies’ principles and common security.34 In the course of the peace negotiations, the French ministers demanded the renunciation of the Spanish crown from the Emperor. Therefore, the Gazette d’Amsterdam pointed out that Queen Anne, in an address to Parliament in 1707, guaran­ teed that she would never consent to a general peace that did not involve the return of the Spanish monarchy to the Habsburgs: These statements are consistent with the opinion of the Emperor and His Highness of Hanover, whose memorandum states that it is self-evident for all Allies that they will not accept any peace which is not universal, secure & honourable; as peace cannot be secure if it is not universal, nor universal if it is not honourable to all Allies by restoring just satisfac­ tion to all & by taking suitable measures in order to ensure their future peace & liberty.35 While the opponents to the French preliminaries demanded the fulfillment of just contentions as the precondition for a peace agreement, the British government regarded justice as the fruit of peace negotiations. Hence, the British State Secretary did not consider the content of preliminaries as a fixed part of a future peace agreement but as proposals from France36 to which only Louis XIV was legally bound, not the Allies.37 In preparation of the peace negotiations, the general attitude toward peace and war changed, and the origin of this seems to be in France: apart from high politics and strategic maneuvers, it was the reading public who were affected by the 33 “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 1 Janvier 1712,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 1, 1712, 3. 34 “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 30 Decembre 1712,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, December 30, 1712, 3. 35 “Or comme ces Déclarations sont conformes au sentiment de Sa Majesté Imperiale, ainsi qu’Elle s’en est expliquée, & que c’est aussi le sentiment de Son Altesse Electorale de Hanover, suivant le Memoire qui a paru de sa part, il est evident que tous les Alliez sont conformes en ce point, de ne point entendre à une Paix, qui ne soit Générale, Sûre & Honorable; parce qu’elle ne peut être Sûre, si elle n’est pas Générale; ni Générale, si elle n’est honorable à tous les Alliez, en leur procurant la juste satisfaction qui leur est dûe; & en prenant de concert les mesures convenables, pour assurer à l’avenir leur Repos & leur Liberté,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 1, 1712, 4. 36 “Voici quelques particularitez plus circonstanciées, qu’on a reçûes par les derniers lettres de Londres, touchant ce qui c’est passé dans les deux Chambres du Parlement, à l’occasion de la Harangue de la Reine,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 5, 1712, 3. 37 “Haag den 5. Febr.,” Frankfurter Journal, February 13, 1712, 4.

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direct burdens of war, like troop movements, sieges, ravaging armies, dis­ eases or the destruction of harvests and dwellings. War was still ongoing, but several defeats, the duration and costs of the war, riots within France, and the terrible famine of winter 1709 persuaded the French king, Louis XIV, to enter into peace negotiations. In order to restore peace again, he asked the archbishop of Paris, Louis-Antoine de Noailles (1651–1729), in a letter to pray for divine assistance regarding the outcome of the peace negotiations at Utrecht, whereupon the archbishop answered with a dis­ course about the value of peace. The correspondence was also published in Wiennerisches Diarium, so people throughout Europe noted his changing attitude: “May the people now demand the peace; frightened by the war which the rulers use as they wish to establish it; this is the result of absurd selfishness and the intentions of special persons who profit from war riots so that such obstacles are built up to peace that are almost impossible to overcome.”38 The debate turned out to be a fundamentally critical comment on war politics. First, the perspective had changed; it was not the members of the Grand Alliance but the common people and the reading public who were at the center of attention, who suffered from war strains, and therefore did not agree with the ongoing war. Second, war is described as an act of personal gain against the common good and the ruler’s obligation to provide peace for his subjects. Third, the fact that he tolerates such a state of things raises the question of his own legitimacy to rule. In short, it can be stated that a just war for the purpose of peace has become the main cause of strife. It is the result of a change of view—from the agents of war to the victims of war. Furthermore, foreign media channels reported on critiques from within the council of ministers and the clergy on the king’s warfare. During an assem­ bly of the French clergy, the Parisian archbishop summoned the unity of the people and their king, Louis XIV. The clergy’s task was to pray for the fortune of the French arms so that Louis could quickly end the just war in order to restore peace, “which all Europe requires very much.”39 What reads at first sight as a typically baroque acclamation turns out to be a critical comment on the king’s dynastic policy: although not mentioned directly, the people’s need for peace after so many years of war was presented as the king’s priority. The renunciation by Philip V of the French throne endorsed this idea. In the spring of 1709, Louis XIV addressed a letter to the pro­ vincial governors in which he explained to his subjects why he refused to take up arms against his grandson, the King of Spain, as requested by the Allies as a precondition for peace negotiations. The precarious military

38 Louis-Antoine de Noailles, “Hierauf hatte der Cardinal de Noailles, als Erz-Bischof zu Paris/ an seine Geistlichkeit/ zu Anstellung des Gebetts/ Folgendes abgehen lassen,” Wiennerisches Diarium, March 5–8, 1712, 10. 39 “Paris/ vom 11 Jul.,” Hamburger Relations-Courier, July 24, 1710, 3.

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situation of the French army made it increasingly difficult for him to support his grandson, which is why he had already considered an abdication of his grandson from the Spanish throne in 1709. To his ambassador in Madrid, Louis emphasized that his grandson owed it to him to end the war on com­ passionate grounds.40 Such a dynastic argumentation was not new, but the justification itself was, because of the approach adopted by the king. It was the very first time that the French king had justified his actions before his subjects. The same reasoning can be found in the official waiver declaration in March 1713.41 Peace no longer depended on his dynastic interests and war was not the sole component of monarchical sovereignty. His quest for a solid peace was the prerequisite for his people’s happiness and was the prin­ cipal source of his political legitimacy. The impression of a change of mood regarding war and peace was reinforced by reports of a disagreement at the court of Versailles. The archbishop of Paris was supported by most of the ministers and the young French Dauphin to reduce the burden of war for his subjects so that the king could earn the love of his countrymen and relieve the national economy. From reading about the events at the French court, the reader may have got the picture that even the “Warrior King” was forced by circumstances to reconsider his idea of war as a means of peacebuild­ ing. Furthermore, war and peace have been portrayed as God’s intervention in the course of history, helping human action to turn to a good account. Thus, the Parisian archbishop described peace as one of the most precious gifts of God that could only be given by his hands,42 since nothing good and sure could be expected from men.43 Similarly, in a letter of congratulations on the occasion of the Anglo-French peace, Cambridge University articu­ lated Queen Anne’s wisdom and God’s providence as a forerunner of peace, “which God provided as general and far/as the outlines of Europe/and as lasting/as human affairs permit.”44

Negotiating peace Meanwhile, the change of political communication in France was taken up by events in Great Britain related to the victory of the Tories in the parlia­ mentary elections, which are reflected in the parliamentary debates. First, before the preliminaries with France were agreed in 1711, it was stated in every vote of thanks to continue the war against France until the House

40 Auguste Théodore Girardot, Correspendance de Louis XIV avec M. Amelot son Ambassadeur en Espagne 1705–1709 (Nantes: 1864). 41 “Paris/ vom 27. Mart.,” Hamburger Relations-Courier, April 4, 1713, 5–8. 42 “De Paris le 8 Février,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, February 16, 1712, 1. 43 “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 1 Janvier 1712,” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 1, 1712, 5. 44 “Glükwunsch/ so bei Ihrer Königlich-Groß-Britannischen Majestät von Dero Universität zu Cambridge abgeleget worden,” Wiennerisches Diarium, July 30–August 2, 1712, 11–12.

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of Austria was in full possession of the Spanish realm. If the war had orig­ inally been fought to preserve the balance of power against the FrancoSpanish personal union, there might have seemed little point in struggling to erect an alternative Habsburg hegemonist.45 The concept of “universal monarchy” in order to restore the universal Christian order by war was incompatible with the Tories’ notion of war and peace, no matter whether it was Austria or France in possession of universal superiority. To explore the Tory rhetoric, we have to take a look at Jonathan Swift’s (1667–1745) pam­ phlet Conduct of the Allies, which was published in November 1711, some weeks before the motion of a peace was finally carried in Parliament.46 Swift accused the Whiggish government of betraying British interests to its conti­ nental allies. In his opinion, Britain had made a crucial mistake in throwing all her available resources into a land war in which her interests were not as important as those of her Dutch and Austrian allies. As a result, these powers had been able to use British resources, rather than their own, to promote their particular war aims. By the last years of the conflict, Britain’s continental allies were effectively exploiting Britain to construct a Habsburg hegemony of Europe and replace Dutch domination of world trade with that of the British Empire, which should have used its naval power to cap­ ture colonies and obtain commercial advantages around the world. In the preface, he stated that “the Publick should be freely and impartially told what Circumstances they are in,”47 and, therefore, appointed the British population as the real victims of the Whig conspiracy, not their Dutch and Austrian allies. Parliament struck the same note when it demanded the presentation of all treaties concluded with the Allies and reasoned that they were stacked against Britain. Swift identified the Whig ministry as the leader of the conspiracy who, in reaction to their loss of power in 1710, was pro­ longing the war for their own personal ambitions and enrichment. The case also dominated the parliamentary debates calling for peace. At the heart of accusation stood John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough (1650–1722) and Queen Anne’s chief general in charge of the British land forces, who was held responsible for the betrayal of British interests. In 1711, he was charged with embezzling the army’s bread ration and refusing reasonable terms of peace. Therefore, he was celebrated in the Austrian and German press and defended against the Tories’ campaign. The Frankfurter Journal even published a series of letters proving the innocence of Marlborough and

45 Tony Claydon, “The ‘Balance of Power’ in British Arguments Over Peace, 1697–1713,” in New Worlds? Transformations in the Culture of International Relations Around the Peace of Utrecht, eds. Inken Schmidt-Voges and Ana Crespo Solana (New York: Routledge, 2017), 176. 46 Jonathan Swift, The Conduct of the Allies and of the Late Ministry in Beginning and Carrying on the Present War (London, 1711). 47 Claydon, “British Arguments Over Peace,” 189.

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the false game played by France during the peace negotiations.48 The Allies remained true to their line of reasoning, continuing the war against France rather than committing themselves to such a bad peace. Instead of dynastic politics and the balance of power in Europe, the Tories conducted a wholly different way of arguing that putting public welfare, the Protestant religion, and the succession of the House of Braunschweig-Lüneburg to the British throne at the center of attention. In the first issue of the Frankfurter Journal in 1712, the debates in Parliament about Queen Anne’s announcement of the peace congress in the House of Lords on December 7, 1711 were extensively presented as a complex political process of debate and decision-making in which the question of war and peace was dedicated to the parliamentary vote and not to the Queen’s prerogative. The former included the statement that Parliament wanted to be informed about the progress of the peace negotiations and that it had the right to take part in the decision-making process according to the instructions for the British ministers at Utrecht. In contrast, the debate in the House of Commons, which was dominated by the Tory faction, did not contain any critical notes but appreciated the concern and measures the Queen had taken to secure the religion, liberty and laws of the nation and, therefore, to push for a durable and honorable peace. As in the French press, the people’s welfare was adjudged to be the highest national goal, whereas the war, which was started for the benefit of all the Allies, led to a detrimental peace for Britain. In contrast, the Whiginspired foreign press tried to create an outward impression that Britain had betrayed the Grand Alliance by withdrawing their soldiers in 1712 and forc­ ing the Emperor and the States General to a separate peace in favor of their own country. From 1712 until the peace agreement in 1713, the news showed an increasing number of indications that the British ministers had forced their allied partners to join the general peace agreement with France. The issues spoke of several ultimatums and massive pressure from the British ministers on the other Allies. Putting power, position and honor aside in favor of the common interest in peace was nowhere more visible than in contrasting the news coming from the European capitals and the peace negotiations at Utrecht and Den Haag. Despite all the problems and differences, the focus of the news coverage on the progress of the negotiations was on reporting that things were making progress and that communication between the belligerents was constantly working, which seemed, in comparison to the previous war experiences, a positive signal. The ceremonial convention, for example, followed the new

48 “In Samuel Tobias Hockers/ Buch-Laden sind zu finden/ curieuse Brieffe/ von der wahren Beschaffenheit jetzt geführten Französischen Krieges/ und vorgewesen FriedensHandlungen/ worinnen sonderlich/ des Herzogs von Malborough/ dabey bezeugtes Verhalten und Aufführung gründlich gerechtfertiget und vertheidiget wird,” Frankfurter Journal, February 27, 1712, 4.

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ceremonial arrangements of equality in order to inform the reading public that the negotiators were not losing time with conflicts and that they were completely focused on their work restoring peace. Nearly everything that was going on at Utrecht was closely covered, from the opening ceremony, official and unofficial conferences to several social festivities. The opening ceremony, for example, should not be downplayed to a banality, because the opening speech was illustrated differently in the news coverage: while most of the analyzed newspapers reported that the Allied and French negotiators reassured each other’s intentions to negotiate a general peace for Europe, the Wiennerisches Diarium added that the speaker should have called the French delegation to engage straightforwardly with the Allied peace conditions to establish a general peace.49 The readers learned from the January issues that even an opening ceremony, in which nothing was negotiated or decided, formed part of the symbolic communication and was able to create hard facts. There were several occasions and events that showed the reading public the thin line between a peace settlement and an escalation of the conflict quite plainly. This impression must have been strengthened as the readers learned from intensified preparations for the coming campaign due to the very uncertain outcome of peace negotia­ tions. The long period during the summer seasons increased the level of uncertainty when the reading public was kept in the dark about the con­ tent of unofficial memorandums, which were covered extensively, or when meetings of different teams of negotiators achieved no breakthrough in the peace negotiations. Nevertheless, there was never any halt in communica­ tions either on the official stage at Utrecht or through shuttle diplomacy. Every exchange on the peace proposition raised the expectations among the reading public that a general peace would be signed soon. The only actor who intended to continue the war for a stable, secure and honorable peace was the Emperor, whose position was more and more isolated within the Alliance. The Emperor’s diplomatic objectives stood in sharp contrast to the people’s need for peace. The news coverage set the benefits of peace against the negative picture of war by reporting about peace festivities, the cessation of military actions and the desperate attempts of the British and French ambassadors to persuade the Habsburgs’ envoys not to leave the negotiating table. As the news spread in April 1713 that all the Allies had signed separate peace treaties, the envoys of the Emperor and the imperial estates planned to leave Utrecht since they were expecting more beneficial peace conditions from France, otherwise the Emperor was ready to resume war again. Finally, France, the Emperor and the Holy Roman Empire settled their dissonances in separate peace treaties at Rastatt and Baden in 1714 and 1715, respectively. On the occasion of the Peace of Rastatt, a medal was coined, the iconographic meaning of which was explained in 49 “Aus Holland/ von dem 2. Hornung,” Wiennerisches Diarium, February 10–12, 1712.

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the Wiennerisches Diarium. The image of persistence, which is commonly known from ancient Roman coins, is located on the medal’s back, while the newspaper read: “CONSTANTIA AUGUSTI – The persistence of the Emperor. This does not only refer to the slogan of His Imperial Majesty, but also to the fact that the Emperor continued the war for the longest time of all Allies and thanks to his steadiness established peace.”50 Compared with the verses from the New Year’s greeting in 1711, the Emperor was the only ally who stood firmly by his throne and remained faithful to his principle—peace-making by war. Furthermore, if the unity of the Grand Alliance was necessary to achieve a victorious peace at the beginning of the conflict, the Emperor’s desperate attempts to hold the Allies together endangered the peace settlement.

Conclusion From reading about the War of Spanish Succession and the peace negotia­ tions at Utrecht, the reader may have got the picture that this war was not only about the eponymous Spanish succession but was also deeply inter­ woven with economic, religious and domestic issues, due to the fact that the dynastic dissolution of the Spanish and French crown was part of every peace proposition after the determination of preliminaries in 1711. The European newspapers phrased two different types of war. First, war was waged to restore peace, following dynastic interests and geopolitical con­ siderations. Therefore, concord—implying unity and harmony within the Grand Alliance—was an ideal that all Allies could uphold, whereas disunity led to separate peaces, which could only ever be a temporary and contested solution. Second, the war could never end in order to prevent the French from recovering through peace negotiations, splitting the Allies so that they would not benefit from their victorious war. A just peace meant continuing the common warfare as long as the enemy submitted to the Allied peace conditions. Texts which encouraged peace and unity were common, and there was a strong sense that it was important to remember that the source of success in war was not just human endeavor but also divine protection. Unity in warfare was regarded as a prerequisite for a secure, honorable and lasting peace. Disunity nourished doubts about the legitimacy of war and raised the suspicion that the Allies may be at fault. Numerous passages in the reports prove the semantic charging of peace with attributes such as “secure,” “lasting,” and “honorable” if unity among the Allies was main­ tained. In this context, the religious charge of the concept of war is remark­ able. Since God had blessed the weapons of the Allies, doubts about their victory’s legitimacy in war were implicitly equated with blasphemy. From

50 “Medaille, Welche auf den zu Rastatt geschlossenen Friedens-Tractat erfunden und gepräget worden,” Wiennerisches Diarium, April 25–27, 1714, 10.

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1712 onward, the opponents of peace congresses described peace as a work lying solely in the hands of God, because nothing good could be expected from the involved actors. In both cases, war and peace were presented as questions of faith beyond human influence. Justice no longer functioned as a prerequisite for peace but as the result of peace. The focus was on the conclusion of peace in the sense of a restoration of tranquility and order, and only second on the question of justice. That is the reason why ordinary people and the reading public moved into the center of argumentation about the termination of the war. Therefore, the aftermath of warfare on the com­ mon subjects was picked out as a central theme by using enemy images to discredit the political combatants. The preliminaries between France and Britain contradicted this logic, and the rupture of the Grand Alliance in 1712 was inevitable. The Tories considered the unequally distributed war burden among the Allies as a threat to a beneficial peace for Britain and the Allies. Amidst the news coverage, and especially in parliamentary debates, uncertainty about when the conflict might be brought to an end became closely tied to concerns within domestic politics, particularly about pub­ lic welfare and the Protestant succession of Braunschweig-Lüneburg to the British throne and how to secure the future peace. The Tory party pro­ moted the virtues of internal peace for the realm, whilst the Whiggish press, arguing in favor of continuing the war on behalf of French Protestants in the sense of confessional solidarity and restoring the Spanish monarchy to the Habsburgs, was suppressed.51 In contrast to war, peace, first, was the result of negotiations, which the reader could deduce from the news coverage, and, sec­ ond, was a consequence of the ravages of war, from which the reading public derived peace-making as the core duty of a ruler for the benefit of his subjects.

Works cited Adelung, Johann Christoph. Grammatisch-kritisches Wörterbuch der Hochdeutschen Mundart. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1801. Accessed June 4, 2019, https://lexika. digitale-sammlungen.de/adelung/online/angebot. “Aus der Schweiz/von dem 17. Jenner.” Wiennerisches Diarium, January 23–26, 1712. “Auß der Schweiz/von dem 13. Hornung.” Wiennerisches Diarium, February 20–23, 1712. “Aus Gros-Britannien/von dem 5. Juli.” Wiennerisches Diarium, July 20–22, 1712. “Aus Groß-Britannien/von dem 18. Decemb.” Wiennerisches Diarium, January 2–5, 1712. “Aus Holland/von dem 2. Hornung.” Wiennerisches Diarium, February 10–12, 1712. “Auß Venedig/von dem 31. Jenner.” Wiennerisches Diarium, February 11–13, 1711. “De Londres, le 9 Decembre 1711.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 15, 1712

51 “[…] und fahre man noch immer fort, die Partei von Torris zuerheben/ und die von Wiggs zuerniedrigen; auch lasse man wieder selbe ungehindert allerhand Schriften ausgehen,” Wiennerisches Diarium, July 20–22, 1712, 5.

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Burkhardt, Johannes. “Die Friedlosigkeit der Frühen Neuzeit: Grundlegung einer Theorie der Bellizität Europas.” Historische Zeitschrift 24, no. 4 (1997): 509–574. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. London: Routledge, 2007. Claydon, Tony. “The ‘Balance of Power’ in British Arguments Over Peace, 1697–1713.” In New Worlds? Transformations in the Culture of International Relations Around the Peace of Utrecht, edited by Inken Schmidt-Voges and Ana Crespo Solana, 176–193. New York: Routledge, 2017. “De la Haye, le 7 May.” Gazette de France, May 16, 1711. “De Londres le 27 Octobre.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, November 3, 1711. “De Paris le 8 Février.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, February 16, 1712. Faherty, Vincent E. Wordcraft: Applied Qualitative Data Analysis (QDA). Tools for Public and Voluntary Social Services. Los Angeles: SAGE Publications, 2010. Freschot, Casimir, ed. Actes, Memoires, & autres Pieces authentiques concernant la Paix d’Utrecht. Utrecht: Guillaume van de Water et Jaques van Poolsum, 1714. Furetière, Antoine. “Dictionnaire universel.” Den Haag: Academie francoise, 1690. Accessed June 4, 2019. https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k50614b. Girardot, Auguste Thédore. Correspendance de Louis XIV avec M. Amelot son Ambassadeur en Espagne 1705–1709. Nantes: Imprimerie Merson, 1864. “Glükwunsch/so bei Ihrer Königlich-Groß-Britannischen Majestät von Dero Universität zu Cambridge abgeleget worden.” Wiennerisches Diarium, July 30– August 2, 1712. Gotthard, Axel. Der liebe vnd werthe Fried. Kriegskonzepte und Neutralitätsvor­ stellungen in der Frühen Neuzeit. Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2014. Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. “Deutsches Wörterbuch 11.” München, 1999. Accessed June 4, 2019. http://woerterbuchnetz.de/cgi-bin/WBNetz/wbgui_ py?sigle=DWB. “Haag den 5. Febr.” Frankfurter Journal, February 13, 1712. “Haag den 22. dito.” Frankfurter Journal, September 26, 1711. Hengerer, Mark. “The War of the Spanish Succession and Habsburg Politics of Representation.” In The War of the Spanish Succession. New Perspectives, edited by Matthias Pohlig and Michael Schaich, 205–234. New York: Oxford University Press, 2018. Johnson, Samuel. “A dictionary of the English language.” Dublin, 1768. Accessed June 4, 2019. https://books.google.de/books?id=bXsCAAAAQAAJ. “London den 27. Oct.” Frankfurter Journal, November 7, 1711. Lüsebrink, Hans-Jürgen. “Begriffsgeschichte, Diskursanalyse und Narrativität.” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 21 (1998): 29–44. Mayer-Gürr, Stefan. “Die Hoffnung zum Frieden wird täglich besser. Der Westfälische Friedenskongress in den Medien seiner Zeit.” PhD diss., University of Bonn, 2007. “Medaille, Welche auf den zu Rastatt geschlossenen Friedens-Tractat erfunden und gepräget worden.” Wiennerisches Diarium, April 25–27, 1714. Müller, Ernst and Falko Schmieder. “Begriffsgeschichte und historische Semantik”. Ein kritisches Kompendium. Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2016. Noailles, Louis-Antoine de. “Hierauff hatte der Cardinal de Noailles, als ErzBischof von Paris/an seine Geistlichkeit/zu Anstellung des Gebetts/Folgendes abgehen lassen.” Wiennerisches Diarium, March 5–8, 1712. “Paris/vom 11. Jul.” Hamburger Relations-Courier, July 24, 1710.

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“Paris/vom 26. Mai.” Hamburger Relations-Courier, June 3, 1710. “Paris/vom 27. Mart.” Hamburger Relations-Courier, April 4, 1713. Rameix, Solange. “From the warrior king to the peaceful king: Louis XIV’s public image and the Peace of Utrecht,” In New Worlds? Transformations in the Culture of International Relations Around the Peace of Utrecht, edited by Inken SchmidtVoges and Ana Crespo Solana, 194–208. New York: Routledge, 2017. Reichardt, Rolf. “Historische Semantik zwischen lexicométrie und New Cultural History.” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 21 (1998): 7–28. Rousseaux, Ulrich. “Friedensverhandlungen und Öffentlichkeit. Der Westfälische Friedenskongress in den zeitgenössischen gedruckten Zeitungen.” In Diplomatie, Medien, Rezeption. Aus der editorischen Arbeit an den Acta Pacis Westphalicae, edited by Maria-Elisabeth Brunert and Maximilian Lanzinner, 21–54. Münster: Aschendorff, 2010. Schirmer, Werner. Bedrohungskommunikation. Eine gesellschaftstheoretische Studie zu Sicherheit und Unsicherheit. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, 2008. Schultheiß-Heinz, Sonja. “Zur öffentlichen Wahrnehmung von Friedensverhand­ lungen und Friedenskongressen: Eine Studie anhand der Zeitungsberichterstattung des 17. Jahrhunderts.” In L’Art de la paix. Kongresswesen und Friedensstiftung im Zeitalter des Westfälischen Friedens, edited by Christoph Kampmann, 167–196. Münster: Aschendorff, 2011. Schultheiß-Heinz, Sonja. “Politik in der europäischen Publizistik. Eine histor­ ische Inhaltsanalyse von Zeitungen im 17. Jahrhundert.” PhD diss., University of Bayreuth, 2007. Schnettger, Matthias. Der spanische Erbfolgekrieg 1701–1713/14. München: C.H. Beck, 2014. “Studgardt/vom 10. April.” Hamburger Relations-Courier, April 27, 1711. “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 2. Janvier 1711.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 2, 1711. “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 1. Janvier 1712.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 1, 1712. “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 5. Janvier 1712.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, January 5, 1712. “Suite des Nouvelles d’Amsterdam Du 30. Decembre 1712.” Gazette d’Amsterdam, December 30, 1712. “Suite des Nouvelles de Londres du 6., du 9. & 13. De ce mois.” Gazette d’Amster­ dam, October 20, 1711. Swift, Jonathan. The Conduct of the Allies and of the Late Ministry in Beginning and Carrying on the Present War. London: John Morphew, 1711. “Wien/den 17. Dito.” Frankfurter Journal, October 27, 1711. “Wunsch bei Anfang des 1711. Jahres.” Hamburger Relations-Courier, January 5, 1711.

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The Red Cross “Shield” The semiotic duality of the Red

Cross during the occupation

of Norway, 1940–1945

James Crossland and Gaute Lund Rønnebu

Introduction: cross or shield? A recent study on medical semiotics found that the Red Cross is a more widely recognized symbol of humanitarian care than the Asclepius Rod. The latter first emerged as a symbol of healing over 2000 years ago. The former, enshrined as the emblem of the Red Cross movement by the arti­ cles of the First Geneva Convention of 1864, has only existed for a little over 150 years, and even then as an image tied to the activities and status of a particular humanitarian movement.1 Ostensibly, the findings of this study point to the success of the Red Cross as a medical and humanitar­ ian “brand” that is globally recognized and understood as such. And yet, while they could point to the emblem and identify the movement to which it was attached, less than 50% of the doctors, politicians, academics and students polled as part of this study had an awareness of either the Red Cross symbol’s origins or its meaning beyond indicating inclusion in the global humanitarian movement it represents. The semiotics of the Red Cross symbol, in short, are not nearly as well understood as its omnipres­ ence is accepted on the sides of ambulances, helicopters, ships and on the uniforms of both battlefield medics and humanitarian volunteers around the world.2 This is unfortunate, as beneath this superficial understanding of the Red Cross symbol, its meaning is multilayered, complex and, often, contradictory. Legally, the Red Cross symbol has been deemed as central to “the appli­ cation and implementation of international humanitarian law (IHL),” the linchpin of a set of universally understood norms of humanitarian con­ duct in war, which “depends largely on respect for the emblem and on the

1 The “movement” as referenced here refers to the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) in Geneva, and the unconnected National Red Cross societies of the world, which today fall under the umbrella of the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies. 2 Anil Shetty, Shraddha Shetty and Oliver Dsouza, “Medical Symbols in Practice: Myths vs. Reality,” Journal of Clinical and Diagnostic Research 8, no. 8 (2014): 12–14.

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conditions in which it may legitimately be used.”3 According to the ICRC, at an emotional level to the eyes of those who behold it, the symbol represents “hope.” More precisely, at the 20th International Red Cross Conference in Vienna in 1965, the symbol was declared to embody seven fundamental principles of the Red Cross movement. However, these principles—human­ ity, impartiality, neutrality, independence, voluntary service, unity and uni­ versality—were applied retrospectively to the symbol from the safe distance of 20 years on the greatest challenge the Red Cross has ever faced to both its humanitarian capabilities and the sanctity of its symbol: the Second World War.4 The movement’s wartime record is a hinge of its history, marking a moment of transition in the politics, capabilities and scope of operation of both the ICRC and the hundreds of national societies that constitute the present-day humanitarian empire of the Red Cross.5 It is also a record of great controversy. The historiography of the Red Cross in the Second World War does much to dent the notion of a benevolent, impartial humanitar­ ian movement dispensing “hope,” much less “impartiality,” “neutrality” and a sense of “unity” to all and sundry. Rather, the research of the last 40 years has revealed stories of the ICRC’s failure to act on its knowledge of the Holocaust, American suspicions of Red Cross volunteers working as German spies, the closeness of the ICRC’s leadership to the Swiss Federal Council and compliance with the latter’s often accommodating attitude towards the Third Reich.6 All of these political controversies were carried out under the banner of the Red Cross symbol which, before the attachment of the lofty seven principles to its semiotic value, was decreed in the Geneva Convention of 1929 to have a limited and non-political function. Specifically, the “‘Red Cross’ or ‘Geneva Cross’ shall not be used either in time of peace or in time of war, except to protect or to indicate the medical formations and estab­ lishments and the personnel and material protected by the Convention.”7 The protection implied here is from violence and harassment on the battle­ field, the object of the symbol being to signify to combatants that persons

3 Antoine Bouvier, “Special Aspects on the Use of the Red Cross or Red Crescent Emblem,” International Review of the Red Cross 272 (1989): 438–458. 4 Jean Pictet, “The Fundamental Principles of the Red Cross: Commentary,” January 1, 1979, ICRC Website, Accessed December 13, 2018, https://www.icrc.org/en/doc/resources/ documents/misc/fundamental-principles-commentary-010179.htm. 5 David Forsythe, The Humanitarians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 42–50. 6 See James Crossland, Britain and the International Committee of the Red Cross, 1939– 1945 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2014); Jean-Claude Favez, The Red Cross and the Holocaust (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Isabelle Vonéche Caridia, Neutralité et Engagement: les relations entre le Comité international de la Croix-Rouge (CICR) et le Gouvernement suisse, 1938–1945 (Lausanne: SHSR, 2012). 7 Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armies in the Field, July 27, 1929, Article 24, Hereafter, Geneva Convention.

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or ambulances displaying the Red Cross are hors de combat and, by virtue of their humanitarian duties, to be regarded as sacrosanct. The symbol, in other words, was never meant to offer protection to its wearers from the moral ambiguities of refusing to provide aid to Jewish concentration camp internees, or assisting—wittingly or otherwise—in the war efforts of a brutal, genocidal totalitarian regime. And yet, as the historiography indicates, these forms of abuses of the symbol did occur to varying degrees throughout the Second World War, leaving a record described by one Red Cross historian as one of “great and lasting damage, both immediately and after the war,” despite the fact that by the 1940s, the ICRC “had spun a definite aura of moral leadership.”8 The purpose of this chapter is to interrogate one such instance of abuse in the symbol’s Second World War history—the complicity of the Norwegian Red Cross in the German occu­ pation of its country—in order to understand some of the consistencies and contradictions of the Red Cross symbol’s semiotic meaning in times of war. In so doing, this chapter will highlight the extent to which the popu­ larly recognized humanitarian values of the Red Cross symbol have been used to deflect accusations of impropriety, and engagement by supposedly neutral, impartial humanitarians in activities of a political and dubious nature. Before moving on to the case study of the Norwegian Red Cross, it is important to first understand the origins of the Red Cross symbol, and the values that the movement it represents infused into it, in the years between the signing of the First Geneva Convention and the outbreak of the Second World War.

The strange story of a conflicted symbol On 22 August 1864, representatives from 12 European states gathered in Geneva to sign a 10-pointed international agreement for the dispensation of medical aid on the battlefield. This document, the Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick on the Battlefield, enshrined the idea of medics in war being neutralized and pro­ tected from violence, by way of them displaying the symbol of a Red Cross on a white background on their person, and on their ambulances, hospitals and equipment. In this sense, the Geneva Convention was both a founding document of IHL and the birth certificate of the International Red Cross Movement—a crowning achievement in both the history of humanitarian­ ism and international cooperation. The idea for such an agreement came from the mind of Henry Dunant (1828–1910), a Genevan Samaritan who, horrified by sights of gore and suffering in the aftermath of the Battle of Solferino in 1859, decided that medics needed to become fixtures of the

8 Caroline Moorehead, Dunant’s Dream: War, Switzerland and the History of the Red Cross (London: Harper Collins, 1999), xxxi.

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modern-day battlefield. Dunant’s idea was taken up by four other citizens of Geneva, two of which were army surgeons, one a retired general and the fourth and most important for the fledgling Committee of Five—as they dubbed themselves—a lawyer, by the name of Gustave Moynier (1826–1910). The latter had a mind possessed of keen legal insight, cold pragmatism and a propensity for doom-mongering. Consequently, Moynier foresaw all man­ ner of disputes over the validity and status of Dunant’s proposed volunteers, once the generals of Europe realized that these wandering humanitarians would be traversing battlefields, tending to any and all wounded they came across and getting in the way of military operations. The need for a sym­ bol that could place these medics above the fray, sanctify their presence in warzones and conceptualize them as a single entity, distant in their collec­ tive humanitarian efforts from the bloody politically clashes of states, was deemed all-important by Moynier.9 So it was, that at the first meeting of the Committee in 1863, it was decided that the volunteers needed to “wear a dis­ tinctive and identical uniform or sign. They shall be inviolable and military commanders shall give them protection.”10 Revolutionary, it might have been in the context of the Committee’s efforts to turn Dunant’s ideas into reality, the concept of using a symbol to both embody humanitarian action, and protect its wearers in times of war was nothing new. In Spain and the United States, for example, yellow flags had been used for decades to signal the presence of medics in warzones and, more particularly, in 1861 a volunteer humanitarian movement in the service of the Union armies during the American Civil War, had adopted the sign of an angel hovering over the battlefield to denote their presence as healers.11 For the gentlemen assembled in Geneva 2 years later, the task was to devise a symbol that would convey the same meaning of healing while simultaneously embodying the universalist values of humanity, charity and international brotherhood that were so central to Dunant’s thinking. The need for the symbol to also convey the neutrality of those who wore it was also paramount, in order to re-enforce the idea that the healers would be apolitical, neither working for one belligerent nor the other but, rather, for the higher purpose of humanity. As this scheme originated in Switzerland, it made sense to simply reverse the flag of this nation which, with the exception

9 For the origin story of the Red Cross and the first meetings of the Committee of Five see Pierre Boissier, History of the International Committee of the Red Cross: From Solferino to Tsushima (Geneva: Henry Dunant Institute, 1985), 45–83. 10 Compte rendu de la Conférence Internationale réunie á Genève les 26, 27, 28 et 29 Octobre 1863 pour étudier les moyens de pourvoir à l’insuffsance du service sanitaire dans les armées en campagne, Second Edition (Geneva, 1904), 17. 11 George W. Davis, “The Sanitary Commission – The Red Cross,” The American Journal of International Law 4, no. 3 (1910): 546–566; Archives of the United States Sanitary Commission, New York Public Library, NYPL:MSS.COL 22263/5.2 – Minutes of USSC Standing Committee Meetings, July 28, 1864.

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of a 17-year lacuna during which Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821) ignored its political status, had been recognized as neutral by the states of Europe since the Peace of Westphalia in 1648.12 It was from this crude exercise in colour inversion, edged ever so slightly by Dunant’s evangelical Christian beliefs that the Red Cross as a symbol of charity, healing and compassion, came to be. The Christian value that was built into the emblem’s shape was easy enough for the armies of Europe to understand. The idea of neutrality, both of the inclusion of a reference to the Swiss flag in the emblem, was also straightforward, at least in principle. In practice, however, the infusion of neutrality into the symbol was harder than it first appeared to Dunant when, as the legend goes, while at a statistical conference in Berlin, he conceived of neutralizing medical volunteers in a eureka moment of flawed genius.13 In practice, when the first Red Cross armband-wearing volunteers—a FrancoSwiss and a Dutchman—were deployed during the Schleswig–Holstein of 1864, they struggled to convey to the Prussian and Danish soldiers the value of neutrality inherent in the Swiss connection to the symbol. Although the medical services offered by these Red Cross pioneers were, for the most part, embraced as useful in the bloodstained barracks and wards on the frontlines, suspicions still abounded on both sides that these foreigners were using their spurious symbol to camouflage acts of espionage or sabotage on behalf of one side or the other.14 This problem of the Red Cross volun­ teers being viewed as partisan, despite the Committee’s attempts to infuse the symbol with the opposite meaning, persisted into the conflicts that blighted Europe in the decades after 1864. During the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), the American Civil War nurse Clara Barton (1821–1912) trav­ elled to Strasbourg as part of a Swiss humanitarian mission under the protection of the Red Cross symbol. Despite being the citizen of a neutral nation, serving under a neutral flag and acting in accordance with an inter­ national treaty that Berlin had signed, Barton, was ejected from the city by the Prussians, who viewed her as being, at best, a meddlesome foreign interloper or, at worst, a French spy. More overt instances of belligerents failing to recognize the neutrality of the symbol took place at the Battles of Sedan and Bazeilles, where British and French Red Cross–wearing volun­ teers were shot at by Prussian snipers. Sometimes these wounds to the cred­ ibility of the symbol as one of neutrality were self-inflicted. Again, during the Franco-Prussian War, Irish volunteers took up the Red Cross symbol as 12 Gordon E. Sherman, “The Neutrality of Switzerland,” American Journal of International Law 12, no. 2 (1919): 241–250. 13 John F. Hutchinson, Champions of Charity: War and the Rise of the Red Cross (Boulder: Westview, 1996), 53–54; For the account of Dunant’s revelation on the neutrality issue see Ellen Hart, Man Born to Live (London: Victor Gollancz, 1953), 118–128. 14 Charles Van Der Velde, Sa Mission Auprés de L’Armée Danoise in Secours aux Blessés (Geneva: ICRC, 1864).

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a means of covering their passage to France, where their intention was to cast down their bandages and take up arms against the hated Prussians—a misuse of the symbol that was repeated by Irish and American anti-British volunteers during the Boer War (1899–1902) decades later.15 A similar mercenary attitude to the use of the symbol arose during the Russo-Turkish War (1877–1878), when British volunteers, wearing the reluctantly ICRC-sanctioned Red Crescent as a symbol of their neutral­ ity, worked in the service of the Ottoman Army, on paid contracts that specifically prohibited them from providing medical care to the Russians. This rejection of both the neutrality and universal humanitarian values that the ICRC had attempted to infuse into the symbol occurred elsewhere in the world, specifically in the 1880s, when the Japanese Red Cross was developed with the specific purpose to provide a medical auxiliary corps to the nation’s army. The purpose of such medical assistance, moreover, was unambiguously stated in the instructions issued to Japanese Red Cross volunteers, who were tasked with repairing the broken bodies of the emper­ or’s soldiers in order to keep Japan’s war machine going.16 Attempts were made at the Second Geneva Conference to revise the convention in 1906 to correct this partisan militarization of the Red Cross symbol, by rewording the convention in such a way as to affirm the symbol’s connections to benev­ olent, neutral Switzerland. To this end, the revised convention contained an article stating that “out of respect to Switzerland, the heraldic emblem of the red cross on a white background, formed by the reversal of the federal colours, in continued as the emblem and distinctive sign of the sanitary service of armies.”17

Ambiguity and adaptation Officially, therefore, by the time of the outbreak of the First World War, the value of neutrality had been woven into the symbol that, after decades of appearing amidst the medical staff of armies the world over, also possessed the value of healing and compassion in times of war. Still, there was much room for ambiguity beyond this binary understanding of the Red Cross as a symbol of medical aid and political neutrality. Indeed, as late as 1977, the shade of red to be featured on the emblem was not enshrined in the conven­ tion, the premise being that the flag, in war times of extremis, should be able to be improvised by humanitarian actors.18 This spoke to a less official value 15 James Crossland, War, Law and Humanity: The Campaign to Control Warfare, 1853–1914 (London: Bloomsbury, 2018), 99–114; Moorehead, Dunant’s Dream, 142–147. 16 Crossland, War, Law and Humanity, 133–152; Frank Käser, “A Civilized Nation: Japan and the Red Cross, 1877–1900,” European Review of History 23, no. 1–2 (2016): 16–32. 17 Geneva Convention 1906, art. 18. 18 Philippe Eberlin, “Technical Note on the Colours of the Red Cross and Red Crescent Emblem,” International Review of the Red Cross 223 (1983): 77–80.

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that had been built into the symbol over its decades of use by everyone from trained army surgeons, to military adventurers, to medical mercenaries— the value of adaptability to the demands of war. This notion was a natural extension of Dunant’s original idea for the volunteers to act in the cause of “spontaneous devotion” to “an entirely voluntary mission of peace and con­ solation.”19 This fluid concept dovetailed with the Committee’s self-imposed mission, dating back to 1864, to act as both the guardian and architect of IHL, capable of updating and adapting the convention, the symbol and the Red Cross mission itself, to the changing nature of conflict.20 Attempts had been made to this end as early as 1868, when the Committee convened a con­ ference with the aim to extend the protections of the convention to maritime warfare, and in so doing make the Red Cross a recognized symbol of med­ ical relief and neutrality on the high seas—a project that floundered when faced with the obstructionist attitude of the world’s foremost naval power, Britain. Similar, though more successful, attempts at adaptation occurred during the Russo-Turkish War, when Moynier agreed to modify both the text of the convention and the symbol itself in response to the exigencies of the conflict. Specifically, Moynier bestowed upon the symbol of a Red Crescent on a white background the same values embodied in the symbol of the Red Cross, in order to halt occurrences of Ottoman soldiers opening fire on Red Cross workers who they deemed to be Christian “crusaders” in Muslim lands. This act both began to process by which the Christian value of the original Red Cross symbol was diluted to accommodate other belief and value systems, and was demonstrative of the greater imperative of the Red Cross to adapt, if necessary in unorthodox and unwelcome ways, in order to continue its humanitarian mission in times of war.21 It was this imperative to adapt that led to the explicit confirmation of the Red Cross symbol’s neutrality in the Second Geneva Convention of 1906 and, in the aftermath of the total and lawless carnage of the First World War, called for yet another revision of the convention in 1929. This revi­ sion included not only modifications to the original convention, but also the extension of its protections to prisoners of war (POWs) who, by the terms of the revised document, would now be classified as war victims in much the

19 Henry Dunant, Un souvenir de Solferino, trans. David H. Wright (Philadelphia, PA: John C. Winston, 1911), 80. 20 Yves Sandoz, “The International Committee of the Red Cross as Guardian of International Humanitarian Law.” December 31, 1998, ICRC Website, Accessed December 20, 2018, https://www.icrc.org/en/doc/resources/documents/misc/about-the-icrc-311298.htm. 21 For the 1868 conference, and its failures see generally National Archives of the United Kingdom, TNA:FO 881/7137; On Moynier’s decision see Bossier, Solferino to Tsushima, 302–307; for discussion of the symbol’s evolution from the original cross, and the appli­ cation of protections to other symbols of the Red Cross movement see Habib Slim, “Protection of the Red Cross and Red Crescent Emblems and the Repression of Misuse,” International Review of the Red Cross 272 (1989): 420–437.

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same way that the sick and wounded had been in the decades prior. This meant that POWs, like their wounded brethren, would also be guaranteed succour from those who wore the Red Cross symbol. The Red Cross volun­ teers were now tasked with the need “to perform, for the protection of pris­ oners of war with the consent of the belligerents concerned,” humanitarian acts such as inspecting camps and, via further adaptations on the part of the ICRC in negotiating bespoke agreements with warring states, supplying food and medicine to those stricken behind barbed wire.22 An even bolder attempt was made to extend the value of protection inherent in the symbol in 1934, at the 15th International Red Cross Conference in Tokyo. There, in response to the scale of civilian suffering during the First World War—and the lack of a Red Cross mandate to do anything to alleviate said suffering—a draft international agreement was proposed to extend the activities of Red Cross volunteers to serve civilians living under occupation. More than that, during the discussions between the 252 Red Cross delegates who attended the conference, it was proposed to create “zones or cities offering adequate protection to the civilian population and to the sick and wounded of the armed forces”—zones which could be protected by massive Red Cross flags, visible from the air. To the suggestion of these “protected zones” was added a proposal to allow Red Cross volunteers to deliver humanitarian relief to interned civilians, and for the treatment of said civilians by belligerents to be humane, in regards to the provision of food, shelter, medicine and the reigning-in of acts of looting and plunder.23 As an act of extending the humanitarian value of the Red Cross symbol and responding to the excesses of modern war, the Tokyo Conference should have been a triumph. Indeed, one attendee believed that in beholding such fruitful and bold discussions by humanitarians of various nationalities, brought together under the banner of the Red Cross, he had witnessed “such a remarkable manifestation of international goodwill that I am convinced its benign influence need never pass away.”24 Absent from this optimistic evaluation was the fact that as the conference convened its host, Japan, was in the midst of a bloody war of conquest in China, which had commenced 3 years earlier via the invasion on Manchuria and, in the intervening years, had been characterized by acts of barbarism on the part of the invaders.

22 Prisoner of War Convention, 1929, art. 88. Neville Wylie, “The 1929 Prisoner of War Convention and the Building of the Interwar Prisoner of War Regime” in Prisoners in War: Norms, Military Cultures and Reciprocity in Armed Conflict, ed. Sybile Scheippers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 91–106. 23 André Durand, From Sarajevo to Hiroshima (Geneva: Henry Dunant Institute, 1984), 290–294; For details see Draft International Convention on the Condition and Protection of Civilians of Enemy Nationality Who are on Territory Belonging to or Occupied by a Belligerent, Tokyo, October 29, 1934. 24 Harold Fawkus, “The Fifteenth International Red Cross Conference at Tokyo, October 20–29, 1934,” Journal of the Royal Army Medical Corps 64, no. 3 (1935), 145–152.

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The fact that the Japanese Red Cross was alongside the army in its brutal conquest was known to the ICRC’s delegate on the ground in China. And yet, at the Tokyo Conference, barely a murmur was made of these two par­ allel worlds in which the Red Cross movement was operating—the world in which the emblem was carried alongside soldiers in the midst of an inva­ sion, while simultaneously being discussed as a great protective blanket for the very civilian victims of such acts of war.25 By the time the Second World War broke out, therefore, the symbol of the Red Cross movement had become infused with a series of contradictory semiotic values. On the one hand, it conveyed the story of the movement’s origins—the inverted flag of neutral Switzerland, imbued with the universally recognized Christian symbol of faith, hope and charity, a symbol of protection to all who rec­ ognized it. On the other hand, the Red Cross emblem had also become a totem of war. As the case of the Norwegian Red Cross, operating under German occupation during the Second World War, demonstrates, within these contradictions, there was much room for exploitation of the symbol and its many and varied values.

The Red Cross and Norway The President of the Norwegian Red Cross, Jens Meinich (1872–1947), was one of the participants at the 1934 conference in Tokyo. Upon his return from the event, he joined with many other delegates in praising the organ­ izers and trumpeting the spirit of the Red Cross. This was not simply a case of Meinich being duped by the Japanese. At the time, the Red Cross was enjoying a surge in popularity in Norway, where it was widely seen a fitting neatly alongside the efforts of humanitarian juggernauts of the age such as the Norwegian national hero Fridtjof Nansen (1861–1930), the first League of Nations High Commissioner for refugees. This popularity led to not only the Norwegian Red Cross but also other national humanitarian societies experiencing an increase in membership in the years leading up to the Second World War. The Norwegian Red Cross was not the largest of these humanitarian organizations, but its symbol was the most widely recognized, providing a common point of reference and particular affirma­ tion of the movement’s presence in Norway’s humanitarian circles. Owing to this popularity, it was incumbent on Meinich to ignore the unpleasant hypocrisy of the Tokyo Conference and focus instead on the growing power and status of the Red Cross movement in his homeland.26 Another reason for Meinich to speak in hopeful tones of the Red Cross was the need for Norway, and its humanitarians, to ready themselves for the coming storm. By 1937, he was warning members of the Norwegian

25 Moorehead, Dunant’s Dream, 296–298.

26 Eldrid Mageli, Med rett til å hjelpe (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 2014), 139.

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46 James Crossland and Gaute Lund Rønnebu Red Cross that “we must be prepared for the horrors of war and the Red Cross has to be ready to perform its very important task.”27 In the spring of 1940, Meinich’s prediction came true, when Nazi Germany invaded Norway and the Red Cross was immediately set to work dispensing med­ ical aid, carrying out their mission as anticipated under the symbol in accordance with the Geneva Convention. In the spirit of that convention and its authors, the Norwegians were assisted in their humanitarian mis­ sion by members of the German Red Cross, which followed the Wehrmacht into Norway. During the invasion, German and Norwegian Red Cross staff worked side by side in field hospitals to save the lives of wounded soldiers on both sides, including British soldiers despatched to assist the Norwegians in repelling the invaders.28 In an article in the German maga­ zine Zeitschrift für ärztliche Ausbildung, published a few months after the invasion had ended, praise was given to the Norwegian Red Cross mem­ bers for their skills and spirit, with one German doctor quoted as saying that “what I have seen here is skies above what I have seen before.”29 This was but one of many plaudits the Norwegian Red Cross received for its endeavours during the 1940 campaign, which ended in June with German victory and a subsequent 5-year occupation of Norway.30 During the occupation, the pressure for the Norwegian people to adapt to Nazi rule was great; however, both the occupying forces, and the collaborat­ ing Nasjonal Samling (NS) party, tended to leave the Red Cross alone. The most obstructive act on the part of the occupation authorities was a limited program of surveillance, carried out to monitor some of the activities of Red Cross workers. This security measure was offset, however, by the Red Cross society being allowed initially to keep its pre-war structure—one of the few organizations in German-occupied Norway granted this measure of auton­ omy. This lack of interference from the Germans, plus the aforementioned enthusiasm for the Red Cross prior to the war, and the widely applauded actions of its members during the invasion, led to the society’s membership actually growing throughout the occupation. This, in turn, led to an expan­ sion of the Red Cross’ activities, making it an indispensable contributor to 27 Martin Sæter, Over alle grenser, Norges Røde Kors 100 år (Oslo: H. Aschehoug & Co., 1965), 130. 28 Johs. Andenæs, Olav Riste and Magne Skodvin, Norway and the Second World War (Oslo: Tanum Norli, 1966), 52. 29 The Narvik War and Peace Centre Archives, hereafter NWPC: “Norges Røde Kors 3. distrikts arkiv,” file 32. 30 A German officer thanked the local Red Cross society in Narvik for their help after the war in Northern Norway ended on 8 June 1940. Later, both the Wehrmacht general Eduard Dietl and Reichskommissar Josef Terboven gave credit to the effort of Norwegian medical services and the effort of the Red Cross staff during the campaign. NWPC, “Beretning fra Narvik Røde Kors Hjelpekorps 9. april til 7. juni 1940.” Norwegian National Archives, hereafter NNA, Norwegian Red Cross archives, box 42, file “Norges Røde Kors heder­ stegn med diplom.”

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the normalization of life under occupation. This was most clearly demon­ strated in the work done by the Red Cross’ Information Office, which at one point employed 80 Norwegians and “handled all questions concerning Norwegian prisoners of war (POW), of whom there were about 20,000 in all.” From the summer of 1940 until the end of the war, nearly half a million “formula-letters” passed through this service and about 33,000 Red Cross parcels were despatched from the society’s head office in Oslo.31 For this reason, praise was often forthcoming from returning POWs, who gave public thanks to the Norwegian Red Cross for delivering the food and medicals parcels that had kept them alive throughout their wartime intern­ ment. In connection with a celebratory “Red Cross Week” in September 1945, the Norwegian general Otto Ruge (1882–1961) stated in the newspaper Aftenposten: I have a lot to thank the Red Cross for, and as the Norwegian pris­ oner who spent perhaps the longest time in Germany, I have seen how infinitely much the Norwegian Red Cross has done for prisoners of all kinds in POW camps, in concentration camps and bridewells. I have also seen that it is not only the prisoners themselves that have every reason to thank the Norwegian Red Cross. It is perhaps just as much the families of the prisoners. We have a particular reason to thank the Norwegian Red Cross for its mighty work during the last eight months in finding information on missing persons, provide food, clothes, medical aid and transport home for those who have suffered the most and had great difficulties during imprisonment. For my part, I feel a regular thank you note will not suffice. I see it as my duty to make sure the Norwegian Red Cross receives the best possi­ ble working conditions in the future. That is why it is my pleasure to support the appeal that the Norwegian Red Cross has directed to the public these days.32 Beyond simple praise, the result of the Red Cross’ labours on behalf of Norway’s POWs was a conflation in the public mind of the Red Cross sym­ bol, and the work done under it, with both the preservation of the nation’s brave fighting men and, through the letters the Red Cross forwarded to the camps, the maintenance of important familial links.33 On account of this, by the time the occupation ended in 1945, the optimism and pride surround­ ing the Norwegian Red Cross had grown beyond that which had existed in the 1930s, prompting the society, in its war-ending report to the ICRC to

31 Report to the XVIIth International Red Cross Conference (Oslo: B. Bentzens Boktrykkeri, 1948), 9–10. 32 Otto Ruge, “Forsvarssjef Otto Ruge,” Aftenposten, September 24, 1945, 4. 33 Mageli, Med rett til å hjelpe, 177.

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“state with conviction that the Norwegian Red Cross has a much stronger position to-day than it had 10 years ago, and in a far greater degree is pres­ ent in the consciousness of the public.”34

The duality of the Red Cross The story of the Norwegian Red Cross during the Second World War was far more complex than the surface-level praise it received, and the attitudes displayed by Norwegians and Germans towards the emblem and its semi­ otic value of neutrality varied. For example, despite the assertion in the con­ ventional narrative that the Germans respected the emblem, the Red Cross symbol was violated multiple times during the invasion. One of the most shocking examples of this occurred in May 1940, when a hospital in the town of Bodø was bombed by the Luftwaffe, despite its roof being painted with the protective Red Cross symbol. Further indications that the Germans did not fully respect the Red Cross symbol, or the conventions that backed it, arose later in the war, when Norwegians all over the country witnessed the occupiers’ inhumane treatment of Soviet POWs, who were denied the basic rights laid down in the Geneva Convention of 1929.35 This was especially so at the camps, for example, in Beisfjord outside Narvik and Engeløya in the municipality of Steigen, where Soviet POWs were used as slave labour for building roads and fortresses in a hostile climate, with little provided in the way of shelter, food or clothing.36 Notably, Norwegian Red Cross mem­ bers discussed this issue internally on several occasions but concluded that they were unable to do anything about it for a very simple reason—if the Germans ignored the Geneva Convention, then its designated guardians clearly had little or no power to fight back.37 It was not just the Germans, however, who violated the symbol’s sanctity. During the invasion, some Norwegian citizens marked their cars and houses with Red Crosses to avoid bombing, trusting in its semiotic value of protec­ tion, but ignoring or misunderstanding its sanctity in international law—a curious by-product of both the rampant pre-war enthusiasm for the Red Cross, and the mercenary way in which the values of the institution were sometimes interpreted. Notably, these acts of misuse led the Norwegian authorities to issue a public warning against using the Red Cross emblem in unauthorized ways, for fear that it might lead to a nationwide breakdown in respect for the symbol’s sanctity. The fact that this warning had to be reis­ sued throughout the occupation period speaks to the average Norwegian 34 Report to the XVIIth International Red Cross Conference, 5. 35 The Soviet Union had not signed the Third Geneva Convention, a fact the Germans used to legitimize their maltreatment of the Soviet POWs. 36 See Marianne Neerland Soleim, Sovjetiske krigsfanger i Norge 1941–1945: Antall, organ­ isering og repatriering (Oslo: Spartacus, 2009). 37 NWPC: “Norges Røde Kors 3. distrikts arkiv,” file 17.

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understanding of the Red Cross as a symbol of protection, albeit without an accompanying appreciation for the legal tenants that imbued the symbol with such value.38 More grievous than this appropriation of the symbol’s neutrality was the fact that, in the pressurized atmosphere of the occupation, the semiotic ideals of the Red Cross’ impartiality and independence were also some­ times cast aside. For example, a number of supposedly neutral, impar­ tial Norwegian Red Cross members also worked for the underground anti-occupation resistance group Milorg (The Military Organization), which smuggled weapons in cases marked with the Red Cross symbol, using its semiotic value of sanctity to avoid inspections from the German patrols.39 Such practices were particular common in Narvik, where the head sur­ geon at the town hospital, Erling Borch-Johnsen (1897–1962), was both the leader of the local Red Cross society and a national board member of the Norwegian Red Cross. Behind his public Red Cross activities, BorchJohnsen was also active in the local resistance, along with his fellow Red Cross volunteer, Sigrid Steen (1906–1993) and the leader of the Red Cross Civil Air Defence Group, Arnulf Hagen (1902–1993), who gathered intelli­ gence on the occupiers that was passed on to the allies.40 To facilitate their underground work, the trio engaged their Red Cross network, utilizing other ostensibly humanitarian volunteers to distribute information and instructions to resistance cells. A curious semiotic understanding of the Red Cross symbol lays behind this dual recruitment of Norwegians as both healers and resistance fighters. To these Red Cross resisters, there seemed to have been no contradiction in engaging publicly in the relief work of the Red Cross and advocating its humanitarian values while simultaneously using the symbol to smuggle arms and carry out other resistance activities. Both healing and resisting were seen as noble, good and humane, and therefore worthy of being carried out under the sacred banner of the Red Cross.41 Despite the obvious exploitation of the Red Cross symbol and the placing of the society’s neutrality and independence at risk by the actions of the Red Cross resisters, this compromising of the symbol and its values raised few eyebrows at the time. Indeed, the connections between resistance and Red Cross have seldom been scrutinized in the collective memory of the war in

38 NNA: Norwegian Red Cross archives, box 41. NWPC: “Norges Røde Kors 3. distrikts arkiv,” file 17. 39 Milorg was a paramilitary underground movement counting roughly 40,000 members by 1945, with mostly pre-emptive ambitions, aiming to be of assistance in the case of an Allied invasion of Norway and in a transition period when the war ended; Mageli, Med rett til å hjelpe, 189. 40 Jan P. Pettersen, XU-201 (Ankenesstrand: Forlaget Kristiansen, 2014), 60 and 196. 41 Narvik War Museum, exhibition, “Inter arma caritas. Erling Borch-Johnsen.”

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Norway since. If contemplated at all, those who used the Red Cross symbol in resistance work have been simply lauded for their heroism and bravery.42 A similar reverence is reserved for Fridtjof Heyerdahl (1879–1970) who, in November 1940, was elected President of the Norwegian Red Cross. Heyerdahl was half-German and was a long-serving director of the Norwegian branch of the German Siemens company. He also attended Hitler’s 50th birthday party in Berlin in 1939 as a “guest of honor.”43 During the early stages of the occupation, he was involved in political negotiations between Norwegian and German representatives and, only 2 weeks after he was elected the President of the Norwegian Red Cross, he was also made Vice President of the German Chamber of Commerce (Deutsche Handelskammer) in Norway. Heyerdahl soon earned a reputation as a valu­ able link between the occupying authorities and the Norwegian Red Cross, which helped to secure some of the Germans’ aforementioned accommo­ dations of Red Cross work on behalf of Norwegian POWs, and with it an acceptance of the organization’s position as a neutral and independent institution. It is curious that, despite these connections to the Germans, Heyerdahl has not been subjected to much in the way of post-war scrutiny in Norwegian scholarship. Like the resistance fighters, the shield provided by the Red Cross emblem, and the “good work” carried out under its protec­ tion, has been vital in securing Heyerdahl’s healthy post-war reputation. His negotiations did, after all, on several occasions reverse penalties for arrested Norwegians and secure the protection of POWs—a vital aspect of the Red Cross’ work which, as demonstrated earlier, underpinned much of the post­ war enthusiasm in Norway for the society.44 However, despite his achieve­ ments as a mediator for the Red Cross, there was much in Heyerdahl’s wartime career that perhaps should now raise eyebrows. This is particular so if one considers the wartime career of another Red Cross mediator with connections to the Germans, whom the history books have not been so kind to. The ICRC’s Vice President Carl J. Burckhardt (1891–1974) fulfilled a similar role as Heyerdahl did in Norway, albeit on a global scale, brokering deals for Red Cross inspectors to enter POW camps across Europe, North Africa and Asia, and smoothing relations between some of his purist humanitarian colleagues and the more inhumane repre­ sentatives of the Nazi regime. Like Heyerdahl, Burckhardt also identified culturally with the Germans and had contacts at the highest levels of the

42 See, for example, the anniversary booklet “Narvik sykehus gjennom 90 år: 1905–1995.” 43 Innstilling fra Undersøkelseskommisjonen av 1945, vol. 1 (Oslo: H. Aschehoug & Co., 1946), 182. 44 Sigurd Rasmussen, Barmhjertighetsfronten: Norges Røde Kors under okkupasjonen 1940–1945 (Oslo: Halvorsen & Larsen Forlag, 1950), 69. Aftenposten, November 6, 1945, 4: “[The Red Cross] brought in a large quantity of food, clothes and medicines from abroad. The President, F. Heyerdahl, was the driving force behind this.” Fridtjof Heyerdahl became in 1949 an hon­ orary member of the Norwegian Red Cross, Vårt Land, September 27, 1949, 8.

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government in Berlin. Where Burckhardt differed from Heyerdahl was in his complicity in the ICRC’s refusal, in 1942, to acknowledge the Holocaust. This controversial act, combined with his other well-documented involve­ ment in trying to broker a peace deal between Germany and Britain in 1941, has led historians to cast a sceptical eye over both Burckhardt’s connections to the Nazi regime and the ICRC’s general mishandling of the persecution and murder of the Jews.45 Heyerdahl’s escape from the criticism that Burckhardt has received demonstrates the limits of the Red Cross’ semiotic value. True, Heyerdahl was close to the Germans, but he never did anything so un-Red Cross like as Burckhardt did to bring shame upon the emblem and, in so doing, com­ promise the key value of neutrality that is built into it. This, combined with the Norwegian Red Cross enjoying a healthier post-war reputation than the ICRC, has led to Heyerdahl being treated as the embodiment of the Red Cross’ neutrality, rather than, as Burckhardt has, its antithesis. Another reason for the lack of scrutiny of Heyerdahl’s dealings with the Germans is that, within the wartime history of the Norwegian Red Cross, there is another figure who tested the limits of the Red Cross as a semiotic shield, only to fail spectacularly. This figure was the Norwegian Red Cross’ Vice President, Olaf Willy Fermann (1892–1975), who was also a member of the NS. In blatant contradiction of the principle of Red Cross neutrality, the collaborationist government forced Fermann on Heyerdahl as his deputy, on the condition that should Heyerdahl refuse the appointment, the entire Red Cross board would be taken over by the NS. Fermann’s appointment was clearly the result of a directive from the Nazis who, in 1942, began to become highly suspicious of the Red Cross’ connections to the Norwegian resistance. In April and May of that year, the Red Cross headquarters in Oslo were raided by the Germans, who arrested the Secretary-General Arnold Rørholt (1909–1986). It is notable that, in justifying the raid, the Germans argued that it was a policing matter directed at Rørholt personally, and not in any way a move against the Red Cross. The reason for this bogus excuse was that the Germans were loathed to show open contempt for the principle of Red Cross neutrality, as they realized that to do so would threaten what was, by now, an international humanitarian Red Cross regime, upon which German POWs relied as much as Norwegians, British or any other national­ ity of war victim.46 This awareness of the Red Cross’ value did not, however, prevent the Nazis and the NS from seeking to harness that value to their own ends by appointing Fermann to align the Red Cross more closely with

45 James Crossland, “A Man of Peaceable Intent: Burckhardt, the British and Red Cross Neutrality during the Second World War,” Historical Research 84, no. 223 (2011): 165–182; see Gerald Steinacher, Humanitarians at War: The Red Cross in the Shadow of the Holocaust (Oxford: OUP, 2017). 46 Dag Fr. Schilling, Barmhjertighetsfronten (Oslo: Norges Røde Kors, 1995), 147.

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the occupation authorities and, in so doing, weed out the resistance agents within it. The Germans were right to appreciate the importance of the Red Cross’ neutrality and the values that underpinned the society’s work. After the war, Fermann was tried and convicted for not only collaboration, but also for his allegedly treacherous deed of compromising the Red Cross’ neu­ trality. The charge was that he let himself be installed as Vice President at the NS’ behest, with the aim to extend Nazi influence into the work­ ings of the Red Cross, compromising both its neutrality and the value of “goodness” that the similarly neutrality-violating members of the Red Cross resistance embodied.47 Fermann never accepted the outcome of the trial, and it took almost 20 years before he got his case tried again, which resulted in his being acquitted in 1967 of the charge of attempt­ ing to “Nazify” the Norwegian Red Cross. The fact that he went to such measures to clear his name in connection to the organization speaks to the exalted status of the Red Cross in Norway. Heyerdahl, by contrast, was accused only of playing a role in granting money to the NS party as a board member of a different company. The charges against him, more­ over, were dropped explicitly because of his efforts to defend the Red Cross, honour its neutrality and carry out its humanitarian mission.48 In the cases of both Fermann and Heyerdahl, the clear message was that the Red Cross had a value in Norway, as either an institution that needed to be protected from the dubious intentions of Nazis or one that could act as a shield against perceived ills.

Conclusion For all the controversies of resisters, collaborators and those in the grey who attached themselves to the Norwegian Red Cross, the society still emerged from the war with the same image of incorruptibility that it had possessed in 1939. The various deviations taken by Fermann, Borch-Johnsen and, argu­ ably, Heyerdahl, from the values of neutrality and impartiality that were built into the Red Cross symbol and the movement it represented, should have caused an erosion of the idealized, pre-war conception of the Red Cross. Instead, none of these transgressions had any severe effect on the sta­ tus of the organization. Rather, Borch-Johnsen and others were honoured for their use of the symbol in Norway’s heroic resistance, Heyerdahl for­ given his trespasses for keeping the Red Cross close to the Nazis during the occupation and Fermann was vilified for bringing the noble institution into ill repute. Given the values built into the symbol in the years leading up to the war, it seems that there was little enthusiasm in Norway after 1945 for

47 NNA: RA/S-3138/0001/D/Da/L1041/0003. Case file on Olaf Willy Fermann. 48 NNA: RA/S-3138/0001/D/Dg/L0535/0002. Case file on Fridtjof Heyerdahl.

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tempering down the sense of pride and positivity that had been imbued into the Red Cross, and its symbol, for decades. This raises two questions: what enabled this credibility to endure and, given that the symbol became both “Nazified” under Fermann and yet remained noble in the hands of the likes of Borch-Johnsen, what explains this duality? A tempting approach to answer the question lies precisely in the characteristic and linguistic features of the Red Cross—its semiot­ ics. The semiotic aspects built into the symbol—healing, caring, “doing good”—could easily be co-opted under conditions of wartime occupation into the resistance narrative. Healing became “saving,” caring became “caring about the victims of Nazi oppression” and doing “good” became fighting the good fight against the invader. With such important drives behind their actions, there was little time for most patriotic Norwegians, either during the occupation or in the triumphal aftermath of its ending, to worry too much about how these drives compromised both the traditional semiotic values of the Red Cross emblem and the IHL that gave weight to them. What was important was to continue to have faith in the symbol as one of inherent goodness, irrespective of how it was used or misused. This same pride in the Red Cross emblem as something that could both heal and help an occupied nation was likely the reason why, at Fermann’s trial, emphasis was placed on his crimes towards the Red Cross as much as his crimes as a traitor to his nation. The idea that noble, patriotic Norwegians might subvert the emblem’s traditional meanings for “good” ends was permissible; however, the notion that the Red Cross might become one with the Swastika following Fermann’s involvement in the society was a cause for both disgust and embarrassment. This same sensitivity over the notion of corrupting the emblem with something as nefarious as Nazism also explains Fermann’s appeal to have the case against him dropped, less he be remembered as the man who both betrayed country and Red Cross. In either instance, whether embracing the symbol as one of resistance, or rejecting its association with the occupiers, the imperative was to main­ tain the popular conception of the Red Cross emblem as a symbol of hope, charity and goodness. This allowed for the creation of a space in post-war understandings of the Norwegian Red Cross, in which all negative aspects associated with the symbol could disappear, leaving the organization itself to escape the scrutiny of history. In place of this scrutiny were put tales of grateful returning prisoners, healing Red Cross workers, the odd, coura­ geous resister in Red Cross clothing and the dishonourable collaborators who dared to violate the sacred emblem. In this sense, Norway’s wartime experience of the Red Cross emblem—adopted, cherished and misused to various degrees—followed the Red Cross movement’s already patchy his­ tory, in which it the symbol was displayed by earnest Samaritans, adopted by medical mercenaries or used as a source of patriotic pride in the defence of one’s country. Despite these sometimes questionable uses of the emblem since the 1860s, its importance as a legal symbol, the weight of purpose

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and status it has gifted its wearers and its semiotic strength as a source of humanitarian values has always been acknowledged and appreciated. Nowhere was this mixed legacy of the emblem and its various interpreta­ tions better evidenced, than in its use in wartime Norway.

Works cited Andenes, Johs, Olav Riste and Magne Skodvin, Norway and the Second World War. Oslo: Tanum Norli, 1966. Boissier, Pierre. History of the International Committee of the Red Cross: From Solferino to Tsushima. Geneva: Henry Dunant Institute, 1985. Bouvier, Antoine. “Special Aspects on the Use of the Red Cross or Red Crescent Emblem,” International Review of the Red Cross 272 (1989): 438–458. Compte rendu de la Conférence Internationale réunie á Genève les 26, 27, 28 et 29 Octobre 1863 pourétudier les moyens de pourvoir à l’insuffsance du service Sanitaire dans les armées en campagne, Second Edition. Geneva, 1904. Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armies in the Field, 6 July 1906. Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armies in the Field, 27 July 1929. Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War, 27 July 1929. Crossland, James. “A Man of Peaceable Intent: Burckhardt, the British and Red Cross Neutrality During the Second World War.” Historical Research 84, no. 223 (2011): 165–182. Crossland, James. Britain and the International Committee of the Red Cross, 1939–1945. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2014. Crossland, James. War, Law and Humanity: The Campaign to Control Warfare, 1853–1914. London: Bloomsbury, 2018. Davis, George W. “The Sanitary Commission – The Red Cross,” The American Journal of International Law 4, no. 3 (1910): 546–566. Dunant, Henry. Un souvenir de Solferino, translated by David H. Wright Philadelphia, PA: John C. Winston, 1911. Durand, André. From Sarajevo to Hiroshima. Geneva: Henry Dunant Institute, 1984. Eberlin, Philippe. “Technical Note on the Colours of the Red Cross and Red Crescent Emblem,” International Review of the Red Cross 223 (1983): 77–80. Favez, Jean-Claude. The Red Cross and the Holocaust. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Fawkus, Harold. “The Fifteenth International Red Cross Conference at Tokyo, October 20–29, 1934,” Journal of the Royal Army Medical Corps 64, no. 3 (1935): 145–152. Forsythe, David. The Humanitarians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Hart, Ellen. Man Born to Live. London: Victor Gollancz, 1953. Hutchinson, John F. Champions of Charity: War and the Rise of the Red Cross. Boulder: Westview, 1996. H. Aschehoug & Co. Innstilling fra Undersøkelseskommisjonen av 1945, vol. 1. Oslo: H. Aschehoug & Co., 1946.

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Käser, Frank. “A Civilized Nation: Japan and the Red Cross, 1877–1900,” European Review of History 23, no. 1–2 (2016): 16–32. Mageli, Eldrid. Med rett til å hjelpe. Oslo: Pax Forlag, 2014. Moorehead, Caroline. Dunant’s Dream: War, Switzerland and the History of the Red Cross. London: HarperCollins, 1999. Pettersen, Jan P. XU-201. Ankenesstrand: Forlaget Kristiansen, 2014. Pictet, Jean. “The Fundamental Principles of the Red Cross: Commentary.” January 1, 1979, ICRC Website. Accessed December 13, 2018. https://www.icrc.org/en/doc/ resources/documents/misc/fundamental-principles-commentary-010179.htm. Rasmussen, Sigurd. Barmhjertighetsfronten: Norges Røde Kors under okkupasjonen 1940–1945. Oslo: Halvorsen & Larsen Forlag, 1950. B. Bentzens boktrykkeri. Report to the XVIIth International Red Cross Conference. Oslo: B. Bentzens boktrykkeri, 1948. Sandoz, Yves. “The International Committee of the Red Cross as Guardian of International Humanitarian Law.” December 31, 1998, ICRC Website. Accessed December 20, 2018. https://www.icrc.org/en/doc/resources/documents/misc/ about-the-icrc-311298.htm. Schilling, Dag Fr. Barmhjertighetsfronten. Oslo: Norges Røde Kors, 1995. Sæter, Martin. Over alle grenser, Norges Røde Kors 100 år. Oslo: H. Aschehoug & Co., 1965. Sherman, Gordon E. “The Neutrality of Switzerland,” American Journal of International Law 12, no. 2 (1919): 241–250. Shetty, Anil, Shraddha Shetty and Oliver Dsouza. “Medical Symbols in Practice: Myths vs. Reality,” Journal of Clinical and Diagnostic Research 8, no. 8 (2014): 12–14. Slim, Habib. “Protection of the Red Cross and Red Crescent Emblems and the Repression of Misuse,” International Review of the Red Cross 272 (1989): 420–437. Van Der Velde, Charles. Sa Mission Auprés de L’Armée Danoise in Secours aux Blessés. Geneva: ICRC, 1864. Vonéche Caridia, Isabelle. Neutralité et Engagement: les relations entre le Comité international de la Croix-Rouge (CICR) et le Gouvernement suisse, 1938–1945. Lausanne: SHSR, 2012. Wylie, Neville. “The 1929 Prisoner of War Convention and the Building of the Interwar Prisoner of War Regime.” In Prisoners in War: Norms, Military Cultures and Reciprocity in Armed Conflict, edited by Scheippers Sybile, 91–106. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

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3

The semiotics of collaboration Eirik Holmen

Introduction In the winter of 2018, while I was skiing with a friend, he asked me what I was currently working on. I replied that I was investigating the use of “collaboration” as a concept in historical research and mentioned that my focus was on economic collaboration in occupied Norway. He replied: “Interesting, collaboration is a key value in the firm I work for.” He worked as an economist in a bank. This story illustrates several points about the use of words, concepts and language. Even though we both talked about firms collaborating with other institutions, the word “collaboration” was inter­ preted as negative when I used it, while it was not only positive but a key value when he used it. We were both talking about a form of business collab­ oration. However, there were at least three major contextual elements that separated our uses of the word “collaboration”: discipline, event and time. Why should a historian bother bringing linguistic or semiotic questions into his research? Can he not simply write history? The previous story is an argument for why scientists need to take questions related to language into account when they are conducting research. For me, it is important to point out that the following analysis is done by a historian who sees it as necessary and relevant to go one step further and use a framework from semiotics and hermeneutics as a tool for conducting historical science. The debates related to the linguistic turn in human sciences have created heated discussions, and many historians have labelled each other as positivists or postmodernists.1 At the core of what they debated were the relations between the material world and language, central aspects of both epistemology and ontology. The positions are often polarized in the two mutually exclusive camps of rela­ tivists and objectivists. Those who were labelled positivists were accused of

1 One example of the discussions among historians was between David Harlan, David Hollinger and others in the American Historical Review in the late 1980s. See, e.g. David Harlan, “Intellectual History and the Return of Literature,” American Historical Review 94 (1989): 581–609 and David Hollinger, “The Return of the Prodigal: The Persistence of Historical Knowing,” American Historical Review 94 (1989): 610–621.

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The semiotics of collaboration 57 holding a naive belief in objectivity, while postmodernists were accused of having a relativistic worldview that only focused on meaning as constructed and subjective.2 I will position myself in between these two camps and claim, like Stephen L. Collins and James Hoopes, that “knowledge is objective and relative at the same time.” While “[s]emioticans study how meanings are made and how reality is represented,”3 historians “seek to understand the past and its many mean­ ings.”4 A keyword bringing these two disciplines together is “meaning.” The question I will attempt to answer in the present text is how did the Second World War produce new semiotic meaning for the concept of collaboration, and how has this meaning been shaped by historians since 1945? In answer­ ing this question, I will use Charles Sanders Peirce’s (1839–1914) theory of signs in combination with perspectives on the interpretation given by Paul Ricoeur (1913–2005), among others. Peirce has been described as a semio­ tician who combined relativism and objectivism in his theory of signs and epistemology.5 Peirce’s focus on the interpreter is a reason for placing his theory closer to hermeneutics than other semiotic theories. In “What is a Text?” Ricoeur points to the similarity between Peirce’s theory and hermeneutics when he makes a connection between the interpretant of a sign and the interpretant of a text.6 I will treat the selected historians as a group of interpretants. An important limitation is that this text discusses how “some histori­ ans” have shaped the concept of “collaboration.” In this chapter, although there is no room for a complete historiography of the concept, it is not rel­ evant since it is the production of a new semiotic meaning that is analysed here. This chapter will elaborate on what I see as four different strategies for using or not using the concept. The different strategies are (1) a con­ textual use of the concept related to Vichy France, (2) using collaboration as an extreme form of accommodation, (3) not using collaboration, and finally (4) using collaboration as a concept covering most of the interac­ tions between the occupier and the occupied. These categories can be used

2 Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt and Margaret Jacob, Telling the Truth About History (New York: Norton, 1994), 202–203. 3 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London: Routledge, 2017), 2. 4 American Historical Association, “Statement on Standards of Professional Conduct,” American Historical Association, updated June 2018. Accessed May 15, 2019. https:// w w w.h istor ians.org /jobs-and-professional- development/statements-standards­ and-guidelines-of-the-discipline/statement-on-standards-of-professional-conduct# Profession. 5 Stephen L. Collins and James Hoopes, “Anthony Giddens and Charles Sanders Peirce: History, Theory, and a Way Out of the Linguistic Cul-de-Sac,” Journal of the History of Ideas 56, no. 4 (1995): 627. 6 Paul Ricoeur, “What Is a Text? Explanation and Understanding,” in Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences: Essays on Language, Action and Interpretation, ed. John B. Thompson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 163.

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for categorizing other texts about wartime collaboration. The continuing scientific debate may add new strategies. Another limitation is the lan­ guage itself. It is the English language that is in focus in this analysis of the formation of the sign “collaboration.” This sign has its origin in Latin, was used in French from 1753, and then in English since the mid-19th century. Dictionaries usually talk about a second meaning of “collaboration” of “traitorous collaboration,” used since 1940.7 It has been translated into other languages, and in each context, there will be nuances in the semi­ otic meaning. This is interesting, but the limits of this chapter prevent an in-depth comparison of translations of “collaboration” into different languages. However, this text will make some references to Danish and Norwegian translations of the word. In Nazi-dominated Europe, Denmark was closest to Vichy France according to the level of political self-government, and it was the governmental experiences in Vichy France that were the starting point for a new semiotic meaning of collaboration. Norway expe­ rienced another system of German domination, but it had a collaborative government dominated by Norwegian national socialists. In the following, I first explain how I understand and will use semiotics in analysing the concept of collaboration. Second, I will elaborate on how the concept of collaboration, as it was used for wartime collaboration, orig­ inated. Finally, I will discuss how some historians in the post-war period have shaped the concept. From a semiotic perspective, historians are form­ ing a chain of interpretants producing new meanings for the concept of collaboration.

Collaboration as a symbolic sign: meaning, interpretation and narrative According to Susan Petrilli, Peirce’s semiotics have been “designated as the semiotics of interpretation.”8 This stands in contrast to the Saussurean model of code and message. While Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913) saw the sign as divided in signifier and signified, Peirce operated with a “trichotomous relation between object, sign and interpretant.”9 Peirce’s theory of signs was first presented in 1867 in “On a New List of Categories.” In “Of Reasoning in General” from 1894, he defined a sign as “a thing which serves to convey 7 Centre National de Ressources Textuelles et Lexicales, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed November 20, 2018. http://www.cnrtl.fr/etymologie/collaboration; English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed September 12, 2018. https://en.oxforddiction­ aries.com/definition/collaboration. 8 Susan Petrilli, “On the Semiotics of Interpretation: Introduction,” in Charles S. Peirce, 1839–1914: An Intellectual Biography, eds. Gèrard Deledalle, Max H. Fisch and Susan Petrilli (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1990), xiii. 9 Susan Petrilli, “On the Semiotics of Interpretation: Introduction,” in Charles S. Peirce, 1839–1914: An Intellectual Biography, eds. Gèrard Deledalle, Max H. Fisch and Susan Petrilli (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1990), xii, xiv.

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The semiotics of collaboration 59 knowledge of some other thing, which it is said to stand for or represent. This thing is called the object of the sign; the idea in the mind that the sign excites, which is a mental sign of the same object, is called an interpretant of the sign.”10 A sign can always be translated by another sign or group of signs, and this is what happens within the interpretant of the sign.11 Pierce distinguished between three orders of signs: likeness, index and symbol.12 What separates the different types of signs is their relation to the object they represent. The relation that likeness (icon) has with its object is, according to Peirce, a “community in some quality,” while the index has a “correspondence in fact.” The picture is an example of an icon. It is an imi­ tation of what it is representing and therefore has some of the same quality. “A weathercock indicates the direction of the wind” and is an example of an index. Both the wind and the weathercock are pointing towards the same fact, the direction of the wind. These two types of signs, icon and index, have a more direct relation to the object than symbols, which have a relation to the object that is of “an imputed character.”13 In “What is a Sign?” Peirce claims that a symbol “cannot indicate any particular thing; it denotes a kind of thing.” Two examples of symbols are “text” and “collaboration.” These do not point at a single thing but a general thing.14 It can therefore be claimed that symbols are more closely connected to interpretants. Verbal symbols are good examples of this. It is the inter­ pretant that creates a connection between the sign-vehicle “collaboration” and the object “working together.” According to Ricoeur, the interpretant is at the same time both a comment on the sign and a symbol in itself.15 There is nothing in the symbol itself that connects it to this meaning. In the human mind, a symbol is always connected to other symbols; “collaboration,” for example, is understandable because it is connected to symbols like “coopera­ tion” and “working together.” A combination of Peirce’s theory of signs with Ricoeur’s hermeneutical model could then be illustrated as in Figure 3.1. For both Peirce and Ricoeur, the object, or the text, is something con­ crete. Transferred to this analysis of “collaboration,” it could be said that the object, “occupied and occupier working together,” existed in the real 10 Charles S. Peirce, “Of Reasoning in General” (1894), in The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosopical Writings, vol. 1, eds. Nathan Houser and Christian J. W Klosel (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1992), 13. 11 Paul Ricoeur, The Conflict of Interpretations, trans. Kathleen McLaughlin (London: Continuum, 2004), 70. 12 Charles S. Peirce, “What Is a Sign?” (1894), in The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosopical Writings, (1893–1913), vol. 2, ed. The Peirce Edition Project (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1998), 9. 13 Charles S. Peirce, “On a New List of Categories” (1868), in The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosopical Writings, vol. 1, eds. Nathan Houser and Christian J. W Klosel (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1992), 7. 14 Peirce, “What Is a Sign?”, 9. 15 Ricoeur, “What Is a Text?”, 163.

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Figure 3.1 Signs and hermeneutics.

world, and text about collaboration consequently also exists. According to Dagfinn Føllesdal, “semantics is the study of the meaning and refer­ ence of linguistic expressions, while semiotics is the general study of signs of all kinds and in all their aspects.”16 Therefore, semiotics has a wider scope than semantics because it is preoccupied with more than linguistic expression. However, in this chapter, it is the aspect of meaning related to the sign “collaboration” that is in focus. It brings the semiotic and semantic together. If meaning is one central aspect for understanding the use and devel­ opment of the symbol “collaboration,” “interpretation” is another aspect. English Oxford Living Dictionaries define the plural noun hermeneutics as “[t]he branch of knowledge that deals with interpretation, especially of the Bible or literary texts.” In the singular, the noun hermeneutic is defined as “a method or theory of interpretation.”17 According to Ricoeur, there is a hermeneutical problem, because “every reading of a text always takes place within a community, a tradition, or a living current of thought, all of which display presuppositions and exigencies.”18 According to Ricoeur, if you want to understand the intention or original meaning of a text, you need knowledge about the context around the origins of the text. The distance in 16 Dagfinn Føllesdal, “Semantics and Semiotics,” in Structures and Norms in Science, eds. Maria Luisa Dalla Chiara et al. (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1997), 449. 17 English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “hermeneutics.” Accessed January 20, 2019. https:// en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/hermeneutics; English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “hermeneutic,” accessed January 20, 2019, https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/ hermeneutic. 18 Ricoeur, The Conflict of Interpretations, 3.

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The semiotics of collaboration 61 time between the interpreter and the text is always a hermeneutical problem because there is a cultural gap between the contexts. Using narrative as a synonym for one way of interpreting, the past seems to have become part of a common language. Terms like “patriotic” and “national narratives” are sometimes used without broader explanations. However, it has also been stated that the “divergences between older and newer interpreta­ tions of the Second World War have developed into a specific and vital field of research.”19 This semiotic analysis of “collaboration” will contribute to this field of research. I consider narrative as an example of “a tradition, or a living current of thought,” as mentioned by Ricoeur as a part of the context of inter­ pretation. During the war, and in the post-war period, people interpreted the war by using symbols in different ways, both contributing to and challenging narratives about it. In “The Past Is Another Country: Myth and Memory in Post-war Europe,” Tony Judt claimed that the narrative of the war has aspects of a myth. Mythmaking about wartime and occupation is a way that both people and governments try to cope with the past.20 Narratives have both a rel­ ative and an objective side. The elements of construction are related to events in the material world, and therefore it is relevant to talk about not only one patriotic narrative but different national narratives following some common patterns.21 How is this relevant when it comes to the semiotics of “collabora­ tion”? These narratives have been elements of the context in which the inter­ pretation of “collaboration” has been going on since 1940. Ricoeur claimed that hermeneutics “is a theory of science especially geared to the needs of the humanities.”22 The linguist Frans Gregersen and the psychologist Simo Køppe go further in their article “A Normative Theory of Humanistic Knowledge” and allege that hermeneutics is either “the foundation of all science or not a foundation at all.” They substantiate it with references to Hans-Georg Gadamer (1900–2002), who saw “language as the medium in which we are bound to formulate our knowledge.” This leads to so-called radical historicism where it is “not possible to filter out the historical determinants.”23 All knowledge, including knowledge from natu­ ral sciences, is situated in time and mediated through language. Language, 19 Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling, “Nordic Narratives of the Second World War: An Introduction,” in Nordic Narratives of the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, eds. Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011), 11. 20 Tony Judt, “The Past is Another Country: Myth and Memory in Postwar Europe,” Daedalus 121, no. 4 (1992): 83–118. 21 Bo Stråth, “Nordic Foundation Myths after 1945: A European Context,” in Nordic Narratives of the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, eds. Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011), 161–164. 22 Frans Gregersen and Simo Køppe, “A Normative Theory of Humanistic Knowledge,” Zeitschrift für allgemenine Wissenschaftstheorie 20, no. 1 (1989): 43. 23 Frans Gregersen and Simo Køppe, “A Normative Theory of Humanistic Knowledge,” Zeitschrift für allgemenine Wissenschaftstheorie 20, no. 1 (1989): 44.

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itself being a cultural product, also “plays a role in the formation of the sub­ ject” and is often “the very substance of history.”24 An implication of this radical historicism is that language shapes both the subject and the object in the scientific process. In its extreme version, the object is only seen as a construction made by the subject. However, this relativistic position can be challenged by using the Peircean trichotomy of the sign, which addresses both the object and the sign in relation to the interpreter. The object exists independently, according to Peirce.25 In “Anthony Giddens and Charles Sanders Peirce: History, Theory and a Way Out of the Linguistic Cul-de-Sac,” Stephen L. Collins and James Hoopes explain how they see a combination of Peirce’s theory of signs and Giddens’ structuration theory as a defence historians can use for relativ­ ism. According to Collins and Hoopes, Peirce and Giddens challenge the dualism between object and subject and the hermeneutical problem related to time. “Giddens refuses to consider social structure apart from human agency,” and Peirce “refused to consider object apart from subject, matter apart from mind. Giddens and Peirce reconceptualize the world as objective process.” Action and thought are practically one entity, and knowledge is both objective and relative at the same time.26 A summary of the theoretical perspectives that the analysis of “collabora­ tion” as “wartime collaboration” is based on reads as follows: symbols have a semantic meaning that is developing over time. The interpretants, as the historians, are constantly adding meaning to the symbol, and in this pro­ cess, new symbols evolve. Both the sign-vehicle and the interpretant have a relation to the object. Interpretations cannot be separated from the material world. A semiotic investigation of a concept like “collaboration” is therefore also an elaboration of aspects of life.

The new semiotic meaning of collaboration during the Second World War According to the online resources Centre National de Ressources Textuelles et Lexicales and Oxford Dictionaries, collaboration has its origin in the Latin word collaborare, which means “to work together.” In French, it was first documented in 1753 as a juridical term for common work between spouses, then from 1829 it was used more generally as the action of working together with someone.27 In English, it has been used since the mid-19th century to 24 Frans Gregersen and Simo Køppe, “A Normative Theory of Humanistic Knowledge,” Zeitschrift für allgemenine Wissenschaftstheorie 20, no. 1 (1989): 49. 25 See Figure 3.1. 26 Collins and Hoopes, “Anthony Giddens and Charles Sanders Peirce,” 627. 27 Centre National de Ressources Textuelles et Lexicales, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed November 20, 2018. http://www.cnrtl.fr/etymologie/collaboration.

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The semiotics of collaboration 63 mean “the action of working with someone to produce something.”28 This meaning is nowadays most common when the word is spoken or written in either French or English. The word is used both in daily language and as a central scientific concept in several different disciplines. This meaning of the sign thus has a neutral or positive character. However, the sign also has a second semiotic meaning, produced by events connected to the Second World War. This is wartime collaboration, or what dictionaries often define as “traitorous cooperation with an enemy,” first used in 1940.29 A dictionary that does not follow the majority is the Collins English Dictionary & Thesaurus (2000). Here, the noun “collaboration” is only given positive or neutral synonyms like teamwork, alliance, association, concert, cooperation or partnership. However, the dictionary utilizes two main meanings in its synonyms for the verb “to collaborate”: there is a list of pos­ itive synonyms starting with “to work together” and a list of negative ones starting with “to conspire.”30 What can be drawn out of this is that the noun is made negative or positive by the person with whom you are interacting. In a situation of total war, people of occupied or neutral countries will interact with groups representing different sides in the conflict. This explains why the noun “collaboration,” when used to describe situations of war and occu­ pation, has come to be interpreted as negative by some. The first record of collaboration as “traitorous cooperation with an occupying enemy” is, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, from 26 October 1940, when the magazine The Economist wrote that “Pétain may be outvoted on the question of mitigating the peace terms by some sort of shameful collaboration.”31 As chief of state in the established Vichy regime, Phillippe Pétain (1856–1951) came to arrangements with Nazi Germany, which occupied two-thirds of France at that time. Pétain himself had used and continued to use collaboration in his speeches, as in the one on 31 October 1940, when he stated: “I enter into the way of collaboration.”32 It is obvious that the French military leader used collaboration as a sign for creating an idea in the minds of the French that working together was a positive activity. For those who criticized Pétain, like The Economist, the use of the sign “collaboration” in this context did not excite the same idea in their mind.

28 English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed September 12, 2018. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/collaboration. 29 English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed September 12, 2018. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/collaboration. 30 Harper Collins, English Dictionary & Thesaurus (Aylesbury: Harper Collins Publishers, 2000), 219. 31 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed October 20, 2018. https://en. oxforddictionaries.com/definition/collaboration. 32 Robert Paxton, Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order 1940–1944 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), 77.

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Therefore, The Economist added “shameful” to collaboration. The object, what happened, was the same, but the interpretant of it differed. The use of collaboration, in the meaning of “shameful collaboration,” was in 1940 mainly related to a limited context – the relationship between Vichy France and Nazi Germany. It is probable that The Economist, edited in London, at that time expressed the view of a British opinion dissatisfied with los­ ing its allied country. It is likely that most of the French population at that time interpreted “collaboration” as neutral, or at least less shameful, since a German defeat in the autumn of 1940 seemed unlikely.33 The sign was spoken in a context where France was negotiating the transition from being an enemy of Germany to becoming a divided coun­ try, partly occupied and partly “neutral” under German domination. For Peirce, the chain of interpretants is a process.34 While collaboration up to the summer of 1940 mainly symbolized a neutral or positive activity of “work­ ing together,” the events in France that same year created a starting point for a chain of interpretants connecting other symbols with negative conno­ tations to the word “collaboration.” After 1940, one can talk about at least two semantics of collaboration: the first is when the sign is used to symbolize “working together” in non-war situations, and a second meaning of the sign occurs when it symbolizes rela­ tions between occupied and occupier or between people of enemy groups in a situation of war. The sign-vehicle “collaboration” is the same, but when the object is limited to situations of occupation or war, some interpretants give collaboration a more limited meaning, symbolizing a traitorous or shameful activity. However, as demonstrated, this is a dynamic process, where historical events or questions, like who is losing and who is winning the war, have an effect on the interpretation of collaboration. As pointed out by Hans Kirchhoff, Collaboration in the hour of defeat became France’s response to German occupation, a response supported by the vast majority. But with the Allies’ victory and the growth of the resistance movement, collaboration became synonymous with treason, and in the final set­ tling of the accounts after the war, collaborators were shot and exe­ cuted en masse.35

33 Ditlef Tamm, Retsopgøret efter besættelsen 1 (Viborg: Jurist og Økonomforbundets Forlag, 1984), 19. 34 Chandler, Semiotics, 35. 35 Uffe Østegård, “Swords, Shields or Collaborators? Danish Historians and the Debate over the German Occupation of Denmark,” in Nordic Narratives of the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, eds. Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011), 39. Østegård has translated this quote from Hans Kirchhoff, ed. Sådan valgte de: Syv dobbeltportrætter fra besættelsens tid (København: Gyldendal, 2008), 11–12.

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The semiotics of collaboration 65 In “Legitimate or Improper Economic Collaboration,” Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen give a similar example when they point out how the post-war context was a starting point for a reinterpretation of the concept “improper.”36 To what extent was collaboration, meaning “traitorous collaboration,” translated and used in other languages? A search in Norwegian and Danish newspapers reveals that the translated words for collaboration, “kollaborasjon” (Norwegian) and “kollaboration” (Danish), were almost never used in newspapers before 1940.37 In both countries, “samarbeid” or “samarbejde”, meaning cooperation, were used instead.38 This contin­ ued in the first decades after the war. A search of Norwegian newspapers from 1940 onwards reveals that the derived Norwegian word, “kollaboras­ jon,” was mostly used from 1945 to the 1960s about the post-war trials in France. Also, the Norwegian version of collaborator, “kollaboratør,” was mainly used for news from abroad. When the newspapers wrote about Norwegian cases of treason, they most often used the Norwegian word for traitor, i.e. “landssviker.”39

Different strategies towards the use of collaboration as a concept since 1945 Many historians have commented on how collaboration has been used or not used by other historians. One way of writing a historiography of collabora­ tion may be to describe relations based on either political, economic, social, cultural, administrative or personal motives. However, in this chapter, the focus is not on this but rather on how historians have shaped the concept and then created different paths or strategies for using it. In the following pages, I will present four main strategies that historians writing about occupied Europe have had towards using or not using the concept of “collaboration.” In choosing different strategies, historians function as interpretants, devel­ oping and producing meaning for the concept of “collaboration” as a written sign. In some situations, the object that the sign is pointing towards is the same. In other situations, new symbols are created, and then “collaboration” maybe ends up as a narrower concept. 36 For more details, see the chapter in the present volume by Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen. 37 Nasjonalbiblioteket (National Library of Norway), s.v. “kollaborasjon.” Accessed October 18, 2018. https://www.nb.no/search?q=kollaborasjon&mediatype=aviser; Nasjonalbiblioteket (National Library of Norway), s.v., “kollaboratør.” Accessed October 18, 2018. https://www.nb.no/search?q=kollaborat%C3%B8r&mediatype=aviser; Det Kongelige Bibliotek (Royal Danish Library), s.v., “kollaboration.” Accessed January 12, 2019. http://www2.statsbiblioteket.dk/mediestream/avis/search/Kollaboration/date/1800­ 01-01%2C2018-01-01. 38 Tamm, Retsopgøret efter besættelsen 1, 17. 39 Nasjonalbiblioteket, s.v. “kollaborasjon”and “collaborator.”

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The different strategies are (1) a contextual use of the concept related to Vichy France, (2) using collaboration as an extreme form of accommo­ dation, (3) not using collaboration, and finally (4) using collaboration as a concept to cover most of the interactions between the occupier and the occupied. Only the first strategy is connected to one case, i.e. France. Even though the examples I use are from Europe, the three other strategies are of a general character and could be used to analyse histories of collaboration from other wars and contexts. The first strategy is to use collaboration as a contextual concept related to Vichy France. This, in a way, brings it back to its etymological roots. Stanley Hoffman and Robert Paxton did this in the 1960s and 1970s. The nature of the Vichy Regime had hardly been studied before 1970, except in “Raymond Aron’s very influential and very indulgent Historire de Vichy,” where Vichy France was interpreted as a shield against the Germans, who were trying to make France a Nazi state.40 When Paxton published Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order 1940–1944 in 1972, he “put the responsibility for the Vichy regime back on to the French themselves,” according to historian Martin Evans.41 In the first sentence of Chapter 1, Paxton defines collaboration as “not a German demand to which some Frenchmen acceded, through sympathy or guilt. Collaboration was a French proposal that Hitler ultimately rejected.”42 With this definition, Paxton used the concept to create a theory about what happened in France during the Second World War. According to this theory, it was the French, not the Germans, who wanted and took the initiative to collaborate. This explanation was radical and contra­ dicted the patriotic shield theory of Aron. Paxton supported his theory with a large amount of data from German archives, which had not been used before. Placing the responsibility for the collaboration with the French created both anger and a large debate about moral and political responsibilities in the 1970s. Being an American, Paxton was told that “Vichy was a French affair which must be dealt with amongst French people.”43 However, the book sold to a large audience and contributed to a new opinion about Vichy France and the collaboration. From a hermeneutic perspective, it seems like the French critics suggested that you had to be French to interpret the history of France. This is an example of an extreme form of methodological nationalism. 40 Fabian Lemmes, “Collaboration in wartime France, 1940–1944,” European Review of History 15, no. 2 (2008): 158. Lemmes uses the wrong name when he mentions the author: it was Robert Aron, not Raymond Aron, who wrote Historie de Vichy. 41 Martin Evans, “Robert Paxton: The Outsider,” History Today 51, no. 9 (2001): 26.

42 Paxton, Vichy France, 51.

43 Evans, “Robert Paxton,” 27.

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The semiotics of collaboration 67 Paxton’s use of collaboration could have made the concept narrower and more one-sided than necessary. Using Peirce’s triadic model on Paxton’s defi­ nition of collaboration, the object of the sign is the French–German cooper­ ation from 1940 to 1945. With the use of his new data, Paxton claimed that the object of the sign was a cooperation where the initiative to collaborate always came from the French side. When the American scholar defined col­ laboration, he tried to pass this interpretation of the sign over to his readers. The idea of collaboration was therefore limited to a cooperation where it was the occupied who took the initiative. This excluded the occupier as an active subject. In his introduction to the 2001 edition, Paxton is admitting that his theory from 1972 was a bit one sided when he concludes: “Reading some of my judgments today, I concede that they seem totalizing and unforgiving. They were colored, it must be admitted, by my loathing for the war then being carried on in Vietnam by my own country.”44 This illustrates a her­ meneutical point that the context, plays a role when a text is created. On the other hand, it is also an example of how new sources may change the recon­ struction of the past and the interpretation of a concept like collaboration. Unknown to Paxton, in 1968, Stanley Hoffman had, based on the sym­ bol “collaboration,” produced two new symbols: “collaborationism” and “collaboration d’état.” He defined collaborationism as “an openly desired co-operation with an imitation of the German regime.” This was col­ laboration based on ideological identification. He separated this from “collaboration d’état,” which he defined as “collaboration with Germany for reasons of state.” This distinction was closely linked to the histor­ ical context of a defeated France collaborating on terms with the Nazi regime.45 Hoffmann’s distinction became common in the historiography of wartime France.46 Hoffmann’s distinction is an example of what Peirce and Ricoeur described as a process where new symbols are created as comments on already established symbols.47 That the symbol “collaboration” was used about what was experienced as to different objects, ideological and nonideological collaboration, must have been challenging. The noun “collab­ oration,” as used for wartime collaboration, had probably been embedded with so many negative symbols that Hoffmann found it necessary to make this distinction based on motives. With his definitions, he included the motive in the new nouns for collaboration. “Collaboration,” as used in French and English before 1940, meant “working together.” The motives 44 Paxton, Vichy France, xxix.

45 Stanley Hoffmann, “Collaborationism in France during World War II,” The Journal of

Modern History 40, no. 3 (1968): 375–377. 46 Lemmes, “Collaboration in wartime France, 1940–1944,” 160. 47 Ricoeur, “The Problem of Double Meaning as Hermeneutic Problem and as Semantic Problem,” 70.

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were not embedded in this symbol to the same extent. You could say that Hoffmann’s “collaborationism,” i.e. ideologically motivated collaboration, absorbed most of the traitorous meaning, while “collaboration d’état” became a symbol with more neutral associations. “Collaboration d’état” is close to Robert Aron’s (1898–1975) “shield theory,” where collaboration is viewed as a form of protection of the French state. Some have tried to apply similar shield theories to the Danish and Norwegian histories of occupation. The Danish government’s collaboration with the occupier was described by the public and the first generation of historians as a shield against the Nazi regime. Vidkun Quisling (1887–1945) and other members of the Norwegian fascist party also tried after 1945 to portray themselves as a shield.48 A second strategy for how to use collaboration as a concept is to reduce it to a more minor role of accommodation, adaption or cooperation. Living with Defeat: France under the German Occupation 1940–1944 by Philippe Burrin is an example of this. Burrin pointed to what he saw as the relation­ ship between collaboration and accommodation, claiming that “there can be no question of dissolving the notion of collaboration within the general category of accommodation, for it represented its most obvious manifes­ tation; it was, so to speak, accommodation raised to the level of politics.” Burrin’s strategy was to use accommodation as a category for most of the cases where the Germans and French were “working together.” He talks about “the logic of accommodation” and that it is difficult to describe the phenomena as either positive or negative.49 Burrin’s semiotics are based on his aim to “cover all forms of adap­ tion.” He wants to “grade them” and “reconstitute the vast grey areas that produce the dominant shade in any picture of those dark years.”50 His grading reflects his view “that accommodation is a regular phenomenon in almost any occupation, where certain points or interfaces of contact are inevitably created and some adjustment to the new situation has to be made.”51Burrin distinguishes between structural, opportunist and polit­ ical accommodation when he analyses how the majority of the French population responded to the occupation. This is how he grades accom­ modation.52 In his conclusion, Burrin claims that “accommodation” is a better analytic concept than “collaboration,” because the latter is in its essence “political-ideological” and “punitive,” and has a “denunciatory and polemic effect.”53 48 Stråth, “Nordic Foundation Myths after 1945,” 159.

49 Phillippe Burrin, Living with Defeat: France under the German Occupation, 1940–1944,

trans. Janet Lloyd (London: Arnold, 1996), 140 and 176. 50 Burrin, Living with Defeat, 2–3. 51 Burrin, Living with Defeat, 460. 52 Burrin, Living with Defeat, 2–3 and 461–462. 53 Burrin, Living with Defeat, 462.

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The semiotics of collaboration 69 Despite his conclusion, Burrin uses the concept of collaboration quite often in his text when he is describing the French accommodation.54 A defence for this would perhaps be that even though he uses “collaboration” as a word, “accommodation” is his scientific concept. However, in a semiotic analysis of “collaboration,” Burrin’s text is interesting. Writing in the mid-1990s, he could be labelled a third-generation historian writing about the war. According to Bo Stråth, the “identity-shaping narratives based on the memories of the Second World War and on the experience of the Cold War were questioned everywhere. Heroic resistance histories were replaced by new narratives about less heroic collaboration.”55 “Collaboration” had played a role as a polarized concept in national narratives, a concept that stands in contrast and is incom­ patible with the concept of “resistance.” Burrin’s need for the concept of “accommodation” is a result of him being aware of the difficulties of transporting “collaboration” from one narrative to another. When Burrin is writing about collaboration as a form of accom­ modation, he is shaping the concept of “collaboration.” Using the trichotomy of Peirce, the interpretant of the sign “collaboration” relates to the symbol “accommodation.” “Accommodation” is, according to Burrin, neither posi­ tive nor negative, and this may push the meaning of “collaboration” in that direction. The object that the signs “accommodation” and “collaboration” are pointing towards is described as a situation that is continuously changing and complex. Compared to the picture Hoffmann and Paxton created for Vichy France, Burrin’s description is more nuanced when he writes about behaviour. His reservations towards using “collaboration” as an analytic concept are based on him seeing it as too strongly connected to the symbol “traitorous.” A third strategy is to not use the concept “collaboration” at all. Sometimes this is not commented on, like in The Wages of Destruction by Adam Tooze. This major contribution to the history of the economic side of Nazi Germany does not mention collaboration at all.56 To what extent this is deliberate or not is difficult to say. However, the reason for not using this word may be the same as with the authors of Occupied Economies, Hein Klemann and Sergei Kudryashov, who give the following explanation for why they do not use the concept: As it is impossible not to produce, the only alternative to economic col­ laboration was collective suicide. The term collaboration therefore is mean­ ingless, at least in economic history. By using the term collaboration instead of asking why they behaved as they did – as an historian should – he is con­ demning the people he is writing about.57 54 Burrin, Living with Defeat, 175–358.

55 Stråth, “Nordic Foundation Myths after 1945,” 151.

56 Adam Tooze, The Wages of Destruction: The Making and Breaking of the Nazi Economy

(New York: Penguin Books, 2006). 57 Hein Klemann and Sergei Kudryashov, Occupied Economies: An Economic History of Nazi-Occupied Europe, 1939–1945 (London: Berg, 2012), 305.

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70 Eirik Holmen Even though I disagree with their conclusion, the statement is interest­ ing both from a semiotic and a hermeneutic point of view. Klemann and Kudryashov view the concept of collaboration as locked into one single semi­ otic meaning of “traitorous collaboration.” They are defensive towards the possibilities of shaping the concept. According to Peirce and Ricoeur, there is a semantic possibility for change in every sign because it can be translated to other signs. An example of that is Burrin’s phrase “deliberate, voluntary accommodation,” which he uses as a synonym for collaboration.58 Klemann and Kudryashov do not challenge “traitorous” as the symbol for “collabora­ tion.” The meaning that was established during the first interpretations of the occupation is glued to the sign “collaboration,” according to them. However, they are aware of the power of words and language, since they claim that using the wrong terms can lead to condemnation. Klemann and Kudryashov, with their statement, are indirectly making a comment on the semiotic of “collaboration” and the hermeneutic of their text. They are aware of the “problem” with using the concept, but they do not end up in a relativistic position, where truth is impossible. What they claim about the concept of collaboration can be viewed as their linguistic strat­ egy for getting closer to the truth by using the right vocabulary. Klemann and Kudryashov are, with their comment, claiming that they know how the receiver of their text will interpret the word. This is an example of what Saussure has described as a cultural agreement, or a contract, between the sender and the receiver.59 The presupposition of the interpreters will lead them to judge all the people Klemann and Kudryashov write about as trai­ tors. This is not correct, according to them. I would claim that their state­ ment about collaboration is an argument both for how important language is in the production of knowledge and for how the material world and the inter­ pretant are strongly connected. If they had used “collaboration,” Klemann and Kudryashov would have carried out a formation of the object accord­ ing to them. Since not using “collaboration” would have resulted in another story, Klemann and Kudryashov are close to giving language a position as the very substance of history. But how crucial should the pre-understanding of a receiver be for a scientist choosing his concept? If you choose not to use one concept, you must use another. The fourth strategy is to challenge an overly narrow use and interpretation of the term “collaboration” and to make it a key concept in the story about occupied Europe. This is, to some extent, to take the opposite position of Klemann and Kudryashov, albeit relating to the same findings. Everyone col­ laborated in some way. Business collaboration was something that happened before, during and after the occupation.

58 Phillipe Burrin, Living with Defeat, 463.

59 Kristin Asdal, et al., eds., Tekst og historie. Å lese tekster historisk (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget,

2008), 14.

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The semiotics of collaboration 71 Gerhard Hirschfeld has contributed to the history of both occupied France and the occupied Netherlands. With his writings, he sets up a new path for how collaboration can be used in the history of war and occupation. In Collaboration in France: Politics and Culture during the Nazi Occupation, 1940–1944, Hirschfeld gives a brief resume of how “collaboration” has been used as a concept since 1940. His major points are, first, that “collabora­ tion” in the war years and immediately after was interpreted as a “political arrangement between two nations.”60 This narrow definition excluded other forms of cooperation. Second, Hirschfeld argues that historians who used “collaboration” in their writings about Vichy France were mainly inter­ ested in political power structures. A field that had hardly been investigated before the 1980s was, according to Hirschfeld, the economic, social and cultural history of occupied Europe. When he uses “collaboration” while writing about relations in this field, the scope of the concepts becomes much wider. This is reflected in his definition of “collaboration.” Hirschfeld writes that, in his interpretation, collaboration and cooperation are synonymous concepts and claims that “the political, social and economic conditions […] made cooperation […] appear inevitable.”61 A group of historians who participated in the conference “Wartime Collaboration in Nazi-occupied Europe 1939–1945” at the European University Institute in Florence in October 2005 made the concept of “col­ laboration” a key concept in their research. Their aim was to elaborate a lan­ guage that could be used to describe the “complexity and multidimensionality of the phenomenon.”62 Some of the participants published their articles in the European Review of History in 2008.63 One of them, Fabian Lemmes, wrote that he was aware of historians who did not want to use the term because “of its pejorative moral and political connotations and its often polemic use.” Instead of arguing with them, he defined collaboration as “cooperation that is, at least to a certain extent, chosen and not merely forced.”64 This definition is wide, but it excludes forced or involuntary collaboration. In Industrial Collaboration in Nazi-Occupied Europe: Norway in Context, the editors Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner approach the concept of “collaboration” in an innovative way when they focus on “the collaborative cost structure.” In the first chapter, they discuss

60 Gerhard Hirschfeld, “Introductory Remarks,” in Collaboration in France: Politics and Culture during the Nazi Occupation, 1940–1944, eds. Gerhard Hirschfeld and Patrick Marsh (Oxford: Berg, 1989), 2–3. 61 Gerhard Hirschfeld, Nazi Rule and Dutch Collaboration: The Netherlands under German Occupation, 1940–1945 (Oxford: Berg, 1988), 10. 62 Stathis N. Kalyvas, “Collaboration in Comparative Perspective,” European Review of History 15, no. 2 (2008): 110. 63 Stathis N. Kalyvas, “Collaboration in Comparative Perspective,” European Review of History 15, no. 2 (2008): 110. 64 Lemmes, “Collaboration in wartime France, 1940–1944,” 158.

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how the concept has been used before and how it is used in the research presented in their book.65 They point out that they are aware of the neg­ ative association linked to the concept and that it has only been used in a Norwegian historical context in recent decades. Their main conclusion is to continue to use “collaboration” as a key concept, and they explain their decision with the following arguments: (1) collaboration is a better concept than adaptation because Norwegian firms did not passively adapt to the occupier’s demands, and (2) there are different motivations behind collab­ oration, but instead of focusing on the motives it is fruitful to investigate “the establishment of positive and negative incentives—the collaborative cost structure—to measure the efficiency of Nazi policymaking.”66 Instead of focusing on motives, which can be hard to measure, they investigate the incentives. Knowledge about the incentives can then later be used as argu­ ments in a debate about motives. How can these three examples of making “collaboration” a key concept in the history of occupied Europe be understood as a semiotic shaping of the concept? What they all have in common is that the object the sign-vehicle “collaboration” is pointing towards is different than in the other strategies. They use “collaboration” when they are talking about relations in general, not just when they are politically or ideologically motivated. As a part of a chain of interpretants, they add new symbols to the concept of “collabora­ tion.” Some examples of symbols they use that give new semiotic meanings to “collaboration” are “cooperation,” “inevitable,” “chosen,” “positive and negative incentives” and “collaborative cost structure.” These symbols make the concept of “collaboration” more nuanced and reflect the historian’s view of the occupation as a time much more complex and multidimensional than what might be suggested by a patriotic narrative. This perspective of com­ plexity and multidimensionality was also present in the two previous strate­ gies, but Burrin, Klemann and Kudryasov did not see “collaboration” as a relevant symbol to use in their analyses.

Conclusion This chapter has tried to explain how a specific event in the Second World War, the speeches of Phillipe Pétain, was a starting point for a new semi­ otic meaning for the concept of “collaboration.” I have found that the

65 Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner, “Perfecting the Art of Stealing: Nazi Exploitation and Industrial Collaboration in Occupied Western Europe,” in Industrial Collaboration in Nazi-Occupied Europe: Norway in Context, eds. Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner (London: Palgrave, 2016), 1–33. 66 Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner, “Perfecting the Art of Stealing: Nazi Exploitation and Industrial Collaboration in Occupied Western Europe,” in Industrial Collaboration in Nazi-Occupied Europe: Norway in Context, eds. Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner (London: Palgrave, 2016), 23 and 28.

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The semiotics of collaboration 73 selected historians used four different strategies for using or not using col­ laboration as a concept. These are (1) a contextual use of the concept as it related to Vichy France, (2) using collaboration as an extreme form of accommodation, (3) not using collaboration at all, and (4) using collabo­ ration as a concept covering most of the interactions between the occupier and the occupied. According to the semiotic theory of Peirce, historians can be seen as interpretants adding new meaning to the sign-vehicle “collaboration.” In this process, new symbols like the concepts of “collaborationism,” “collab­ oration d’état” and “collaborative cost structure” were produced. Other symbols like “accommodation,” “adaption,” “cooperation,” “inevitable,” “chosen” and “incentive” represent a chain of new meanings that the interpretant connects and adds to the sign “collaboration.” What all these interpretations of “collaboration” have in common is that they are to some extent determined by the object they refer to. This is the reason for both not using and using the concept. The past is not “a foreign country” but present in the world today. This can be seen in discussions about which word gives the most accurate and proper account of the past. The Second World War created new semiotics in the past and will continue to create new semiotics in the present and future.

Work cited American Historical Association. “Statement on Standards of Professional.” American Historical Association. Accessed October 20, 2018. https://www. historians.org/jobs-and-professional-development/statements-standards­ and-guidelines-of-the-discipline/statement-on-standards-of-professional­ conduct. Appleby, Joyce, Lynn Hunt and Margaret Jacob. Telling the Truth About History. New York: Norton, 1994. Asdal, Kristin, Kjell Lars Berge, Karen Gammelgaard, Trygve Riiser Gundersen, Helge Jordheim, Tore Rem and Johan L. Tønnesson. Tekst og historie. Å lese tek­ ster historisk. Oslo: Universitietsforlaget, 2008. Burrin, Phillipe. Living with Defeat: France under the German Occupation, 1940-1944, translated by Janet Lloyd. London: Arnold, 1996. Centre National de Resources Textuelles et Lexicales, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed November 20, 2018. http://www.cnrtl.fr/etymologie/collaboration. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. London: Routledge, 2017. Collins, Stephen L. and James Hoopes. “Anthony Giddens and Charles Sanders Peirce: History, Theory, and a Way Out of the Linguistic Cul-de-Sac.” Journal of the History of Ideas 56, no. 4 (1995): 625–650. Det Kongelige Bibliotek (Royal Danish Library), s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed January 12, 2019. http://www2.statsbiblioteket.dk. English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed September 12, 2018. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com. English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “hermeneutic.” Accessed January 20, 2019. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com.

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English Oxford Living Dictionaries, s.v. “hermeneutics.” Accessed January 20, 2019. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com. Evans, Martin. “Robert Paxton: The Outsider.” History Today 51, no. 9 (2001): 26–28. Føllesdal, Dagfinn. “Semantics and Semiotics.” In Structures and Norms in Science, edited by Maria Lusia Dalla Chiara et al., 449–457. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1997. Frøland, Hans Otto, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner. “Perfecting the Art of Stealing: Nazi Exploitation and Industrial Collaboration in Occupied Western Europe.” In Industrial Collaboration in Nazi-Occupied Europe Norway in Context, edited by Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner, 1–34. London: Palgrave, 2016. Gregersen, Frans and Simo Køppe. “A Normative Theory of Humanistic Knowledge.” Zeitschrift für allgemenine Wissenschaftstheorie 20, no. H1 (1989): 40–53. Harlan, David. “Intellectual History and the Return of Literature.” American Historical Review 94 (1989): 581–609. Harper Collins. English Dictionary & Thesaurus. Aylesbury: Harper Collins Publishers, 2000. Hirschfeld, Gerhard. Nazi Rule and Dutch Collaboration: The Netherlands under German Occupation, 1940-1945. Oxford: Berg, 1988. Hirschfeld, Gerhard and Patrick Marsh. Collaboration in France: Politics and Culture during the Nazi Occupation, 1940-1944. Oxford: Berg, 1989. Hoffmann, Stanley. “Collaborationism in France during World War II.” Journal of Modern History 40, no. 3 (1968): 375–395. Hollinger, David. “The Return of the Prodigal: The Persistence of Historical Knowing.” American Historical Review 94 (1989): 610–621. Judt, Tony. “The Past Is Another Country: Myth and Memory in Postwar Europe.” Daedalus 121, no. 4 (1992): 83–118. Kalyvas, Stathis N. “Collaboration in Comparative Perspective.” European Review of History: Revue europènne d’historie 15, no. 2 (2008): 109–111. Klemann, Hein and Sergei Kudryashov. Occupied Economies: An Economic History of Nazi-Occupied Europe, 1939-1945. London: Berg, 2012. Lemmes, Fabian. “Collaboration in Wartime France, 1940–1944.” European Review of History 15, no. 2 (2008): 157–177. Nasjonalbiblioteket (National Library of Norway), s.v. “kollaborasjon.” Accessed October 18, 2018. https://www.nb.no/. Nasjonalbiblioteket (National Library of Norway), s.v. “kollaboratør.” Accessed October 18, 2018. https://www.nb.no/. Østegård, Uffe. “Swords, Shields or Collaborators? Danish Historians and the Debate over the German occupation of Denmark.” In Nordic Narratives of the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, edited by Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling, 31–54. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011. Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “collaboration.” Accessed October 20, 2018. http:// www.oed.com. Paxton, Robert. Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, 1940–1944. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001. Peirce, Charles Sanders. “On a New List of Categories” (1867). In The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings, vol. 1, edited by Nathan Hauser and Christian Klosel, 1–10. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1992.

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The semiotics of collaboration 75 Peirce, Charles Sanders. “Of Reasoning in General” (1894). In The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosopical Writings, vol. 2, edited by The Peirce Edition Project, 11–26. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1998. Peirce, Charles Sanders. “What is a Sign?” (1894). In The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosopical Writings, vol. 2, edited by The Peirce Edition Project, 4–10. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1998. Petrilli, Susan. “On the Semiotics of Interpretation. Introduction.” In Charles S. Peirce: An Intellectual Biography, edited and translated by Gèrard Deledalle, Max H. Fisch and Susan Petrilli, xi–xxiix. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1990. Ricoeur, Paul. “What is a Text? Explanation and Understanding.” In Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences: Essays on Language, Action and Interpretation, edited by John B. Thomsen, 145–164. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981. Ricoeur, Paul. The Conflict of Interpretations, translated by Kathleen McLaughlin. London: Continuum, 2004. Stråth, Bo. “Nordic Foundation Myths after 1945: A European Context.” In Nordic Narratives of the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, edited by Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling, 149–170. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011. Tamm, Ditlef. Retsoppgøret efter besættelsen 1. Viborg: Jurist og Økonomiforbundets Forlag, 1984. Tooze, Adam. Wages of Destruction: The Making and Breaking of the Nazi Economy. London: Penguin, 2006.

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Part II

War, semiotics, and

identity constructions

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4

(Re-)Negotiating internment Language, semiotics, and the

German internment experience

in the United States during

the First World War

Karl Dargel

Introduction The recent centennial of the First World War has created a new wave of pub­ lications revisiting this “seminal catastrophe” of the 20th century. Among these publications, an emerging consensus in historiography has come to interpret the First World War increasingly in terms of shared global experi­ ences, propelling it beyond the scope of past political history.1 One such shared global experience was the novel and ubiquitous phenom­ enon of unprecedented global mass captivity that arose during the war. For British historian Heather Jones, “the First World War marked the shift from a 19th century, relatively ad hoc management of prisoners of war, to the 20th century’s sophisticated prisoner of war camp systems, with their bureau­ cratic management, rationalization of the labour use of prisoners, and com­ plex modern logistical and security apparatuses.”2 Against the backdrop of this new “mass global phenomenon”3 encompassing soldiers and civilians of all warring nations alike, Annette Becker has metaphorically described this situation as “a laboratory for the twentieth century.”4 In this laboratory, the United States may have been a “late-comer,” but they were by no means exempt from this. Despite, or perhaps because of, their very particular role, internment in the United States remains under­ studied compared with the other major powers.5 This gap becomes even 1 Just to name one introductory example, Oliver Janz, “Einführung: Der Erste Weltkrieg in globaler Perspektive,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 40, no. 2 (2014): 147–159. 2 Heather Jones, “Prisoners of War,” in 1914-1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, eds. Ute Daniel et al. Accessed January 29, 2019. https://encyclopedia. 1914-1918-online.net/article/prisoners_of_war?version=1.0. 3 Stefan Manz, Panikos Panayi, Matthew Stibbe, eds., Internment during the First World War: A Mass Global Phenomenon (London: Routledge, 2018). 4 Annette Becker, “Civilian Captives,” in The Cambridge History of the First World War, ed. Jay Winter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 257. 5 The most comprehensive study on this topic is Jörg Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten im Krieg: “Feindliche Ausländer” und die amerikanische Heimatfront während des Ersten Weltkrieges (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 2000).

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more evident when looking at the increasing number of transnational com­ parative studies that focus on camps and their various literary products. In virtually every internment camp around the globe, some sort of camp pub­ lication was issued by its inmates – sometimes strikingly similar in content and form.6 In response to this, recent research is increasingly conceptualiz­ ing and regarding these publications as their own literary genre.7 In order to properly understand “captivity in print,” the traditional his­ toriographic toolkit needs to be expanded: within these source materials, language in various manifestations stands as the essential unit in which internees process and express their impressions of internment. This chapter presents a case study of a German internment camp newspaper and herein seeks to analyze the various uses of language as a system of semiotic signs. While semiotics can be found in a wide variety of historical topics,8 the British semiotician Daniel Chandler has classified language as “a (predom­ inantly) symbolic sign system” and further acknowledges that “it is widely seen as the pre-eminent symbolic form.”9 The relational structures of lan­ guage exist, to continue in Chandler’s words, “in [their] entirety only in the community of speakers,”10 which elevates internment camps as miniature microcosms of German-speaking communities in the United States to a promising prime object of study. Already in its opening statement, the Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel (OE), pro­ duced in the internment camp at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, proudly promises a “newspaper, made by internees for internees, that is striving to be more than a comic paper [Witzblatt], but rather shall cultivate the arts and attempts to present something lasting. We Orgelsdorfer form the biggest internment camp in the United States and regard it as our duty to provide it with a camp news­ paper that is worthy of that fact.”11 This programmatic claim serves as the first gateway to the sign system dealing with the perceptions of as well as responses to German internment. As it will be argued, in the larger context of intern­ ment in the United States during the First World War, both the internment

6 For an extensive comparative study on British, German (in British captivity) and French newspapers, see Rainer Pöppinghege, Im Lager unbesiegt: Deutsche, englische und franzö­ sische Kriegsgefangenen-Zeitungen im Ersten Weltkrieg (Essen: Klartext Verlag, 2006). 7 For instance, see Isabella von Treskow, “Französische Kriegsgefangenenzeitungen im Ersten Weltkrieg: Internationale Erfahrung, Interkulturalität und europäisches Selbstverständnis,” Comparativ 28, no. 1 (2018): 29–47; Oliver Wilkinson, “Captivity in Print: The Form and Function of POW Magazines,” in Cultural Heritage and Prisoners of War: Creativity Behind Barbed Wire, ed. Gillian Carr and H. C. Mytum (New York: Routledge, 2012), 227–243. 8 See the report on the recent “War and Semiotics” conference: “Tagungsbericht: War and Semiotics, November 9–10, 2018, Bodø,” H-Soz-Kult. Accessed April 19, 2019. www. hsozkult.de/conferencereport/id/tagungsberichte-8160. 9 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London: Routledge, 2017), 45. 10 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London: Routledge, 2017), 17. 11 Erich Posselt, “Ein erstes Wort,” Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel (OE), 15 October 1918, 1. Unless stated otherwise, all translations are by the author.

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camp in Fort Oglethorpe and the OE stand out for a number of reasons. To this end, this wider framework will be introduced before turning to the Oglethorpe camp and the importance of its newspaper. Eventually, the multi­ ple uses and adaptions of the sign system language will be closely examined.

“Casualties of Caution”: (German) enemy aliens in the United States “Casualties of Caution” is the title of one of the first scholarly works that extensively deals with the issue of enemy aliens in the United States during the First World War. At the same time, William Glidden’s poignant title also offers one assessment toward a first understanding of internment.12 Yet conceptualizations on how to handle citizens of an enemy country have had a far-reaching history in the American melting pot. In its most basic form, an enemy alien was, as for instance already defined in 1887, “one who owes allegiance to the adverse belligerent.”13 Earlier debates in the Anglophone world include the commentaries of William Blackstone (1723–1780), who, already in 1766, concluded that “such enemies, not being looked upon as members of our society, are not entitled, during their state of enmity, to the benefit or protection of the laws.”14 The ideas of temporary exclusion from society and hence legal protection as well as the legitimate requisition of enemy property constituted two crucial points that would eventually have a strong impact on the emerging United States. Twenty-two years after their declaration of independence, these consider­ ations found their form in the Alien and Sedition Acts, especially the Alien Enemy Act of 1798. In the face of a looming American–French war, their main intent was to limit criticism of the US government and enemy propa­ ganda. The Alien and Sedition Acts, in addition to their later amendments, have formed the legal groundwork on how to interact with those who owe their allegiance to an adverse belligerent up until today. On an international stage, the status of civilians of belligerent countries was far less clearly defined than the status of prisoners of war. With the Geneva Convention of 1864 as well as the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907, something of a mutually recognized framework had been established for soldiers of warring countries.15 This led to a certain degree of uncer­ tainty and a number of new problems concerning civilians, recapitulated

12 William B. Glidden, “Casualties of Caution. Alien Enemies in America, 1917–1919,” (PhD diss., University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1970). 13 John H. Merrill, ed., The American and English Encyclopaedia of Law (Long Island, NY: Thompson, 1887), 465. 14 George Sharswood, Sir William Blackstone: Commentaries of the Laws of England in Four Books… (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1893), 401–402. 15 The US ratified the first Geneva Convention in 1882 and the Hague resolutions in 1909. See Alan Kramer, “Prisoners in the First World War,” in Prisoners in War, ed. Sibylle Scheipers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 75–90.

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by the President of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), Gustave Ador (1845–1928), in September 191716: Civilian internment is a novel feature of this war; international treaties did not foresee this phenomenon. At the start of the war it seemed log­ ical that enemy civilians might be retained as suspects; a few months should have been enough to separate the chaff from the wheat. … These civilians have been deprived of their liberty and their treatment hardly differs from that of prisoners. After three years and more of war, we demand that these different categories of civilian detainees should become the object of special consideration and that their situation, which in some respects is even more cruel than that of military prison­ ers, should be properly discussed before the fourth winter of the war.17 Following Ador’s argumentation, the temporary confinement of civilians in order to separate the “chaff from the wheat” may have been legitimate, but their systematic mass internment, as had been going on in some cases for more than 3 years, was intolerable. Yet this was predominantly an initial problem of the war. During their period of formal neutrality, the United States, in addition to its experiences with enemy aliens from earlier conflicts, “had a chance to observe the reprisal policies of the European belligerents and to learn from their mistakes,” as Glidden notes.18 In combination with the previous precautions, US historian Gerald Davis characterized “the nation men­ tally prepared for large-scale actions against a German threat within the American homeland” on the eve of the declaration of war.19

“We have no quarrel with the German people”20: the initial position of the US government On 6 April 1917, the United States officially declared war on the German Empire. Following his rhetoric of self-determination, President Woodrow Wilson (1856–1924) had emphasized that this declaration of war was not 16 Generally, Kramer notes an “erosion of standards of legal protection” with the start of the hostilities. Alan Kramer, “Prisoners in the First World War,” in Prisoners in War, ed. Sibylle Scheipers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 76. 17 Quoted in Matthew Stibbe, “The Internment of Civilians by Belligerent States during the First World War and the Response of the International Committee of the Red Cross,” Journal of Contemporary History 41, no. 1 (2006): 5. 18 Glidden, Casualties, 410. 19 Gerald H. Davis, “‘Orgelsdorf’: A World War I Internment Camp America,” Yearbook of German-American Studies 26 (1991): 251. For more details on the public opinion on the eve of the war as well as the first safety precautions, see Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 143–185. 20 Woodrow Wilson, “Address to a Joint Session of Congress Requesting a Declaration of War Against Germany,” in The American Presidency Project, ed. Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley, accessed April 10, 2019, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/node/207620.

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directed at their “sincere [German] friends” but towards their undemocratic government that had brought them into the war against their will.21 With regard to the Germans residing in the United States, he promised “to prove that friendship in our daily attitude and actions towards the millions of men and women of German birth and native sympathy who live amongst us and share our life” to all “who are in fact loyal to their neighbors and to the Government in the hour of test.”22 The declaration of war, directly quoting the Alien and Sedition Acts, was followed by 12 points that dictated the legal restrictions of the German enemy aliens and pertained to all non-naturalized male individuals above the age of 14.23 These included a ban on the possession and use of firearms, ammunition, explosives, aircraft, radio communication, ciphers, a ban on entering prohibited areas such as arsenals or shipyards and a ban on leaving the United States.24 In accordance with earlier statutes, enemy alien property could become subject to seizure, management, and later sale at the hands of the state qua the newly created office of the Alien Property Custodian.25 From October 1917 onwards, the US administration confiscated total assets in the amount of roughly $503 million, most of which belonged to German aliens.26

21 Woodrow Wilson, “Address to a Joint Session of Congress Requesting a Declaration of War Against Germany,” in The American Presidency Project, ed. Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley, accessed April 10, 2019, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/node/207620. 22 Woodrow Wilson, “Address to a Joint Session of Congress Requesting a Declaration of War Against Germany,” in The American Presidency Project, ed. Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley, accessed April 10, 2019, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/node/207620. 23 Woodrow Wilson, “Proclamation 1364—Declaring That a State of War Exists Between the United States and Germany,” in The American Presidency Project, ed. Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley, accessed April 10, 2019, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ node/268065. 24 For the complete list of restrictions, see Woodrow Wilson, “Proclamation 1364— Declaring That a State of War Exists Between the United States and Germany,” in The American Presidency Project, ed. Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley, accessed April 10, 2019, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/node/268065. 25 The chief custodian from 22 October 1917 until 4 March 1919 was the later Attorney General Mitchell Palmer (1872–1936). His office was created in accordance with the Trading with the Enemy Act in October 1917. From March 1918 onwards, he was allowed to sell enemy property; see Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 641–644. Palmer also had to write an annual report to Congress, viz. Alien Property Custodian Report (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1919), 3. 26 The report for 1918/1919 lists confiscated assets with a total worth of approx. US $503 million held in a total of 27,274 trusts, of which US$327 million in 17,339 trusts belonged to German aliens. Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 23. See also a short 1918 article: A. Mitchell Palmer, “The Vast Amount of Enemy Property in the United States,” Munsey’s Magazine 54 (1918), 233–238. Here, Palmer states that, as of May 1918, the total assets in custody amount to US$346,233,737. A. Mitchell Palmer, “The Vast Amount of Enemy Property in the United States,” Munsey’s Magazine 54 (1918), 236.

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Aside from the financial side of the war, it is noteworthy that according to the 1910 US Census, Germans made up the largest group (18.5 percent or approx. 2.5 million) of the roughly 13 million people born in a foreign coun­ try.27 To handle such a massive number of potentially “dangerous enemy aliens,” lists of those deemed most dangerous had been prepared before­ hand, leading to a decentralized initial wave of over 200 arrests.28 The collective internment of all German aliens was, in light of their sheer number, never a feasible option for the US government. For one, the German Empire had only interned 13 of the 1,200 US citizens abroad, giv­ ing the Wilson administration no reason to retaliate.29 More importantly, no precise plans had been drawn up on how to arrest, deport, and accom­ modate such a vast number. The Mississippi had been designated as a bor­ der for internment measures, but as Jörg Nagler in his study on German minorities in the United States during the war concludes, “the camps them­ selves had not yet been exactly determined, let alone set up and prepared for this particular purpose.”30 State action was thus at the beginning limited to extensive surveillance and decisions based on individual cases. But as the raging Germanophobia and spy fever gained even more momentum, the Wilson administration felt an increasing pressure to pass and amend respective laws. On 15 June 1917, the Espionage Act was passed, but ironically it led to an increase of public hysteria since it was believed that such a law could only have been passed if there was an imminent threat.31 Later additions include the Trading with the Enemy Act of October 1917 and, on 16 November 1917, a second proclamation concerning enemy aliens.32 The main result of this proclamation was the introduction of man­ datory registration for male enemy aliens starting in February 1918, later

27 For edited data of the 1910 Census see, for instance, Campbell J. Gibson and Emily Lennon, “Historical Census Statistics on the Foreign-born Population of the United States: 1850–1990,” Population Division Working Paper no. 29 (1999), accessed April 10, 2019, https://www.census.gov/population/www/documentation/twps0029/twps0029.html. 28 For more details on the first arrests, see Nagler, Nationale Minoriäten, 198–218.

29 Matthew Stibbe, “Enemy Aliens and Internment,” 10.

30 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 217.

31 Katja Wüstenbecker, “Die Vereinigten Staaten von Amerika: Widerwillige Teilnahme

am Ersten Weltkrieg,” in Durchhalten! Krieg und Gesellschaft im Vergleich 1914-1918, eds. Arnd Bauerkämper and Elise Julien (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 226–228. For more details on the spy fever, see Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 219–241. 32 For reprints and contemporary legal discussions of these acts see, for instance, Charles Henry Huberich, The Law Relating to Trading With the Enemy Together with a Consideration of the Civil Rights and Disabilities of Alien Enemies and of the Effect of War on Contracts with Alien Enemies (New York: Baker, Voorhis & Company, 1919), 349–425; for an even more detailed view, see James W. Garner, International Law and the World War (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1920), 56–82 (personal rights), 86–113 (property), 117–145 (access to courts), 208–240 (“trade and intercourse”).

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extended to females in April 1918.33 These measures were also partly enacted to demonstrate that public concerns were met with measures of enhanced state control over its aliens. Yet one’s classification as “German” alone did not necessarily need to end in internment.

“I too have now started to feel the war more noticeably”34: internments, exceptions, and the question of proportionality The quote above opens the letter that German musician Konrad Bingold (1880–1955) wrote to his family in Nuremberg on 30 July 1918. He wrote these lines from the War Prison Barracks No. 2 at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, a few weeks after his internment.35 His statement reflects well the sentiments of many Germans as the “firm stern hand of repression” that Woodrow Wilson had announced before Congress came after them.36 As one of around 480,000 Germans, Bingold had registered himself and in consequence become part of a group of 8,500–10,000 enemy aliens who were interned for at least some amount of time.37 Among this group, an even smaller fraction of 2,331 indi­ viduals were permanently interned as “dangerous enemy aliens.”38 These numbers illustrate how relatively small the total percentage of internments of German enemy aliens was, especially in contrast to the collective arrest of Germans in Great Britain and its various possessions.39

33 “Gregory Defines Alien Regulations,” New York Times, February 2, 1918, 9. For a detailed description of the registration process including document templates, see “Regulations for Registration of German Alien Enemies Throughout United States in First Week of February as Prescribed and Issued by Attorney General Gregory,” The Official Bulletin, January 2, 1918, 9–16. 34 Konrad Bingold to Babette Bingold, 30 July 1918, Federal German Archives at BerlinLichterfelde (BArch), R67/249. 35 “Regulations for Registration of German Alien Enemies Throughout United States in First Week of February as Prescribed and Issued by Attorney General Gregory,” The Official Bulletin, January 2, 1918. His index card in the register of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) names 12 July 1918 as the date of internment: Konrad Bingold, Archives of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ACICR C G1). 36 Wilson, “Address to a Joint Session of Congress.” 37 A total of 220,000 female aliens additionally registered themselves during the war; see Nagler, Nationale Minoräten, 271. For the absolute number of internments, see Nagler, Nationale Minoräten, 691. Stibbe states that “over 10,000 arrests, 8,500 of which were con­ ducted under presidential warrants, the rest carried out by local justice officials who then reported their actions to the Justice Department in Washington D.C.” Stibbe, “Enemy Aliens and Internment,” 10. 38 For the detailed demographics of these internees, see Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 539–543. 39 For internment practices in Great Britain, see Panikos Panayi, The Enemy in Our Midst: Germans in Britain during the First World War (Oxford: Berg Publishers, 1991). For Australia, see Alexandra Ludewig, Zwischen Korallenriff und Stacheldraht: Interniert auf Rottnest Island, 1914-1915 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang Verlag, 2015).

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According to the calculations of Nagler, about 8 percent of all male enemy aliens had spent some time in captivity by the end of the war, to which Matthew Stibbe adds that “[a]n even lower proportion than this – indeed, probably only about 2 percent – were actually interned for the duration of the war and beyond.”40 Likewise, the number of 15 interned female German aliens is infinitesimally small compared with the 220,000 registrations.41 An exception were the citizens of Austria-Hungary, who formed the third biggest immigrant group after Germans and Russians.42 In the declara­ tion of war, Wilson did not use the term enemy alien and only referred to the “natives, citizens, denizens, or subjects” of the crumbling multi-ethnic Empire.43 They were not affected by most restrictions, except for being able to leave and enter the United States at will and being subject to the authority of the Alien Property Custodian. This special classification was mainly due to two reasons.44 On the one hand, the dual monarchy was regarded as little more than “the Kaiser’s Vassal State,” and the different nations residing in its borders were to be granted self-determination in post-war Europe.45 On the other hand, Austro-Hungarian citizens, mainly Slavs and Hungarians, made up twothirds of the workforce in the American iron and steel industry and were disproportionately represented as labourers in ammunition factories.46 The 328 Austro-Hungarian enemy aliens ultimately interned were mainly “true” Austrians, in the sense of being most “similar” in culture and lan­ guage to Germans.47 These relatively low numbers of interned enemy aliens stand in somewhat stark contrast to the heated and hysteric atmosphere

40 41 42 43 44

Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 691; Stibbe, “Enemy Aliens and Internment,” 10.

Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 590–599, especially 598.

Nagler, Nationale Minoriäten, 198–218.

“Puts No Rigid Ban On Austrians Here,” New York Times, December 13, 1918, 1, 4.

“Puts No Rigid Ban On Austrians Here,” New York Times, December 13, 1918, 1, 1. Attached

to the article is a reprint of the proclamation. See also Walter Littlefield, “Austro-Hungarian Alien Enemies: Law Puts Them on a Par with Germans but Many Will Be Favored Because of Their Loyalty to America and the Allies,” New York Times, December, 16 1917, 2, 14. 45 James W. Gerard, Face to Face with Kaiserism (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1918), 165. Former US ambassador Gerard (1867–1951) was one of the most outspoken public figures against Germany. See also Glidden, “Casualties of Caution,” 411. 46 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 251. 47 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 255, 640. An example of a prominent case was the Viennese conductor of the Cincinnati Symphonic Orchestra Ernst Kunwald (1868–1939), who was arrested several times and finally interned in January 1918. At the same time, his con­ siderable assets totalling US $26,455.20 were confiscated. See “Prof. Kunwald Arrested; Director of Cincinnati Orchestra Held on Orders from Washington,” New York Times, December 9, 1917, 6; “Dr. Kunwald Released; Paroled on Promise Not to be Active During the War,” New York Times, December 10, 1917, 10; “Dr. Kunwald Sent to Internment Camp; Cincinnati Symphony Leader, an Austrian, Rearrested on Washington Orders,” New York Times, January 13, 1918, 3; Alien Property Custodian Report, 600.

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of the time. In a way, these numbers can be interpreted as a partial suc­ cess for the US government, despite increasingly harsh legislation and public pressure, to intern enemy aliens on an individual basis rather than collectively.48 Nevertheless, for Germans and German-Americans alike, access to the semiotic system of the German or even bearing any sign of Germanness was equated with dangerousness by the public and thus became a source of social deprivation for them – regardless of whether they had been interned, just registered or were still free. In order to avoid both public and state repercussions, the overwhelming majority of Germans resorted to “self­ censorship … as a form of self-defense.”49 Those unwilling to renounce their Germanness constituted a comparatively small and hand-picked group; considered disloyal, radical, or sometimes simply too powerful to be at large, these “most obvious victims of the Wilson administration’s wartime precautions”50 were sent to the internment camps.

“A very colorful society”51: the internment camp at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia Even though the exact number of inmates had been cut out by the censor, Konrad Bingold’s assessment of the population of Fort Oglethorpe as “a very colorful society” remains an accurate description.52 Out of the three internment camps that the United States had hastily established, Fort Oglethorpe was not only the most diverse but also at its height almost as twice as large as the other two (Fort Douglas in Utah and Fort McPherson near Atlanta, Georgia) combined.53 The chronology of the camp can be roughly divided into two parts: from the arrival of the first Germans in March 1917 until the final transformation into a camp for civilian intern­ ees by June 1918, and thence until the repatriation of the last inmates in spring 1920.54 48 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 691–692. 49 Jennifer Keene, “United States of America,” in 1914-1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, ed. Ute Daniel et al. Accessed April 10, 2019. https:// encyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net/article/united_states_of_america. 50 Glidden, “Casualties of Caution,” 414.

51 Konrad Bingold to Babette Bingold, July 30, 1918, BArch, R67/249.

52 Glidden, “Casualties of Caution”. Details concerning exact numbers or locations were

usually censored. 53 Cf. Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 599–605, 639–640; Reuben A. Lewis, “How the United States Takes Care of German Prisoners,” Munsey’s Magazine 54 (1918): 137–145. 54 The chief editor and publisher of the Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel, Erich Posselt (b. 1892), published the memoirs of his internment after the war and claims that the journalist Georg(e) Herz (1888–1926) was the last internee to be released in late March 1920. See Erich Posselt, “Prisoner of War No. 3598,” The American Mercury 7 (1929): 323; List no. 44, 27.4.1918, AU 85, ICRC archives [ACICR C G1].

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Already on 27 March, a week before war was declared, the career of the army barracks at Fort Oglethorpe had officially begun as an internment camp. During the arrival of the first inmates, US Army Colonel Charles Noyes (1858–1929) addressed the crews of the German auxiliary cruisers Kronprinz Wilhelm and Prinz Eitel Friedrich promising them “to take care of you as well as possible”, admonishingly adding “but future conditions will depend largely on yourself.”55 In accordance with the Geneva conventions, the 750 sailors had escaped the British-dominated seas and chosen to be interned in the United States as prisoners of war. The crews were transferred south for reasons of “safe­ keeping” after 10 men had escaped “in a sensational dash for liberty” from League Island in Philadelphia on 19 March.56 Often, German navy members were living aboard or near their detained ships, constructing “German villages,” and were deemed a high security risk by the US gov­ ernment and public.57 While the crew of the Kronprinz Wilhelm was transferred to Fort McPherson, an army base near Atlanta, Georgia, the 390 men of the Prinz Eitel Friedrich in Oglethorpe were joined by the first 53 civilian enemy aliens on 16 July 1917.58 Unlike Fort McPherson, which exclusively held POWs, and Fort Douglas, where only civilians were interned, Fort Oglethorpe was a form of hybrid camp from very early on. Initially, the camp consisted of 22 wooden barracks that could house between 50 and 100 people each as well as a large mess hall, smaller utility buildings, and an in-camp hospital (Figure 4.1).59 The 24-ha area was surrounded by several layers of 3-m high electrical barbed wire and was overlooked by five high guard towers. They were equipped with searchlights, machine guns and telephones manned by heavily armed guards (Figures 4.2 and 4.3).60 55 “Germans Interned at Georgia Forts,” New York Times, March 28, 1917, 3. Noyes alludes both to their duty to maintain the camp as well as their expected behaviour. 56 Said escape happened on 19 March 1917; see “Ten Interned Men Made Their Escape,” New York Times, March 21, 1917, 9. In the article, it is presumed that the fugitives “found asylum with German sympathizers in the city and its environs,” since they left behind notes with “the names of German residents in this city.” 57 The “German village” in Norfolk, Virginia, was constructed by the crews of Eitel Friedrich and Kronprinz Wilhelm, but after ships and men were transferred to Philadelphia, it was taken down. An article, which includes many pictures, portrays the village: “A German Village on American Soil,” Popular Science Monthly 90 (1917): 424–425. Around 1,300 German navy members were detained all over the US and its overseas holdings; see Stibbe, “Enemy Aliens and Internment,” 11. 58 For a contemporary report on Fort McPherson, see Lewis, “How the United States Takes Care.” The civilian internees were brought from Ellis Island and joined by sail­ ors from German supply ships held in the Panama Canal zone shortly after; see Davis, “Orgelsdorf,” 253–254; Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 550–552. 59 These had to be built and maintained by the regular soldiers, not by the officers; Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 549. 60 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 553; Posselt, “Prisoner of War No. 3598,” 314.

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Figure 4.1 This type of two-storey wooden barrack was the most common one at Oglethorpe. “Panoramic view of prison barracks, from the watch­ tower,” no. 45546, May 3, 1919, RG 111, National Archives at College Park – Still Pictures (NARA).

Figure 4.2 View of a guard tower from within camp grounds. “Exterior view of one of the watch-towers,” 45582, May 3, 1919, RG 111, NARA.

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Figure 4.3 Inside view of one of the guard towers. “Interior of one of the watch-towers, showing searchlight and machine gun. The guard always on the alert to meet any outbreak of the prisoners,” No. 4554, May 3, 1919, RG 111, NARA.

The camp itself was divided into three compounds, referred to as Camp A, B, and C, reflecting the emerging social stratifications of camp society. Camp B housed most of the prisoners in larger barracks (Figure 4.1). Camp C was the punishment barracks in which prisoners were put on half-rations if they refused to do “volunteer work,” tried to escape, or caused trouble. Camp A, consisting of smaller barracks, was referred to by both Americans and Germans as the “Millionaires Camp” and held a small group of enemy aliens that could afford this privilege.61 The number of enemy aliens was continuously rising as members of the German navy were exchanged with inmates from Fort McPherson to separate military personnel and civilians in an attempt to prevent further internal ten­ sions.62 The internment camp may have been a fixed place but was nevertheless 61 Jeanne Glaubitz-Cross and Ann K. D. Myers, “‘Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel’ and the German Internee Experience at Fort Oglethorpe, 1917-19,” The Georgia Historical Quarterly 96 (2012): 239–240. Punishment barracks existed at McPherson, but there was no comparable compound for the privileged; see Lewis, “How the United States Takes Care,” 145. The same holds true for the internment camp at Fort Douglas; see Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 599–605. 62 Glidden notes in a later article that “the sailors [were] by March concentrated mostly in McPherson.” William B. Glidden, “Internment Camps in America, 1917-1920,” Military Affairs 37 (1973): 139. See also a list forwarded to the ICRC of civilian internees who were transported from McPherson to Oglethorpe: List No. 21, October 6, 1917, AU 14, ICRC archives [ACICR C G1].

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in a constant state of flux, with new internees arriving daily while others left on parole, were transferred or released. In all of this, the US administration sought to ostentatiously showcase control. Two early videos of Fort Oglethorpe are prime examples of this. Even though the versions available on YouTube are heavily edited, the intertitles of the first video provide the technical details on camp security while the camera majestically overlooks the barracks.63 The second video sarcastically announces that “T. Zenneck, Mr. Burgemeister, H.R. Solomon, and Adolph Koster, among the most trusted agents of the Kaiser’s secret service in this country, take the ‘cure’ this year, through a prac­ tical ‘return to the soil movement’” while showing them at work.64 Combined, these productions were aimed at a broad American audience to show them that the “agents of the Kaiser” were properly taken care of and under lock and key while borrowing its semiotics from the prevalent spy hysteria. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, Paula Pavenstedt (1859–1926/9), sister of the interned New York banker Adolf Pavenstedt (1854–1941),65 tried to reassure the sister of fellow internee Gustav von Hasperg (1868–1948) of his well-being in a letter. She states that “[a]mong the fellow prisoners are: Artists, merchants, bankers, captains, engineers, many interesting people and a very bearable life, if it didn’t last too long.”66 Pavenstedt continues, “[t]hey play bridge and have it pretty good, are allowed to live alone and provide them­ selves with additional food.”67 In her letter, she is referring to life in Camp A, illustrating the extent to which the lives of the “millionaires” differed from the conditions of the other internees. They were relieved from the maintenance works around the camp and consequentially had ample free time, as well as private bed- and bathrooms, their own chefs, and a bank from which they could access the necessary funds to pay for their privileged housing.68

63 “German prisoners work at an internment camp in Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, in World... HD Stock Footage,” YouTube Video, 00:48, March 13, 2014, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=HLNoZhY2aLc. 64 “German prisoners dig ground at an interment [sic] camp at Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia,” YouTube Video, 00:30, August 29, 2016, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ YjCRYANy_A. Intertitle at 0:04. 65 He was registered and listed at the ICRC as “Pavenstadt,” Adolf Pavenstadt, ICRC archives [ACICR C G1]; List no. 36, n.d., AU66, ICRC archives [ACICR C G1]. Due to his close relations with the former German ambassador to the United States, Johann Heinrich Bernstorff (1862–1939), and the pro-German agitator Bernhard Dernburg (1865– 1937), who was arrested under charges of financing pro-German propaganda. Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 555–556. 66 Paula Gavenstedt [sic!] to Fräulein von Hasperg, 6 June 1918, R 67/249, BArch. Baron Gustav von Hasberg was transported alongside 20 other “dangerous enemies” to Oglethorpe in early April 1918: “Dangerous Enemies Go to Prison Camp,” New York Times, April 5, 1918, 24. 67 Paula Gavenstedt [sic!] to Fräulein von Hasperg, June 6, 1918, R 67/249, BArch. 68 Glaubitz-Cross and Myers, “German Internee Experience,” 239–240; Davis, “Orgelsdorf,” 254. On 1 June 1918 the bank balance was US $34,327.96, and half a million dollars had been debited; see Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 554.

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The group of “millionaires” later grew up to 90 persons.69 Among them, the only actual millionaire was the aforesaid Adolf Pavenstedt, whose confiscated assets had been valued at US $1.6 million by the Alien Property Custodian.70 The price of this special status was around US $20 a month and was therefore not only limited to real millionaires.71 The famous zoologist Richard Goldschmidt (1878–1958), for instance, reports that the Swiss Embassy “would furnish money to those properly qualified but without fund, and after application I received an allowance of thir­ ty-five dollars monthly, which qualified me as a millionaire.”72 According to him, the reason for this separation was “not to make social distinctions but to deprive the mass of internees of possible leaders in case of trou­ ble.”73 While “the effect was a very pleasant one for those concerned,” the existence of such a privileged grouping caused discontent among the various prisoner groups, especially on the part of the interned German trade unionists and socialists, who deeply despised this “capitalistic institution.”74 In addition to the various groups already present, another decisive change was still to follow: approximately 2,300 German seamen taken from various passenger liners and merchant ships who had been interned under the author­ ity of the Labor Department in Hot Springs, North Carolina, since July 1917 were ordered to be transported to Oglethorpe “in order to present a united

69 They made up roughly 6 percent of the total population. Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 554. Stibbe states that “[a]round 10 percent of the 2,300 civilian internees held at Fort Oglethorpe and Fort Douglas were wealthy German-born immigrants suspected of dis­ loyal behaviour, including financing pro-German propaganda.” Stibbe, “Enemy Aliens and Internment,” 10. 70 Alien Property Custodian Report, 600. 71 For comparison, the initial daily wage in the camp was one dollar, and after March 1918, it was 25 cents. The wages had been cut after negotiations between the United States and the German Empire. Davis, “Orgelsdorf,” 254–255; Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 560. 72 Richard Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower: The Autobiography of Richard B. Goldschmidt (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1960), 175. Which criteria were necessary to qualify remains unclear. For more on Goldschmidt’s denunciation, arrest, and internment, see Marsha L. Richmond, “A Scientist During Wartime: Richard Goldschmidt’s Internment in the U.S.A. During the First World War,” Endeavour 39 (2015): 52–62. 73 Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower, 175. His hypothesis is supported by the fact that Camp A was hermetically sealed at night. 74 Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower. Roughly 7 percent of the inmates were part of the syndicalist union International Workers of the World (IWW). Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 639. Compared to the more moderate American Federation of Labor, many members of the IWW were born in countries of the Central Powers and thus perceived as especially threatening. Consequentially, they were legally persecuted to the extent that, by the end of the war, Nagler considers them practically destroyed. Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 496–509.

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front to the enemy.”75 Despite an outbreak of typhoid fever, by late August 1918, 2,124 interned German sailors had been transported to Oglethorpe, causing a skyrocketing inmate increase of 145 percent.76 In order to accom­ modate the new internees, the camp’s facilities had to be greatly expanded.77 Penned together but at the same time spatially isolated, these various groups brought with them their very own experiences, identities, and inter­ pretations of events. Usually these internal conflicts were solved non­ violently,78 and the commander of the internment camp, Colonel Charles Penrose (1858–1920), noted that discipline was as good as could be expected from 3,600 internees from across all social groups.79 Ultimately, it was due to the subsequent arrival of the “Hot Springsers,” as they called themselves, that an alternative platform for negotiating the perceptions of internment could be created: Erich Franke, a former radio operator on the cargo ship Willehad, had managed to smuggle a small print­ ing press into Oglethorpe.80 The press immediately caught the attention of

75 Jacqueline Burgin Painter, The German Invasion of Western North Carolina: A Pictoral History (Johnson City: Overmountain Press, 1997), 67. Painter’s book is the most exten­ sive work on the camp at Hot Springs. With a population of only 650, the arrival of 2,314 German internees dominated the little settlement. Jacqueline Burgin Painter, The German Invasion of Western North Carolina: A Pictoral History (Johnson City: Overmountain Press, 1997), 24. The ship officers were housed in a mountain hotel, whereas barracks on a former golf course were constructed for the crew members. The local population was, according to Painter, very friendly towards the German aliens. Jacqueline Burgin Painter, The German Invasion of Western North Carolina: A Pictoral History (Johnson City: Overmountain Press, 1997), 40–45. 76 At least 28 people died of typhoid, while hundreds more were transferred to surround­ ing hospitals before they could be interned in Oglethorpe. Jacqueline Burgin Painter, The German Invasion of Western North Carolina: A Pictoral History (Johnson City: Overmountain Press, 1997), 107–116. 77 Even though they were only being interned for a few weeks, Bingold notes that “within the next days, more than 1000 men from a different prison camp are scheduled to arrive here, for them the new barracks are currently being finished.” Konrad Bingold to Babette Bingold, July 30, 1918, BArch, R67/249; cf. Painter, German Invasion, 68. 78 The German sailors in particular were hostile towards the German criminals held at Oglethorpe; see Amerikana. Erinnerungen von Erich Franke, n.d., 7, BArch, R67/533. Inside the camp, its very own form of spy fever was going around as many of the intern­ ees had only been interned due to denunciation. Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower, 164–165. The Military Intelligence Department (MID), on the other hand, had recruited some enemy aliens to report on subversive activities by other enemy aliens. Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 582–585. Alleged collaborators, called “Speckschneider” (bacon cutters) in camp jargon, were handled by a “secret organization of revenge” aptly named “Holy Ghost.” Despite the best efforts of camp officials, its members were never revealed. Posselt, “Prisoner of War No. 3598,” 321. 79 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 565. 80 Interestingly, Franke mentioned neither the printing press nor the Eulenspiegel in his memoirs. Just as he begins to go into “Theater etc.,” he abruptly ends with “but all of this is its own chapter and does not belong here.” See Amerikana. Erinnerungen von Erich Franke, n.d., 7, BArch, R67/533.

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94 Karl Dargel Bohemian journalist Erich Posselt, despite it being no more than “a toy of the sort children use to print calling cards etc.”81 While the conflict in Europe was coming to an end, the semiotic war in Fort Oglethorpe had only just begun with the publication of the first issue of the OE on 15 October 1918.

“Till Eulenspiegel, devout and free, is now jesting around in Orgelsdorf camp”82: the camp newspaper Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel In the first edition of the camp newspaper, following the aforemen­ tioned “first word” of the editor, the elected namesake and mascot, Till Eulenspiegel, has his say in the form of a lengthy poem imitating the Middle Low German original.83 Aside from resorting to the well-known jester, the newly created sign “Orgelsdorf” is both a parody of as well as a practical solution for the camp’s tongue-twisting name and beyond that a sarcastic take on their internment in general.84 In fact, there had been another competing magazine, simply called Die Bombe, which was in form and content a brainchild of Camp B. Even though it was published earlier, this typewriter-written weekly publication was disre­ garded by the editor of the Eulenspiegel as having “no more literary or artistic merit than the Bier-Zeitungen German students publish for their Kneipen.”85 In total, 10 issues of the OE were published between October 1918 and May 1919.86 Each issue typically followed a theme and consisted of 18–23 pages, featuring a great number of illustrations, totaling to 106 pages.87 Despite the bad quality of the paper used, the cover’s artwork became more elaborate over time (Figure 4.4), including a distinct logo featuring an owl (Eule) and a mirror (Spiegel). The newspaper was published in two versions: a standard one for 25 cents and a “limited number of specially stapled and colorized copies” costing 50 cents.88 Considering that the daily wage in the camp was 25 cents, it may 81 Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 320. Similarly, Richard Goldschmidt speaks of “a small hand press formerly used for printing menus aboard some steamer.” Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower, 177. 82 Hans Stengel, “Schelmenlied,” OE, October 15, 1918, 2. 83 Hans Stengel, “Schelmenlied,” OE, October 15, 1918, 2. 84 According to Posselt, this was mainly due to the sailors “to whom Oglethorpe was a tongue-twister.” Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 314. 85 Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 320. 86 Additionally, an eleventh issue for New Year’s Eve of 1920 was written by typewriter. Only six copies were made, and it was never presented to the censor. Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598” 320. 87 Aside from the Christmas and New Year specials (nos. 6 and 7, n.d.), one issue was dedicated to the victims of the influenza epidemy of autumn 1918 (OE, November 15, 1918), another one was a designated German issue (OE, December 1, 1918) and the “Hot Springser,” received their own as well (OE, January 24, 1919). 88 “Redaktionelles,” OE, November 15, 1918, 20.

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Figure 4.4 The evolution of the front covers: Nos. 1, 7, and 10. OE, October 15, 1918; OE, n.d. [January 1, 1919?]; OE, May 25, 1919, George Washington Flowers Collection of Southern Americana, David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University. All images from the Eulenspiegel are taken from the set held at the Rubinstein Library.

come as a surprise that Posselt claims that “[t]he first fifteen hundred copies of the Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel were sold out as soon as they were off the press.”89 In contrast to the Bombe, the Eulenspiegel had its main audience and authorship predominantly in Camp A. This notion is further supported by the charitable intention to distribute the net profits from the sales among the “needy inmates of the camp.”90 Perhaps untypically for camp newspapers, the most prevalent contribu­ tions are poems, accounting for almost a third of all articles. Likewise, actual news from the camp only filled up a small margin of the pages.91 The high number of guest contributions usually preferred to focus on topics beyond the camp life like satirical pieces, short stories, or excursuses on art, music, and the like. Taken together with the rich imagery, ranging from portray­ als of fellow internees, romanticized illustrations of the camp (Figure 4.5) or depictions of the Heimat, the OE hardly fits the established categorizations of other camp newspapers. This imagery serves as another space for coping 89 Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 320. As the publisher of the newspaper, he is the only available source on the commercial success of the Eulenspiegel and should accordingly be read with a grain of salt. 90 “Ein erstes Wort,” OE, October 15, 1918, 1. Whether this was actually done remains unclear since Posselt states in his memoirs that “the proceeds, after deducting the expenses, were divided between the owner of the press, the printers, and the editor.” Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 320. 91 Contrast these findings with Pöppinghege’s comparative analysis of the French newspaper L’Echo du Camp de Rennbahn in Münster, cf. Pöppinghege, Im Lager unbesiegt, 242.

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Figure 4.5 Lithography showing the idealized barracks in Camp B by Max von Recklinghausen (1869–1934). OE, November 15, 1918, 15.

with internment and homesickness. Leaving out the much-dreaded barbed wire and replacing the outer fences with a low enclosure, the internees created their own comforting pictorial signs as a response to the government imagery emphasizing absolute state control. These attempts to renegotiate their depic­ tion of captivity were, however, by no means restricted to images alone.

“Gozeidangk das mir jetzt aber a Zeitungk ham”92: the Eulenspiegel’s semiotics as discursive platform So far, even in the few studies on the Eulenspiegel, scholarly works have fore­ gone sources written in dialect like the one above.93 As a consequence, the importance of the use of dialect has not yet been considered beyond its folk­ loric value, i.e. as a remedy against barbed wire disease and homesickness. 92 The title roughly translates to “Thank God that we now finally have a newspaper.” Hans Huckebein [pseud.] “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, November 1, 1918, 2–3. The spelling in all quotes is rendered as in the original. The pseudonym is referring to the eponymous “Hans Huckebein, der Unglücksrabe [Jack Crook, Bird of Evil in Englisch] by famous German poet Wilhelm Busch. 93 Glaubitz-Cross and Myers go over some poems in great detail but ignore anything written in dialect; see Glaubitz-Cross and Myers, “German Internee Experience.”

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To give an insightful example, in a letter to the editor under the pen name “Hans Huckebein” and written in what seems to be his native Franconian dia­ lect, the author initially expresses his joy that Oglethorpe has its own literary platform.94 Yet this expression merely serves as an opener for mordant criti­ cism toward the editors (“the editorial staff is also just a stable with sheared muttons”) and its contributors (“don’t think that something’s better just because it rhymes”), all under the veil of anonymity and buried in dialect.95 Similarly, seaman and amateur author Willy Bezkocka, writing under the alias “Willy Bliemchen,” ironically complains to the editor that he is not listed in the imprint of the Eulenspiegel and announces that he would thus never write for the newspaper again, only to write three more articles later under his real name.96 Through this form of playful conflict involving alter egos and writing in dialect, an additional layer to the sign system of intern­ ment was added. These arbitrary but commonly agreed on signs were frequently brought up again, leading to a high degree of intertextuality. This manifested itself, for instance, in different poems directly responded to each other and recur­ ring tropes such as word plays with some of the inmates’ names.97 But the intertextuality even stretched out to the formal level, spoofing entire literary formats. For instance, the anonymous author “Comparativ” created a series of distichs, a special type of poetic couplet, titled Xenien in a nod to no one less than Goethe and Schiller, who had done the same in response to their critics.98 Picking up on this, “Willy Bliemchen” forwards “einige Szenien,” written in Saxonian dialect, in his letter to the editor.99 Below are excerpts from both Xenien and “Szenien” in direct comparision: Zensur:

Ein zartes Gebild das ueber allem schwebt,

das Briefe oeffnet, liest und dann wieder verklebt.

[Censorship:

A fine structure, which hovers over everything, which opens letters,

reads and closes them again.]

94 Hans Huckebein [pseud.], “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, November 1, 1918, 2–3.

95 Hans Huckebein [pseud.], “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, November 1, 1918, 3.

96 Willy Bliemchen [pseud.], “Lieber Herr Redakteer!” OE, November 1, 1918, 17–18. The

man behind this pseudonym is most certainly Willy Bezkocka, native of Dresden and co-editor of the Eulenspiegel. Posselt, “Prisoner of War No. 3598,” 320; Willy Bezkocka, ICRC archives [ACICR C G1]. 97 Following a poem titled “Consolation” that encourages the reader to “look towards the East,” another internee responds with his own poem “Warning!” to look inward “where your wound burns,” Otto Schaefer, “Zuspruch,” OE, November 1, 1918, 1; Albrecht Montgelas, “Mahnung!,” OE, November 15, 1918, 5. In the same issue, the editor steps up and clarifies this misunderstanding, see “Redaktionelles,” OE, November 15, 1918, 20. 98 Comparativ [pseud.], “Xenien,” OE, October 15, 1918, 11.

99 Willy Bliemchen [pseud.], “Lieber Herr Redakteer!,” OE, November 1, 1918, 18.

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98

Karl Dargel Browiandmangel: Das iss e Obergauner, der een Dieb nachloofd, De Aebbel wegnimmd und dann selbsd vergoofd. [Lack of provisions: He’s a head crook, who runs after a thief, takes the apples away and then sells them himself.]

In their content, both poems are critical toward the camp administration, while the second one not only copies the format of the first but also ridi­ cules it at the same time.100 In doing so, it illustrates how the referential­ ity within the newspaper worked in manifold ways. Aside from the use of standard language, these plays on the relationship between words by resort­ ing to dialects created another discursive level within the literary platform of the Eulenspiegel.101 Yet instead of undermining it, these ironic alterna­ tive drafts of internment lead to a more vibrant literary culture and ulti­ mately strengthened the evocated semiotic image of a community among the interned German aliens.

Semiotic strategies of encryption and empowerment In one of his reports to the War Department, camp commander Penrose simply notes with regard to newspapers that “two publications were issued from time to time by the prisoners … Die Bombe and Der Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel, under the supervision of the censor, consisting principally of camp gossip, and were apparently very much enjoyed.”102 While the edi­ tors and authors of the Eulenspiegel would have vehemently protested this assessment, it was a moral victory for them. Just like their idol Till Eulenspiegel, they managed to make fun of their surroundings, above all the camp censor, without the latter noticing this. In line with camp policy, all incoming and outgoing mail as well as pub­ lications had to go undergo censorship.103 As a consequence, the censor was “unanimously hated” by the internees, and they constantly sought to outsmart him.104 With this in mind, language use was modified in several 100 Preluding his “Szenien,” the author tells the editor that “you can put these [poems] on your ragged straw-hat” [Vielleicht gennen Si se sich an Ihren verwidderden Strohut schdecken]. Willy Bliemchen [pseud.], “Lieber Herr Redakteer!,” OE, November 1, 1918. “Sich etwas an den Hut stecken” is a German idiom of strong dismissal or rejection. 101 Chandler, Semiotics, 19. 102 Annual Reports of the War Department (Washington: Government Printing Press, 1920), 534. The quoted report deals with the time period around 1919. 103 The Eulenspiegel would regularly notify its readers that all articles had passed censor­ ship. See, for instance, “Redaktionelles,” OE, November 15, 1918, 20. 104 Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower, 177. He further describes him as “one of the ugliest fellows I have ever met … dry and pedantic to the bone, this man considered his office a means of inflicting mental torture on us.”

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Figure 4.6 In this poem, the last two words of the Latin motto “Per aspera ad astra” are replaced by two dashes. Otto Schaefer, “Per Aspera – –,” OE, November 15, 1918, 10.

ways to ensure uncensored communication both within and beyond the Eulenspiegel. For one, poems were encrypted by simply replacing certain words with dashes. In this simple semiotic sign, one dash was used to replace one word, while the reader had to figure out which word this was. In some cases, the meaning behind the sign could be guessed with sufficient contextual knowl­ edge (Figure 4.6). Other instances proved to be more complex. Eager to write a poem cen­ tred around the highly nationalistic dictum “Alles kommt von Deutschland wie vom Weibe” (Everything originates from Germany as from women),

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the famous writer Hanns Heinz Ewers (1871–1943) only introduced it in the title instead of featuring it after each stanza as originally intended. Having passed the censor’s office, the final issue was then published with an inserted slip explaining what the four dashes stood for.105 In addition to this basic encryption method, dialects served as another type of code. The censor, “a teacher of German in some college,” may well have been able to properly understand standard German but was not famil­ iar with the wide variety of dialects that the diverse internee groups spoke.106 One particular striking example is the “dialect” of artist Hans Stengel (1894–1928). Released on parole to recover his stricken health, he sent word back to his fellow inmates in the camp, “praising the beautiful waitresses of Colorado” as well as all other amenities of being free again.107 Under nor­ mal circumstances, such inflammatory news would never have passed cen­ sorship. To avoid this, Stengel, born in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and raised in Lübeck, appropriated a hybrid form of dialect, reminiscing Bavarian and Swabian, among others. The fact that he is not a “native” of either variation becomes apparent when closely analyzing his first letter to the editor and directly comparing it with a later one. Even when considering that codified dialect is inherently more incon­ sistent than standard language, the respective titles of the letters, “Lueber Eulenspigl” and “Lieber Eulenspuegl,” show some inconsistency.108 Within his sentences, Stengel inconsistently resorts to semiotic signs drawn from different dialects. In one example taken from the first letter, he says that ich mir beim bader die arbeisamen hende hab

feilen lassen fon einem sissen madl … und

hat sie mir mit ire zuckerhandln die meinigen gehal­ ten das mir gans unkeisch zumuhte war …

Ir traurigen schlawichner sizet hinther dem stachel­ draht und grigt kuhlasch indem der mentsch wo aber

die barohle in der taschen hat ein speissekartl in die

gefeilte hant nimt und den Kaelner mit einem schwar­ zen Fragganzug sagt das er gerne ein staehk hat mit

einem glasl Biehr.109

105 Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 320; Hanns Heinz Ewers, “Alles kommt von Deutschland wie vom Weibe [Joh. V. Jensen],” OE, November 1, 1918, 5–6. 106 Goldschmidt, In and Out of the Ivory Tower, 177. Dialects used aside from Franconian and Saxonian include Hessian, Swabian, Austrian and Low German. 107 Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 321. For Stengel’s letter, see Hans Stengel, “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, December 1, 1918, 7–8. 108 Hans Stengel, “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, December 1, 1918, 7–8; Hans Stengel, “Lieber Eulenspuegl!” OE, May 25, 1919, 3–4. 109 Hans Stengel, “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, December 1, 1918, 7. Emphasis by the author.

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[I went to the barber to get my work-weary hands treated by a sweet girl … and with her sweet hands she held mine and I got some very unchaste thoughts … You sad rascals sit behind the barbed wire and eat goulash, but the man who has the parole in his pocket takes a menu in his filed hand and tells the waiter in a black tailcoat that he would like a steak with a pint of beer.] Content aside, it is noticeable that Stengel starts by using the Swabian word hende before switching to the Bavarian words madl (the Swabian equivalent would be Mädle), handln (instead of hende), and kartl (instead of Kardd/ Kärdle), only to end with the non-Bavarian hant. At the same time, some words such as “stacheldraht” (barbed wire) remain in standard German, and certain phrases are fixed and recur in both letters.110 This close read­ ing could be expanded further to underline the differing components in Stengel’s creation. Still, he was successful, as all his mail passed the censor. He did not need to speak in a specific dialect, rather resorting to “dialect” as a general semiotic subsystem proved to be sufficient. His case exemplifies how dialect could, in addition to other utilizations, serve as code in its own regard and allow for an undisturbed debate about internment. Regardless of which semiotic system was used, a fundamental and con­ stantly recurring trope was Germanness. As was typical for most intern­ ment camp newspapers, many works utilized semiotics of the nation and patriotism, and the Eulenspiegel was no exception.111 In this act of empow­ erment, the authors strove to define the relational structures of these semi­ otic signs. One especially ardent example stems from Posselt’s pen. Glorifying the victims of the influenza outbreak in his poem “Den Toten” (To the Dead), he concludes, “but one thought may us … be our comfort: that they died as Germans. Because as Germans they were here like us. And a scoundrel (Hundsfott) who may not willingly give his life for this!”112 Posselt avails himself of the soldierly spirit of self-sacrifice for one’s nation and applies this semiotic image to the ones who succumbed to disease in a prison camp. In a similar act of reapplication of these signs, one prisoner’s “Gebet an die Sonne” (Prayer to the Sun) issues a rallying cry urging to “Bless, you noble,

110 E.g. “liber mentsch.” Hans Stengel, “Lueber Eulenspigl,” OE, December 1, 1918; Hans Stengel, “Lieber Eulenspuegl!” OE, May 25, 1919, 3. 111 For an exemplary and detailed content analysis of a few other newspapers, see Pöppinghege, Im Lager unbesiegt, 239–244. 112 Erich Posselt, “Den Toten,” OE, November 15, 1918, 3.

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the ones who are mine and are imprisoned here,/let us, of goddess, not doubt, not fall, not waver,/for our fatherland needs us, needs real men.”113 Yet, at the same time that these signs are brought up, the self-conception of the Eulenspiegel as a place to “cultivate the arts” compels the problema­ tization of these semiotic images. In a later issue, it is Posselt himself who ridicules and complains about the people who “address verses to honor, freedom, fatherland and other beautiful things that cannot resist.”114 Still, this did not prevent Posselt from publishing an earlier issue that is “intended as ‘Deutsche Nummer’ [German issue] and is therefore … seri­ ous with its contents.”115 These serious contents, in addition to the already mentioned poem “Prayer to the Sun,” mainly deal with architecture and music, thus linking the semiotics of Germanness to what the authors may have labelled as “high culture.”116 In all of these various approaches, the OE indeed proved to be a substantial mirror for the dynamic microcosm that was camp life at Fort Oglethorpe.

Conclusion In their endeavor to create a literary platform, the minds behind the Eulenspiegel saw themselves first and foremost as patriotic and loyal front­ line fighters in a battle of cultures facing an American enemy on his home front. Equipped with simple codifications, actual as well as imagined dia­ lects and their wits, the enemy aliens remained undefeated in this cultural war behind barbed wire and succeeded in creating their own unsupervised space in which they could freely express themselves. Yet the camp admin­ istration had the upper hand and de facto won by banning the Eulenspiegel after an informer exposed Posselt’s plotting to flout the censor.117 However, in the end, the spirit and collective identity it had promoted was meant to last, convincing many a prisoner that “Fort Oglethorpe was really Germany.”118 This case study has covered the internment camp Fort Oglethorpe, namely its own history, the “very colorful society” living within its confines, and finally, the highly atypical publication they created. Taken together, it 113 P.o.W. 3537 [pseud], “Gebet an die Sonne,” OE, December, 1. The author of this poem is most likely O.K. Wille. His POW number appears alongside a portrait of him on page 9 in the same issue. 114 Erich Posselt, “Lager-Insassen,” OE, n.d. [January 1919?], 5. 115 [Erich Posselt], “Redaktionelles,” OE, December 1, 1918, 8. 116 One article deals with the question of why the cathedrals in Cologne and Strasbourg are “German” while another is a lengthy paean on Richard Strauss and German music which, “despite all envy, cannot be pushed from the position to which it was lifted by Bach and Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, Wagner and Brahms: from the first.” Otto Schaefer, “Das Strassburger Münster und der Cölner Dom. Warum sind sie deutsch?,” OE, December 1, 1918, 2–5; Ernst Fritz Kuhn, “Richard Strauss,” OE, December 1, 1918, 16–19. 117 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 572; Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 320. 118 Nagler, Nationale Minoritäten, 572; Posselt, “Prisoner of War 3598,” 317.

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has vividly illustrated the manifold ways in which the semiotic system of language was employed by captors and captives alike to tackle questions of dangerousness, Germanness, and imprisonment. To conclude, incorpo­ rating the semiotic lens into the historian’s analytical toolkit enables further research to ask new questions as well as gain new perspectives, including, but of course not limited to, the (re-)negotiating of German internment in the United States during the First World War.

Works cited Archival material Federal Archives Berlin-Lichterfelde R67/249. R67/533. Archives of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) C G1 Periodicals New York Times Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel

Published sources and secondary literature “A German Village on American Soil.” Popular Science Monthly 90 (1917): 424–425. Alien Property Custodian Report. United States. Alien Property Custodian. Washington: Government Printing Office, 1919. Annual Reports of the War Department. United States. War Department. Washington: Government Printing Press, 1920. Becker, Annette. “Civilian Captives.” In The Cambridge History of the First World War, edited by Jay Winter, 257–281. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. London: Routledge, 2017. Davis, Gerald H. “‘Orgelsdorf’: A World War I Internment Camp America.” Yearbook of German-American Studies 26 (1991): 249–266. Garner, James W. International Law and the World War. London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1920. “German prisoners dig ground at an interment [sic] camp at Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia.” YouTube video “Chattanooga has History”, 00:30. August 29, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YjCRYANy_A. “German prisoners work at an internment camp in Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, in World…HD Stock Footage”. YouTube Video “Critical Past”, 00:48. March 13, 2014. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLNoZhY2aLc. Gerard, James W. Face to Face with Kaiserism. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1918. Gibson, Campbell J. and Emily Lennon. “Historical Census Statistics on the Foreign-born Population of the United States: 1850–1990.” Population Division Working Paper No. 29, 1999. Accessed April 10, 2019. https://www.census.gov/ population/www/documentation/twps0029/twps0029.html. Glaubitz-Cross, Jeanne and Ann K. D. Myers. “‘Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel’ and the German Internee Experience at Fort Oglethorpe, 1917–19.” The Georgia Historical Quarterly 96 (2012): 233–259.

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Glidden, William B. “Casualties of Caution. Alien Enemies in America, 1917–1919.” PhD diss., University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1970. Glidden, William B. “Internment Camps in America, 1917–1920.” Military Affairs 37 (1973): 137–141. Goldschmidt, Richard. In and Out of the Ivory Tower: The Autobiography of Richard B. Goldschmidt. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1960. Huberich, Charles Henry. The Law Relating to Trading With the Enemy Together With a Consideration of the Civil Rights and Disabilities of Alien Enemies and of the Effect of War on Contracts with Alien Enemies. New York: Baker, Voorhis & Company, 1919. Janz, Oliver. “Einführung: Der Erste Weltkrieg in globaler Perspektive.” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 40, no. 2 (2014): 147–159. Jones, Heather. “Prisoners of War.” In 1914-1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, edited by Ute Daniel, Peter Gatrell, Oliver Janz, Heather Jones, Jennifer Keene, Alan Kramer and Bill Nasson issued by Freie Universität Berlin, Berlin 2014-10-08. Accessed January 29, 2019. https://encyclopedia.1914­ 1918-online.net/article/prisoners_of_war?version=1.0. Keene, Jennifer. “United States of America,” In 1914–1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, edited by Ute Daniel, Peter Gatrell, Oliver Janz, Heather Jones, Jennifer Keene, Alan Kramer and Bill Nasson issued by Freie Universität Berlin, Berlin 2014-10-08. Accessed April 10, 2019. https:// encyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net/article/united_states_of_america. Kramer, Alan. “Prisoners in the First World War.” In Prisoners in War, edited by Sibylle Scheipers, 75–90. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Lewis, Reuben A. “How the United States Takes Care of German Prisoners.” Munsey’s Magazine 54 (1918): 137–145. Ludewig, Alexandra. Zwischen Korallenriff und Stacheldraht: Interniert auf Rottnest Island, 1914-1915. Frankfurt: Peter Lang Verlag, 2015. Manz, Stefan, Panikos Panayi and Matthew Stibbe, eds. Internment during the First World War: A Mass Global Phenomenon. London: Routledge, 2018. Merrill John H., ed. The American and English Encyclopaedia of Law. Long Island, NY: Thompson, 1887. Nagler, Jörg. Nationale Minoritäten im Krieg. “Feindliche Ausländer” und die amer­ ikanische Heimatfront während des Ersten Weltkrieges. Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 2000. Painter, Jacqueline Burgin. The German Invasion of Western North Carolina. A Pictorial History. Johnson City: Overmountain Press, 1997. Palmer, A. Mitchell. “The Vast Amount of Enemy Property in the United States.” Munsey’s Magazine 54 (1918): 233–238. Panayi, Panikos. The Enemy in our Midst. Germans in Britain during the First World War. Oxford: Berg Publishers, 1991. Pöppinghege, Rainer. Im Lager unbesiegt. Deutsche, englische und französische

Kriegsgefangenen-Zeitungen im Ersten Weltkrieg. Essen: Klartext Verlag, 2006.

Posselt, Erich. “Prisoner of War No. 3598.” The American Mercury 7 (1929): 313–323.

Committee on Public Information. “Regulations for Registration of German Alien

Enemies throughout United States in First Week of February as Prescribed and Issued by Attorney General Gregory.” The Official Bulletin, January 2, 1918, 9–16. Richmond, Marsha L. “A scientist during wartime: Richard Goldschmidt’s intern­ ment in the U.S.A. during the First World War.” Endeavour 39 (2015): 52–62.

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Sharswood, George. Sir William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England in Four Books. [With] Notes selected from the editions of Archibold, Christian, Coleridge, Chitty, Stewart, Kerr, and others, Barron Field’s Analysis, and Additional Notes, and a Life of the Author. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1893. Stibbe, Matthew. “The Internment of Civilians by Belligerent States during the First World War and the Response of the International Committee of the Red Cross.” Journal of Contemporary History 41, no. 1 (2006): 5–19. Karl Dargel “Tagungsbericht: War and Semiotics, 09.11.2018 – 10.11.2018 Bodø.” H-Soz-Kult. March 12, 2019. http://www.hsozkult.de/conferencereport/id/ tagungsberichte-8160. Treskow, Isabella von. “Französische Kriegsgefangenenzeitungen im Ersten Weltkrieg: Internationale Erfahrung, Interkulturalität und europäisches Selbstverständnis.” Comparativ 28, no. 1 (2018): 29–47. Wilkinson, Oliver. “Captivity in Print. The Form and Function of POW Magazines.” In Cultural Heritage and Prisoners of War: Creativity Behind Barbed Wire, edited by Gillian Carr and Harold Mytum, 227–243. New York: Routledge, 2012. Wilson, Woodrow. “Address to a Joint Session of Congress Requesting a Declaration of War Against Germany.” UC Santa Barbara, In The American Presidency Project, edited by Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley. https://www.presidency. ucsb.edu/node/207620. Wilson, Woodrow. “Proclamation 1364—Declaring That a State of War Exists Between the United States and Germany.” UC Santa Barbara, In The American Presidency Project, edited by Gerhard Peters and John T. Wolley. UC Santa Barbara, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/node/268065. Wüstenbecker, Katja. “Die Vereinigten Staaten von Amerika: Widerwillige Teilnahme am Ersten Weltkrieg.” In Durchhalten! Krieg und Gesellschaft im Vergleich 1914-1918, edited by Arnd Bauerkämper and Elise Julien, 217–237. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010.

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5

The semiotic construction of Judeo–Bolshevism in Germany, 1918–1933 Frank Jacob

The Russian Revolution of 1917 led to a fear of Bolshevism and revolution­ ary movements across Europe.1 Many people feared that such a process of Bolshevization could lead to another period of dictatorial rule like the one that had been established by Lenin following the Revolution’s corruption, when the aims of February 1917 were sacrificed in October of the same year.2 At the same time, the fact that many Jews were involved in the revo­ lutionary movement in Russia,3 as well as other revolutionary developments in Europe and elsewhere in the aftermath of the Russian events, led to the creation of a semiotic construction that linked Jewishness and revolution, i.e. Judeo–Bolshevism. While it would become a rather dominant narra­ tive of the political far-right, especially with regard to National Socialist propaganda, the conspiracy theory of a Jewish world revolution was not only stimulated by representatives of that spectrum. Winston Churchill

1 On the perception of the Revolution in different national and chronological contexts, see Jan C. Behrends, Nikolaus Katzer and Thomas Lindenberger, eds., 100 Jahre Roter Oktober: Zur Weltgeschichte der Russischen Revolution (Berlin: Ch. Links, 2017); Frank Jacob and Riccardo Altieri, eds., Die Wahrnehmung der Russischen Revolutionen 1917 – Zwischen utopischen Träumen und erschütterter Ablehnung (Berlin: Metropol, 2020). 2 For a detailed discussion of the corruption of the Russian Revolution, see Frank Jacob, 1917: Die korrumpierte Revolution (Darmstadt: Büchner, 2020). 3 For a discussion of political Jewish radicalism, especially that tied to the political left, see Markus Börner, Anja Jungfer and Jakob Stürmann, eds., Judentum und Arbeiterbewegung: Das Ringen um Emanzipation in der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018); Sebastian Kunze and Frank Jacob, “Introduction. Thoughts on Jewish Radicalism as a Phenomenon of Global Modernity,” in Jewish Radicalisms: Historical Perspectives on a Phenomenon of Global Modernity, eds. Frank Jacob and Sebastian Kunze (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2019), 1–20; Frank Jacob, “Radical Trinity. Anarchist, Jew, or New Yorker?” in Jewish Radicalisms: Historical Perspectives on a Phenomenon of Global Modernity, eds. Frank Jacob and Sebastian Kunze (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2019), 153–180; Ezra Mendelsohn, ed., Essential Papers on Jews and the Left (New York: New York University Press, 1997). On Jewish radical organizations in the Russian Empire see, among others, Jonathan Frankel, Crisis, Revolution, and Russian Jews (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Jack Jacobs, ed., Jewish Politics in Eastern Europe: The Bund at 100 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001).

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(1874–1965) declared in the Illustrated Sunday Herald on 8 February 1920 about “[t]he international Jews” that: The adherents of this sinister confederacy are mostly men reared up among the unhappy populations of countries where Jews are persecuted on account of their race … This world-wide conspiracy for the over­ throw of civilization, this band from the underworld … have gripped the Russian people by the hair of their heads and have become practi­ cally the undisputed masters of that enormous empire.4 The idea that a Jewish conspiracy was responsible for the Russian Revolution, the decline of the European empires at the end of the First World War, and the creation of new republican systems were particularly promoted in post-revolutionary Germany, where a revolution had ended the war in November 1918. During the following years, the idea of Judeo– Bolshevism, i.e. that Bolshevism had been a Jewish invention to rule Russia, spread the revolution across the globe and forced people under the yoke of the international and financial Jewry who already controlled the global stockmarkets gained a lot of ground. It combined existent anti-semitism and a growing fear of the Bolshevization of Europe. Therefore, the phenom­ enon can not only be observed in its strong local, Bavarian,5 or anti-Soviet context6 but must be considered a semiotic construction that was abused for anti-semitic and antirepublican propaganda in the years of the Weimar Republic, especially within National Socialist publications. The present chapter therefore intents to provide a survey of the traditional line from the German Revolution in 1918, with a special focus on the first Bavarian Prime Minister Kurt Eisner (1867–1919), to the rise of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) and the use of the conspiracy theory by leading Nazi politicians like Joseph Goebbels (1897–1945). It will thereby highlight how the elements of this particular conspiracy theory were amal­ gamated to create a very successful propaganda tool, which combined two elements that had been particularly strong in Germany as a consequence of the military defeat and revolution in 1918, namely anti-semitism as well as the fear of a second “Red October” on German territory. The German Revolution, Kurt Eisner, and the Roots of an Antisemitic Conspiracy Theory, Kurt Eisner, a journalist and writer, once responsible

4 Illustrated Sunday Herald (London), February 8, 1920. For a detailed analysis of AngloSoviet relations from the Russian Revolution to the end of the civil war, see Richard H. Ullman, Anglo-Soviet Relations, 1917–1921, 3 vols. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2019 [1961–1972]). 5 Michael Brenner, Der lange Schatten der Revolution – Juden und Antisemiten in Hitlers München 1918 bis 1923 (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2019). 6 Paul Hanebrink, A Specter Haunting Europe: The Myth of Judeo-Bolshevism (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2018).

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for the Social Democrats’ party newspaper Vorwärts, had led the revolution in Bavaria, where, 1 day earlier than the rest of Germany, the monarch was forced to abdicate the throne and where he, as provisional Prime Minister, declared a Free State (Freistaat).7 Once on top of the revolutionary movement and the provisional government, Eisner made his aims known, demanding the people in Bavaria to secure peace and quiet—rather uncommon for revolutions—as a “New Age” was supposedly lying ahead.8 Regardless of his demands, the provisional Prime Minister, who had been considered an outsider and romancer by his Social Democratic Party colleagues—Eisner had joined the independent part of the party, the USPD, which had sep­ arated itself from the majority in 19179,—never really addressed his posi­ tion towards the future of Bavaria. While he accepted and publicly declared Germany to be responsible for the outbreak of the First World War,10 he did not clearly address the issue of the Constituent Assembly after the elec­ tions in January 1919 and was criticized for it.11 Many people also feared that Eisner planned to establish a second Soviet Union on Bavarian soil, especially by violating the election’s results and following Lenin’s lead with regard to the moral corruption of the Russian Revolution.12 Once Eisner was in charge of the political fate of Bavaria, he received countless letters insulting him or, even worse, threatening his life.13 To name just two examples here, he not only received a photographic postcard that shows himself but with his eyes scratched out and typewritten text saying “Your hours will be counted,”14 but he also received a painted wanted poster that said he should be delivered dead or alive for 50,000 or 30,000 marks, respectively, to Munich’s Police Directorate.15 Regardless of such obvious

7 On Eisner’s life and work, see Bernhard Grau, Kurt Eisner, 1867–1919: Eine Biografie (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2001); Albert Earle Gurganus, Kurt Eisner: A Modern Life (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2018). On Eisner’s work at Vorwärts and the conflict within the Social Democratic Party about the paper’s future, see Karl Kautsky, “Eine Nachlese zum Vorwärtskonflikt,” Neue Zeit: Wochenschrift der deutschen Sozialdemokratie 1, no. 10 (1906): 313–326. 8 Kurt Eisner, “Aufruf aus der Nacht zum 8. Nov. 1918,” in Kurt Eisner, Die neue Zeit (Munich: G. Müller, 1919), 5–7. 9 Andreas Braune, Mario Hesselbarth and Stefan Müller, eds., Die USPD zwischen Sozialdemokratie und Kommunismus 1917-1922 Neue Wege zu Frieden, Demokratie und Sozialismus? (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2018); Uli Schöler and Thilo Scholle, eds., Weltkrieg, Spaltung, Revolution: Sozialdemokratie, 1916-1922 (Bonn: Dietz, 2018). 10 Felix Fechenbach, Kurt Eisner: Ein Lebensbild (Berlin: Arbeiterbildung, 1929), 7. 11 “Was will er nun eigentlich?” Aschaffenburger Zeitung, December 14, 1918, 1. 12 “Die Unabhängige Sozialdemokratie,” Aschaffenburger Zeitung, December 11, 1918, 1. 13 100 of these letters were edited and published in Frank Jacob and Cornelia Baddack, eds., 100 Schmäh- und Drohbriefe an Kurt Eisner (Berlin: Metropol, 2019). 14 Anonymous Postcard to Kurt Eisner, n.d., Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde (BArch), Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR (SAPMO), Nachlass Eisner, NY 4060/64-1, 39. 15 Steckbrief, n.p., n.d., signed Police Directorate Munich, Barch-SAPMO, NY 4060/64-2, 331.

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threats, Eisner retained his confidence in the opportunities the revolution had presented to the people in Bavaria and Germany, and hoped, accord­ ing to his Kantian–Marxist ideas, for a post-revolutionary enlightenment that would persuade the majority of the population to support his moderate socialist agenda.16 However, the longer he stayed on top of the provisional government, the more aggressive his “fan mail” got. Two accusations were regularly highlighted in these letters. One argued that Eisner had been an agent for the Entente, “an international villain,”17 bringing the German Empire to its knees. The other pointed at his “Jewish” identity, claiming that he, like other Jewish revolutionaries from Eastern Europe, had been sent from Moscow to spread the revolution in Germany to make sure that a weakened post-war Germany could easily be exploited by the international “finance Jews.” The connection between Jewishness and Bolshevist revolution was consequently already existent, and the amalgamation of these two aspects into a Judeo–Bolshevist narrative and a fitting semiotic system was only a ques­ tion of necessity. The relevant elements already existed in 1918, and Judeo– Bolshevist elements are already visible in some of the letters Eisner received between November 1918 and February 1919, when he was assassinated on his way to announce his resignation. The provisional Prime Minister was aware that articles in the press also accused him of politics that betrayed German interests and insulted him personally, but due to his experience with censor­ ship during the war years, when he, like many other intellectuals, had criticized the government and was not allowed to freely express his opinion, Eisner was not willing to suppress the freedom of the press. He instead declared: There are efforts from all sides to point my attention to the silly articles that a specific press is pointing at me. I learn from these articles a lot of interesting enrichments of my biography. One also does me the honor to endue myself with a sense for family and business, which I hardly ever had in the slightest dimension. I already got all my family mem­ bers placed into well-paid positions. Worried individuals request that I oppose such sayings, although these are only signs of the putridity of a collapsed system. I repeat that the press is free to publish as many stupid and smart things, as many decent and dirty things [as it wants], as this resembles its mental and moral capacities. I have collected so much despisement against this press during the four and a half years of war that it suffices to steady myself for the rest of my life against every notion to even polemically deal with it.18 16 Frank Jacob, “Der Kultursozialismus Kurt Eisners (1867‒1919): das ‘Arbeiter-Feuilleton’ und die Aufklärung der deutschen Arbeiterschaft,” Arbeit – Bewegung – Geschichte 18, no. 1 (2019): 9–25. 17 Postcard to Eisner, Freising, November 28, 1918, BArch-SAPMO, NY 4060/64-1, 88. 18 Kurt Eisner, Zur Kenntnisnahme, Munich, November 26, 1918, in: Aschaffenburger Zeitung, November 27, 1918.

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110 Frank Jacob At the same time, anti-semitic voices became louder and louder, and Eisner received more hate mail that clearly expressed signs of Judeo–Bolshevist thoughts and extreme hate for Eisner based on his assumed Jewishness. One person anonymously wrote to the Bavarian Prime Minister: If you were just a stinky Jew, one could tolerate it. But you are also a stupid Jew, a hysteric, who after just eight days of uncontested power got Caesar’s madness [Zäsarenwahnsinn]. … The day will come when you receive the payment for your iniquities. … Cursed be you and your whole lineage, cursed the parents who procreated you, cursed your progeny, cursed everyone who offers you water when you die at the fence, cursed every bite that you enjoy, cursed the air that you breathe, cursed above all you!19 Another letter pointed to the fates of Rosa Luxemburg (1871–1919) and Karl Liebknecht (1871–1919), who had been killed on 15 January 191920 and warned Eisner that he would share this fate soon: I have seen and read that our comrades Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg received their earned deaths. The stupidity of the workers has been suf­ ficiently exploited by you stinky Jews … Therefore, comrade Eisner, get away, as fast as possible, the hour of revenge has come when your heads will be used for soccer … do you believe that the German people are accepting it that easily, to be betrayed by Jews, who have been working with Russian money, as you criminals and convicts, you dirty Jews have done at the expense of the German workers and citizens? It will cost the Jewish blood of you stinky Jews. You are Liebknecht’s and Rosa Luxemburg’s successor…21 The longer Eisner remained in his position after the elections for the Constituent Assembly without providing a clear explanation for his fur­ ther political course and intentions, the more mail he received from people who feared that he intended to repeat what had happened in Russia before, events for which Jewish revolutionaries seemed to be responsible as well. One particularly anti-semitic letter brought the Judeo–Bolshevist conspir­ acy and its basic considerations to the point: Who is responsible for the downfall of the German Kaiser Who enriched themselves from the blood of our heroes Who profiteered in bulk Who were the shirkers everywhere … Who destroys the German workers

the Jews the Jews the Jews the Jews the Jews

19 Anonymous to Kurt Eisner, n.d., Barch-SAPMO, NY 4060/64-2, 382. 20 Files related to their murder can be found in BArch R 43 I/2676 and 2676a-g. 21 Anonymous to Kurt Eisner, n.d., Barch-SAPMO, NY 4060/64-2, 232.

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From where does Bolshevism come from Russia and who rules there… the Jews Germany, who rules there the Jews Who leads the coup d’etat in Germany the Jews Who provides the money for it: the Jews Who rules the Spartacus group the Jews Who are … Rosa Luxemburg, Eisner the Jews So it has to be whispered from mouth to mouth: Kill, stone, catch the Jews Eisner, you great criminal, coward, your hours are counted!22 When one reads the letters Eisner received in the weeks leading up to his assassination by a monarchist student, Anton Graf von Arco auf Valley (1897–1945),23 it is in a way not surprising that Eisner eventually became the victim of a violent death. The fact that he, however, could not resign from office personally and was assassinated made him popular and ironically led to a further radicalization of the revolution in Bavaria.24 Eisner eventually became a “martyr” and a “politician of truth”25 for some, while he was transformed into the galleon figure of Judeo–Bolshevism by others who would emphasize in the following years that the provisional Prime Minister of Bavaria had tried to weaken Germany by accepting the guilt for the outbreak of the First World War, had tried to drive a wedge between Munich and Berlin to divide Germany and prepare the country for its takeover by Moscow and had tried to culturally weaken the German nation by changing its sociocultural fundament. The second group is of particular interest for the further analysis within the present chapter, as it shows how the commemoration of the first Bavarian Prime Minister had been connected with the Judeo–Bolshevist narrative during the Weimar Republic. The National Socialist use of this narrative in particular should therefore be taken into closer consideration.

From revolution to Hitler’s Germany One of the right-wing intellectuals who not only reproduced the anti-semitic and Judeo–Bolshevist accusations against Eisner after his death but also had some influence on the early National Socialist movement, and Adolf Hitler 22 Anonymous to Kurt Eisner, n.d., Barch-SAPMO, NY 4060/64-2, 280. Emphasis in the original. 23 Friedrich Hitzer, Anton Graf Arco: Das Attentat auf Kurt Eisner und die Schüsse im Landtag (Munich: Knesebeck & Schuler, 1988). 24 For local Bavarian perspectives on the revolutionary events, see Frank Jacob, Revolution und Räterepublik in Unterfranken: Eine landesgeschichtliche Untersuchung zu Verlauf und Folgen der Revolution von 1918/19 an der bayerischen Peripherie (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2019). The Bavarian perspective is described in Friedrich Hitzer, Anton Graf Arco: Das Attentat auf Kurt Eisner und die Schüsse im Landtag (Munich: Knesebeck & Schuler, 1988), 29–46. 25 Heinrich Mann, “Kurt Eisner: Zum Jahrestag seiner Ermordung,” Newspaper clipping, SAPMO-BArch, NY 4060/152-1, 52.

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112 Frank Jacob (1889–1945) in particular, was the writer and translator Dietrich Eckart (1868–1923).26 In Mein Kampf, Hitler described his early mentor as “[someone] who dedicated his life to versing, thinking, and eventually in acting towards the awakening of his people.”27 While Eckart had died in 1923, before National Socialism really became a mass movement, Hitler not only dedicated Mein Kampf (published in 1925) to him, but also the writer and almost obsessed anti-semite Eckart influenced the later Führer of Germany in his early years in Munich and introduced him to the influential political circles of the city.28 The conspiracy theorist Dietrich Bronder even claims that Eckart was Hitler’s “intellectual father,”29 which would probably be too much of an interpretation, but when considering the close relationship between the two men, one can at least argue that some of Hitler’s ideological considerations go back to Eckart. Characterized by the Münchner Post as a man “who would love to eat half a dozen Jews on his sauerkraut every day,”30 Eckart’s anti-semitic views, espe­ cially in relation to a Jewish–Bolshevist world conspiracy, seem to have had a particular impact on Hitler. In the late 1920s, Alfred Rosenberg (1893–1946) also highlighted that “the remembrance of one of the best of the German people should be kept awake” and that “like many other Germans, I con­ sider it as a duty to foster and watch over Dietrich Eckart’s name and work until […] both have become common property of the whole German volk.”31

26 Frank Jacob, “Dietrich Eckart and the Formulation of Hitler’s Antisemitism,” in Intellectual Anti-Semitism, ed. Sarah K. Danielsson and Frank Jacob (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2018), 83–94. 27 Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, 5th ed. (Munich: Franz Eher Nachf. Verlag, 1930), 781.

28 Ian Kershaw, Hitler, vol. 1: 1889–1936 (Munich: DTV, 2002), 201.

29 Dietrich Bronder, Bevor Hitler kam: Eine historische Studie (Hannover: Hans Pfeiffer

Verlag, 1964), 205. 30 Cited in Margarete Plewnia, “Auf schlecht deutsch – Der Kronzeuge der ‘Bewegung’: Dietrich Eckart,” in Propheten des Nationalismus, ed. Karl Schwedhelm (Munich: List Verlag, 1969), 168. 31 Alfred Rosenberg, “Vorwort,” in Dietrich Eckart: Ein Vermächtnis, ed. Alfred Rosenberg (Munich: Franz Eher Nachf., 1928), 7. A Dietrich-Eckart-Society should be established to commemorate the early supporter of National Socialism. “Zur Gründung einer “Dietrich­ Eckart-Gesellschaft”: Begründung ihrer Notwendigkeit und Festlegung ihrer Aufgaben,” BArch, NS 26/1307, 1. The rationale for this society also contains the following charac­ terization of Eckart: “Dietrich Eckart, this lusty-gruff and though in its deepest nature so benevolent, core-German (kerndeutsch) human being, the fearless, often frizzly and defiant foaming revolutionary with an unbounded Germanic temper, the warning with fantasy gifted great poet, singer, and shouter in battle, the relentless fighter, who with the lightening weapons of his mind, the sharpened sword of his monumental language and the unerring spear of his destroying satire, who fought against the spoilers of our nation throughout the darkest years of our shame, and who consumed himself in the fight for the German reincarnation, continues to live in the memory of his friends as the great admon­ isher for consciousness, as the pioneer of the Greater German Reich and last as the hero­ ically inflamed poet, who was kissed by genius, and whom we love thanks to the battle cry of the saving movement, ‘Germany awake!’” Alfred Rosenberg, “Vorwort,” in Dietrich Eckart: Ein Vermächtnis, ed. Alfred Rosenberg (Munich: Franz Eher Nachf., 1928).

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The bohemian Eckart hated Jews pathologically32 and described Judaism as an “anus religion” (Afterreligion).33 One of the comprehensive works detail­ ing Eckart’s anti-semitic worldview is Bolshevism from Moses to Lenin: A Discussion between Adolf Hitler and Myself (Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin: Zwiegespräch zwischen Adolf Hitler und mir)34, a posthumously pub­ lished and supposedly tentative dialogue between Hitler and Eckart in which the two men discuss the menace of a Jewish, especially Judeo–Bolshevist, conspiracy against humanity in general, and Germany in particular. Bolshevism from Moses to Lenin presents a dialogue between a literary I (Eckart) and He (Hitler). The latter argues that historians would ignore the hidden powers that had been determining the course of history for centuries, i.e. the Jews.35 When the I asks whether Jews should be seen as a national or international element, the He answers with the following eval­ uation: “To feel international means to aspire for good for the whole world, as one would demand it for oneself. If the world were like this – gladly … the good intention should count. However, the Jew by his nature does not have a good intention at all.”36 The Jewish conspiracy was supposedly based on the internationalism of the diaspora of Jews, who argued their own identity to be a suppressed one, while in reality they were responsible for the course of history and for sucking economic wealth out of all other nation-states.37 Consequently, so the further argument went that “[t]he Jew would only be embarrassed if he once accidentally spoke the truth,”38 and all revolutionary changes in history had been the work of selfcamouflaged Jews: “Maximilian Harden’s name was Isidor Witkowsky; Karl Marx: Mordechai; Ferdinand Lassalle: Lassal; Trotsky: Bronstein; Bela Kun: Kohn; Sinowjew: Apfelbaum; [and] Lenin.”39 Eckart also lists Kurt Eisner in the row of Jewish–Bolshevist revolutionar­ ies, whose politics he had experienced himself during the revolution in Bavaria. Eckart claims that the Prime Minister also “resisted with hands and feet here in Munich being called Salomon Kosmanowski. But this was his name.”40 Eisner was consequently just another Judeo–Bolshevist who had arrived in the Bavarian capital to spread Russia’s Bolshevist Revolution abroad. The I and He in the work consequently conclude that Bolshevism was just a Jewish strategy to divert attention from the real target of the international Jewry,

32 Margarete Plewnia, Auf dem Weg zu Hitler: Der “völkische” Publizist Dietrich Eckart (Bremen: Schünemann Universitätsverlag, 1970), 67. 33 Dietrich Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin: Zwiegespräch zwischen Adolf Hitler und mir (Munich: Hoheneichen-Verlag, 1924), 24. 34 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin. 35 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin, 5. 36 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin, 10. 37 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin, 10–11. 38 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin 17. 39 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin, 26. 40 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin.

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114 Frank Jacob namely controlling the world totally uncontested. Judeo–Bolshevism was therefore one aspect of a twofold strategy of suppression. While the revolu­ tion and its corruption by “Russia’s bloodstained Jewish dictatorship”41 were supposed to provoke chaos, the financial Jewry would then be able to exploit this chaos to get even richer and more powerful. Later in the text, other con­ spiracy theories would be cited and put in relation to the Jewish conspir­ acy, namely the Jewish control of Freemasonry.42 Regardless of the fact that the Protocols of the Elders of Zion43 are not directly quoted by Eckart, the influence of this other major work on the Jewish world conspiracy is clearly visible. However, the experience of the German Revolution, which Eckart and Hitler both experienced, serves as a clear historical focus point for the Judeo–Bolshevist argument. Historical conflicts, especially revolutionary conflicts that caused civil wars in due course, had only served the Jews, who, among others, only used Social Democrats, communists, and Bolshevists as soldiers in numerous conflicts whose sole purpose was to let the world bleed out.44 In addition, newspapers would be abused to silence anti-Jewish criti­ cism, and “[t]he Jew can do whatever he wants; it is their gospel. Checking its accuracy – no way. As long as it is published,”45 the mass of the common people will believe it. Eckart also hated to see workers being corrupted by their Jewish union leaders and other revolutionaries, and every time he saw “a stinky Jew acting like comrades with a worker,”46 it made him sick. Men like Eisner only acted as leading “pimps” of the working class, abusing them for their own gain as their false songs of social change would turn the work­ ers into brainless followers of the world revolution.47 That such accusations were true could have supposedly also been proven by a look at Russia, where the revolution and its ideals were even­ tually corrupted by Lenin, who would exploit the working class while ruling the country in the name of a so-called revolutionary avant-garde. The end of Eckart’s text, which was not finished and published only post­ humously, predicts the necessity for a fight against this Jewish menace: “If there is no resistance against the Jew, he will destroy [humanity].”48 It is important to emphasize that similar ideas were particularly promi­ nent with regard to later products of National Socialist propaganda, and it seems likely that Hitler received some impetus from his talks with Eckart. While Bolshevism from Moses to Lenin describes an actual dialogue that only implies authenticity and did not happen exactly that way, it can be 41 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin, 36.

42 Eckart, Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin.

43 Sammons Jeffrey L., Die Protokolle der Weisen von Zion: Die Grundlage des modernen

Antisemitismus – eine Fälschung (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2001). 44 Eckart, Bolshevism, 39–40. 45 Eckart, Bolshevism, 40. 46 Eckart, Bolshevism, 42. 47 Eckart, Bolshevism, 43. 48 Eckart, Bolshevism, 49.

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assumed that similar talks between the two men took place, which is why the value of the work as a source for Hitler’s anti-semitic world view should not be underemphasized.49 The interrelation between revolution and Jewishness is also highlighted in Hitler’s Mein Kampf, where Hitler argues that the Bavarian Revolution in 1918 had been controlled by the “international Jew,” i.e. Kurt Eisner, who acted as “instructed representative of Jewry.”50 Eisner was sent from abroad, mean­ ing Eastern Europe, where he was instructed to prepare Germany’s decline. Such claims were based on the idea that in the aftermath of Russia’s “Red October,” countless masses of Jewish revolutions were sent abroad to prepare the ground for Bolshevism. The narrative of Judeo–Bolshevism was conse­ quently based on the perception of the German Revolution as a foreign and un-German development, driven by Jewish revolutionaries like Luxemburg or Eisner. That these revolutionaries were Germans and did not consider themselves as Jewish—in the sense that they did not practice Jewish religion or feel themselves to be particularly Jewish—did not play a role in the narra­ tive. Even the Berlin-born Eisner was depicted as a Jew from Galicia, who had seen his chance in Bavaria due to the First World War and the war-weariness of many people on the home front. Yet the menace of the revolution’s spread could successfully be countered by Freikorps, paramilitary organizations that had been established all over Germany to support the government,51 when they suppressed the Spartacist uprising and killed leading revolutionaries in Berlin52 or freed Munich again on 1 May 1919, leading to violent clashes with workers and an uncontrolled eruption of violence in the Bavarian capital.53 National Socialist propaganda was not alone in describing Eisner as a for­ eign revolutionary during the years of the Weimar Republic,54 but the element was used in the reinterpretation of the German Revolution and its main char­ acters into an act of crime and criminals, respectively. The Judeo–Bolshevist conspiracy was a criminal act against the German people. In such a reinter­ pretation of recent German history, as Eisner had definitely not been a radical

49 German historian Ernst Nolte analysed the source in the early 1960s and drew similar conclusions. Ernst Nolte, “Eine frühe Quelle zu Hitlers Antisemitismus,” Historische Zeitschrift 192 (1961): 584–606. 50 Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, trans. and comm. James Murphy (London/New York: Hurst and Blackett, 1939), 307. 51 See an announcement for the establishment of Freikorps in Generalkommando II b.A.K. an die Regierung von Unter und Oberfranken, Betr. Freikorps, Würzburg April 20, 1919, City Archive Schweinfurt (Stadtarchiv Schweinfurt, StdArch SW), HR-VR III, II-F-1-47. 52 Axel Weipert, Das Rote Berli: Eine Geschichte der Berliner Arbeiterbewegung 1830-1934 (Berlin: Berliner Wisseschafts-Verlag, 2013), 138–162. 53 One of the contemporary sources related to the events in Munich is Josef Karl, Die Schreckensherrschaft in München und Spartakus im bayr. Oberland: Tagebuchblätter und Ereignisse aus der Zeit der “ bayr. Räterepublik” und der Münchner Kommune im Frühjahr 1919 (Munich: Hochschulverlag, 1919). 54 See, exemplarily, Frankfurter Zeitung, November 6, 1928.

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116 Frank Jacob politician,55 the role of the Bavarian Prime Minister was continuously high­ lighted as one of the leading radical and criminal elements. Wilhelm Weiß (1892–1950), in an article for the Völkische Beobachter commenting on the revolutionary events of 1918 a decade later, even used the term “Eisner-coup” (“Eisner-Putsch”) to refer to a revolution that had been stirred up by “a Jew that came from the east” and a “Jewish usurper.”56 According to the author, Eisner should not have been let out of prison57 because the former convict just used his freedom to pour further fuel onto the revolutionary process.58 Like many others, Eisner was also shown in a special issue of the Illustrierter Beobachter, which in 1927 presented the revolution of 1918 as both a particular “Jewish Revolution” (“Judenrevolution”) and as a “Stock Market Revolution” (“Börsenrevolution”).59 An image of Eisner was shown in the special issue as well, again referring to his supposedly Eastern European Jewish identity construc­ tion. The image is captioned “Kusmanovski, called Eisner” (“Kusmanowski, genannt Eisner,”), which is a vivid example of the semiotic construction of Judeo–Bolshevism because a well-known revolutionary figure is combined with a supposedly existent Eastern European Jewish identity.60 It was, however, not only Eisner who was shown in a negative light. The revolution and its consequence, i.e. the founding of the Weimar Republic, were also presented as evil: The aim of the revolution was the destruction of Germany’s military and political power, to deliver the defenseless volk to its unhindered exploitation. Therefore the mass of German workers had to get into the hands of leaders, whose racial comrades on the other side would be the great winners of the deceit. Therefore the revolution could not achieve the liberation of the working people from the claws of capi­ talism, but a fortiori the enslavement and suppression by the united exploiters and slaveholders of the earth.61 The vicious society of the Weimar Republic was a direct consequence of the revolution, and the German people, only defended by National Socialism, 55 On Eisner’s political views see: Frank Jacob, “Marx und/oder Bakunin? Kurt Eisner (1867–1919) und der Anarchismus,” JUNI 57 (2020) (in press). 56 Wilhelm Weiß, “Der Eisner-Putsch: Zur Erinnerung an den 7./8. November 1918,” Völkischer Beobachter November 8, 1928, 1, cited in: BA-SAPMO, NY 4060/152-2, 217. 57 Eisner was arrested after he had led a strike in January 1918 and released just a few days before the revolution in Bavaria began on 7 November. On his time in jail, where he kept writing about different aspects, including about his opinions on German Social Democracy, see Kurt Eisner, Gefängnistagebuch, ed. Frank Jacob et al. (Berlin: Metropol, 2016). 58 Weiß, “Der Eisner-Putsch.”

59 “Die Börsenrevolution des Jahres 1918,” Illustrierter Beobachter, October 20, 1927,

SAPMO-BArch, NY 4060/152-2. 60 Ibid., 275. 61 Ibid.

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were currently, according to the narrative of Nazi propaganda, suffering from the consequences of this revolution on all levels of society and culture. “Perversions,” like the “masculinization of the woman,” were criticized as much as the post-revolutionary rise of “anus art” or the “Bolshevization of all terms.”62 The revolution had consequently, from the Nazis’ perspective, led to a sociocultural decline of society as a whole, and almost nothing of Germany’s splendid past had survived: Mirrored in art, literature, cinema, and the fashion magazine appears the colorful prism of life in our days, excused, idealized, balanced, recom­ mended for imitation, freed from conscience, relaxed, unloaded, degen­ erated, in the intoxication of unleashing, in the nihilism of instincts. The final product of this process of decomposition, however, is the rootless, homeless, restless civilizational cripple and the asphalt proletarian, vac­ illating between nerve-wracking work and nerve-whipping enjoyment.63 It must have supposedly been clear to those who still doubted it—when con­ fronted with the National Socialist narrative as presented in this special issue of the Illustrierter Beobachter, which perfectly used images and text to provide a semiotic construction of Judeo–Bolshevism—that the German Revolution was the work of Jews and that the existence of the Weimar Republic since 1919 had been bad for Germany. According to the National Socialists, the moral and cultural decline of the nation-state was fully underway, and thus the semiotic and in a way steady but subconscious message was that the only way to protect one’s fatherland was to fight against Jews and the politics they presented, i.e. Bolshevism. Judeo–Bolshevism had consequently been identified as a natural enemy of National Socialism and the fight against it became an essential semiotic element of National Socialist propaganda in the years until the end of the Second World War. One who also used this element in his speeches and his other coordinated propaganda efforts was Joseph Goebbels, whose role in the promotion of the Judeo–Bolshevist nar­ rative and semiotics shall now be taken into closer consideration.

Judeo–Bolshevism and Joseph Goebbels’s propaganda machinery When Goebbels began to put together his propaganda strategy seriously, he did not have to look far for suitable semiotics or narratives as they had already existed for as long as the Weimar Republic itself, and since the

62 “Was die Revolution verbrochen und gebracht hat,” in: “Die Börsenrevolution des Jahres 1918,” Illustrierter Beobachter, October 20, 1927, SAPMO-BArch, NY 4060/152-2, 280-281. 63 Dr. B., “Zersetzungssystem der Revolution,” in: “Die Börsenrevolution des Jahres 1918,” Illustrierter Beobachter, October 20, 1927, SAPMO-BArch, NY 4060/152-2, 287.

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118 Frank Jacob Soviet Union would be Nazi Germany’s long-term enemy and targeted region for expansion, Judeo–Bolshevism with its anti-Soviet element seemed more than suitable for the purpose. American historian Elisabeth Hope Murray therefore correctly highlighted that “we see Nazi elites serving as instruments for ideology as agency, moving within a structure partly of their own making, partly inherited from ideologies of previous regimes.”64 Many elements used in Nazi propaganda had existed simul­ taneously before, and “much anti-Semitic discourse remained the same. Jews continued to be linked to Marxism and portrayed as rich money wasters seeking to disrupt the struggling German economy.”65 Yet at the same time, the brilliance of National Socialist propaganda was in con­ necting a wide hatred of Jews with an actual historical experience, i.e. the Revolution of 1918/19, and a future enemy that would be feared due to the possibility for it to revive this historical experience through a world­ wide revolution in the case that the National Socialist movement under the guidance of its Führer, Adolf Hitler, was not able to contain and even­ tually destroy this particular threat. Goebbels, as the “party’s intellectu­ al,”66 would act as Minister of Propaganda between 1933 and 1945 and was even after 1945 considered not only as a kind of “demon”67 but also as one of the masterminds behind the success of National Socialism, a view Goebbels himself had tried to highlight in his extensive diary notes as well.68 The Propaganda Minister himself had not been an anti-semite in 1919 and was rather disgusted by its extreme forms.69 Like many others, espe­ cially young and well-educated men without a perspective in the Weimar Republic, Goebbels eventually joined the National Socialist movement and tied his own fate to that of Adolf Hitler,70 although he did not have the best opinion about the man he would later love so much when he 64 Elisabeth Hope Murray, Disrupting Pathways to Genocide: The Process of Ideological Radicalization (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 9. 65 Elisabeth Hope Murray, Disrupting Pathways to Genocide: The Process of Ideological Radicalization (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 100. 66 Joachim Fest, “Joseph Goebbels: Eine Porträtskizze,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 43, no. 4 (1995): 565. 67 Werner Stephan, Joseph Goebbels: Dämon einer Diktatur (Stuttgart: Union Deutsche Verlagsgesellschaft, 1949). 68 Nicolas Patin, “Le Journal de Joseph Goebbels: Un parcours critique,” Vingtième Siècle: Revue d’Histoire 104, no. 4 (2009): 81–82. Goebbels was somebody who needed admira­ tion and was in a way addicted to it as well. Peter Longerich, Joseph Goebbels: Biographie (Munich: Pantheon, 2012), 15. On the diaries and their history, see Angela Hermann, Der Weg in den Krieg 1938/39: Quellenkritische Studien zu den Tagebüchern Joseph Goebbels (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2011), 2–5. 69 Joseph Goebbels to Anka Stalherm, February 17, 1919, Bundesarchiv (BArch) Koblenz, NL 118/126, cited in: Ralf Georg Reuth, “Einführung,” in Joseph Goebbels, Tagebücher 1924–1945, vol. 1, ed. Ralf Georg Reuth, 4th ed. (Munich/Zurich: Piper, 2008), 28. 70 Fest, “Joseph Goebbels,” 568.

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listened to one of the Führer’s lectures about Bolshevism on 15 February 1926.71 Goebbels had considered Marxism a Jewish creation since 1924 and, like the stock market, it belonged to the same Jewish conspiracy, but initially the later Propaganda Minister considered Bolshevism a form of national communism, something he considered to be different. Goebbels would also refer to himself as a “German Communist.”72 Under Hitler’s influence, the young intellectual would, however, change his mind and, due to his ambitions and addiction to the Führer’s praise, become one of the most prominent and fierce advocates of the Judeo–Bolshevist narra­ tive. Hitler appreciated this ambition and sent Goebbels “to Berlin in 1926 to take charge of an ineffective party organization in Germany’s capital,” where the latter “set to work, speaking widely and establishing a weekly newspaper titled Der Angriff [The Attack] [and] quickly made the Nazis visible in Berlin.”73 Three weeks before the Reichstag Elections in 1932, Goebbels gave a speech about the “Coming Storm”74 in which he reflected on the German situation since 1918, highlighting the negative impact the revolution and the Weimar Republic had caused for the nation and its territorial integrity: The men of November [1918] took power by lying to the people, by telling them they had won. They promised you, workers, citizens, and creative Germans, a Reich of freedom and beauty and dignity. They promised you socialism, they promised a people’s state, they prom­ ised the broad masses the fulfillment of their dreams—peace, work, and prosperity. We have lived this lie for fourteen years. For fourteen years we have worshipped this governmental structure; we have lived in want, suffered, sacrificed, starved, sometimes wept. And now we see the worst results of these fourteen years: the German economy is in ruins, there are huge budget deficits, the nation’s whole fortune is squandered, people are robbed of their inheritance, people are des­ perate and without hope, the streets of our big cities are filled with an army of millions of unemployed, the middle class is vanishing, the farmers driven from their land. To our shame and disgrace, large areas of German territory have been lost. Our territory is divided by the

71 Joseph Goebbels, Tagebücher 1924–1945, vol. 1, ed. Ralf Georg Reuth, 4th ed. (Munich/ Zurich: Piper, 2008), 228. 72 Reuth, “Einführung,” 30–31. 73 Joseph Goebbels, “The Storm is Coming, 9 July 1932,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 32. 74 Joseph Goebbels, “The Storm is Coming, 9 July 1932,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 32–29.

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Frank Jacob bleeding wound of the Polish Corridor, and Germany is drained by stupid and unnatural tribute payments.75

With such explanations, Goebbels followed the course of anti-revolutionary and antirepublican arguments since 1918 and could refer to a semiotic sys­ tem that had already been established and which those who listened to his speech could refer to. Counteracting the political elites of the Weimar Republic and its political left in particular, Goebbels described the changes a National Socialist victory would mean for Germany: “The good old days of party bigwigs are over. A new Germany is coming, a Germany raised on the Spartan laws of Prussian duty. It is a Germany not grown fat, but one that is starving! It is a Germany with strength, with will, with idealism! It is a Germany that is done with Marxist betrayal and bourgeois white gloves.”76 Once in power, Goebbels would continue to aggressively attack Judeo– Bolshevism, especially during the party rallies in Nuremberg in 1934 and 1935. When he talked about “Propaganda and Public Enlightenment”77 on 6 September 1934, Goebbels highlighted that Marxism was not really a power­ ful element in history, but that its propaganda was a powerful force: “Marxism certainly did not fight for great ideals. Despite that, in November 1918 it over­ came Kaiser, Reich, and the army because it was superior in the art of mass propaganda.”78 This is why only the efforts of the National Socialist movement and its propaganda, which countered the Marxist narrative and the influence of the Jewish press, could have saved the German nation and its people: Marxism could not be eliminated by a government decision. Its elimina­ tion was the end result of a process that began with the people. But that was only possible because our propaganda had shown the people that Marxism was a danger to both the state and society. The positive national discipline of the German press would never have been possible without the complete elimination of the influence of the liberal-Jewish press. That happened only because of the years-long work of our propaganda.79

75 Joseph Goebbels, “The Storm is Coming, 9 July 1932,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 34. 76 Joseph Goebbels, “The Storm is Coming, 9 July 1932,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 37. 77 Joseph Goebbels, “Propaganda and Public Enlightenment as Prerequisites for Practical Work in Many Areas, 6 September 1934,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 40–51. 78 Joseph Goebbels, “Propaganda and Public Enlightenment as Prerequisites for Practical Work in Many Areas, 6 September 1934,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 46. 79 Joseph Goebbels, “Propaganda and Public Enlightenment as Prerequisites for Practical Work in Many Areas, 6 September 1934,” in Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, ed. Randall L. Bytwerk (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008), 49.

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A year later, at the Party Rally in September 1935, Goebbels attacked Judeo–Bolshevism more fiercely, as the leitmotif of the event had to focus on “Anticomintern” semiotics,80 and the Propaganda Minister therefore high­ lighted the “fight against the international Bolshevization of the world”81 as the main mission of National Socialism. All speeches, including one by Alfred Rosenberg (1893–1946),82 were anti-Bolshevist and anti-Jewish, which gave the meeting a special consistency.83 Rosenberg had already pointed out the Jewishness of Marxism and the intents of its “inventor” when he said that: Karl Marx is neither a German nor an assimilated Englishman but rather the rabbinical descendant of an alien Jew who, without a shred of understanding of the truly formative forces at work amongst European peoples facing the dire social crisis brought about by the advent of the Machine Age with the profoundest instinctive sense of urgency, did not conceive of a system of recovery and reconstruction, but who instead erected a social and ideological dogmatic construct designed to immor­ talize the fissures that have begun tearing at the social fabric and to posit this social fragmentation as indispensable and ineluctable.84 Rosenberg continued to emphasize the narrative of a Jewish-Marxist con­ spiracy against humanity, stating that Marx, “along with his followers, an international swarm of Jewish orators and literati from the cosmopolitan centers of increasingly racially degenerate cities, got together to formulate a set of social tenets for the despairing victims of an age who are so estranged from land and landscape as to have been stripped of the standards for judg­ ing this disastrous doctrine of doom.”85 A day later, on 13 September 1935, Goebbels delivered his speech “Communism with the Mask Off,”86 which, according to the Propaganda Minister himself, was well perceived by Hitler and the world press alike.87 In the speech, Judeo–Bolshevism was clearly identified as a menace for the world in general and the German nation in particular, as “the Bolsheviks 80 Longerich, Joseph Goebbels, 305.

81 Diary of Joseph Goebbels, Entry for September 15, 1934, cited in ibid., 306.

82 Alfred Rosenberg, “Bolshevism: The Work of an Alien Race,” in The Third Reich

Sourcebook, ed. Anson Rabinbach and Sander L. Gilman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 199–200. 83 Joseph Goebbels, Tagebücher 1924-1945, vol. 3, ed. Ralf Georg Reuth, 4th ed. (Munich/ Zurich: Piper, 2008), 886. 84 Rosenberg, “Bolshevism,” 199. 85 Rosenberg, “Bolshevism,” 200. 86 Joseph Goebbels, “Communism with the Mask Off (1935),” in The Third Reich Sourcebook, ed. Anson Rabinbach and Sander L. Gilman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 126–134. 87 Goebbels, Tagebücher 1924-1945, vol. 3, 886–887.

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122 Frank Jacob carry on a campaign, directed by the Jews, with the international under­ world, against culture as such. Bolshevism is not merely anti-bourgeois; it is against human civilization itself.”88 Consequently, Goebbels continues, the victory of Bolshevism would lead civilization into the abyss: In its final consequences it signifies the destruction of all the commer­ cial, social, political and cultural achievements of Western Europe, in favor of a deracinated and nomadic international cabal that has found its representation in Judaism. This grandiose attempt to overthrow the civilized world is so much more dangerous in its effects because the Communist International, which is a past master in the art of misrepresentation, has been able to find its protectors and pioneers among a great part of these intellectual circles in Europe whose phys­ ical and spiritual destruction must be the first result of a Bolshevik world revolution.89 While the world and especially the working class had been blinded by the idea of communism, according to the Propaganda Minister, only the National Socialist movement had realized the Judeo–Bolshevist menace and was willing to fight against it. Swept clear of internal enemies and united under the National Socialist standard, Germany placed herself at the head of the groups marshaled in the fight against the international bolshevization of the world. Herein she is quite aware that she is fulfilling a world mission that reaches out beyond all national frontiers. The fate of our civilized nations depends on the successful issue of this mission. As National Socialists, we have seen Bolshevism through and through. We recognize it beneath all its masks and camouflages. It stands before us, derobed of its trappings, bare and naked in its whole miserable imposture. We know what its teachings are, but we know also what it is in practice.90 Only if the German people were able to establish a united front under National Socialist leadership, they would be able to fight back against this Jewish menace from Eastern Europe. Goebbels would continue to highlight the menace of Judeo–Bolshevism in the following years, with a break between 1939 and 1941, when the pragmatism of the Hitler–Stalin Pact prevented an aggressive anti-Soviet, i.e. anti-Bolshevist, course of Nazi propaganda.91 In addition to these speeches, exhibitions were also 88 89 90 91

Goebbels, “Communism with the Mask Off (1935),” 128.

Goebbels, “Communism with the Mask Off (1935)”.

Goebbels, “Communism with the Mask Off (1935),” 129.

See, exemplarily, Joseph Goebbels, Der Bolschewismus in Theorie und Praxis: Rede auf

dem Parteikongreß in Nürnberg 1936 (Berlin: M. Müller & Sohn K. G., 1936).

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used to display Judeo–Bolshevist semiotics widely. After the Party Rally in 1936, a traveliing exhibition on “World Enemy No. 1: Bolshevism” (Weltfeind Nr. 1: Der Bolschwismus) was shown in 24 German cities,92 before the “Great Anti-Bolshevik Exhibit” (Große Antibolschewisitische Ausstellung) was shown in Nuremberg in December the following year. In the introduction to the latter’s exhibition pamphlet, Goebbels again highlighted the connection between Bolshevism and the Jews as the con­ spirators responsible for the menace that Judeo–Bolshevism presented for European civilization: Europe should see and recognize the danger of Bolshevism. We will never tire of pointing it out. Without fear, we want to point the finger at the Jew, the instigator, the cause, and the beneficiary of this terrible catastrophe: “See, there is the enemy of the world, the destroyer of cul­ tures, the parasite among the peoples, the son of chaos, the incarnation of evil, the ferment of decomposition, the plastic demon of the collapse of humanity.”93 Further proof of the intentional semiotic construction of Judeo– Bolshevism could be provided here with countless examples from different media, e.g. the propaganda film The Eternal Jew (1940), especially after 1941, when the war against the Soviet Union revitalized these semiot­ ics in an even more intensified form.94 During the Second World War in general, and the destruction of the European Jews by the Nazi regime in particular, the Judeo–Bolshevist semiotics were stressed again and again to emphasize that the essential struggle National Socialism had to wage against this menace. The Judeo–Bolshevist semiotics must consequently be considered an important tool that Goebbels and his propaganda could refer to in order to mobilize anti-semitic and anti-Bolshevist forces and sentiments among the German population. Considering the destruction Nazi Germany caused during its war of annihilation against the Soviet Union and the European Jews, the danger of such a semiotic system can unquestionably be proven.

92 Patick Rössler, “Bilder im Machtkampf der Systeme: USSR im Bau vs. Freude und Arbieit,” in Bilder – Kulturen – Identitäten: Analysen zu einem Spannungsfeld Visueller Kommunikationsforschung, ed. Stephanie Geise and Katharina Lobinger (Cologne: Herbert von Halem Verlag, 2012), 72. 93 Joseph Goebbels, “Bolshevism without its Mask,” in The Great Anti-Bolshevist Exhibition (1937), accessed March 10, 2020, https://research.calvin.edu/german-propaganda-archive/ anti-bolshevism.htm. 94 A detailed and excellent study of propaganda images and their semiotics in Germany and the Soviet Union has just recently been published: Karl Konrad Tschäpe, Verstrickte Bilder: Deutsche und sowjetische Propagandabilder als Komplizen von Krieg und Gewalt 1941-1945 (Berlin: Metropol, 2020).

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124 Frank Jacob

Conclusion The present chapter has shown how Judeo–Bolshevism developed after the German Revolution and how National Socialist propaganda only needed to combine already existent anger and fear. The negative feelings with regard to the end of the First World War, Germany’s new republican order, and its representatives, especially the revolutionaries who established it in the first place, in combination with anti-semitism provided a powerful semiotic system that could be used to fight the existence of the Weimar Republic, as well as the Soviet Union itself in later years. Goebbels only needed to combine these elements to establish a semiotic system people would eas­ ily understand. While revolutionaries like Kurt Eisner were presented as Jewish revolutionaries from Eastern Europe, Bolshevism itself was depicted as a menace of Jewish origin and a part of the overall Jewish world conspir­ acy. Images and textual semantics, as has been shown in some detail, were repeatedly combined to intensify a negative perception of the revolution and the new republican order of the Weimar years. All in all, National Socialist propaganda could successfully use the described semiotics, as their basic elements had already been well estab­ lished since the early 1920s. Their steady repetition also made it easy to prepare the eventual ostracization of Jewish Germans from within the nation’s society as well as the war against the Soviet Union, i.e. against an exterior enemy that could be tied so well to the overall narrative of a Judeo–Bolshevist menace. That the semiotic system was strong can easily be proven, as Goebbels was able to pause it between 1939 and 1941 and just as easily reactivate it once the war against the Soviet Union was back on the National Socialist agenda. Conspiracy theories are regularly linked to specific semiotic systems, and the view on Judeo–Bolshevism as a semiotic construction of the 1920s and 1930s should also warn us with regard to cur­ rent conspiracy theories, whose semiotics need to be carefully understood, addressed, and dismantled as well.

Works cited Behrends, Jan C., Nikolaus Katzer and Thomas Lindenberger, eds. 100 Jahre Roter

Oktober: Zur Weltgeschichte der Russischen Revolution. Berlin: Ch. Links, 2017.

Börner, Markus, Anja Jungfer and Jakob Stürmann, eds. “Judentum und

Arbeiterbewegung: Das Ringen um Emanzipation in der ersten Hälfte des 20.” In Jahrhunderts. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018. Braune, Andreas, Mario Hesselbarth and Stefan Müller, eds. “Die USPD zwis­ chen Sozialdemokratie und Kommunismus 1917-1922 Neue Wege zu Frieden.” In Demokratie und Sozialismus? Stuttgart: Steiner, 2018 Brenner, Michael. Der lange Schatten der Revolution – Juden und Antisemiten in Hitlers München 1918 bis 1923. Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2019. Bronder, Dietrich. Bevor Hitler kam: Eine historische Studie. Hannover: Hans Pfeiffer Verlag, 1964.

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Eckart, Dietrich. Der Bolschewismus von Moses bis Lenin: Zwiegespräch zwischen Adolf Hitler und mir. Munich: Hoheneichen-Verlag, 1924. Eisner, Kurt. “Aufruf aus der Nacht zum 8. Nov. 1918.” In Kurt Eisner, Die neue Zeit, 5-7. Munich: G. Müller, 1919. Eisner, Kurt. Gefängnistagebuch, edited by Frank Jacob et al. Berlin: Metropol, 2016. Fechenbach, Felix. Kurt Eisner: Ein Lebensbild. Berlin: Arbeiterbildung, 1929. Fest, Joachim. “Joseph Goebbels: Eine Porträtskizze.” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 43, no. 4 (1995): 565–580. Frankel, Jonathan. Crisis, Revolution, and Russian Jews. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Goebbels, Joseph. Der Bolschewismus in Theorie und Praxis: Rede auf dem Parteikongreß in Nürnberg 1936. Berlin: M. Müller & Sohn K. G., 1936. Goebbels, Joseph. “Bolshevism without Its Mask.” In The Great Anti-Bolshevist Exhibition. 1937. Accessed March 10, 2020. https://research.calvin.edu/ german-propaganda-archive/anti-bolshevism.htm. Goebbels, Joseph. Tagebücher 1924-1945, vol. 1. 4th ed. Edited by Ralf Georg Reuth. Munich/Zurich: Piper, 2008. Goebbels, Joseph. Tagebücher 1924-1945, vol. 3. 4th ed. Edited by Ralf Georg Reuth. Munich/Zurich: Piper, 2008. Goebbels, Joseph. “The Storm is Coming, 9 July 1932.” In Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, edited by Randall L. Bytwerk, 32–39. College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008. Goebbels, Joseph. “Propaganda and Public Enlightenment as Prerequisites for Practical Work in Many Areas, 6 September 1934.” In Landmark Speeches of National Socialism, edited by Randall L. Bytwerk, 40–51. College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 2008. Goebbels, Joseph. “Communism with the Mask Off. 1935.” In The Third Reich Sourcebook, edited by Anson Rabinbach and Sander L. Gilman, 126–134. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013. Grau, Bernhard. Kurt Eisner, 1867-1919: Eine Biografie. Munich: C.H. Beck, 2001 Gurganus, Albert Earle. Kurt Eisner: A Modern Life. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2018. Hanebrink, Paul. A Specter Haunting Europe: The Myth of Judeo–Bolshevism. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2018. Hermann, Angela. Der Weg in den Krieg 1938/39: Quellenkritische Studien zu den Tagebüchern Joseph Goebbels. Munich: Oldenbourg, 2011. Hitler, Adolf. Mein Kampf, 5th ed. Munich: Franz Eher Nachf. Verlag, 1930. Hitler, Adolf. Mein Kampf, translated and commented by James Murphy. London/ New York: Hurst and Blackett, 1939. Hitzer, Friedrich. Anton Graf Arco: Das Attentat auf Kurt Eisner und die Schüsse im Landtag. Munich: Knesebeck & Schuler, 1988. Jacob, Frank. “Dietrich Eckart and the Formulation of Hitler’s Antisemitism.” In Intellectual Anti-Semitism, edited by Sarah K. Danielsson and Frank Jacob, 83–94. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2018. Jacob, Frank. “Der Kultursozialismus Kurt Eisners. 1867‒1919: das ‘ArbeiterFeuilleton’ und die Aufklärung der deutschen Arbeiterschaft.” Arbeit – Bewegung – Geschichte 18, no. 1 (2019): 9–25.

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Jacob, Frank. “Radical Trinity. Anarchist, Jew, or New Yorker?.” In Jewish Radicalisms: Historical Perspectives on a Phenomenon of Global Modernity, edited by Frank Jacob and Sebastian Kunze, 153–180. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2019. Jacob, Frank. Revolution und Räterepublik in Unterfranken: Eine landesgeschichtli­ che Untersuchung zu Verlauf und Folgen der Revolution von 1918/19 an der bayer­ ischen Peripherie. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2019. Jacob, Frank. 1917: Die korrumpierte Revolution. Darmstadt: Büchner, 2020. Jacob, Frank. “Marx und/oder Bakunin? Kurt Eisner. 1867–1919 und der Anarchismus.” JUNI 57 (2020): 95–100. Jacob, Frank, and Riccardo Altieri, eds. Die Wahrnehmung der Russischen Revolutionen 1917 – Zwischen utopischen Träumen und erschütterter Ablehnung. Berlin: Metropol, 2020. Jacob, Frank and Cornelia Baddack, eds. 100 Schmäh- und Drohbriefe an Kurt Eisner. Berlin: Metropol, 2019. Jacobs, Jack, ed. Jewish Politics in Eastern Europe: The Bund at 100. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001. Karl, Josef. “Die Schreckensherrschaft in München und Spartakus im bayr.” In Oberland: Tagebuchblätter und Ereignisse aus der Zeit der “ bayr. Räterepublik” und der Münchner Kommune im Frühjahr 1919. Munich: Hochschulverlag, 1919. Kautsky, Karl. “Eine Nachlese zum Vorwärtskonflikt.” Neue Zeit: Wochenschrift der deutschen Sozialdemokratie 1, no. 10 (1906): 313–326. Kershaw, Ian. Hitler, vol. 1: 1889–1936. Munich: DTV, 2002. Kunze, Sebastian and Frank Jacob. “Introduction. Thoughts on Jewish Radicalism as a Phenomenon of Global Modernity.” In Jewish Radicalisms: Historical Perspectives on a Phenomenon of Global Modernity, edited by Frank Jacob and Sebastian Kunze, 1–20. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2019. Longerich, Peter. Joseph Goebbels: Biographie. Munich: Pantheon, 2012. Mendelsohn, Ezra, ed. Essential Papers on Jews and the Left. New York: New York University Press, 1997. Murray, Elisabeth Hope. Disrupting Pathways to Genocide: The Process of Ideological Radicalization. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Nolte, Ernst. “Eine frühe Quelle zu Hitlers Antisemitismus.” Historische Zeitschrift 192 (1961): 584–606. Patin, Nicolas. “Le Journal de Joseph Goebbels: Un parcours critique.” Vingtième Siècle: Revue d’Histoire 104, no. 4 (2009): 81–93. Plewnia, Margarete. “Auf schlecht deutsch – Der Kronzeuge der ‘Bewegung’: Dietrich Eckart.” In Propheten des Nationalismus, edited by Karl Schwedhelm. Munich: List Verlag, 1969. Plewnia, Margarete. Auf dem Weg zu Hitler: Der “völkische” Publizist Dietrich Eckart. Bremen: Schünemann Universitätsverlag, 1970. Reuth, Ralf Georg. “Einführung.” In Joseph Goebbels, Tagebücher 1924–1945, vol. 1. 4th ed. Edited by Ralf Georg Reuth, 1–46. Munich/Zurich: Piper, 2008. Rosenberg, Alfred. “Vorwort.” In Dietrich Eckart: Ein Vermächtnis, edited by Alfred Rosenberg. Munich: Franz Eher Nachf., 1928. Rosenberg, Alfred. “Bolshevism: The Work of an Alien Race.” In The Third Reich Sourcebook, edited by Anson Rabinbach and Sander L. Gilman, 199–200. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013.

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Rössler, Patick. “Bilder im Machtkampf der Systeme: USSR im Bau vs. Freude und Arbieit.” In Bilder – Kulturen – Identitäten: Analysen zu einem Spannungsfeld Visueller Kommunikationsforschung, edited by Stephanie Geise and Katharina Lobinger, 50–77. Cologne: Herbert von Halem Verlag, 2012. Sammons, Jeffrey L. Die Protokolle der Weisen von Zion: Die Grundlage des moder­ nen Antisemitismus – eine Fälschung. Göttingen: Wallstein, 2001. Schöler, Uli, and Thilo Scholle, eds. Weltkrieg, Spaltung, Revolution: Sozialdemokratie, 1916–1922. Bonn: Dietz, 2018. Stephan, Werner. Joseph Goebbels: Dämon einer Diktatur. Stuttgart: Union Deutsche Verlagsgesellschaft, 1949. Tschäpe, Karl Konrad. Verstrickte Bilder: Deutsche und sowjetische Propagandabilder als Komplizen von Krieg und Gewalt 1941–1945. Berlin: Metropol, 2020. Ullman, Richard H. Anglo-Soviet Relations, 1917–1921, 3 vols. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2019 [1961–1972]. Weipert, Axel. Das Rote Berli: Eine Geschichte der Berliner Arbeiterbewegung 1830–1934. Berlin: Berliner Wisseschafts-Verlag, 2013.

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The semiotics of British print propaganda in Spain during the Second World War Marta García Cabrera1

Introduction The Second World War was a total war in which belligerents, citizens, and neutrals participated either directly or indirectly. The conflict was also fought in neutral countries through diplomatic activities carried out by secret services and, notably, through the persuasion of a propaganda struggle. Although Spain was declared neutral in September 1939, Franco’s government was oriented toward the Axis powers. Thus, the Spanish gov­ ernment negotiated its participation in the war and showed great bellicos­ ity, especially from August 1940 to the middle of 1941. Spain was central to important lines of communication and commerce, while it also included crucial areas within its geography such as the Canary Islands and the British naval base of Gibraltar. Consequently, the strategic location of Spain meant that its attitude toward the war was essential for Britain to succeed in the war; therefore, British propaganda in the country was designed to win the hearts and minds of the Spanish population in the fight against fascism and Nazi Germany after the outbreak of war. British propaganda was carried out by the Ministry of Information (MoI) in London and was organized through the Press Attaché depart­ ments established in Madrid and Barcelona, as well as the British consu­ lates. Propaganda was disseminated through a variety of channels: private and diplomatic cinemas, clandestine press, photography, posters, reli­ gious publications, broadcasting, and rumors. However, the MoI empha­ sized the distribution of printed publications from diplomatic periodicals, pamphlets, mini-booklets, booklets and magazines to posters, postcards and leaflets. Consequently, this work will attempt to trace the correla­ tion between war, semiotics, and foreign policy through an analysis of the themes and contents of the British publications designed for dissemination 1 The present work was co-financed by the Canarian Agency for Research, Innovation and Information Society (ACIISI) of the Regional Ministry of Economy, Industry, Trade and Knowledge and by the European Social Fund’s (ESF) Programa Operativo Integrado de Canarias 2014–2020.

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in Spain between 1939 and 1945. The analysis of the concepts employed in propaganda material, the description of the most outstanding images and illustrations, and the observation of some of their colors or symbols con­ tribute to a comprehensive interpretation of the messages disseminated in Spain. In other words, the semiotics of these publications serve as a basis for revealing the meaning of the propaganda designed and distributed by Great Britain in the neutral country and concurrently reveal its connection with the wartime British foreign policy objectives. Studies published by David Welch or Garth Jowett and Victoria O’Donnell, among others, should be considered crucial contributions to the concept of wartime propaganda with interesting and comparative anal­ yses of propaganda and its evolution throughout the 20th century.2 The studies of Valerie Holman and Ian McLaine provide interesting informa­ tion about the role played by the MoI and some references to the printed propaganda machinery of Great Britain during the war.3 However, less attention has been paid to the British propaganda themes disseminated overseas—and toward Spain in particular—or to British wartime publi­ cations, as a considerable proportion of the studies have focused on the propaganda designed for either the Home Front or the enemy and occu­ pied countries.4 The American historian Robert Cole is responsible for one of the first reference books on the dissemination of British propaganda to neutral Europe during the Second World War.5 However, the studies of printed propaganda meant for Spain in particular are primarily focused on North American publications, the German dissemination of magazines

2 Nicholas John Cull, David Holbrook Culbert and David Welch, Propaganda and Mass Persuasion: A Historical Encyclopedia, 1500 to the Present (Santa Barbara, CL: ABC-CLIO, 2003); Jo Fox and David Welch, eds., Justifying War: Propaganda, Politics and the Modern Age (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O’Donnell, Propaganda and Persuasion (London: Sage Publications, 2014); Philip M. Taylor, Munitions of the Mind: A History of Propaganda from the Ancient World to the Present Era (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995); David Welch, Propaganda: Power and Persuasion (London: British Library, 2013); David Welch, Propaganda, Power and Persuasion: From World War I to Wikileaks (London: I. B. Tauris, 2013). 3 Valerie Holman, Print for Victory: Book Publishing in England 1939–1945 (London: British Library, 2008); Ian McLaine, Ministry of Morale: Home Front Morale and the Ministry of Information in World War II (London: Allen & Unwin, 1979). 4 For propaganda themes relating to the Home Front or to the enemy, see Michael Balfour, Propaganda in War, 1939–1945: Organisations, Policies and Publics in Britain and Germany (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979). For studies of British printing, see John B. Hench, Books as Weapons Propaganda, Publishing, and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War II (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010); Valerie Holman, Print for Victory: Book Publishing in England 1939–1945 (London: British Library, 2008). 5 Robert Cole, Britain and the War of Words in Neutral Europe, 1939–1945: The Art of the Possible (New York: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 1990).

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during the Second World War or the propaganda battle established during the Spanish Civil War.6

Theoretical principles and methodology: semiotics and propaganda According to the British visual semiotician Daniel Chandler, semiotics is the study of signs and signification—the study of how meanings are made and how reality is represented or reconstructed. In his words, semiotics is a “way of looking at the production of meaning from a particular critical perspective.”7 The study of propaganda is an important field of semiotic analysis, as propaganda is a communicative phenomenon with its own characteristics. Many researchers have defined the concept of propaganda; however, in the field of this research, the most complete definitions are pro­ vided by Harold D. Lasswell and the Spanish researcher Antonio Pineda. Lasswell defined propaganda as “the management of collective attitudes by the manipulation of significant symbols”—a definition that, accord­ ing to Pineda, reinforces the idea of an intentional selection of semiotic elements for the achievement of a specific objective.8 Following this idea, Pineda defines propaganda as a “communicative phenomenon of content and ideological purposes through which a sender (individual or collective) transmits an interested and deliberate message to get, maintain or rein­ force a position of power over the thinking or behavior of a receiver (indi­ vidual or collective) whose interests do not necessarily coincide with those of the sender.”9 Thus, as in any other communicative process, the propaganda message is composed by a sender and an empirical message is transmitted through a channel with its corresponding conceptual message that can be reduced to small units of distinctive meaning. However, as defended by authors such as Pineda, the particularity of the propaganda message is the universal and

6 Antonio Pineda, Antonio Macarro Tomillo, and Ana Isabel Barragán Romero, “Semiótica de La Propaganda: Aplicación Empírica de un Modelo de Análisis Formal a Portadas de Prensa de La Guerra Civil Española,” Anàlisi 46 (2012): 49–68; Alejandro Pizarroso Quintero, “La Propaganda Norteamericana En España En La Segunda Guerra Mundial: Medios Impresos,” in Propaganda Impresa y Construcción Del Estado Moderno y Contemporáneo, ed. Carmen Espejo-Cala (Madrid: Alfar, 2000), 73–102; Rainer Rutz, Signal: Eine Deutsche Auslandsillustrierte als Propagandainstrument im Zweiten Weltkrieg (Essen: Klartext, 2007). 7 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics, 3rd ed. (London/New York: Routledge, 2017). 8 Harold D Lasswell, “The Theory of Political Propaganda,” The American Political Science Review 21, no. 3 (1927): 627; Antonio Pineda Cachero, “Un Modelo de Análisis Semiótico Del Mensaje Propagandístico,” Comunicación. Revista Internacional de Comunicación Audiovisual, Publicidad y Estudios Culturales 1, no. 6 (2008): 39. 9 Antonio Pineda Cachero, Elementos Para Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda (Seville: Ediciones Alfar, 2006), 228.

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transhistorical nature of its intention: the search for power.10 In this way, using the words of Pineda, the sender of the propaganda message aims to “install in the cognitive and behavioral patterns of the receiver a cer­ tain representation of reality whose ultimate objective is to satisfy certain interests.”11 The semiotic study of the propaganda message is not a new phenom­ enon, and it has already interested many theorists of history, sociology, language, and communication. Their studies are often based on critical discourse analysis methodologies, political semiotics or mythopoiesis.12 However, researchers can also follow a structuralist analysis of propa­ ganda material, mainly defended by authors such as Jesus Jiménez-Varea or Antonio Pineda Cachero, which is closer to the approach described in this research in which the important aspect of the propaganda message is the intention.13 This model focuses on an analysis of the deep semiotic structures of the propaganda message: on the one hand, the formal struc­ ture of the message, which is formed by its semiotic skeleton; on the other, the surface structure, which is composed of the aesthetic and expressive elements (AEEs) of the message.14 This semiotic analysis of the propa­ ganda message has been applied by authors such as Jiménez-Varea (2010), Almonacid Jaque (2010), and Pineda and Barragán Romero (2012).15 In general, the most analyzed propaganda messages are those that emanate from electoral campaigns, large totalitarian states, communist propa­ ganda or state-capitalism publicity campaigns. Following Pineda’s theory, the propaganda message is formed by two core units: the propagated (PPD) and the propagandeme (PME). The

10 Pineda Cachero, “Análisis Semiótico,” 33.

11 Pineda Cachero, “Análisis Semiótico”.

12 Małgorzata Haładewicz-Grzelak, “The Mythopoeia in Stalinist Propaganda of Post-War

Poland,” Semiotica 2010, no. 182 (2010): 175–213; Lu Xing-Hua, “Political Representation within the Libidinal Economy of a Pictorial Space: A Political-Semiotic Reading of Three Propaganda Posters of the Chinese Cultural Revolution,” Semiotica 157 (2005): 213–232. 13 Jesús Jiménez Varea, “Análisis de Un Caso de Propaganda Bélica Antijaponesa,” Questiones Publicitarias 1, no. 15 (July 2010): 72; Jesús Jiménez Varea, “Historietas de Superhéroes y Propaganda Bélica Durante La Segunda Guerra Mundia,” in Propaganda y Comunicación, ed. Adrián Huici and Antonio Pineda Cachero (Seville: Comunicación Social y Ediciones y Publicaciones, 2004), 153–173; Pineda Cachero, Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda; Antonio Pineda Cachero, “Un Modelo de Análisis Semiótico Del Mensaje Propagandístico,” Comunicación. Revista Internacional de Comunicación Audiovisual, Publicidad y Estudios Culturales 1, no. 6 (2008): 32–45. 14 Pineda Cachero, “Análisis Semiótico,” 34–35. 15 Jaque Deyse Pamela Almonacid, Comprensión de La Propaganda Como un Hecho Comunicacional de Carácter Universal y Transhistórico: El Caso de La Franja Presidencial de Marco Enríquez-Ominami 2009 (Temuco: Universidad de la Frontera, 2010); Pineda Cachero, Barragán Romero and Macarro Tomillo, “Semiótica de La Propaganda,” 49–68; Jiménez Varea, “Propaganda Bélica Antijaponesa,” 72.

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propagated element is which synthesizes the sender’s interests (its reality, objectives, rivals etc.) and can be both positive (interests of the author) and negative (reality opposite to the interests of the sender but which serves to reinforce them). The propagandeme (or in many cases, propagandemes) is described by Pineda as the smallest unit of meaning that comprises each propaganda message or as the semantic contents with which the propa­ gated are represented (positive or negative). Propagandemes can also be positive (propagandistic representations of the positive PPD) or negative (propagandistic representations of the negative PPD). The negative compo­ nents are described as helping elements for the positive propagated, since they are always explicitly or implicitly present as a representation of the sender’s intentions. Depending on the value of the propagated, messages can be defined as propaganda of affirmation, reaction or negation. Pineda asserts that the affirmation message only propagates a positive PPD, while the reaction message propagates a positive one through the negative PPD. Finally, the negation message pursues the propagation of the negative PPD in an explicit manner, although it implicitly maintains the propagation of the positive PPD.16 However, a third prominent element of the propaganda material’s semi­ otic structure is the condition of reception that delimits the message accord­ ing to the “image that the sender has of what may be important for the recipient.”17 The conditions of the receiver should be understood as the pre­ disposition of the receiver toward a particular message or idea, including certain attitudes, stereotypes, prejudices or topics. Finally, the theory pro­ moted by Pineda defends the idea that the formal structure of the message is adapted or materialized through its superficial structure, composed mainly of all those AEEs susceptible to analysis.18 This research intends first to analyze and describe the AEEs of propa­ ganda messages encapsulated in a selection of pamphlets, booklets, and war magazines. Moreover, the main objective of this research is to reveal and examine the semiotic structure of the message—that is the seman­ tics of the PME—by interpreting the empirical signs transmitted by the message. As Pineda reveals, the researcher must identify in each message at least one concept that provides semantic units by itself.19 However, the study of the semiotics of propaganda also reveals the way in which bodies of power utilize communication to generate meanings and, there­ fore, facilitate their objectives. According to this theory, the senders of the propaganda message are structures of power that hope to reach or main­ tain their position of dominion over others, whether enemies, opponents

16 17 18 19

Pineda Cachero, Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda, 242–253. Pineda Cachero, Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda, 38. Pineda Cachero, Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda, 40. Pineda Cachero, Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda, 42–43.

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or citizens. For instance, through the adoption of certain measures and behaviors (submission, collaboration, enmity, and participation) or the development of an action (enlistment, defense, attack, votes, and contri­ butions), bodies of power are able to maintain their influence. These types of measures, attitudes, and actions are essential for the justification, main­ tenance, and success of wartime conflicts. Therefore, this research intends to analyze the selected publications and reveal the interests of the propa­ gated, thereby illuminating the objectives of British propaganda in Spain between 1939 and 1945. Through the semiotic analysis of some propaganda publications designed or distributed by Great Britain, this research attempts to answer the following questions: what are the main AEEs of the publications? To what conceptual units may their messages be reduced? What objectives were they pursuing? What were the most represented characteristics of the propagated? Did the publications account for the recipient(s) of the message? What objectives did Britain pursue with respect to Spain? This research is based on the analysis of primary sources (propaganda reports and diplomatic correspondence) held by the National Archives (TNA) and on a qualitative study of the propaganda material held by the TNA, the British Library, and the Imperial War Museum, as well as personally col­ lected publications.20

Semiotics of British print propaganda for Spain: messages and propagandemes From early 1939, overseas publicity became Britain’s main concern; accord­ ing to Cole, this was largely due to British messages being crafted to develop “an alignment of forces against Germany” in the military and propaganda struggle.21 The MoI published a wide variety of propagandistic pieces in Spanish, from diplomatic periodicals, pamphlets, mini-booklets, booklets, and magazines to posters, postcards, leaflets, and calendars. For instance, from the beginning of the conflict, the Ministry sent publicity pamphlets to the Spanish press sections regarding specific topics such as the African cam­ paigns, nationalism, and Christianity.22 Booklets were used to disseminate a variety of messages such as British military superiority, descriptions of 20 Most of the publications described in this paper can be found in: “General publicity mate­ rial in Spanish,” 1942–1945, The National Archives (TNA), London, INF 2/20; “A collec­ tion of official photographs, cards, adhesive stamps and leaflets, with the text in various languages,” British Library, London, B.S.51/14, 1940. Some publications have been per­ sonally collected, such as the pamphlet The Art of Lying, although it is also part of the TNA collection. 21 Cole, Britain and the War of Words, 7. 22 A Brief History of the African Campaign/Breve historia de la campaña de África (ca. 1942–1945), TNA, London, INF 2/20; Nacionalismo y Cristianismo [Nationalism and Christiansm] (ca. 1940–1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

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specific campaigns, and the importance of the British Empire.23 Moreover, some booklets also focused on the representation of the enemy, depicting an anti-lies theme, the characteristics of German propaganda or German behavior in life and war.24 For instance, the MoI designed monthly visual magazines such as Neptune, Hazañas de guerra (War in Pictures), and Picture Post, “Britain’s equivalent of the American illustrated magazine Life,” which was founded in 1938 to disseminate the popular social perspective of the British cause.25 A large proportion of the propaganda material was published in sev­ eral languages; therefore, many copies were not designed for an exclusive distribution in Spain. However, not all the material designed by the MoI could or should have been distributed in the country; thus, the analysis of the material considered to be suitable for Spain reveals the message that Britain desired to transmit in Spanish territory. In addition, some publi­ cations were designed exclusively for the neutral country; the analysis of their contents and messages is an essential contribution to this research. A significant sample of 11 publications composed of pamphlets, booklets, mini-booklets, and magazines designed by the MoI has been selected and analyzed. Picture Post The first propaganda publication selected is the July 1940 edition of the magazine Picture Post.26 The magazine’s cover conveys a simple comparison under the headline: “an English boy of today … a German boy of today.” The publication depicts a clear comparison between two simple images: the one of a smiling British boy, vital and informal, and the other of a young German boy, serious and militaristic. The horizontality and modernity of the young British boy clearly contrast the rectitude, rigidity, and obedience of the German child who is wearing a complete uniform, including a swas­ tika and a military cap.

23 RAF parade/La aviación británica (ca. 1941–1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20; Britain’s fighting vehicles (R.A.C.)/Vehículos de combate de la Gran Bretaña (ca. 1941–1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20; War under the Sea: British submarines/La guerra bajo el mar (ca. 1941–1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20; African victory with the British forces/La Victoria de África: con las fuerzas (ca. 1943–1944), TNA, London, INF 2/20; Who owns the British Empire?/¿Quién posee el Imperio Británico? (ca. 1940–1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 24 The German military lexicon/Sofismas del léxico militar alemán (ca. 1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20; Aerial bombardment: the facts/Los bombardeos aéreos: dos concepciones difer­ entes (ca. 1943–1944), TNA, London, INF 2/20; Gems of German Propaganda, Imperial War Museum, London, 49/S (41), 81(1). 25 Arthur Ward, A Guide to War Publications of the First & Second World War: From Training Guides to Propaganda Posters (London: Pen and Sword, 2015), 82. 26 Picture Post (July 1940), TNA, London, INF 2/1.

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The magazine continued to present the contrasts between Britain and Germany with comparisons between cities, societies, and governments. Among the images, the publication included military scenes of German society and parades of young people trained to the sound of military per­ cussion that contrasted the bucolic scenes of young British people riding in boats during the evening. The magazine showed the king of England, “who is useful to his country,” in a position of equality and closeness to the citizens. In contrast, the magazine depicted “the Fuhrer who dom­ inates” through an image of Hitler in a car, raising his arm and assert­ ing the superiority of his position of power over the masses. Therefore, the pamphlet showed an image of Britain in which normality, happiness, love, routine, and freedom were emphasized. Further, one of the pages claimed, “England: where it is not a crime to lie on the grass, claim per­ sonal opinions and wear suits and dresses rather than uniforms.” The magazine also focused on the “death of the vanquished” with images of other European populations subjected to German authority in concen­ tration or work camps. Culture was also emphasized by the publication through headlines such as “the culture that the Nazis would want to impose on the world.”27 Thus, the magazine was published with the intent to transmit a clear concept and message: the contrast between two opposing ideological models and, therefore, the comparison between the two causes con­ fronted in the war from the British perspective. The German cause was presented as being composed of violent, rigid, and strict militaristic com­ ponents that intimidated and subordinated its citizens and the rest of the vanquished populations. It was a cause that restricted freedom, culture, entertainment, relaxation, and plurality. The British cause, however, was represented with elements of defense and freedom—a utopian world full of smiles and hopes. Therefore, the publication comprised reaction mes­ sages that intended to show the reality of the positive propagated—that is Britain—through an explicit contrast with the representation of the neg­ ative propagated—Germany. As Pineda argues, this type of propaganda employs a dichotomous-antithetical logical framework and includes the “ideological square” theory described by Teun A. van Dijk.28 In other words, this type of message emphasized the positive “us” and the nega­ tive “them,” while it omitted the positive “them” and the negative “us.” The main PMEs transmitted by the publication are shown through the approach of conceptual opposites: control, freedom, oppression, relaxa­ tion, and subordination.

27 Picture Post, (July 1940), TNA, London, INF 2/1. 28 Pineda Cachero, Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda, 246; Teun A. van Dijk, Ideología (Barcelona: Gedisa, 2000), 333.

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The Merchant Marine The pamphlet La marina mercante (The Merchant Marine) depicted the British force in maritime and international trade with a title that included the reference headline: “The Merchant Navy, vital front of democracy.”29 The most repeated concepts in the publication include British naval power, dominion of the seas, the tenacity and determination of the Merchant Navy, the importance of the British merchant marine in times of peace, and the maritime routes of Great Britain in peace and war. The publica­ tion emphasized the importance of Britain’s sea lines that had an indisput­ ably strong presence in most of the world. On one of the central pages, a map of the world was printed at double size and illustrated the commercial routes undertaken by the British merchant marine fleets in times of peace. Numerous routes surrounded Spain due to its strategic position as a point of connection between continents. However, the publication also emphasized the military potential of the vessels, since the British merchant ships were always escorted.30 Thus, this is an example of propaganda that consists of affirmation mes­ sages that encapsulate a positive vision of Great Britain. The messages transmitted clear concepts of control, potential, dependence, leadership, and economic subordination. Therefore, the publication seems to convey a triple message: British potential, competence, capacity and superiority in the naval field, both military and commercial; British presence in the world and finally, a special reminder to countries such as Spain. The lat­ ter had a double intention—to remind the Spaniards of their dependence upon the import/export of products through British trade routes and the subtle military threat of merchant ships in the case of any contingency (namely, Spanish participation in the war, collaboration with the enemy, and occupation). The War Under the Sea Another propagandistic publication was titled La guerra bajo el mar (The War Under the Sea).31 The first part included different types of British sub­ marines, but one of the main sections of the pamphlet aimed to demon­ strate the British nation’s “respect to the neutrals.” Its aim was to justify the British the [German] blockade has imposed the counter-blockade: “the blockade has imposed the counter-blockade, but Great Britain has done everything possible to protect neutral shipping and stimulate the maritime trade of neutral countries within the limits of their own needs.” The con­ tent of the pamphlet was more than evident when it indicated “although 29 La marina mercante (ca. 1941–1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 30 La marina mercante (ca. 1941–1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 31 La guerra bajo el mar (ca. 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20, 2.

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the neutral ships can be hijacked with their cargoes if they are on their way to Germany, through the British blockade there has not been a single Spanish, Portuguese or South American case, nor any sinking of neutral ships by allied submarines.” The pamphlet also includes a series of neutral vessels sunk indiscriminately by the Germans, such as Spanish cargo ships or steamers. In the case of the cargo ship Castillo Oropesa, the publication mentioned that “the attack may indicate that the Axis was trying to isolate Spain from all trade with the outside world.” The pamphlet focused on jus­ tifying and explaining the British Navicerts system, through which the con­ sul of the last cargo port of the ship issued a manifesto that evidenced the legitimacy of its passage. Against a deep blue background, the publication stressed that “Great Britain does not sink neutral ships, the British system of Navicerts protects neutral trade.”32 The main PMEs transmitted by the publication are respect, neutrality, protection, concessions, and reaction. Thus, the texts, images, and graphics of this publication reveal clear messages: the indiscriminate struggle waged by Germany on the seas, the danger of submarine warfare for neutral coun­ tries—especially Spain— the outstanding advantage of the Allied powers in the fight against the enemy submarines, the justification of the British blockade, and the defense of the Navicerts system. It was important to counteract the slogans provided by Francoist and German propaganda, in which messages described that Spanish commerce was respected and pro­ tected despite the blockade imposed by Great Britain. Spain’s Place in the Sun This pamphlet emphasized the importance of Spain’s location within the British Empire and its dependence on Britain’s “vast source of supply.”33 We have no evidence of the final publication of this pamphlet, but its design emphasized the importance of Spain. The first section attempted to high­ light the economic relations between Spain and Latin America, while jus­ tifying the British trade blockade. For instance, the drawings emphasized the number of products exported to and imported from Latin America by Spain. One of the textual fragments clearly demonstrates the true objective of the message: “The Nazi new order has not proved of any practical help to Spain … Although European and American commercial influence in Latin America is important, it is Germany and Italy who have been their serious competitors in those overseas markets.”34 The pamphlet also included maps with accompanying text such as: “Axis propaganda seeks to convince the neutral countries that they are being

32 La guerra bajo el mar (ca. 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20, 3–10. 33 Spain’s Place in the Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 34 Spain’s Place in the Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20, p. 6.

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Figure 6.1 Neutral shipping and British blockade, in Spain’s Place in the Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

starved by the blockade. This is untrue. The Navicert system provides gate­ ways for neutral shipping, but none, of course, for Axis shipping.”35 The map highlights the previous statement with a European and African con­ tinent surrounded by a maritime wall that allows for navigation and trade between Spain and Latin America. The text of the pamphlet provided more content in this regard: “[T] he good-will of the English government towards Spain and its desire to see Spain suffer, as little as possible, the inconveniences of the British blockade.”

35 Teun A. van Dijk, Ideología (Barcelona: Gedisa, 2000), 6.

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In addition, the text also contained a certain threatening component with expressions such as “no one will expect the British government to replace the goods sent out of neutral countries to the Axis Powers, and blame the British government if it takes appropriate steps to prevent deals of this sort, which are against the interest of Britain and the neutral countries. The British government will play fair with all those who play fair with Britain.” The information presented in one of the illustrations was complemented with text that indicated: “The German conception of trade with neutrals is to take their foodstuff and other commodities which can not be spared in return as aspirin and gramophone needles.” Another drawing, which focused particularly on Spanish territory, also illustrated numerous ships that waited on the Spanish coast with goods imported from other coun­ tries, such as Canada, South Africa, Australia, Egypt, and India. The text reads: “The traditional source of supply for much of Spain’s needs, both in food and raw materials, has been and will be the British Empire. In peace, Spain is fortunate in being set in the geometrical center of this vast source of supply.”36 Therefore, this publication encapsulates messages of affirmation and reaction. The main PMEs transmitted by the propaganda message were dependence, bond, survival, gateways, Hispanicity, protection, warning, and exploitation. Thus, the message of this publication was very direct. It was important to show how Spain, Latin America, and the British Empire were mutually interested in maintaining their commercial relations “because of their complementary commercial needs.” The pamphlet tried to highlight the Spanish dependence on the commercial routes controlled by the British Empire, to justify Britain’s benevolence and respect for Spanish trade through the Navicerts system, and also to emphasize the respected role of Spain as the guarantor of Hispanicity. The publication also sought to coun­ teract the effects of the Francoist and German propaganda messages, in which the British blockade was presented as the main enemy of Spanish food circulation and commercial survival. It was crucial to show how Britain and its Empire were trying to facilitate the economic reconstruction of Spain and recover its position “in the centre of the Sun.” As reflected in the pam­ phlet’s conclusions: “There can be no doubt that in the era of prosperity and peace for which they are fighting now, they will willingly give to Spain that leading place and status to which by her historic rights she is entitled.”37 The Mask Comes Off Although there is no evidence of the final publication and distribution of the pamphlet The Mask Comes Off, its provisional design was specially

36 Spain’s Place in the Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 37 Teun A. van Dijk, Ideología (Barcelona: Gedisa, 2000).

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140 Marta García Cabrera

Figure 6.2 Spanish commercial dependence, in Spain’s Place in the Sun (October 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

created for Spain’s propaganda section.38 The publication’s cover included a carnival mask with an open mouth that was complemented with a dark background. It included a black and white drawing of a map of Spain and two opposite scenes: a wealthy family located in the north of the map and a figure of four agricultural and industrial workers in the south. On another page, a particular title was published: “Categories of subject states,” with a drawing of small, hyper-stylized figures located in the ver­ tices of a swastika that represented hard work. The next sections of the pamphlet included the following text: “Cheap raw materials and labour for Germany,” “The real needs of Spain’s future,” and “The Nazi plan for Spain.”39 In the last section, an illustration clearly depicted the content of the mes­ sage through the figure of an isolated Spain enclosed by a figurative wall that was only connected to the exterior through a unidirectional commercial relationship with Germany. This association was made clear by the figure of a train that exported products from Spain to Germany, which directly and exclusively connected both countries.

38 The Mask Comes Off (ca. 1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 39 Teun A. van Dijk, Ideología (Barcelona: Gedisa, 2000).

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Figure 6.3 The Mask Comes Off, n.d. [ca. 1942], TNA, London, INF 2/20.

This publication is a clear example of negation propaganda, as it explicitly represents a negative vision of Germany. The main PMEs trans­ mitted by this pamphlet are falsehood, betrayal, exploitation, and subordi­ nation. Thus, the title of the pamphlet demonstrates the true purpose of the message: to unmask the true intentions of Germany with respect to Spain. It was essential to transmit the idea that Germany was isolating and exploiting Spain through the blockade of its external and maritime relations, the restriction of its exports, and the use of its citizens. In addi­ tion, the publication suggested that, while aiding the survival of Nazism

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142 Marta García Cabrera during the war, the Spanish population was left without resources in a situation of misery. The headlines are equally explanatory, and phrases such as “The Nazi plan for Spain” clearly conveyed the message that economic advantage was the only objective of any German approach to Spain in times of both war and peace. Moreover, the pamphlet also seems to evidence the alleged true intentions of German promises of the post­ war New Order. Therefore, the publication was designed to discourage any collaboration with the enemy, to question Franco’s position, and to convince the population of disadvantages wrought by the potential vic­ tory of Nazism for the future of Spain. A worker Goes to Work in Germany The publication entitled Un obrero marcha a trabajar a Alemania (A Worker Goes to Work in Germany) is a mini hand pamphlet that was printed with a swastika centered on the cover.40 The publication opened with phrases that created a story and introduced a larger text section. This included: “You are promised a warm welcome in Germany … Upon arriving you find that you have to live in a camp … Almost all his salary is consumed between taxes and his support … The money he can send never reaches his family … He can not return to his homeland; but, on the other hand, he is ordered to work in the rear of the Russian front.”41 The rest of the publication’s text emphasized the use of the following words: promises, temptation, persuasion, foreign workers, sanitary conditions, repentance, exploitation, deception, recruitment, risks, discipline, and slave. This publication relies on negation messages, clearly transmitting a neg­ ative representation of Germany in which the main PMEs emphasized are unreliability, manipulation, exploitation, subordination, and abuse. Thus, the main aim of this publication was to convey a message in which the Spaniards were discouraged from emigrating to Germany and encouraged to reduce any aid provided to the enemy’s war effort. The economic needs experienced by those living in post-war Spain made the offers of work and money from Germany very attractive. The opportunities offered to Spaniards were transformed by German propaganda into a humanitarian effort for Nazi Germany. Therefore, it was essential to convey the message that Germany was the main enemy of the Spaniards—a provider of suc­ culent promises that concealed, in the view of the British, an exploitative colonial regime. The publication also included an attack on the existing relations between Nazi Germany and Spain, which indirectly accused Franco of neglecting the hungry population of his country while negotiat­ ing with Hitler.

40 Un obrero marcha a trabajar a Alemania (ca. 1942–1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 41 Un obrero marcha a trabajar a Alemania (ca. 1942–1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

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They Would Destroy the Church of God The British also focused their propaganda on key elements that character­ ized Spain, such as its Catholicism. The booklet Destruirán la Iglesia de Dios (They Would Destroy the Church of God) emphasized how “Hitler will destroy the Catholic Church.”42 The first part of the pamphlet mentions how the Nazi state demanded supreme authority over the spirit and soul of its people; therefore, “it does not recognize a superior power.”43 The images also depicted a burnt cross and a procession in which the divine figure is replaced by a sculpture of a swastika. Emphasizing the situation, one of the most direct phrases included in the last pages of the pamphlet reads: “Hitler is the antichrist, children of God rise!”44 The publication concludes with a call made by British archbishops in the newspaper The Times: “Stand up trusting in the power of God to build a Christian future.” This state­ ment appeared signed by “members of the Catholic, Anglican and Free Churches.”45 The pamphlet includes examples of negation messages in which Germany is explicitly described with PMEs such as paganism, atheism, destruction, per­ secution, autocracy, and action. As reflected through its texts and images, the message of the pamphlet was the depiction of a pagan Nazi Germany that was attempting to destroy religiosity and Catholicism. It was important to show a Nazi Germany in which the only divinity was Hitler, the supreme holder of power, to whom the greatest adoration was expected. The pam­ phlet also tried to demonstrate how the Catholic and Anglican Churches had to fight together for the survival of faith and freedom of belief; therefore, the publication attempted to counteract the negative perceptions that the Spaniards held regarding the English church. The German Military Lexicon The next publication included in this small sample is the pamphlet enti­ tled Sofismas del léxico military alemán (The German Military Lexicon).46 This is a pamphlet of small size and thin sheets that resorted to humor, sarcasm and cartoons to illustrate simple definitions, like a dictionary. The cover contained the title of the publication and a drawing containing a book stained with blood and a swastika, which simulated the dictionary itself, on which rested a skull crowned with a Nazi hat. The publication was used to satirize and almost ridicule the terminology developed by the Nazis in the

42 43 44 45 46

Destruirán la Iglesia de Dios (1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. Destruirán la Iglesia de Dios (1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. Destruirán la Iglesia de Dios (1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. Destruirán la Iglesia de Dios (1942), TNA, London, INF 2/20. The German Military Lexicon/Sofismas del léxico militar alemán (ca. 1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

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144 Marta García Cabrera war, with definitions of concepts such as Fuhrer, Iron Cross, Vital Space, and Military Objective, among others. The Fuhrer was described as a leader of divine descent who had been “destined by certain pagan Aryan deities to lead the world.” The illus­ tration is equally explanatory, and Hitler was identified with an almost Viking figure that was crowned by a winged divinity. The swastika was described as a German decoration that was awarded for extraordinary acts, although the publication satirized the concept, adding that this was fashionable in the posthumous decorations. However, one of the most important entries was the definition of Lebensraum, which was described as a personal invention of the Fuhrer due to the existence of too many Germans. The publication culminated with the following lines: “Thanks to the inventiveness of the Fuhrer this problem is being resolved quickly,” together with an illustration of Hitler appreciating hundreds of tombs crowned with crosses. German military objectives were described as the expression used by the Germans to drop their bombs, and the text was accompanied by cities depicted with churches that were the real victims of enemy bombs. This is a publication of negation propaganda with an explicit descrip­ tion of the enemy, in which the main PMEs transmitted were satire, ide­ ology, death, indiscrimination, paganism, terror, sacrifice and defeat. Thus, through humor and sarcasm, this publication aimed to convey to the reader a clear message: Germany was using indiscriminate, inhuman and dishonest tactics of war, in which neither the objective nor the number of deaths mattered. Aerial Bombardments: Two Different Conceptions The publication Los bombardeos aéreos: dos concepciones diferentes (Aerial Bombardments: Two Different Conceptions) included the same propagan­ distic concepts as the publications reviewed thus far.47 The pamphlet was illustrated with a clear and intentional combination of colors, predomi­ nated by dark backgrounds with red lettering that simulated the fluidity of blood. In its introduction, the publication clearly outlines the objective of its messages: to contrast the deliberate bombing of the Germans against the civil population with the British bombing of Germany’s war produc­ tion centers. The publication contrasted terms such as incidental damage, unavoidable, deliberation, and terror. Phrases such as “Germany believed from the first moment in the effectiveness of terrorism in its bombings” and “the terrorist bombing has nothing to do with this [British] policy, which aims to destroy, certainly not the German people, but the war machine

47 “Los bombardeos aéreos: dos concepciones diferentes,” (ca. 1943 – 1944), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

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of Germany” clearly demonstrate the intentionality of its writings.48 The images were equally enlightening, with scenes of complete cities, particu­ larly British ones, destroyed by fire and bombs; these images emphasized the depiction of destroyed monuments and cathedrals. The photos were accompanied by explanatory texts that reminded the reader that “none of these three cities [Exeter, Bath and Canterbury] had industrial signifi­ cance” and how Canterbury, in particular, was “the Seat of the Primate of the Church of England.”49 This pamphlet relies upon reaction messages that allude not only to the negative propagated but also to its comparison with a positive Britain. The main PMEs conveyed by the propaganda messages were death, terror­ ism, indiscrimination, violence, and destruction. Thus, the message of this publication was crafted with the intention to convey the barbaric and indis­ criminate actions of the Germans as a model of war allegedly opposed to the one undertaken by Great Britain. It was important to show a demonized war enemy that was connected to the typography and images of terror, hor­ ror, blood, and destruction. Germany was the enemy that cruelly devastated entire cities, the demon that directed its bombs toward innocents, destroyed religious premises, and did not respect the condition of neutrality of many attacked cities. What Britain Has Done Lo que ha hecho la Gran Bretaña (What Britain Has Done) is a pamphlet that described all the efforts made by Great Britain to win the war.50 The literal message provided by some of its lines was clear and direct: Britain “entered the war without being attacked” and was “saving the world from German domination.”51 These messages alluded to the undisputed effort of the British to overcome the difficulties of war with good humor, since these sentiments “could not be compared with the suffering of the allies of the continent that were under German terror.”52 In addition, some of the most repeated words or phrases are invincible, overcoming difficulties, bravely, res­ olutely, production, effort, mobilization, intensification, equipment, adapta­ tion, and attitude. These elements reveal a clear message composed of evident units of mean­ ing: heroism, protection, tenacity, unity, effort, aggression, and patriotism. By reading the pamphlet, the recipient of the message was easily able to

48 Los bombardeos aéreos: dos concepciones diferentes, (ca. 1943–1944), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 49 Los bombardeos aéreos: dos concepciones diferentes, (ca. 1943–1944), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 50 Lo que ha hecho la Gran Bretaña (ca. March 1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 51 Lo que ha hecho la Gran Bretaña (ca. March 1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20. 52 Lo que ha hecho la Gran Bretaña (ca. March 1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

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146 Marta García Cabrera perceive that Britain was not fighting for an individual or selfish cause, but for the defense of others, the protection of civilization and the world, and the protection of freedom. Great Britain fought under the emblem of protection and defense against a dominating enemy. It was important to demonstrate the unity of military, civil, political and economic efforts without eliding the patriotic impetus that catalysed their efforts. The Art of Lying The publication El arte de la mentira (The Art of Lying) is a booklet that was produced after June 1944 in three different languages—French, Dutch, and Spanish.53 The publication was organized in three sections: an introduction, a precept, and a sequence of German and Italian statements compared with their correlating facts. The main section of the manual utilized a simple nar­ rative based on the introduction of a statement and its contradiction, clearly delineating the origin and date of each statement’s emission. Sometimes, some satirical and colorful drawings were interspersed among the examples of lies and their corresponding “facts.” The manual was designed to prove the contradictions of German state­ ments and actions throughout the occupation of countries such as Belgium, the Netherlands, Poland, and the Scandinavian nations, among others. Some statements and illustrations emphasize the lack of credibility of the treaties signed by Hitler, while others prove the contradictions of the German refusal to go to war. In the culture section, the booklet emphasized how Germany had prom­ ised to respect and protect each country’s culture, heritage, and national identities and how these guarantees were being dishonored. The religious examples attempted to prove the discrepancies between the promised free­ dom of religion and the facts of the Nazi persecution of Catholics. This is just one of many examples of British propaganda that intended to highlight German lies and the unreliability of German statements.54 However, this publication was presented to the public using a differ­ ent approach, as it was published as if it had been written by Hitler and Goebbels. For instance, the front page is composed with German typogra­ phy, the margins are covered with swastikas, and the introduction section revealed a third-person narrator. Representing Hitler and Goebbels, the narrator highlights the importance of the big lies, regardless of the contra­ dictions or refutations that may be shown later. The intention of this manual was to convey information under the pretense of a German guide to the 53 El arte de la mentira (ca. 1944), private collection.

54 Other similar publications are The Nazi German in 22 Lessons, TNA, London, INF 2/20;

Más joyas de la propaganda alemana, Imperial War Museum, London, 49/5 (41).81 (46); Gems of German Propaganda, Imperial War Museum, London, 49/S (41).81 (1); Sofismas del léxico militar alemán (ca. 1943), TNA, London, INF 2/20.

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Figure 6.4 Depiction of German breach of treaties, in El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection.

Figure 6.5 Drawing that depicts the Third Reich’s attacks on culture, in El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection.

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Figure 6.6 Representation of Nazi peace, in El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection.

students of falsehood that is depicted in the manual as an art and an openly accepted element of German propaganda. Therefore, the manual justifies The Art of Lying through an excerpt of Hitter’s Mein Kampf with lines such as: “the broad masses of a nation … more readily fall victims to the big lie than the small lie … they would not believe that others could have the impu­ dence to distort the truth so infamously.”55 The manual was published with the intention that it would be seen as a German justification of falsehood; it was meant to transform hidden truths into visible lies and represent falsehood as a legitimate weapon of war openly and proudly used by the Germans. The German authorship obscures the British source of the propaganda piece, therefore leading the readers to believe that the document was produced by the German state as a legitima­ tion of acts of occupation and breaching promises. However, the publication can be interpreted as another example of lying itself, using the names of Hitler and Goebbels with humor and sarcasm as an open demonstration of falsehood. It could be argued that the booklet itself is a propaganda ele­ ment, as well as an attempt of black propaganda. The basic principles of Britain’s wartime propaganda can be encapsu­ lated by the Ministry’s general view that it was more effective to tell the

55 El arte de la mentira (ca. 1944), private collection, 7–8.

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Figure 6.7 Paganism and anti-Catholicism of the Third Reich, in El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection.

truth, “nothing but the truth and, as near as possible, the whole truth.”56 Consequently, the aim of British propaganda and this source, in particu­ lar, was to depict the Second World War as a struggle between two ideol­ ogies and propaganda models: the model of truth, supposedly represented by Britain, and the model of falsehood, openly represented by Germany. This is especially important in Germanophile neutral countries—such as Spain—where the promises of German friendship and collaboration could lead to a German occupation of the territory or may influence Spanish obe­ dience to the British leadership of a post-war world. Moreover, in Spain, the predominance of German propaganda represented a censored selection of wartime news and, as propagandists emphasized, it was difficult for “those neutrals who live too far away to be able to check the facts for themselves.”57

56 Cull, Culbert, and Welch, Propaganda and Mass Persuasion, 72. 57 Cole, Britain and the War of Words, 43.

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Figure 6.8 Front cover of the pamphlet El arte de la mentira, n.d. [ca. 1944], Private Collection.

Hence, this is a clear example of propaganda based upon reaction mes­ sages in which Germany was described as the negative propagated with important PMEs such as falsehood, unreliability, occupation, persecution and anti-Catholicism. Therefore, this publication emphasized German weaknesses and countered German propaganda consistently while also aid­ ing the dissemination of crucial ideas to Spain: the German indifference to

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neutral countries’ well-being, Nazi paganism and the poor conditions of the Spanish workers in Germany, German inefficiency in destroying com­ munism and winning the war, British tenacity and determination to protect the neutrals, and the sentiment that a British victory would imply the tri­ umph of Christian and democratic civilization. Great Britain To-day and To-morrow Pamphlets such as Great Britain To-day and To-morrow emphasized the most important elements of the Projection of Britain plan such as the indus­ trial reputation of Britain and the importance of a new generation with the ability to lead the future world.58 As the publication claimed, Great Britain was a country “that looks to the future,” with structures of modern social services, a responsibility for the freedom of all nations, important and rich agriculture, significant scientific developments, and a rich cultural tradition. This publication justified and projected the resurgent future of the world led by Britain through its actions and characteristics in war and peace. This publication is a good example of propaganda that utilized the concept of patriotism and British exaltation: its history, values, flag, and colors. The introductory text outlined that “Great Britain has been the champion of freedom and the defender of the dignity of man, and has vindicated the right of small nations to live their own lives, free from all threat and distur­ bance.”59 The texts and images described the nation’s industrial fame and its vision of being the world’s workshop. Illustrations of disciplined British children who were raised in environments of “happiness and well-being” accompanied the heading “The New Generation.” However, the publica­ tion did not forego emphasizing the British political system with a patriotic defense of the British parliamentary system and its historical connection with the term “democracy.” According to British propaganda, democracy guaranteed the freedom of a nation’s citizens and allowed a “remarkable stability of political life.” In the last pages of the publication, the “character and greatness” of Great Britain were discussed and linked to the “progress” of their country. The publication insisted on showing the apparent “contribution of Great Britain to the progress of the modern world” and its role in the approach­ ing future. The publication concluded by reminding the reader that “Great Britain can not forget her responsibility before the world, and the world, in turn, must be interested in its fortune and progress.” This is a clear example of affirmation messages in propaganda that included a patriotic and idealized representation of Britain’s reality. The main PMEs conveyed by the publication are potential, development, recon­ struction, leadership, future, freedom, and progress. Thus, this publication

58 Great Britain To-day and To-morrow (1945), British Library, London, B.S.51/14, 7–8. 59 Teun A. van Dijk, Ideología (Barcelona: Gedisa, 2000).

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152 Marta García Cabrera corresponds to the final year of the war in which both British propaganda and foreign policy were oriented toward the future. The booklet is nothing more than a propagandist idealization and patriotic self-representation of Great Britain, in which its position as leader of the future Europe was inher­ ently justified. The title of the publication substantiates the message of the publication with a constant link between the present reality of the country and its future projection as guarantor of the world.

British propaganda and foreign policy in Spain: conditions of reception and objectives A semiotic analysis of the selected propaganda publications reveals not only the real meanings and messages that they intended to convey but also the intentions of Great Britain and its propaganda with respect to Spain during the war. The primary objectives of British propaganda dissemi­ nated in Spain were to obtain the sympathy of Spaniards, maintain Spain’s neutrality, and discourage assistance to the Axis powers. However, in the long term, British propaganda also tried to encourage Spain’s benevolence toward Britain’s leadership during the post-war period that was to come. There were also particular messages that were sustained in British propa­ ganda throughout the entirety of the war. For instance, from 1939 to 1945, British propaganda continuously defended the British cause, described the “real” Britain, and demonstrated British competence. Moreover, British publications always clearly depicted the enemy, especially showing evidence of the enemy’s dangerousness and manipulative strategies, counteracting their propaganda, and revealing their lies. As the preceding analysis has shown, these publications attempted to explain Great Britain’s participation in the war with an emphasis placed on the moral and political values of the British cause. Thus, according to Cole, the most repeated themes of British publicity during the war were “Britain fights for a Christian Europe,” Britain’s commitment to the rights of small neutral nations, and Britain’s invincible strength and determination against German aggression. It was also essential that its propaganda was capable of convincing the neutrals that the survival of Europe will depend “upon the victory of a Britain capable of winning.”60 Moreover, it was crucial to connect Great Britain with a just cause and an image of heroism in which the country was struggling for freedom, independence, and the autonomy of nations. At the same time, Britain pretended to depict and identify an enemy that was responsible for indiscriminate actions, including bombings, economic exploitation, domination, and subordination. Moreover, during the conflict, it was essential to disseminate printed propaganda to dissuade Spaniards 60 Cole, Britain and the War of Words, 9.

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from assisting the Axis powers, describe the differences between British and German propaganda, and expose German lies. Germany was described as the devil that was oriented against the European religious tradition—an evil whose ideology was proliferating throughout Europe with excessively aggressive actions toward neutral and enemy countries. As Taylor sug­ gested, the main propagandistic principle of Britain was to maintain the appearance of impartiality and truthfulness, especially after the strong criticism made against the propaganda during the interwar period.61 Thus, British propaganda against Germany emphasized the use of intrusive and abusive propaganda that was based on lies in which fraudulent information propagated by Germans was meant to deceive a world that would be con­ quered by force through actions of brutal aggression. Moreover, British propaganda during the war was constantly influenced by the Spanish conditions of reception. First, British propaganda was con­ tingent upon the acceptance and protection of some Spanish specificities, such as the importance of traditionalism and Catholicism. Consequently, one constant theme of British printed propaganda was the convincing of Spaniards that Germany was the implacable enemy of Christianity in gen­ eral and Catholics in particular.62 Nevertheless, British propaganda also adapted to a particular perception of Britain by Spain in order to soften, modify or eradicate prejudices of the country and counteract enemy prop­ aganda. For instance, propagandists constantly reported that Spaniards considered Great Britain as an anti-Christian country; therefore, it was essential to convey the idea that both the Catholic and Anglican Churches should fight on the same side against the true enemy of religion: Nazism.63 The British economic blockade in Spain was seen as an aggression against neutral rights. Therefore, British propaganda was encouraged to constantly explain and justify it, emphasize the benefits of the Navicerts system, and detail the differences between the German and British treatments of neutral countries. It became essential to modify the culprits, identify Germany and Francoism as entities that were responsible for the main hardships of the country, and highlight the commercial advantages that Britain could bring in times of war and peace. However, this chapter complements Cole’s theses and suggests that there were two phases in which British propaganda material disseminated in Spain was designed with particular characteristics, aims, and themes.64

61 Philip M. Taylor, “Techniques of Persuasion: Basic Ground Rules of British Propaganda during the Second World War,” Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 1, no. 1 (1981): 62–64. 62 “Telegram from Mr. Yencken: Note verbale to Ministry of FA,” (7 September 1943), TNA, London, FO 371/34766. 63 “Letter concerning the importance of Religion in Spain,” (18 October 1939), TNA, London, INF 1/765. 64 Cole, Britain and the War of Words.

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From 1939 to 1943, the contents of British printed propaganda for Spain were designed to encourage wartime neutrality and resistance through the exhibition of British competence and the use of subtle threats to remind Spaniards of British superiority. From 1943 to 1945, however, printed prop­ aganda themes were more inclined to encourage benevolence and an accept­ ance of both Britain and Spain in the post-war world that was to come. British propaganda disseminated in Spain was first designed to estab­ lish the British competence in war, the superiority of their democracy and Empire, the capacity of their resources and markets, and their victories and impressive diplomacy. Because of Spain’s bellicose temptations, prop­ agandists also made extraordinary efforts to remind the Spaniards that the German heel was firmly on the European necks, and that “Germans would withhold food in ‘brutal determination to break the people’s will’.”65 Another important component of propaganda material was aimed to dissuade Spaniards from providing practical assistance to the Axis powers through exports, the extension of the Spanish Blue Division or labor.66 Especially after 1940, the increasingly belligerent Spanish temptation forced British propagandists to remind Spaniards that their collaboration with Germany would be disastrous for the nation’s own interests. However, from 1943 and especially during 1944, British propagandists began considering that Britain “had earned the right and shown the capacity through its conduct of the war to assume the moral and material leadership of post-war Europe,” a theme that was encapsulated by the Projection of Britain’s plan.67 Thus, it was crucial to show that Britain was the historically ordained successor of a history of conquests and heroes, a country proud of its par­ liamentary system, and a protector of democratic values. Therefore, its lan­ guage, political ideals, economic development, and imperial splendor implied that the country deserved to lead the future that would ensue after the war. In the words of Cole, the “battle to win the peace” had begun, and propagandists focused their themes on British promises about the security of Europe, the survival and advance of democracy, and, especially for Spain, the emphasis on “the security and independence of small nations.”68

Conclusion This semiotic study of the propaganda message has highlighted its com­ municative component as well as the different elements that comprise the persuasive process. The propaganda message contains a peculiarity in pur­ suing a clear objective: to reach or maintain the power of its sender, which is achieved through an empirical message that includes identifiable semiotic 65 66 67 68

Cole, Britain and the War of Words, 95.

“Plan of propaganda for Spain,” (9 April 1943), TNA, London, FO 371/34764.

“Projection of Britain: propaganda to Europe” (1942–3), TNA, London, FO 898/413.

Cole, Britain and the War of Words, 147.

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structures. In the case of Spain, the main author of British propaganda— that is the government—aimed primarily to justify and win the war by maintaining a neutral Spain that should be reluctant to collaborate with the enemy. To attain these objectives, British messages included AEEs such as phrases of accusation, descriptive text, large headlines, contrasts between ideas, comparisons, patriotic images or illustrations of war, humoristic and sarcastic cartoons, drawings, and maps related to Spain. The main messages transmitted by these publications can be reduced to the following units of meaning or positive propagandemes: potential, dependence, victory, protection, respect, truth, future, and freedom. Moreover, the messages transmitted negative concepts of the enemy such as destruc­ tion, lying, unreliability, occupation, exploitation, betrayal, and indiscrimi­ nate violence. It was essential to represent a positive propagated—that is a Great Britain that was fighting for freedom in defense of the independence of nations and against German aggression. The Allies also fought for the defense of neutral nations through a cause that supposedly gave priority to freedom, truth, and credibility. It was important to substantiate British guarantees regarding culture, tradition, religion, freedom, and economy, as well as to depict the leadership role that the British Empire was going to play in the post-war future. Hence, the publications omitted references to the subordinate treatment of many of the nations included in the Empire, neg­ ative effects of the trade blockade or the general destruction caused by the bombs of the RAF. The negative PPD represented an image of Germany as an authoritarian, autocratic, anti-religious, and terrorist regime. It was cru­ cial to show the most violent side of the regime, its tendency toward treason and lies, and the inhuman treatment of its war via economic and religious tactics. Germany did not respect neutrals or civilians, and a collaboration or alliance with it, as well as its own New Order, would imply great risks to the survival, independence, and freedom of nations. British propaganda between 1939 and 1943 sought to maintain the neu­ trality of Spain and encourage resistance in the case of belligerence. It was also important to show the danger and disadvantages of a collaboration and alliance between Spain and Germany. The conviction of an Allied victory, the return to the official neutrality, the importance of post-war order, and the need for international acceptance of the British government led Britain’s propaganda to reinforce the idea of reciprocal benevolence between 1943 and 1945. The messages disseminated by wartime propaganda become significant analytic instruments in understanding the correlation between foreign pol­ icy and propaganda, revealing the real aims and objectives of the propagan­ dists and defining the real image that a country seeks to be identified with. Analyzing publications, titles, images, and contents thus reveals not only the importance of wartime propaganda in Spain but also the many changes that took place in British foreign policy and with regard to the Spanish position in the conflict.

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Works cited Archival sources The National Archives (TNA), London:

——— INF 2/20, General publicity material in Spanish, 1942–1945.

——— INF 2/1, General publicity material, 1940–1942.

——— FO 371/34764, British propaganda, 1943.

——— INF 1/765, Roman Catholic Section: Spanish contacts, 1939–1945.

——— FO 898/413, “Projection of Britain”: propaganda to Europe: general policy

papers and plans, 1942–1945.

British Library, London:

——— B.S.51/14, A collection of official photographs, cards, adhesive stamps and

leaflets, texts in various languages, 1940.

Published secondary works Almonacid, Jaque D. P. Comprensión de La Propaganda Como Un Hecho Comunicacional de Carácter Universal y Transhistórico. El Caso de La Franja Presidencial de Marco Enríquez-Ominami 2009. Temuco, Chile: Universidad de la Frontera, 2010. Balfour, Michael Leonard Graham. Propaganda in War, 1939–1945: Organisations, Policies and Publics in Britain and Germany. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. 3rd ed. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2017. Cole, Robert. Britain and the War of Words in Neutral Europe, 1939–1945: The Art of the Possible. New York: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 1990. Cull, Nicholas John, David Holbrook Culbert, and David Welch. Propaganda and Mass Persuasion: A Historical Encyclopedia, 1500 to the Present. Santa Barbara, CL: ABC-CLIO, 2003. Fox, Jo, and David Welch. Justifying War: Propaganda, Politics and the Modern Age. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Haładewicz-Grzelak, Małgorzata. “The Mythopoeia in Stalinist Propaganda of Post-War Poland.” Semiotica 182 (January 2010): 175–213. Hench, John B. Books as Weapons Propaganda, Publishing, and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War II. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010. Holman, Valerie. Print for Victory: Book Publishing in England 1939–1945. London: British Library, 2008. Jiménez-Varea, Jesús. “Historietas de Superhéroes y Propaganda Bélica Durante La Segunda Guerra Mundia.” In Propaganda y Comunicación, 153–173. Seville: Comunicación Social Ediciones y Publicaciones, 2004. Jiménez-Varea, Jesús. “Análisis de Un Caso de Propaganda Bélica Antijaponesa.” Questiones Publicitarias 1, no. 15 (July 2010): 72. Jowett, Garth S, and Victoria O’Donnell. Propaganda & Persuasion. London: Sage Publications, 2014. Lasswell, Harold D. “The Theory of Political Propaganda.” The American Political Science Review 21, no. 3 (1927): 627–631. McLaine, Ian. Ministry of Morale: Home Front Morale and the Ministry of Information in World War II. London: Allen & Unwin, 1979. Pineda Cachero, Antonio. Elementos Para Una Teoría Comunicacional de La Propaganda. Seville: Ediciones Alfar, 2006.

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Pineda Cachero, Antonio. “Un Modelo de Análisis Semiótico Del Mensaje Propagandístico.” Comunicación. Revista Internacional de Comunicación Audiovisual, Publicidad y Estudios Culturales 1, no. 6 (2008): 32–45. Pineda Cachero, Antonio, Ana Isabel Barragán Romero and Antonio Macarro Tomillo. “Semiótica de La Propaganda: Aplicación Empírica de Un Model de Análisis Formal a Portadas de Prensa de La Guerra Civil Española.” Anàlisi 46 (September 2012): 49–68. Pizarroso Quintero, Alejandro. “La Propaganda Norteamericana En España En La Segunda Guerra Mundial: Medios Impresos.” In Propaganda Impresa y Construcción Del Estado Moderno y Contemporáneo, edited by Espejo-Cala Carmen, 73–102. Madrid: Alfar, 2000. Rutz, Rainer. Signal: Eine Deutsche Auslandsillustrierte Als Propagandainstrument Im Zweiten Weltkrieg. Essen: Germany: Klartext, 2007. Taylor, Philip M. Munitions of the Mind: A History of Propaganda from the Ancient World to the Present Era. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995. Taylor, Philip M. “Techniques of Persuasion: Basic Ground Rules of British Propaganda during the Second World War.” Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 1, no. 1 (1981): 57–66. Van Dijk, Teun A. Ideología. Barcelona: Gedisa, 2000. Ward, Arthur. A Guide to War Publications of the First & Second World War: From Training Guides to Propaganda Posters. London: Pen and Sword, 2015. Welch, David. Propaganda: Power and Persuasion. London: British Library, 2013. Welch, David. Propaganda, Power and Persuasion: From World War I to Wikileaks. Accessed September 15, 2018. https://kar.kent.ac.uk/40703/. Xing-Hua, Lu. “Political Representation within the Libidinal Economy of a Pictorial Space: A Political-Semiotic Reading of Three Propaganda Posters of the Chinese Cultural Revolution.” Semiotica 157 (January 2005): 213–232.

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The semiotics of collaboration and resistance during the Nazi German occupation of Norway 1940–1945 Steinar Aas

Historian Roger Griffin characterized the Norwegian far-right party Nasjonal Samling (NS) as an “abortive fascist movement” in interwar Europe.1 Established in 1933, the movement only got 1.8% of the votes in the Norwegian general elections and hardly had any influence in inter­ war Norway. However, the German occupation of Norway, beginning on 9 April 1940, gave NS the opportunity to govern. In the evening of the first day of occupation, the group’s leader Vidkun Quisling (1887–1945) carried out a coup-d’état and established an NS government. Quisling’s coup took place as the legal Norwegian Labor government fled from the occupied cap­ ital together with the royal family to the free areas in Northern Norway. Quisling’s actions expanded the definition of treason, and the word quisling later described a “person who co-operates with the authorities of an enemy country who are occupying his country.”2 Nevertheless, Quisling’s new rule was put on hold by the Germans, and the coup was hampered by a combination of obstacles. The Germans tried to get the government to cooperate and to capture the Norwegian royal fam­ ily first. By 10 June 1940, the Norwegian government had capitulated, and the German occupants started to organize the occupation. By September 1940, all political parties except NS were abolished. NS then formally seized power as a puppet government in the Nazi Germany–controlled dictator­ ship of Norway.3 During the autumn and winter of 1940–1941, Hitler introduced his “New Order” in Norway by involving NS in the shift of power. From being a polit­ ically marginalized movement in the interwar period, NS now formed the foundation of the new government. This chapter concerns the semiotic con­ cept of treason in Norway during and after the Nazi occupation and includes

1 Roger Griffin, The Nature of Fascism (London/New York: Routledge, 1993), 116–117, 131. 2 “Quisling,” in Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary of Current English (London: Oxford University Oress, 1974), 700. 3 Berit Nøkleby, “Nyordning, Bind 2,” in Norge i krig. Fremmedåk og frihetskamp 1940–1945, ed. Magne Skodvin (Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 1990).

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a study of old members of NS in Nordland. The occupation triggered a struggle between the New Order and the opposition to it. In Norwegian historiography, this part of the national narrative has been treated as a struggle between good and evil, between collaboration and resistance.4 The purpose of this chapter is to illustrate how this struggle became a system of semiotics and thus part of a national narrative. NS and its members became the archetype of treason, while those opposing the occupant became the “good Norwegians.” In this chapter, the system of language used by the national “heroes” as well as the “traitors” is consequently examined. How did the latter create meaning out of their treason, and how were the semiot­ ics of resistance created? In addition, the chapter describes the semiotics of the war in Norway and how the narratives contrast an “historical reality” with the empirical sources of the time period.

The war and NS’ new opportunity To understand the Norwegian involvement in the war, we have to look more closely at some facts. The north and south of Norway experienced the war during the spring and early summer of 1940 in different ways. On 9 April 1940, Nazi Germany invaded Norway. Attacking by air and by sea, German paratroopers, naval forces and army troops occupied the main harbors of Norway in a daring and surprising attack under the cover of darkness and heavy North Sea storms early that Tuesday morning. The only northern town held by German forces was Narvik. Bodø, on the other hand, was between the German occupants in Narvik (300 km to the north) and Trondheim to the south.5 British and French troops, with assistance from free Polish forces, tried to help the Norwegians to neutralize the invaders, but the task was not easy in the southern parts of Norway, where they had to give up and retreat. On the northern flank, however, they did succeed in overpowering the invaders in Narvik. By 28 May 1940, the invaders had been forced out of Narvik, but at the same time, nearly 4,000 German reinforcements tried to reach the struggling German forces in Narvik from the south, through the inner parts of Nordland around Bodø. During this operation, the Allies established a bridgehead in Bodø. While they liberated Narvik, German planes bombed Bodø heavily the day before from their airfields in Værnes, near Trondheim. Both towns were integral to the military strategies of the two forces.6

4 Berit Nøkleby, “Holdningskamp, Bind 4,” in Norge i krig. Fremmedåk og frihetskamp 1940–1945, ed. Magne Skodvin (Oslo: Aschehoug forlag,1990). 5 Steinar Aas, Narviks historie, bind 1 1902–1950, Byen, banen og bolaget (Narvik: Stiftelsen Narviks historieverk, 2001), 394–396. 6 Aas, Narviks historie, 394–396; Steinar Aas, Forvandlinga. Bodøs historie 1890–1950 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), 360–364.

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However, because of the German invasion of the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg and France, the Allied forces had to withdraw from Narvik just when the retreating German forces, pushed toward the border with Sweden, were about to surrender.7 Without the help of the Allies, the Norwegians had to capitulate. After this, the King and the government of Norway fled to London to continue the resistance against Nazi Germany from abroad. They did not return until the defeat of Germany in 1945. From June 1940 until Germany’s surrender, the powerful Nazi German Reichskommisar Josef Terboven (1898–1945) ruled Norway. At first, his strategy was to have an apparently cooperative approach, but at the same time it limited freedom and democracy.8

Nasjonal samling: a marginalized party in interwar Norway The position of the extreme right had been weak in Norway before the war broke out, as illustrated in Figure 7.1. It is not an exaggeration to say that the fascist party of Norway, the NS, was a rather marginal political party in Norway in the interwar period. Their peak was in their founding year of 1933 when the party got 2.2% of the national votes in the parliamen­ tary elections. After that, the party went into a decline for several reasons: internal conflicts within the party, a period of economic growth that gave no stimulus for radical right-wing parties and a change of strategy by the Norwegian Labor Party. The political rhetoric became less revolutionary and thus less scary for people from the social, cultural and economic estab­ lishment. Combined with the conservative and liberal parties’ aversion to the far right, the odds were against NS.9 In towns like Bodø and Narvik in Nordland County, like elsewhere in Norway, there were small groups loyal to the fascist party. In the parlia­ mentary elections of 1933, Narvik had two of the six parliamentary candi­ dates on the common list of all the north Norwegian towns. However, no one from NS was elected to Parliament from the constituency of the north Norwegian towns. The party lacked the more than 10,000 votes required to achieve such a feat. The members of the NS party resigned following the result. This failure was even more evident after the next parliamen­ tary elections in 1936, when support for NS declined in the towns of Bodø and Narvik, as in the rest of the country. Even though support for NS in Nordland County was stable, it never exceeded 0.5%. Based on these elec­ tion results, Roger Griffin characterized NS as one of Europe’s “abortive” fascist movements.10 7 Aas, Narviks historie, 400.

8 Nøkleby, “Nyordning,” 57–58, 238–240.

9 Hans-Fredrik Dahl, Bernt Hagtvedt and Guri Hjeltnes, Den norske nasjonalsosialismen,

Nasjonal Samling 1933–1945 I tekst og bilder (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 1990), 61–82. 10 Griffin, Nature of Fascism, 116–117, 131.

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Figure 7.1 Election results for the NS party during the interwar period. Source: The 1933 Parliamentary election: https://www.ssb.no/a/histstat/nos/nos_ix_026.pdf. The 1936 Parliamentary election: https://www.ssb.no/a/histstat/nos/nos_ix_107.pdf. (Statistisk Sentralbyrå, Last modified, November 30, 2018).

NS never regained popular support before the war broke out. Nevertheless, when the war started, the party organization, with its leadership and nation­ wide organization, still existed. This was the fundament for the Germancontrolled collaborative government that was formed in September 1940.11

The system of semiotics in Norway during the Second World War Identifying friends and enemies was one of the most important issues in the post-war debate about the Nazi German occupation of Norway. This cardinal issue was part of the creation of a post-war Norwegian identity. Even though there were no prohibitions imposed on being part of NS, the Norwegian party collaborating with the Nazis, the Norwegian govern­ ment-in-exile in London decided to implement an edict that made member­ ship of NS criminal in December 1944.12 The edict had a retroactive effect, which meant that people were punished for their involvement in collabora­ tive pro-Nazi activities even though they were legal when they happened. There has been a huge debate related to this topic in post-war Norway 11 Dahl, Hagtvedt and Hjeltnes, Den norske nasjonalsosialismen, 80.

12 Stortinget, “Report to the Storting about the Provisional ordinance of 15 December 1944,”

Stortinget, last modified October 16, 2018. Accessed May 20, 2020. https://www.stortinget. no/no/Saker-og-publikasjoner/Stortingsforhandlinger/Saksside/?pid=1945-1954&mtid=9 1&vt=a&did=DIVL114115.

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162 Steinar Aas because the law was interpreted as a violation of legal principles in a state based on the rule of law.13 The edict came as an amendment to the Norwegian Criminal Code of 1902, where a handful of paragraphs concerned crimes against the independence of the state and its security (“Forbrydelser mod Statens Selvstændighed og Sikkerhed”). This is part of most modern countries’ legal systems and, of course, is commonly known to any citizen. In this case, the law provided for prison sentences of between 5 and 21 years.14 The legal concept of treason and treachery during the German occupa­ tion became an object of legal investigation in Norway after the Second World War. The trials were extensive, comprising more than 93,000 individ­ ual cases, including private persons, companies and organizations. Around 26,000 convictions were made in connection with the trials, which are con­ sidered as the most extensive legal processes in post-war Europe. Norway convicted 1,400 out of every 100,000 inhabitants, while the numbers in Belgium and the Netherlands, for instance, were 963 and 700 out of every 100,000 inhabitants, respectively.15 However, treason was more than a crime. The concept of treason changed during and after the act of war in the spring of 1940. The concepts of “trea­ son” and “traitors” were part of the national narrative and created a new system of common moral values for Norwegians in the post-war period. How did common people as well as NS members in the period between the spring of 1940 and the edict from the London government in 1944 struggle to agree on the description of the realities? And how did the different realities emerge? In response to the occupation, the use of the words “treason” and “treach­ ery” increased, as did the linguistic innovation “quisling,” both during and after the occupation, as illustrated in Figures 7.2 and 7.3. Counting the use of the words in all books published in Norway in the period between 1900 and 2010 shows a significant watershed that occurred after the war. Before 1940, “traitor” was used in novels or dictionaries, but not as frequently as in later Norwegian literature. During the occupation, the NS leader, Vidkun Quisling,

13 Stortinget, “The Public Investigation about the Traitor Trial in 1962,” Stortinget, last modified May 6, 2019. Accessed May 20, 2020. https://www.stortinget.no/no/Saker­ og-publikasjoner/Stortingsforhandlinger/Lesevisning/?p=1962-63&paid=3&wid=b&ps id=DIVL62&pgid=b_0009&s=True&vt=b&did=DIVL66. Other publications about the trials include Hans-Fredrik Dahl and Øystein Sørensen, Et rettferdig oppgjør? (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 2004) and Johannes Andenæs, Det vanskelige oppgjøret, Rettsoppgjøret etter okkupasjonen (Oslo: Tanum-Nordli, 1979). The latest publication is about the relation between the legal process and the Constitution: Baard Hermann Borge and Lars-Erik Vaale, Grunnlovens største prøve. Rettsoppgjøret etter 1945 (Oslo: Scandinavian Academic Press, 2018). 14 “Lovdata,” last modified January 14, 2019. Accessed May 20, 2020. https://lovdata.no/ lov/1902-05-22-10/§83. 15 Baard Hermann Borge, “I rettsoppgjørets lange skygger. Andre generasjons problemer i lys av moderne transisjonsteori,” (PhD diss., University of Bergen, 2012), 17–18.

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Figure 7.2 Findings of the words “landssvik,” “landsforræder” and “quisling” in Norwegian literature from the National Library Database of all books published in Norwegian between 1900 and 2010. Source: The Norwegian National Library, “Bokhylla”, last modiefied, 30. January 2019, https:// www.nb.no.

was the focus of many new publications about him and his political project or publications, resulting in an increase in the use of “traitor” or the name Quisling between 1940 and 1945. The use of these words accelerated after 1945 when treason was revitalized in the Norwegian legal system, not to mention the moral debates about the treason of NS members from 1940 to 1945.16 The stories about the symbols and signs and their meanings during and after the war became part of the collective memory of all Norwegians. The Norwegian historian Synne Corell concluded that post-war historians as well as the majority of Norwegians solidly rooted the “national narrative” about the occupation period.17 Both the Nazi occupation regime and NS members were assigned the role of the nation’s “other.” Corell concludes that NS members, “backed by the German occupants, have been perceived 16 As per a search on April 15, 2019 using Bokhylla, the Norwegian National Library’s search engine, for books published between 1900 and 2010. 17 Synne Corell, “The Solidity of a National Narrative: The German Occupation in Norwegian History Culture,” in Nordic Narratives in the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, eds. Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011), 101–102.

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Figure 7.3 Findings of the use of the word “landsvikoppgjør” (Legal Proceedings of Treason) in Norwegian Publications between 1945 and 2010. Source: The Norwegian National library, “Bokhylla”, last modiefied, 30. January 2019, https:// www.nb.no.

as constituting the opposite pole of the ‘good Norwegians’ by the Norwegian majority, symbolised primarily by King Haakon VII.” She argues, referring to her colleague Ole Kr. Grimnes, that “the post-war national story about the years of occupation has been spun around” the dichotomy between good and bad Norwegians, a common conception of the historiography of the history of occupation.18 The meaning of treason is seldom studied as a system of semiotics, even though the language of treason has been treated as a system of signs in the Saussurean term of the concept. It consists of a “network of pairings of sounds with concepts,” which will be described more thoroughly later.19 This vast range of symbols and signs has been both visible and uncon­ sciously studied in the works on the role of the resistance movement during the occupation. Many signs were central and self-evident in the process of establishing a national resistance movement, but this unconscious treatment of symbols and signs of significant meaning is normally treated with innate comprehension, as will be demonstrated with some examples later. In her studies of the occupation era, the ethnologist Anne Eriksen has, for instance, shown that the construction of a collective memory of national resistance 18 Synne Corell, “The Solidity of a National Narrative: The German Occupation in Norwegian History Culture,” in Nordic Narratives in the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, eds. Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011), 102. 19 Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London/New York: Routledge, 2017), 14.

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centered around certain symbols and words. After the war, the national nar­ ratives constructed a civil campaign against the enemy of the public from day 1 of the Nazi German attack, being nothing less than the invention of a popular uprising. The traditional narrative depicts the minority of NS mem­ bers standing against the majority of “good Norwegians.”20 Inspired by Roland Barthes’ (1915–1980) book Mythologies (1991 [1957]) and his concept of myths, Eriksen establishes the narrative of the Second World War in Norway as a mythical narrative, living side by side with the more “realistic” narrative where actual events are described. The myths of the war become a “thief,” stealing the real content of the language. The narrative becomes simplified, transformed to nature.21 Barthes embellished his thoughts in the classic article “Myth Today,” first published in English in 1972: In passing from history to nature, myth acts economically, it abolishes the complexity of human acts, it gives them the simplicity of essences, it does away with all dialectics, with any going back beyond what is immediately visible, it organizes a world which is without contradic­ tions because it is without depth, a world wide open and wallowing in the evident, it establishes a blissful clarity.22 The protester, the “jøssing,” was the hero of Norwegian history, while the collaborator, the “quisling,” was the antagonist, consequently the traitor, the enemy. The antagonists practiced two different systems of language: sym­ bols and signs. Even the name “jøssing,” which was introduced by prominent NS members to stigmatize the protesters of the occupation, came as a response to and protest against members of NS. Originally an insult to abuse the pro­ testers supporting King Haakon VII (1872–1957), the term soon became a designation of respect in the battle between good and bad both during and after the Second World War. It symbolized the good, brave Norwegians with a national attitude against the occupant and its collaborators, as well as all the others who did not openly disgrace themselves during the war.23 Eriksen focused on the semiotics of the war and introduced some of the symbols and signs it contained. For the resistance, these included pictures of painted slogans, V-signs, the insignia of the king in exile (Haakon VII), Norwegian skiers making a “Long live the king” formation on a photo, the use of the Norwegian flag, secret gatherings and unobtrusive illegal meet­ ings stating voices of protest. A paper clip attached to a lapel or the use of 20 Anne Eriksen, Det var noe annet under krigen. 2. verdenskrig i norsk kollektivtradisjon (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 1995), 73. 21 Eriksen, Det var noen annet under krigen, 16–17. 22 Barthes, “Myth Today,” in Visual Culture: A Reader, ed. Jessica Evans and Stuart Hall (Los Angeles-London-New Delhi-Singapore-Washington: Routledge, 2010 [1999]), 57. 23 Eriksen, Det var noe annet under krigen, 56.

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red knitted caps were both real protests against the occupation. Both were actions that risked reactions from the Norwegian Storm Troopers (Hirden) or other representatives of the “New Order.” By publicly wearing a flower in one’s buttonhole on the birthday of King Haakon, the demonstrator – the “jøssing” – even risked detention.24 This use of symbols and intricate signs was indeed an important contri­ bution to establishing the resistance in Norway, even though the actions were quite peaceful and symbolic. “Neither paper clips nor V-signs are ele­ ments in a resistance fight unless someone interprets them as resistance,” Eriksen correctly concludes, and she adds that “symbolic resistance” is a form of communication. It confirms the existence of a community between like-minded persons and gives them the means to signal their belonging in this particular group.25 The resistance movement managed to make the subtle signs and sym­ bols meaningful by what the American semiotician Charles Sanders Peirce (1839–1914) claims, in that signs were constituted as a sign merely or mainly by the fact that they were “used and understood as such.” Because of this common understanding, there was a ban on red knitted caps, the use of Norwegian flags or standing in a tramcar when there were vacant seats beside German soldiers.26 The British semiotician Daniel Chandler adds to this perspective that symbolic signs like the paper clip or the red knitted cap are usually understood to be “intended to communicate something.” Thus, their intended meanings are not intuitively obvious. Understanding symbolic signs “depends wholly on our familiarity with the relevant con­ ventions (without which they may fail to signify or be misinterpreted).” In this case, as in any case, one “interpret[s] symbols according to ‘a habitual connection’, ‘a rule’, or ‘a law, usually an association of general ideas, which operates to cause the symbol to be interpreted as referring to that object’,” Chandler adds.27 In the context of the occupation of Norway, the red beanie and the paper clip used by the resistance under the Nazi German occupation in Norway were “genuine” symbols existing “in a constant conjunction whereby it is linked to something other than itself.” By underlining “genuine,” Peirce emphasizes the meaning of the symbols as “limited to their forms” or “sig­ nifying a kind of thing, rather than a particular thing.”28 The perspective is in line with Peirce’s triadic model, which describes the three-part model of the sign. There had to be a representamen, which is the “form the sign takes” – “the sign vehicle.” Then there has to be an object,

24 25 26 27 28

Eriksen, Det var noe annet under krigen, 73–77.

Eriksen, Det var noe annet under krigen, 77.

Chandler, Semiotics, 46.

Chandler, Semiotics, 46.

Chandler, Semiotics, 46.

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“something to which the sign refers” – “a referent.” The third part in his model of the sign is the interpretant, “the effect produced by the sign or the sense made of it.”29 The Peircean model tends to focus on the relations between the three parts of the model. “Only in relation to each other can these operate as a sign.” The model is the triadic sign relations in which signs mediate between objects in the world and concepts in the mind.30 Additionally, the concept of common symbols and language was depend­ ent on a wider range of communication. The most important conversa­ tion partner was the antagonist: the NS government and its supporters. Therefore, the symbols of resistance and other symbolic actions provoked a response and orders, bans and prohibitions from the NS antagonists. Such prohibitions demonstrate that NS recognized and accepted the rather banal use of symbols as part of the resistance against the “New Order.” Most Norwegians regarded the enforcement of a ban against the public use of red beanies, as well as the reactions toward the use of paper clips on the lapel, as an overreaction. Using them made protest more joyous.31 In Narvik, one worker at the post office was interrogated by the police and threatened with detention because of the paper clip worn at work on his smock. The informer was a central representative of the NS party in town who was pass­ ing by the post office. He even went behind the counter and brought the poor civil servant into his boss’ office. This episode shows us that symbols like the paper clip were not just part of an innocent game.32 Studying the number of Norwegian publications mentioned earlier about “treason,” “traitors” and “quislings,” another trend emerges: the increase in debates about treason, treachery and quislings from 1970 onwards. By 1970, a renewed interest in the studies of the legal settlements was about to emerge, and the number of related words found is a sign of this new interest from scholars, journalists and others. The tendency was at that time to have a more nuanced standing on the old topics of treason and traitors, where the perspective was more favorable to the previously judged traitors than before. It also correlated with the new revisionist trend in Norwegian histo­ riography and the study of the Second World War. The increase in such debates may also have been a response by new gen­ erations to the semiotics of war, with its dichotomy of “good” and “bad” Norwegians, offered by the narratives of the first generation of post-war historians. From the 1960s and 1970s, the moral implications attached to the semiotics used were about to lose their strength, or, perhaps more accu­ rately, loosen their grip. The symbolism of the red knitted cap or the paper clip was about to lose its strength for new generations. Journalists, authors,

29 30 31 32

Chandler, Semiotics, 29.

Chandler, Semiotics, 32.

Eriksen, Det var noe annet under krigen, 77–78.

Aas, Narviks historie, 472.

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historians and the public challenged the deeply rooted symbols and signs from the Second World War, where normative measures were made out of extreme positions. History was not black and white. There was a new ten­ dency to claim that the war should be viewed in a more nuanced way. The historian Synne Corell’s reactions to the traditional narratives of the Second World War are a good example of this new orientation among younger gen­ erations of Norwegian historians, who questioned an established truth.

The semiotics of a “Quisling” – Ottar Trældal The semiotics of war resistance symbols contributed to the narrative about the war. This narrative exists in contrast to, as Eriksen and Barthes stated, the “realities,” the historical events. The narratives about them are, in contrast, stories or constructions of the events told in their after­ math. How, for instance, did the later labeled “traitors” deal with the new situation of occupation, there and then? How did they create meaning when their time as a political movement had come? Did they reflect on the symbols and signs, language and meaning of the specific era in Norwegian history? The first NS mayor in Narvik, Ottar Trældal (1885–1963), is an example of someone who would later be labeled a traitor and con­ victed of treason. While German troops controlled the streets of Narvik between 9 April and 26 May, and while Allied forces prepared for an attack on the German forces, Trældal frequented the streets of Narvik. The Germans had not yet established the political “New Order,” but in September 1940, Trældal wrote to Konrad Sundlo, his friend and co-founder of the local NS party in 1933. This was a response to a letter from Sundlo about the bad treatment of Trældal during the dramatic spring of 1940. By the summer of 1940, NS had established a “legal office” where “innocent suffering NS people” could get compensation for all the strain they had been put under during the spring of 1940.33 The claim of compensation affects the credibility of the sources from this period. Injured parties may have overstated or exaggerated the strains they were put under during the hard times of war in the spring of 1940, because this could have positively affected their compensation. Nevertheless, Trældal’s personal experiences during the hardships show his communica­ tion with the people within a similar system of semiotics. Based on Trældal’s communication, he must have felt that he was an “enemy of the state” for the majority of the Norwegian people. Yes, there is no doubt that Trældal felt that he was considered a traitor during the occupa­ tion of Norway in April and May 1940, when NS members were considered

33 National Archives of Norway, Oslo, Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 1.

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pro-German and pro-Nazi. Trældal considered the atmosphere as a contin­ uance from the interwar period. For a number of years, “practically all my life,” Trældal wrote, he “had been ridiculed and spat on” since he joined “Norway’s most national movement, NS, as a fascist, as a Nazi and now, in the time of war, as a traitor, etc.”34 “NS people” had been “exposed to pretty drastic strains for their NS sympathy,” he wrote.35 This sentence shows an awareness of the concepts of treason and treachery before the legal concept of treason was introduced by the edict of 1944. In fascist studies, a tendency has emerged in recent years to consider fas­ cism as a “revolutionary” ideology. Roger Griffin has emphasized fascists as being obsessed with the nation as an organism that was “sick” or “dying” in its present state and regime and that a new era would pave the way for a need for a revolution of “the people” that would create its rebirth (palingen­ esis) from decadence through a “New Order.”36 This was clearly part of the semantics of Trældal and his friends. The German occupation gave them all a fresh start. It was the historical moment of a revolution, and they all felt the joy of the newly gained opportunity. One can really read the feelings of revenge and revolution both on and between the lines when he reflected on the political situation in Labor-governed Narvik during the interwar period: “I could write a lot about the humiliation and disdain hurled out towards me.” However, he continued triumphantly: “I was proud to be asso­ ciated with systems and movements which presently would rule the world.”37 Trældal was not ashamed of being a part of an anti-democratic or anti-par­ liamentary political movement that saw the prospects of a new era through a coup d’état. Trældal’s letter to Sundlo is more than a letter between old friends. At the time of the letter, Sundlo was in Oslo. One can assume that he had met Vidkun Quisling and other central members of NS when he wrote the letter. Trældal must have been aware of this, and in this respect, we can assume that Trældal tried to emphasize his loyalty and submissiveness toward the NS leadership. It was not just a letter between two old friends, it was also a political manifesto from Trældal. His experience of fights with liberal and conservative politicians had also made him feel suppressed by the political establishment, and he became politically radicalized and founded the local NS party group in Narvik in 1933. This event became a sort of homecoming, expressed by a sense of sincerity toward his fellow political friend Sundlo: “[T]he colonel knows my attitude towards nationalism and internationalism 34 National Archives of Norway, Oslo, Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 3. 35 National Archives of Norway, Oslo, Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 1. 36 Griffin, The Nature of Fascism, viii. 37 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 4.

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and my interest in Nasjonal Samling and its leader Mr. Mayor Quisling – the only deliverer of our country. – Long live Quisling. Long live NS.”38 The narrative of Trældal’s life had been a political wandering in the wilderness, similar to the private journey of Vidkun Quisling. The occu­ pation brought this wandering to an end. The German occupation meant that NS members were rewarded for their pain and suffering. From their point of view, the people of Norway and its political leaders had been blind and unable to listen to Quisling and “his long-standing attempts to open our eyes.” Instead, he had been “ridiculed, stoned and spat on,” Trældal cried out. “Oh my God, what a government, what leadership, and what a people. – But Nemesis has probably come now?”39 Trældal did not use the Nemesis myth randomly. Nemesis was the symbol of wrath, rage and anger, of divine revenge. The Nemesis legend was the story about the expression of the righteous world order that destroys the person who rises too high and that punishes excess (hubris). With the German occupation, the decisive moment had come for the NS’ members. The people who had been dominant in creating the old order were about to be eradicated through the NS’ “palingenesis.”40 Consequently, when reflecting on his treason and his role as a traitor in the autumn of 1940, he was fully aware of being in the minority and that the compact majority of fellow Norwegians considered him as a “traitor.” This was similar to the way in which fascist movements all over Europe judged the “old regimes” – the customary liberal or social democrats. The feeling of being an enemy of the people came from all areas of the political spec­ trum: “[I]t rained down from most of the people I met in the streets, for that matter everywhere, from members of the Conservative party, the Liberal Party, Marxists and communists, women and men.”41 The fact that his core values and political visions did not at all correspond with the majority did not bother him at all. On the contrary, it seemed to make him even more certain about his future political course. NS had one and only one desire left, a “wish for a new and cleaner Norway.” In line with fascist ideology, a new Norway would only be possible under the rule of NS and its leader Vidkun Quisling.42

38 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940. 39 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 7. 40 “Nemesis,” Store norske leksikon, last modified October 18, 2018, https://snl.no/Nemesis; Det norske akademis ordbok, last modified October 18, 2018, https://www.naob.no/ordbok/ nemesis?elementRefid=59800208. 41 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” September 2, 1940, 2. 42 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” September 2, 1940, 6.

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As previously mentioned, the Norwegian Criminal Code of 1902 was quite clear.43 There were paragraphs on crimes against the independence of the state and its security. Trældal reflected on whether the public opinion in Narvik was pro-German or pro-Allies and who the enemies were. On 9 April, while out on the streets of Narvik with his townsmen observing the German soldiers marching in the streets, he remembered his fellow citizens overwhelmed him with invective remarks. A stoker from the Norwegian State Railways – a colleague of Trældal – said, “Now, the Nazis have got it their way,” and, further, he recorded, “your friends and brothers in faith [have come] to town, but just wait until the Englishmen, etc. come.”44 Trældal considered the public atmosphere as hostile toward the invading Germans. “During the exchange of words I noticed clearly that the stoker’s words were more welcome than mine; consequently, I immediately became aware of what I had in prospect if the Englishmen came to town.” He was definitely feeling marginalized.45 Being a Nazi sympathizer was tough during the short German occupa­ tion between 9 April and the last week of May when the German occu­ pants fled Narvik. Trældal and his wife became subject to all threats, including detention. Even worse, his fellow townsmen threatened to harm him, even to have him shot. One phrase he remembered was directed at him upon the arrival of the Allied forces in late May. Then, every German “and their hangers-on in Narvik and in Norway” would be killed, it was claimed. It was a “true hell,” and his “nerves were about to give way,” he wrote later.46

The language of the NS county leader Leif Rabben (1898–1992) in Bodø For the NS members in Bodø, their experiences of the acts of war differed from Trældal’s in Narvik. While the Germans occupied Narvik from early April to late May, the local authorities in Bodø were expectantly waiting for a course of action from the central authorities. Since the town was not directly involved in the actions of war at first, some of the town leaders thought that Bodø could stay out of the war. They even wanted the town to be an “open city” by claiming neutrality in accordance with the Hague

43 “Almindelig borgerlig straffelov,” Lovdata, last modified January 9, 2019, https://lovdata. no/dokument/NLO/lov/1902-05-22-10/KAPITTEL_2-1#%C2%A786b. 44 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” September 2, 1940, 1. 45 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” September 2, 1940. 46 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” September 2, 1940, 2–3.

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convention of 1902.47 However, this strategy was not sustainable. This sit­ uation changed in correlation with the development of the invasion in the occupied areas of Norway when the Norwegian government and the king fled the chasing Germans from the occupied south to north Norway. After that, Bodø was definitely a part of the war scene as an Allied bridgehead in the north.48 At the start of the invasion on 9 April, one strategic target for the invaders was control of the national broadcaster (NRK) in Oslo, as every Norwegian could listen to the proclamation from the NS leader, Vidkun Quisling, on the state radio channel. In response to the power vacuum left by the fleeing Norwegian authorities, Quisling proclaimed his coup d’état. In Bodø, most people were horrified by the speech, and some of them expected the police to immediately arrest NS members. They were considered traitors. Others opposed the idea of putting NS members under detention, maintaining that no one should go through detentions without a trial and being charged.49 One of Bodø’s police officers wrote about the extraordinary conditions at the station during those dramatic days in 1941: “As will be remembered, the atmosphere was rather exasperated in the first week after the outbreak of war, and there was a lot of talk of ‘traitors’.” The police did feel the pres­ sure to take a harder approach toward NS members. The chief of police received visits from people associated with the Labor Party, who demanded an explanation for why Rabben was still free. One police officer considered this as a threat: “[I]f Rabben wasn’t arrested, one risked some Labor Party member ‘neutralizing’ him.” This was why Rabben was arrested and kept in custody by the police until the capitulation in early June 1940.50 The Bodø police interned a total of 14 members of the NS party during the invasion in the spring of 1940.51 The situation in Bodø was remarkably different from the situation in the occupied south of Norway. The atmosphere in Bodø was expectant but soon became more clarified when the government and king fled from the invaders and the military resistance of the north became more organized after the first shock. From then on, the two leading local newspapers – those of the Labor Party and the Conservative Party – cooperated with local broadcast journalists from the NRK in a joint information opera­ tion for the fleeing government. By adjusting the frequency of the radio

47 Nils Parelius, Krigsdagene i Bodø 9. april – 20. mai 1940 (Bodø: Nordlands Framtids trykkeri, 1990), 4–6. 48 Aas, Forvandlinga, 255–257. 49 Steinar Aas, “Motstand, ruin, okkupasjon og oppgjør (1940–1945),” in Start pressen! Avisene i Bodø gjennom 150 år, ed. Wilhelm Karlsen and Svein Lundestad (Trondheim: Tapir Forlag, 2012), 84–86. 50 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, doc. 59, 2–3. 51 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 4/41 – Senja politidistrikt.

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sender in Bodø, the government could transmit news from the free areas of the north to the occupied population in the south. This specific event contributed to making a narrative of Bodø as a “center for the Norwegian freedom fight” during the operations from April to June 1940. However, it was the use of the radio transmitter that made Bodø an exposed target for German bombers.52 However, Rabben, who worked at the telegraph office, tried to help Quisling by playing a role as an intermediary during the coup d’état. He was in contact with Quisling during the chaos and proposed to the local author­ ities that he could stay at the telegraph office and keep in contact with Oslo and the puppet government and negotiate with them.53 At first, Quisling’s allied NS members in Bodø were not treated like poten­ tial traitors. However, on 10 April, the police decided to arrest Rabben. In his sworn statement of 10 December 1940, he stated that the police arrested him while sitting at the dinner table in a very dramatic scene. His family were all together, and his small children traumatically witnessed “the sud­ den appearance of the police equipped with bandoleers and revolvers.” They raided the house, searching for evidence and put him in Bodø prison from then until 20 May. Rabben felt that the police’s actions were an overreaction with their use of weapons and bandoleers.54 During the same afternoon in court, the judge asked him about his con­ nection with NS and his contacts with Germany. The examination contin­ ued the following day, and a couple of days later, the prosecuting authorities released him. Then he moved to a hut a few kilometers outside town with his family. After a couple of days, he was arrested again and later deported to the “free Norwegian” areas north of Narvik and kept in Tromsø until the capitulation in early June.55 When the Nazi German occupation came into force and the first puppet government was about to be established, like Trældal in Narvik, he asked for compensation for the pain and suffering he had endured during cus­ tody. The experience of Rabben was similar to Trældal’s but even worse, since he was put in detention and deported to Tromsø. In 1941, he wrote to Gudbrand Lunde, his friend and the Culture and Propaganda Minister, and Konrad Sundlo, describing the stress of his wartime experience. He had suffered a lot since 1933, but the worst period was during the acts of war in 1940. He had been “insulted, mocked and spat on” and “by a hair’s breadth lynched,” he told Lunde and Sundlo. They almost deported him to

52 Aas, “Motstand, ruin, okkupasjon og oppgjør (1940–1945),” 87–89.

53 Aas, Forvandlinga. 350–351.

54 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, doc. no. 284/5, Sak

6/41- 4, “Report to the Police in Senja, Harstad,” Bodø December 10, 1940, 8, 11. 55 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, doc. no. 284/5, Sak 6/41- 4, “Report to the Police in Senja, Harstad,” Bodø December 10, 1940, 11–12.

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England. This was how life was during his “struggle against Bolshevism, and for Norway,” he stated.56 During his imprisonment, his wife was particularly stricken by his absence. She had to stay alone with her four small children in their primi­ tively equipped, semi-finished cabin. It was far away from civilization and food supplies, near a town constantly tormented by air raids and air raid warnings. She had to leave the kids to provide the family with water and firewood. In addition, the local police put her under guard, and one of the children needed medical treatment during the stay.57 Trældal and Rabben were both part of a minority of NS elites in periph­ eral Norway. In line with the fascist terminology of that time, they used the term “Bolshevism” and placed this geographically as an “eastern” form of ideology and as the name used as the common concept of “communism.” Trældal used “Marxists” as the name for “social democrats or socialists,” and he had enemies among the conservatives and liberals as well. He identi­ fied these people as belonging to a “corrupt political party” and as “non-so­ cialists.” He even constructed a brotherhood between the members of the “communist-Marxist-non-socialist” city council.58 Trældal’s language shows how he considered himself politically isolated. In addition, his language and phrases provide insight into the common semiotic system of a Norwegian national socialist. The letters from Ottar Trældal, in particular, show his system of thought and how he made mean­ ing out of his political approach to life during the Nazi German occu­ pation. His semantic mindset does not differ from the commonly known universe of National Socialists from Nazi Germany. In his eagerness to criticize those who supported the Norwegian king, the “jøssings,” he yielded to the temptation of insulting his enemies by calling them “morons” and “parasites.”59 Trældal’s anti-British sentiments were striking and based on the British treatment of him during the Boer War when he was 14–15 years old. His dislike of and contempt toward the English began in response to the way the English treated “a small, freedom-loving, hard-working immigrant popula­ tion.” His nationalism was strong as well, and he always considered himself “radically nationally tuned.”60 With the German invasion, he believed a new

56 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, doc. no. 62, “Letter to G. Lunde and K. Sundlo,” 21 September 1941. 57 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, doc. no. 40, “Report from Hanna Rabben to the department of Justice,” 30 November 1940. 58 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940. 59 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” September 4, 1940, 2. 60 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45, doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 1.

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“nationalist land and people” would rise up, “built on the system of the new era, namely the German one.”61

Norway’s development into a dictatorship Eriksen claims that most Norwegians just passively observed the New Order during the Nazi German occupation. All Norwegians did not contin­ uously resist or protest against the occupants and/or NS from 1940 to 8 May 1945. Norway did not consist of a whole community of active resistance by any means. However, the resistance took many subtle and elaborate forms. While Trældal and Rabben were strong advocates for the New Order, most Norwegians became more and more hostile to the regime. When the political parties were abolished in September 1940, many polit­ ically active Norwegians knew the kind of system of government they were headed toward. In September, everyone knew that the newly appointed gov­ ernment consisted of NS members, who presented 10 out of 13 members in the newly appointed cabinet. The Norwegian historian Berit Nøkleby has concluded that this designation paved the way for NS.62 During 1940, censorship of the press was introduced as well. This marked the start of the liquidation of more than 100 Norwegian papers, mainly of liberal, socialist and communist leaning. The surviving papers had to cooperate with the NS censor, who controlled all papers in advance of printing. Censorship could take different directions. Editors or jour­ nalists could be removed. Papers could be stopped for shorter or longer periods, and news of strategic and military importance was prohibited. In addition, political critiques of the occupants and their collaborators were naturally illegal.63 From the autumn of 1940, the suppression became tougher and tougher. In October 1940, Christian organizations came together to build a council, the Christian Deliberation Council (Kristen Samråd). It formed the corner­ stone for the future resistance against the Nazification of Christian organ­ izations and the Church of Norway. This resulted in 50,000 copies of an encyclical letter being distributed to all members of the church from the reli­ gious leaders in February 1941 that supported the constitutional state based on the rule of law. The following month, NS and the Germans tried to estab­ lish a new Nazi sports organization as a replacement for the Norwegian Sports Federation. The response was a strike by practically all members of the federation, with a resulting boycott of all types of sports venues, compe­ titions and leagues for the next 4 years.64 This set the tone of the resistance. 61 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Narvik politikammer, L-sak 1/45. doc. no. 1, “Letter to K. Sundlo,” August 28, 1940, 3. 62 Nøkleby, “Nyordning,” 46–54. 63 Aas, “Motstand, ruin, okkupasjon og oppgjør (1940–1945),” 89–91. 64 Nøkleby, “Nyordning,” 8–10.

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Norway moved closer to an authoritarian dictatorship when the county leader of NS, together with the NS cabinet minister and the county governor, appointed new mayors for every municipality in Norway in January 1941. Even the new, fascist-inspired corporative city and municipality council members were appointed by the NS government for all Norwegian municipalities.65 During the summer of 1940, the police force was put under pressure from the German occupants and NS, and by 1941 more than 40% of the Norwegian police were members of NS. The police were expected to per­ form the “small” and “big” salutes. These became part of the semiotics of signs standing for loyalty under the new regime. Correspondingly, not salut­ ing in the new way – with an upraised right hand – resulted in reprimands and even detention. At the police station in Narvik, one police officer was suspended due to his resistance to the new regulation. To not salute was seen as “totally repellent behavior towards NS.”66 Additionally, four other mem­ bers of the station were sent to concentration camps in Stutthof in 1943 due to disloyalty to the new regime. Altogether, 271 Norwegian policemen were sent to the Stutthof camp in 1943/44.67

The poster campaign in Bodø in December 1940 One of the most peculiar campaigns toward the rulers in Bodø occurred just before Christmas in 1940. A poster campaign had been organized with pro­ tests against NS in particular at strategic places all around town. The posters were placed on fences around the houses of prominent NS members and were meant to bolster the political critique of the regime and the morale of “good” Norwegians. This provoked the NS leaders in Bodø, and they demanded the police arrest the people responsible. The case developed during the first phase of the Nazification of Norwegian society, so the NS was more involved than normal in the incident. Even the NS Norwegian Storm Troopers were con­ sulted during the investigation.68 According to the police, the posters were placed in strategic places around the houses of “leading men of NS in Bodø.” One poster stated, “death to the traitors in N.S.,” a second one said, “Down with the traitor Quisling!” and a third one read, “Long live England and dem­ ocratic Norway.”69 Two posters had been put up on Rabben’s fence, and these read: “Down with Quisling and his henchmen! Long live the King and democ­ racy!” Even the plaque outside the NS county office in the city center was overpainted with the same black paint as used on the posters.70

65 Nøkleby, “Nyordning,” 84–98.

66 Aas, Narviks historie, 471.

67 Aas, Narviks historie, 468–472. Also see Nils Johan Ringdal, Mellom barken og veden.

Politiet under okkupasjonen (Oslo: Aschehougs forlag, 1987), 297. 68 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6. 69 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6. 70 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6.

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Figure 7.4 One of the posters used in the campaign against NS in Bodø. 13/11/20 5:22 PM

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Other messages were straightforward: “Death to the traitors! Long live England and a free Norway” was painted on the posters on the fence near one of the entrances between the suburbs and the city center. At one place in the urban landscape, a lot of people in the bombed-out city passed by in numbers during the early morning hours. Even though the poster was discovered by the authorities and torn down at 7:15 am, it still made an impact on the people in town. People were talking about the posters, and descriptions of their content spread, even being discretely whispered about from person to person, and so a common web of semantic language and signs was built, labeling the traitors as disloyal and cementing the loyalty between “good citizens” with subtle symbols, signs and language. It was not even necessary to read the signs, only to know about them and their content. Everyone knew the posters’ content, even those who had not wit­ nessed them.71 The NS men in town demanded that the police investigate the case, which is why the language, writing and script, as well as the paintings, were thor­ oughly examined. It soon became apparent that a baking varnish from Alna chemical factory had been used, and a traveling bricklayer and a local art­ ist came under suspicion. However, 2 days before Christmas Eve, testimony from a witness claimed that the artist was much more advanced than the poster script showed: “I know his work, and it is of a completely different quality.” Even some high school classes came under suspicion. Consequently, some of the pupils in those classes were summoned to answer questions at the police station. However, the case was dropped by the police, which was viewed as suspicious and with a good portion of distrustfulness by Rabben and the other NS members.72 The lack of an arrest resulted in criticism of the police effort and their investigation of the case from Rabben. He was sure that the bricklayer should have been arrested and that the half-hearted effort from the local police sta­ tion showed where their loyalty lay. These were the same police officers who had arrested him in April. Rabben wanted revenge, and thought it was time to get rid of some of the leading officers. Their blameworthy actions during the act of war in springtime had to be investigated as well, so in early December, the Nazified Ministry of Police ordered another chief of police from another district to conduct an internal investigation about the actions at the police station. The result was that the chief of police in Bodø resigned early in 1941.73

71 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6. 72 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6. 73 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6 (the reorganization of the police office in Bodø). Nøklebye, “Nyordning,” 64–65 (on the reor­ ganization of the national police force). On the new leader of the police department, Jonas Lie, see Ringdal, Mellom barken og veden, 39 (on the police during the occupation of Norway); Wegner, Bodø krigsvåren 1940, 38 describes the acts of the Bodø police office in the spring of 1940.

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The investigations into the poster campaign did not result in anything. No arrests were made and no one was found guilty, and this strengthened the resistance toward the occupation and especially toward NS and its mem­ bers. The communication about the posters was comprehensive, and the number of witnesses called for examination was extensive, which affected the broader resistance. One of the high school students remembered that there had been a poster on a certain fence in a certain road with the text, “Long live the King and the fatherland,” even though she had only heard about it and not seen it herself. The way NS treated the posters shows the significance of the signs and the language in them. The posters symbolized resistance, and the language used in them gave particular meaning to the struggle against the collaborating NS members.74 Using the Peircean model, the posters were the “representamen” – the sign vehicle used to bolster the resistance and to try to marginalize and isolate the NS collaborators. The posters’ “object” – the referent of the sign – was the potentially “good Norwegians,” as well as the “bad NS collabora­ tors,” while the “interpretant” – the sense made out of it – was the way the campaign was seen from the observer on both sides. How was the message understood by the NS and its Storm Troopers or leaders? What were the reactions and responses to them from the public? The answer to this is clear. It strengthened the solidarity among the resistance and contributed to the isolation of NS and its members. Later, in 1943, the civil and military resistance became more organized, but before this, the system of semiotics between collaborators and resisters became part of the Norwegian people’s belief system and how they acted toward NS. The oppression was strengthened by the German regime by the appointment of Vidkun Quisling as Prime Minister (Ministerpresident) on 1 February 1942. Berit Nøkleby claims that this was the start of a “final battle between Norwegian Nazis and Norwegian jøssings,” and that this battle was an “ideological battle between democratic values against Nazi values.” Terboven had given up trying to bring the Norwegians over to his side. Now he would “force them onto their knees.”75

Conclusion The Germans introduced an autarkic economy to Norway in which all avail­ able resources would serve the German aim of succeeding in a total war. The NS tried to squeeze into the system, but all the odds were against them. NS had a very weak position during the 1930s, and they were even more marginalized during the act of war in the spring of 1940. Taking over in the chaotic situation of the evening of 9 April was an even bigger provocation

74 National Archives of Norway (Oslo), Bodø politikammer, L-sak 3/45, Sak 6/41, 1–6. 75 Nøkleby, “Nyordning,” 240.

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for the common Norwegian, regardless of their political views. Other stud­ ies have similarly concluded that the initiatives of NS and the occupying forces, including their martial laws, detentions and deportations, increased the hatred among common Norwegians toward NS during the war period.76 Even the Germans realized this and decided not to give Quisling the authority to rule the realm, and when they let him govern, his regime became an unpopular puppet government for the majority of Norwegians. This was the reason why most Norwegians disliked NS – Norwegian traitors – even more than they disliked the German occupants. In this respect, the content, scope and scale of the legal processes against NS became extensive after the Second World War is understandable. Nøkleby’s perspective is colored by the dichotomy between good and bad and the semiotics of war used by Norwegian historians in the post-war period, as analyzed by Synne Corell and Anne Eriksen. The semiotics of the occupation was prolonged in the years to come. The signs used to iso­ late the “traitors,” contrasted with those used for the “good Norwegians,” show how the rhetoric and language were persistent during the post-war historical narrative. The post-war generations were offered a concept of values that they were obliged to respond to. If the response was not in favor of the resistance movement, it could be considered a prolongation of the betrayal, characterizing them as anti-democratic, in favor of the national socialists, or separating them from the established national narrative. In later years, there has been a shift to more nuanced views on the history of treason during the occupation. Some of those involved in the debates about Norwegian occupation history have even questioned established truths. Both Corell’s and Eriksen’s research are examples of this revision­ ist view, as is the quantitative rise in concern about the history of NS and the traitors of the period of 1940–1945. Corell has studied how histori­ ans have created narratives through research, while Eriksen has studied the ways narratives have been part of the common public attitude among Norwegians in post-war Norway. By studying and demonstrating the his­ torical realities of treason and the motivation, language and semiotics of war, we can discover its signals, signs, meaning and language in wartime sources. By this, we become more in touch with treason and traitors. Their actions become more of a historical fact than a narrative or a construct of reality that is open to being used in different kinds of identity-building pro­ jects. Examples from the studies of the convinced and conscious members of NS in Narvik and Bodø show that the concept of treason was more than an invention of a narrative. By studying cases such as the poster campaign and other events connected with the attack on Norway in 1940, one can see how the opinion toward NS emerged and became persistently established as a basic Norwegian view on 76 Nøkleby, “Nyordning,” 159–161, 176, 199–201.

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the Second World War domestic narrative, as Nøkleby, Eriksen and Corell all illustrate. The sense of justice of common Norwegians did not correspond with the rule of law, but probably found its support in wartime semiotics, which became vital to consolidating the view of the Norwegian war experience. It constructed the framework for the concept of the Second World War experience, and even historical revisionists were obliged to respond to the semiotics of war created by this commonly known Norwegian dichotomy between the extreme points of collaboration and resistance. This hegemonic interpretation has been dom­ inating the public debate until recently, when voices questioning the semiotics of war and with an ambition of telling a more nuanced narrative increased. The apparently oversensitive atmosphere during the occupation could, in retrospect, be difficult to understand. Only the ones living under such con­ ditions could really understand the expression of the semiotics of war. In a society where political debates and parties were prohibited, associations, organizations and unions were put under political regimentation and even newspapers were obstructed from expressing political critique, it is difficult in hindsight to fully describe the historical reality in a sober language. The semiotics between resistance and collaboration will often become overstated and vulgar on the one hand and innate and subtle on the other, characterized by specific symbols, signs and linguistic expressions. To describe this after­ wards under other circumstances could give an impression of a language full of clichés and overstated signs, partially pathetic, partially exaggerated. But for the ones living under these circumstances, the signs, symbols and lan­ guage appeared adequate for their descriptions of their reality.

Works cited Archival sources National Archives of Norway (Oslo):

Narvik police station. L-sak 1/45 Narvik politikammer.

Bodø police station. L-sak 3/45 Bodø politikammer.

Published sources and secondary literature Aas, Steinar. Narviks historie, bind 1 1902–1950, Byen, banen og bolaget. Narvik: Stiftelsen Narviks historieverk, 2001. Aas, Steinar. “Motstand, ruin, okkupasjon og oppgjør (1940–1945).” In Start pressen! Avisene i Bodø gjennom 150 år, edited by Karlsen Wilhelm and Svein Lundestad. Trondheim: Tapir Forlag, 2012. Aas, Steinar. Forvandlinga. Bodøs historie 1890–1950. Trondheim: Fagbokforlaget, 2014. Andenæs, Johannes. Det vanskelige oppgjøret, Rettsoppgjøret etter okkupasjonen. Oslo: Tanum-Nordli forlag, 1979. Barthes, Roland. “Myth Today.” In Visual Culture: A Reader, edited by Jessica Evans and Stuart Hall. Los Angeles-London-New Delhi-Singapore-Washington: Sage Publications, 2010 [1999].

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Borge, Baard Herman. “I rettsoppgjørets lange skygger. Andre generasjons proble­ mer i lys av moderne transisjonsteori.” PhD diss., Bergen: University of Bergen, 2012. Borge, Baard Herman and Lars-Erik Vaale. Grunnlovens største prøve. Rettsoppgjøret etter 1945. Oslo: Scandinavian Academic Press, 2018. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. London-New York: Routledge, 2017. Corell, Synne. “The Solidity of a National Narrative: The German Occupation in Norwegian History Culture.” In Nordic Narratives in the Second World War: National Historiographies Revisited, edited by Henrik Stenius, Mirja Österberg and Johan Östling. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2011. Dahl, Hans-Fredrik, Bernt Hagtvedt and Guri Hjeltnes. Den norske nasjonalsosial­ ismen, Nasjonal Samling 1933–1945, I tekst og bilder. Oslo: Pax Forlag, 1990. Dahl, Hans-Fredrik and Øystein Sørensen. Et rettferdig oppgjør? Oslo: Pax Forlag, 2004. Eriksen, Anne. Det var noe annet under krigen. 2. verdenskrig i norsk kollektivtradis­ jon. Oslo: Pax Forlag, 1995. Griffin, Roger. The Nature of Fascism. London-New York: Routledge, 1993. Hornby, A. S. Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary of Current English. London: Oxford University Press, 1974. Nøkleby, Berit. “Nyordning, Bind 2.” In Norge i krig. Fremmedåk og frihetskamp 1940–1945, edited by Magne Skodvin. Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 1990. Nøkleby, Berit. “Holdningskamp, Bind 4.” In Norge i krig. Fremmedåk og frihet­ skamp 1940–1945, edited by Magne Skodvin. Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 1990. Parelius, Nils. Krigsdagene i Bodø 9. april – 20. mai 1940. Bodø: Nordlands Framtids trykkeri, 1990. Ringdal, Nils Johan. Mellom barken og veden. Politiet under okkupasjonen. Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 1987. Stortinget. “Report to the Storting about the Provisional ordinance of 15 December 1944.” Stortinget. Last modified October 16, 2018. https://www.stortinget.no/no/ Saker-og-publikasjoner/Stortingsforhandlinger/Saksside/?pid=1945-1954&mtid= 91&vt=a&did=DIVL114115. Stortinget. “The Public Investigation About the Traitor Trial in 1962.” Stortinget. Last modified May 6, 2019. https://www.stortinget.no/no/Saker-og-publikasjoner/ Stortingsforhandlinger/Lesevisning/?p=1962-63&paid=3&wid=b&psid=DIVL62 &pgid=b_0009&s=True&vt=b&did=DIVL66. Wegner, Rolf Benjamin. Politiet krigsvåren 1940. Bodø: Nordlandsposten trykkeri, 1983.

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8

Postage stamps, war memory,

and commemoration

A case study of the Bangladesh

Liberation War of 1971

Manu Sharma

Introduction The Indian subcontinent as a geographic region of South Asia has witnessed an eventful history and wars since the end of British rule, which resulted in the division of British India into the sovereign states of India and Pakistan in 1947. The newly independent Pakistan comprised two geographic wings, viz. Western Pakistan and Eastern Pakistan, which were geographically separated by India. Later, in 1971, a series of events led to the declaration of independence by Pakistan’s eastern wing resulting in the birth of the newly independent Bangladesh. The emergence of Bangladesh and the Liberation War fought for its independence are considered to be one of the most event­ ful episodes in the history of South Asia since the partition of the Indian subcontinent. The war witnessed an alteration of the South Asian geopolitical land­ scape with the breakup of Pakistan and the birth of an independent Bangladesh in 1971. The extent of war causalities, the humanitarian displacement of migrants, and gruesome war crimes rightly led to the Liberation War of 1971 being labeled as one of the bloodiest secessionist movements the world has witnessed. The contemporary Bangladeshi state and society are still struggling to come to terms with the manifestations of the Liberation War and the ongoing tussle over bringing the perpetra­ tors of war crimes to justice. Thus, it would not be an understatement to say that Bangladesh’s Liberation War of 1971 continues to influence its national identity, politics and diplomacy today. The country and its people experienced a “double decolonization.”1 The gruesome Liberation War, which was fought between March and December 1971, witnessed millions of deaths and war crimes. There is rich academic literature available that has studied different aspects of Bangladesh’s Liberation War, e.g. military,

1 Kairul Haque Chowdhury, “Three Bangladeshi Plays Considered in Postcolonial Context,” (MA thesis, University of Wollongong, 1999), 29.

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184 Manu Sharma politics and international relations, economics, women and gender, mem­ ory, popular culture, genocide, etc.2 The Provisional Government of Bangladesh, created at the time of the Liberation War, reached out to the international community for its imme­ diate recognition. To attract the world’s attention, it made use of various options available. One such mechanism used during the Liberation War was the issuing and distribution of a set of eight postage stamps bearing strong semiotic signs of the declaration of sovereign independence. However, not many people or scholars are familiar with the existence and role played by the first eight postage stamps of the Provisional Government of Bangladesh in 1971.3 To some, it may appear insignificant, but the this chapter makes a strong argument that this first set of eight postage stamps played an impor­ tant, unique and creative role in the proclamation of independence and the world’s recognition thereof. The official website of the Bangladesh Post reinforces the fact that, during the period of Bangladesh’s Liberation War, the “Provisional Government of Bangladesh issued a set of eight postage stamps on 29 July 1971” with an immediate aim of “seeking international support and recognition.”4 The first set of eight postage stamps thus played the role of “ambassadors” of the Bangladesh government in exile to the world community.5 The Chapter is structured around four principal arguments. First, the postage stamps issued by the Provisional Government of Bangladesh played an important role in seeking international recognition, a declara­ tion of sovereignty, and earning revenue during the Liberation War of 1971. Second, the visual iconography of the liberation struggle and war crimes remains a significant theme for postage stamps issued in contemporary

2 A. A. Niazi, The Betrayal of East Pakistan (London: Oxford University Press, 2000); Ali Riaz, Bangladesh: A Political History since Independence (London: I.B. Tauris, 2016); Arjun Subramaniam, India’s Wars: A Military History, 1947-1971 (Noida: Harper Collins, 2016); Mahfuz R. Chowdhury, Economic Exploitation of Bangladesh (New York: iUniverse Inc, 2004); Miriam Beringmeier, The International Crimes Tribunal in Bangladesh: Critical Appraisal of Legal Framework and Jurisprudence (Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2018); Nayanika Mookherjee, The Spectral Wound: Sexual Violence, Public Memories, and the Bangladesh War of 1971 (Durham, DC: Duke University Press, 2015); Sarmila Bose, Dead Reckoning: Memories of the 1971 Bangladesh War (Gurugram: Hachette India, 2011); Srinath Raghavan, 1971: A Global History of Creation of Bangladesh (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013); Yasmin Saikia, Women, War, and the Making of Bangladesh: Remembering 1971 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011); Zakir Hossain Raju, Bangladesh Cinema and National Identity: In Search of the Modern? (London: Routledge, 2015). 3 Most of the academic literature available on Bangladesh’s Liberation War lacks any refer­ ence to or mention of the role played by post and postage stamps. Such references are only found in philately literature on Bangladeshi postage stamps. 4 Bangladesh Post, “Postage Stamps,” Bangladesh Post. Accessed December 28, 2018. http://www.bangladeshpost.gov.bd/postage-stamp.html. 5 Bangladesh Post, “Postage Stamps,” Bangladesh Post. Accessed December 28, 2018. http://www.bangladeshpost.gov.bd/postage-stamp.html.

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Bangladesh. Third, for social science researchers and scholars, postage stamps offer valuable insights to learn about a country’s public history. Fourth, postage stamps are the official product of the issuing state and its agencies, and therefore constitute important visual archival material.

The Liberation War: an overview The birth of Bangladesh was the result of a series of differences, events, and repercussions between the two geographic wings of Pakistan. The Liberation War was fought between March and December 1971, spanning a period of 9 months.6 Srinath Raghavan, one of the eminent scholars of South Asia, sums up some of the critical factors resulting in East Pakistan launching its Liberation War against its western counterpart.7 The primary reason was geographical. Both the western and eastern wings of Pakistan were separated by the huge landmass of India, thus making any geographic connectivity of the two parts impossible. The second important reason was the politics around language. Bengali was the most popular language used in East Pakistan, and Punjabi was used in West Pakistan. The military and politicians promoted Urdu as Pakistan’s national lan­ guage, thereby ignoring the Bengali language as un-Islamic. The subjuga­ tion of the Bengali language led to the eruption of a language movement in East Pakistan in 1952. It also brings out the cultural and linguistic differ­ ences between the people living in the two geographical wings of Pakistan. Third, the economic exploitation of East Pakistan by West Pakistan sowed the seeds of secession. East Pakistan, being the largest exporter of jute in the world at that time, was not given its due share in the foreign exchange earnings. There was a huge disparity of economic development between the two wings of Pakistan, with the people of East Pakistan voicing their grievances against economic subjugation. For example, between 1950 and 1970, out of the total government expenditure of US $30.95 billion, West Pakistan got a 69% share as compared with East Pakistan’s 9.4% share.8 Fourth, the civil–military tussle for power in West Pakistan grossly ignored the democratic political mandate of East Pakistan’s political parties during elections. For example, in the first general elections of 1970, East Pakistan’s Awami League party won 160 of 162 seats and 7 indirectly elected seats, which were mainly reserved for female politicians.9 The total tally was 167 seats out of a total of 313 seats in Pakistan’s National Assembly.10 However, 6 Raghavan, 1971, 4. 7 Raghavan, 1971, 8–10. 8 Avtar Singh Bhasin, India and Pakistan: Neighbours at Odds (New Delhi: Bloomsbury, 2018), 196. 9 Raghavan, 1971, 34. 10 Bhasin, India and Pakistan, 199

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186 Manu Sharma the Awami League was denied its democratic mandate by West Pakistan’s civil–military leadership, which launched a military crackdown on the Awami League and its supporters and denied its leaders their democratic right to form a government. Fifth, as Raghavan has argued, forces related to the geopolitical events of the Cold War, along with decolonization move­ ments and the advent of globalization, also played an important role in the series of events leading to Bangladesh’s Liberation War of 1971. Owing to the above-stated reasons, the feeling of alienation and betrayal was getting intense and widespread in East Pakistan. The final nail in the coffin came with the launch of a military crackdown against the Awami League’s leaders, supporters, student activists, and intellectuals on the night of 25 March 1971 when West Pakistan’s army launched its Operation Searchlight, which marks the beginning of the Liberation War.11 On 17 April 1971, the proclamation of an independent Bangladesh was initiated when the Provisional Government of Bangladesh was formally sworn in by the Awami League’s leadership.12 The Liberation War and West Pakistan’s army’s crackdown continued for the next 9 months, resulting in a massive influx of war refugees from East Pakistan into India. The situation was both grave and alarming, with an estimated number of 10 million refugees tak­ ing shelter in India.13 The 9-month Liberation War reached its climax with India and West Pakistan formally declaring war against each other on 4 December 1971 and with the formal surrender of West Pakistan’s army and the fall of Dhaka (the capital of East Pakistan) and the liberation of Bangladesh (East Pakistan) on 16 December 16 1971.14

Seeking international recognition: issuing postage stamps Before its formal liberation and independence, the Provisional Government of Bangladesh had the mammoth task of reaching out to the world com­ munity for reporting atrocities carried out by West Pakistan and for seek­ ing recognition and financial assistance. The government in exile had not been formally organized, yet seeking international attention for its liber­ ation cause was the top priority during the 9-month-long Liberation War. One of the first steps toward reaching out to the world community was ini­ tiated with the defection of a number of Bengali-speaking East Pakistani diplomats posted in different countries of the world, especially in India, the United States and Britain.15 The defected diplomats switched their alle­ giance in favor of Bangladesh and were tasked with propagating its cause 11 12 13 14 15

Raghavan, 1971, 51.

Raghavan, 1971, 64.

Raghavan, 1971, 206.

(Raghavan, 1971: 234–262).

“Role of MOFA in Liberation War,” Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Accessed September 26,

2017. https://mofa.gov.bd/site/page/3164add5-f0b4-432e-99e3-342057675660.

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by countering Pakistan’s propaganda against the Liberation War in world capitals and presenting Bangladesh as a new sovereign and independent state.16 New Delhi and London were two of the most important interna­ tional hubs for the activities of the Provisional Government of Bangladesh, with the latter being the main gateway to the rest of Europe and America. Many of the British parliamentarians of that time were sympathetic to the cause of Bangladesh, with the name and role of Mr. John Stonehouse being prominent.17 As a British Member of Parliament, Stonehouse (who was also a former British Postmaster General) had visited East Pakistani refugee camps and was in touch with exiled government officials. It was his idea for the exiled government to issue its first ever postage stamps, which would be used for postal communication in liberated areas during the war and, most impor­ tantly, as excellent propaganda material to be distributed across various dip­ lomatic missions for both sales and for propagating the idea of Bangladesh as a newly declared sovereign and independent state.18 In May 1971, the idea was given the go-ahead by the exiled administration, and Stonehouse was requested to arrange for the designing and printing of Bangladesh’s first set of postage stamps, which he fulfilled with the help of an Indian West Bengal graphic designer in London, Biman Chand Mullick, who was given the most important task of designing the first set of postage stamps for Bangladesh.19 The tiny postage stamp has a rich history that dates back to the 18th century when it was first printed and used for postal communication. The primary function of a postage stamp is as a monetary instrument for the prepayment of postal charges. However, what is often ignored or not given a second thought is the fact that these tiny pieces of paper are powerful “emblematic devices” of the issuing state just like other national symbols, such as flags, national emblems, currency, street names, and monuments.20 Postage stamps are a product of an issuing state and are the ultimate tool of regime legitimization,

16 “Role of MOFA in Liberation War,” Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Accessed September 26, 2017. https://mofa.gov.bd/site/page/3164add5-f0b4-432e-99e3-342057675660. 17 Khalida Qureshi, “Britain and the Indo-Pakistan Conflict over East Pakistan,” Pakistan Institute of International Affairs 25, no.1 (1972): 33–34. 18 Biman Mullick, “Articles About Biman,” BimanMullick.com. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://bimanmullick.wordpress.com/articlesvideos-about-biman/; John Stonehouse, Death of an Idealist (London: W. H. Allan, 1975), 107–108. 19 Londoni, “First Postage Stamps of Bangladesh,” Londoni. Accessed December 29, 2018. http://www.londoni.co/index.php/23-history-of-bangladesh/1971-muktijuddho/155­ muktijuddho-bangladesh-liberation-war-1971-first-postage-stamps-of-bangladesh­ history-of-bangladesh. John Stonehouse was familiar with the works of Biman Mullick dur­ ing his tenure as Postmaster General of the UK. Mullick had previously designed a Gandhi­ themed postage stamp for the British Post Office, which won him huge appreciation. 20 Andrew Selth, “Burma puts its stamp on the world: Philately and foreign policy,” Lowy Institute. Accessed January 21, 2019, http://www.lowyinterpreter.org/the-interpreter/ burma-puts-its-stamp-world-philately-and-foreign-policy.

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and some researchers have drawn attention to the fact that postage stamps are a political messenger of the issuing state, help to brand the state, and are important symbols or proof of its political and economic transition.21 The most striking characteristic of a postage stamp is its ability to travel across national borders. A postage stamp issued by a state has unique visual imagery depicted on it, which may vary in subject and theme across the world. Postage stamps always carry a monetary denomination, i.e. the monetary value attached to it, as proof of payment. Stamps also display a state’s official name in its national language, are printed in large quantities, and remain in circulation for a long period. Thus, postage stamps contribute to what Michael Billig described as a sense of banal nationalism wherein statist sponsored signs and symbols in everyday life infuse a sense of nationalism among ordinary subjects (citizens) of the state and create a sense of imagined community.22 These unique semiotic characteristics make postage stamps excellent pri­ mary sources for social science researchers.23 Most of the available literature on postage stamps is dominated by phil­ atelic books and literature, which deals with the thematic descriptions of stamps and their subjects. However, over the decades, postage stamps have become popular for serious academic studies in various disciplines leading to some exciting research outputs. For example, in the field of geopolitics and international relations, the seminal works on Latin American postage stamps by Jack Child, European postage stamps by David Scott, Finnish postage stamps by Pauliina Raento deserve special mention.24 Further, postage stamps can be an excellent source for studying the postcolonial nation-build­ ing efforts of states, diplomacy, and territorial disputes, for comparative political analysis and state propaganda efforts, etc. Postage stamps are also 21 Harcourt Fuller, “Building a nation: Symbolic nationalism during the Kwame Nkrumah era in the Gold Coast/Ghana” (PhD diss., London School of Economics and Political Science, 2010); Pauliina Raento and Stanley D. Brunn, “Visualizing Finland: Postage Stamps as Political Messengers,” Geografiska Annaler: Series B, Human Geography 87, no. 2 (2005): 145–164; Phil Deans, “Isolation, Identity and Taiwanese Stamps as Vehicles for Regime Legitimation,” East Asia 22, no. 2 (2005): 8–30; Stanley D. Brunn, “The State Branding of U.S. Postage Stamps for State Commemorative Years: From Heritage, Iconography and Place to Placelessness,” in Branding the Nation, the Place, the Product, eds. Ulrich Ermann and Klaus-Jürgen Hermanik (New York: Routledge, 2018). 22 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflection on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983); Michael Billig, Banal Nationalism (London: SAGE, 1995). 23 Donald M. Reid, “The Symbolism of Postage Stamps: A Source for the Historian,” Journal of Contemporary History 19, no. 2 (1984): 223. 24 David Scott, European Stamp Designs: A Semiotic Approach to Designing Messages (London: Wiley Academics, 1995); Jack Child, Miniature Messages: The Semiotics and Politics of Latin American Postage Stamps (Durham: Duke University Press, 2009); Pauliina Raento, “Communicating Geopolitics through Postage Stamps: The Case of Finland,” Geopolitics 11, no. 4 (2004): 601–629.

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an excellent primary source for studying issues about the creation of social memory and commemoration practices by a state, especially when a state and its society have experienced constrained sovereignty and periods of transition prior to achieving its independence.25

Designing a nation on postage stamps: a semiotic analysis For Biman Chand Mullick, designing the first set of postage stamps for Bangladesh was a personal act in his capacity as a graphic designer to sup­ port the people of Bangladesh in their Liberation War and was a matter of immense honor for him in introducing Bangladesh to the world community.26 Thus, the proposal for designing the first set of postage was chalked out by Mr. Mullick wherein it was decided that a set of eight different thematic stamps would be designed, in which a strong visual iconography would depict the cause behind the Liberation War and present Bangladesh as a newly independent country filled with new hopes and a bright future. It was decided that the size of the stamps would be large and the design would entail different and colorful graphic artworks and monetary denomina­ tions. Finally, on 29 July 1971, the stamps were officially released for circu­ lation and sale, and their official launch marked an important international publicity event for the Provisional Government.27 For laymen, postage stamps appear to be an exciting set of graphic signs on small pieces of paper that are used for the prepayment of postal charges at the post office. But these postage stamps are not just merely tools, for they are also loaded with powerful visual narratives. However, a genuine ques­ tion then arises as to how we can read and interpret the visual narratives of tiny postage stamps. The answer lies in the methodology of semiotics,

25 Daniel Hammett, “Expressing ‘Nationhood’ under Conditions of Constrained Sovereignty: Postage Stamp Iconography of the Bantustans,” Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space 46, no. 4 (2014): 901–919; Frederick Lauritzen, “Propaganda Art in The Postage Stamps of the Third Reich,” The Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts 10 (1988): 62–79; Gary Osmond, “‘Modest Monuments’? Postage Stamps, Duke Kahanamoku and Hierarchies of Social Memory,” The Journal of Pacific History 43, no. 3 (2008): 313–329; Michael Kevane, “Official Representations of the Nation: Comparing the Postage Stamps of Sudan and Burkina Faso,” Santa Clara University. Accessed January 21, 2019. https://scholarcommons.scu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1028&­ context=econ; Raento, “Communicating Geopolitics”; Phil Deans and Hugo Dobson, “East Asian Postage Stamps as Socio-Political Artefacts,” East Asia 22, no. 2 (2005): 3–7; Todd Pierce, “Philatelic Propaganda: Stamps in Territorial Disputes,” IBRU Boundary and Security Bulletin 4, no. 2 (1996): 62–64. 26 Bengali Community In UK, “Friends of Bangladesh: Biman Mullick (Designer of the first Bangladeshi Postage Stamps),” YouTube Video, 25:36, August 6, 2018, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=qlakiyvdUaQ; personal communication with Mr. Biman Mullick. 27 Shahriar Feroze, “That Unsung ‘Philatelic War,’” The Daily Star, accessed December 29, 2018, https://www.thedailystar.net/that-unsung-philatelic-war-55642.

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which gives a theoretical, conceptual and methodological understanding of reading and interpreting signs. A sign cannot be studied independently without its proper interpreta­ tion. Accordingly, semiotics is the study of signs in everyday life, which can be visual, textual, or even audial, and of their “signification and inter­ pretation.”28 As a science of studying signs, semiotics is an amalgamated interdisciplinary field with “no fixed theoretical definitions, methodolo­ gies, [or] assumptions.” Therefore, there is no one single agreed definition for semiotics. Semiotics as a discipline has strong roots in philosophy and linguistics, and discussions around the ideas of studying signs date back to the era of Plato and Aristotle,29 who were two of the earliest proponents of studying signs. Two major schools of thought have dominated semi­ otics as a field of study. First, there is the linguistic tradition propagated by the Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure, who focused on the study of signs from a linguistic perspective and referred to it as semiology, wherein a sign is supposed to constitute a two-sided model with one side being the signifier, i.e. the “material aspect of a sign,” and the other side being the signified, which he described as a “mental concept of a sign.”30 Hence a sign is a result of the constant interactions between the signifier and the signified. The second school of thought is a philosophical tradition proposed by the American philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce, which he refers to as semei­ otics. The Peircean model of semiotics is a three-part model of studying signs, wherein the first part is the representamen, which is the physical form of the sign, second is the object to which the sign refers, and the third part is the interpretant or the interpretation of the sign. The Peircean model of studying signs has more emphasis on interpretation, whereby the meaning of signs arises in the context of its use.31 Since the present study deals with a visual narrative of postage stamps, and due to the limited scope and time frame, it will make use of the Peircean model of semiotics to read and interpret the first set of Bangladesh post­ age stamps while taking clues from previous important semiotic studies of Latin American and European postage stamps.32 The Peircean model of semiotics suggests that a simple understanding of the sign as its interpretation is not enough. The Peircean model argues that a sign is further divisible by the use of “three trichotomies,” i.e. first as a sign itself,

28 Daniel Chandler, Semiotics: The Basics (London: Routledge, 2017), 1–2. 29 Paul Cobley and Litza Jansz, Introducing Semiotics: A Graphic Guide (London: Icon, 2012), 4; Paul Cobley and Litza Jansz, Introducing Semiotics: A Graphic Guide (London: Icon, 2012), 8–11. 30 Paul Cobley and Litza Jansz, Introducing Semiotics: A Graphic Guide (London: Icon, 2012), 8–11. 31 Chandler, Semiotics, 2–36. 32 Scott, European Stamp Design; Child, Miniature Messages.

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which Peirce describes as just a feeling, second as the relation of the sign with the object it is representing based on brute facts, and third as the interpreta­ tion by the interpretant based on general laws.33 Ultimately what the Peircean model suggests is that an interpretant can become a sign and so on, and the chain reaction continues. The complexity of this Peircean model can be iden­ tified with the fact that Peirce, in his quest to identify different types of signs, ended up with an astounding figure of 59,049 different signs.34 Postage stamps are best suited to be studied as signs defined under the sec­ ond trichotomy of the Peircean model, which classifies signs into the three categories of icons, indexes and symbols.35 Here, the focus is on the rela­ tionship between a sign and the object it is representing. A postage stamp as a sign has three important elements through which a first-time viewer can easily identify the country where the stamp originated. The first element is an icon, which can be a photograph or an image depicted on the stamp. This element occupies maximal space on the postage stamp. The second element is an index, which can be graphic art, a logo, a cartography design, etc.; for example, it can be a logo of a national emblem of the issuing country. The third element is a symbol, which can be any numerical or linguistic figure, an abbreviation of the country’s name, etc.; for example, the abbreviation IN can be used for India, or % for percentage.36 However, going by the Peircean tradition, these three sign elements of postage stamps are not rigid or fixed, and the semiotic function can get changed or overlapped according to con­ text and interaction.37 In some stamps, the symbol, index and icon elements overlap easily, and it is very tough to make a distinction.38 For example, instead of writing their country’s name on the stamps, the majority of British stamps use a tiny golden portrait of the Queen in the form of a logo in the corner of the stamp along with the primary visual iconic image or picture. The logo of the monarch on the stamp symbolizes that the stamp origi­ nates in the United Kingdom. The small logo here can be both an index and a symbol as per the Peircean model. Similarly, a postage stamp’s icon can be an image of a country’s national flag or national emblem, which can be con­ sidered as indexing signs as well. Hence, postage stamps as signs constitute

33 Charles Sanders Peirce, “Three trichotomies of Signs,” Marxists.org, accessed December 29, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/reference/subject/philosophy/works/us/peirce2.htm; Cobley and Jansz, Introducing Semiotics, 27–28. 34 Cobley and Jansz, Introducing Semiotics, 30. 35 Peirce, “Three trichotomies of Signs.” 36 David Scott, “National Icons: The Semiotics of the French Stamp,” French Cultural Studies 3, no. 9 (1992): 215. 37 David Scott, “National Icons: The Semiotics of the French Stamp,” French Cultural Studies 3, no. 9 (1992): 215. 38 David Scott, “National Icons: The Semiotics of the French Stamp,” French Cultural Studies 3, no. 9 (1992), 216–217.

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complex semiotic objects. Indeed, the visual iconography of a tiny postage stamp has “a more concentrated ideological density per square centimeter than any other cultural form.”39 Having become familiar with the basics of the two main semiotic theo­ ries and models, an attempt will now be made in this section to carry out a semiotic reading of the first eight postage stamps of Bangladesh based on the typology of signs given by the Peircean model and focusing on the indexing and iconography parts of the postage stamps.40 This set of postage stamps was an “expression of sovereignty,” hence they required a unique semiotic design to convey the emergence of a newly independent state on the geopolit­ ical map of the world.41 For the stamp designer, Biman Chand Mullick, the set of the first eight stamps of Bangladesh represents his “most significant work” to date.42 The first stamp43 of the set depicts the most crucial index function of a postage stamp, i.e. the geographical location of the issuing country. The use of the color red to mark the geographical location of Bangladesh here symbolizes the blood and sacrifice of people during the Liberation War. It also has a bolder impact in contrast to neighbouring India, which is shown in violet, and the Bay of Bengal, shown in sea blue. The other vital symbols here are the name Bangla Desh, written in both Bengali and English, and its numerical denomination of 10 paise. The index sign of the map shows the exact geographical location of Bangladesh and its capital Dhaka, wherein the longitude line of 90.399452 and latitude line of 23.777176 cut across each other.44 For the first-time viewer, the stamp conveys the exact location of the newly proclaimed Bangladesh. The second stamp45 narrates one of the most brutal horrific acts of the massacre when West Pakistan’s army launched Operation Searchlight on the night of 25 March 1971 and killed hundreds of students, professors, intel­ lectuals and activists who were voicing their support for an independent

39 David Scott, “National Icons: The Semiotics of the French Stamp,” French Cultural Studies 3, no. 9 (1992). 40 Due to extreme difficulty with obtaining permission for the reproduction of high reso­ lution and colorful photographs of the postage stamps, direct web links are provided here for the purposes of reference. http://www.londoni.co/images/history/muktijuddho/ stamps-by-biman-mullick-1971.jpg 41 Stanley D. Brunn, “Stamps as iconography: Celebrating the independence of new European and Central Asian states,” GeoJournal 52, no.4 (2002), 316–317. 42 Biman Mullick, “The First Eight Stamps of Bangladesh,” BimanMullick.com, accessed December 29, 2018, https://bimanmullick.wordpress.com/stamps/. 43 http://stampdata.com/files/thumbs/pg/300px-STS-Bangladesh-1-300dpi.jpg-crop­ 322x470at15-693.jpg. 44 The first set of postage stamps uses the name Bangla Desh instead of Bangladesh. After obtaining independence in 1971, the use of the name Bangladesh was made official. 45 http://stampdata.com/files/thumbs/re/300px-Colnect-4535-693-Massacre-at-Dacca­ University.jpg.

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Bangladesh.46 Mullick described this stamp as his “favorite of all eight stamps” he designed.47 The massacre at Dhaka University had a deep emo­ tional impact on him, which inspired him to depict the incident on the postage stamp. The stamp’s index is designed with the color green in the background, the name of Dhaka University in yellow, and the color red symbolizing the blood of the massacre. The third stamp 48 depicted a very bold numerical index (which can also be a symbol as per the Peircean model). Here the emphasis is on the pop­ ulation of the new nation of Bangladesh, which at the time of its libera­ tion was estimated to be 75 million.49 Here, the numbers 7 and 5 are fused together, which symbolizes the unity of the people of Bangladesh in their liberation struggle. The fourth stamp50 introduces the official flag of the new nation, which again represents the most crucial index sign of a postage stamp. The flag’s colors are represented by green in the background, which symbolizes its lush green landscape and natural resources, and a red disk with a geograph­ ical map of Bangladesh in yellow, which symbolizes the rising sun and is a reminder of the blood and sacrifice of countless people in the liberation struggle.51 The fifth stamp52 narrates the election results of 1970 in which East Pakistan’s Awami League party won a majority but were not allowed to form a government by the authorities in West Pakistan. The index sign of a ballot box with the bold numerical figure of 98% represents the popularity of the Awami League party and its leadership and their triumph in the first general elections in Pakistan in 1970. The sixth stamp53 is related to the fifth stamp and visualizes the first offi­ cial proclamation for independence by the Awami League’s leadership on 10 April 1971. The proclamation was the result of denying the Awami League and East Pakistan its democratic mandate, which was further crushed by

46 Raghavan, 1971, 51.

47 Mullick, “The First Eight Stamps of Bangladesh.”

48 http://stampdata.com/files/thumbs/zo/300px-Colnect-4535-694-Nation-of-75-Million­ People.jpg. 49 Muhammad Azizul Haque, “Rethinking the population problem,” The Daily Star, accessed December 29, 2018, https://www.thedailystar.net/op-ed/politics/ rethinking-the-population-problem-1251607. 50 http://stampdata.com/files/stash/ag/Colnect-2078-847-Flag-of-Independence.jpg. 51 Visit Bangladesh, “National Symbol,” Visit Bangladesh, accessed December 29, 2018, https://visitbangladesh.gov.bd/about-bangladesh/national-symbol/. The iconography of the geographical map was later removed from the red disk for the country’s official flag in 1972. 52 http://stampdata.com/files/thumbs/pg/300px-STS-Bangladesh-1-300dpi.jpg-crop­ 318x474at980-693.jpg. 53 http://stampdata.com/f iles/thumbs/nz/300px-Colnect- 4535-696-Proclamation-of­ Independent-Government.jpg.

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the excessive use of military might on the Awami League’s leadership and its supporters. The index sign here, an image of a broken chain, symbolizes that the people of East Pakistan had finally decided to break the chains of slavery linking them with West Pakistan. The seventh stamp54 in the series represents the icon of one of the most popular political figures, i.e. a portrait of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman (the leader of the Awami League and the face of the Liberation War). Every new independent country is led by its most iconic national leader, and here the stamp presents a real-life portrait of the man leading the Liberation War against West Pakistan. The stamp was also a way of declaring Sheikh Mujibur Rahman as the de facto leader of the newly proclaimed Bangladesh to the world community. The last stamp55 in the set presents a unique fusion of index and symbol signs according to the Peircean model of semiotics. The word support is placed right above the vertically inclined and bold letters of Bangla and the horizon­ tally inclined letters of Desh. A geographical map of Bangladesh is placed in the space between the bold letters. The iconography here seeks international help and recognition for Bangladesh from the world community, which is why a simple, straightforward “Support Bangla Desh” was written on the stamp. The price for the stamp was kept at Rs. 10, making it the most expen­ sive stamp of the set, in order to earn revenue from the sales of stamps. Finally, on 16 December 1971, the Liberation War reached its decisive conclusion with the surrender of the West Pakistan Army, and Bangladesh finally emerged as a sovereign and newly independent country on the world map. On 20 December 1971, Bangladesh issued three stamps56 with the words “Bangladesh liberated” in Bengali and English. The act of overprint­ ing on the postage stamps here becomes a powerful political act to sym­ bolize its newly acquired independence and liberation.57 Similarly, after the Liberation War was over, Bangladesh faced enormous problems concern­ ing building the necessary infrastructure, including rebuilding its postal service and communications. There were no adequate printing presses or related technology to immediately print new stamps for distribution among the local populations of the country, and therefore, overprinting was used extensively. The postal authorities devised the idea of using rubber stamps to overprint the word “Bangladesh” in a large size over the pre-existing stock of postage stamps of the former regime (Pakistan) in either Bengali or in both Bengali and English. These overprinted postage stamps, which previously represented the visual iconography of Pakistan, now bore an overprint of

54 http://stampdata.com/files/stash/ei/Colnect-2527-992-Sheik-Mujibur-Rahman.jpg. 55 http://stampdata.com/files/thumbs/up/300px-Colnect-4535-697-Support-Bangladesh.jpg. 56 http://www.mediabd.com/store_images/stamps/1/2.jpg. A set of three stamps was issued with the words ‘Bangladesh Liberated’ overprinted on them. 57 Feroze, “That Unsung ‘Philatelic War.’”

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the word ‘Bangladesh’ as a powerful semiotic symbol of its newly acquired independence. These overprinted stamps were later popularized with the name of rubber stamps.58 In a semiotic sense, the icons, indexes and symbols representing the previous regime were discarded with the overprinting of another layer of linguistic symbols representing the new country’s name in bold letters. It was reported that these overprinted stamps were authorized and allowed to be used between 20 December 1971 and 30 April 1973 before Bangladesh issued a new set of stamps.59 On the question of war memory and commemoration practices, it is important to highlight the fact that, even after more than four decades since its independence, the Liberation War’s memory continues to surface and manifest itself in contemporary Bangladeshi society, especially on the question of genocide, war crimes and commemorations of the Liberation War. As historian Srinath Raghavan argues, in 1971, the emergence of an independent Bangladesh with Mujibur Rahman at the helm was not a “fore­ gone conclusion.”60 The country witnessed a troubled civil–military tussle that resulted in successive military coups, which punctured democracy in Bangladesh until its revival in the 1990s. In 2013, the Bangladeshi government, led by Sheikh Hasina, initiated a series of war trials dating back to the Liberation War to punish traitors, with the majority of them belonging to the members of the opposition party of Jamaat-e-Islami, which had opposed Bangladesh’s independence in 1971.61 The politics around war crime trials and questions concerning geno­ cide continue to dominate political discourse and academic writings in con­ temporary Bangladesh.62 In 2017, the government of Bangladesh decided to observe a Genocide Day every year on March 25, and a formal request to the United Nations was also made to observe it as an international day of genocide.63 On 5 June 2017, the Bangladesh Post Office issued an extraordi­ nary set of 71 commemorative postage stamps on the genocide theme.64 The stamps carried original photographs depicting the horrors of war crimes and

58 Feroze, “That Unsung ‘Philatelic War.’.

59 Allen C. Peyser, “Bangladesh Overprints,” American Philatelist 127(no.4) (April 2013):

342–344. 60 Raghavan, 1971, 267 61 Raghavan, 1971, 272–273. 62 David Bergman, “Bangladesh War Trials: Justice or Politics?” AlJazeera.com. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.aljazeera.com/humanrights/2014/11/bangladesh-war-trials­ justice-politics-2014112575656287496.html; Donald Beachler, “The Politics of Genocide Scholarship: The Case of Bangladesh,” Patterns of Prejudice 41, no.5 (2007): 467–492. 63 Mohammad Abu Bakar Siddique, “Parliament declares March 25 Genocide Day,” Dhaka Tribune. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.dhakatribune.com/ bangladesh/2017/03/11/march-25-declared-genocide-day/. 64 Commonwealth Stamps Opinion, “Bangladesh Issues 71 Shocking War Crimes Stamps,” Commonwealth Stamps Opinion. Accessed December 29, 2018. http://commonwealth­ stampsopinion.blogspot.com/2017/09/1076-bangladesh-issues-71-shocking-war.html.

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their gruesome apathy for human suffering. The reproduction of original archival photographs on the postage stamps was both unprecedented and visually disturbing for the viewer. The visual iconography here evokes deep emotional pain, anger and sympathy. These postage stamps thus became an original visual and archival source for commemorating the Liberation War and the freedom fighters. These postage stamps were issued to promote and preserve the social memory of Bangladesh’s struggle for the freedom of its new generation and for the international audience. These postage stamps are a perfect example of statist-led commemorative practices of using audio, visual and print media to create epistemic “intangible knowledge” about certain events in both historical and contemporary contexts.65

Conclusion To summarize, the proposed study started from the simple premise of stud­ ying the semiotics of war and investigating the interlinkage of variables of war, semiotics, and postage stamps. The word ‘semiotics’ is a multidi­ mensional and fluid term when it comes to studying signs, which can be a visual, linguistic, performative act, emotion or sense, and their interpre­ tation. There is no single definition or well-defined conceptual framework for the study of semiotics, as already discussed. However, postage stamps constitute a powerful statist sign and, due to their relatively small size, more detailed emphasis is given to the designing of their semiotic parts, i.e. the icon, index, and symbols. The study presented four arguments. The first main argument was that the first set of postage stamps issued by the Provisional Government of Bangladesh played an essential role in establishing sovereignty, declaring independence, seeking international recognition and earning revenues. The inferences are drawn from the analysis to establish the argument. The stamps were the official cultural markers and ambassadors of Bangladesh’s Provisional Government. The foremost task for every newly independent country or secessionist entity is to establish its sovereignty through the release of its national emblem, national flag, currency and postage stamps, which are the official signatures of a nation, through which it communicates with its domestic as well as international audiences. The proposed study revealed how the Provisional Government decided to issue its first set of eight stamps to speed up its international publicity efforts for the cause and support of Bangladesh and earn revenues from their sales. These stamps were designed and printed in London in 1971, which was an important international hub for the Provisional Government in its global outreach activities. The stamps played a unique and creative role in asserting the

65 Nayanika Mookherjee, “The Aesthetics of Nations: Anthropological and Historical Approaches,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 19, no.1 (2011): S4.

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Provisional Government’s efforts to make Bangladesh visible on the geopo­ litical map of the world in 1971. The second argument the proposed study put forward was the contin­ uing impact of the Liberation War of 1971 and its related theme of gen­ ocide and war crimes in the visual iconography of the contemporary postage stamps of Bangladesh. The inferences are drawn toward the end of the study and reinstate the stated arguments by drawing attention to the efforts by the Bangladeshi government under the Awami League to com­ memorate the Liberation War by holding a Genocide Day every year on 25 March. A quick content analysis of Bangladeshi postage stamps released between 1971 and 2017 also highlights the dominance of Liberation Warrelated themes. The third and fourth arguments were made to argue that post­ age stamps should be actively considered for social science research since these are official texts of an issuing state and hence constitute excellent primary data for analysis. The inferences drawn from the brief survey of academic studies on postage stamps validate these arguments and give ample scope for creative ideas for future social science research using postage stamps. Concerning semiotics, the study was able to successfully identify and use the Peircean model of semiotics in the context of postage stamps. The Peircean categorization of the sign into icons, indexes and symbols was best suited to study the multilayered semiotic meanings displayed on the postage stamps. The first eight postage stamps were powerful semiotics in themselves, and the study described the production, transformation, and usage of the stamps from their inception and design to printing and official launch in detail. The first set of postage stamps was perceived to be one of the most important national icons of the newly independent Bangladesh. These stamps are now on display in the Liberation War Museum in Dhaka. The Government of Bangladesh gave the stamps’ designer, Biman Chand Mullick, and his support for the Liberation War due recognition and award in 2012. The semiotic visual narrative depicted on the stamps tells the viewer the story of and events leading up to the Liberation War of 1971 and, at the same time, identifies Bangladesh on the geopolitical map of the world. The semiotic messages on display are not merely simple signs but also constitute statist-sponsored visual iconography aimed at both domestic and international audiences. The simple act of overprinting the name of Bangladesh over the stock of the old regime’s postage stamps was a powerful political act, and the semiotic of overprinted words established the sovereign identity of Bangladesh as a newly independent country.

Works cited Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflection on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1983. Bangladesh Post. “Postage Stamps.” Bangladesh Post. Accessed December 28, 2018. http://www.bangladeshpost.gov.bd/postage-stamp.html.

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Beachler, Donald. “The Politics of Genocide Scholarship: The Case of Bangladesh.” Patterns of Prejudice 41, no. 5, (2007): 467–492. Bengali Community In UK. “Friends of Bangladesh: Biman Mullick (Designer of the first Bangladeshi Postage Stamps).” YouTube Video, 25:36. August 6, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlakiyvdUaQ. Beringmeier, Miriam. The International Crimes Tribunal in Bangladesh: Critical Appraisal of Legal Framework and Jurisprudence. Berlin: Berliner WissenschaftsVerlag, 2018. Bergman, David. “Bangladesh war trials: Justice or politics?” AlJazeera.com. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.aljazeera.com/humanrights/2014/11/ bangladesh-war-trials-justice-politics-2014112575656287496.html. Bhasin, Avtar Singh. India and Pakistan: Neighbours at Odds. New Delhi: Bloomsbury, 2018. Billig, Michael. Banal Nationalism. London: SAGE, 1995. Bongie, Chris. Friends and Enemies: The Scribal Politics of Post/Colonial Literature. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2008. Bose, Sarmila. Dead Reckoning: Memories of the 1971 Bangladesh War. Gurugram: Hachette India, 2011. Brunn, Stanley D. “Stamps as Iconography: Celebrating the Independence of New European and Central Asian states.” GeoJournal 52, no.4 (2002): 316. Brunn, Stanley D. “The State Branding of U.S. Postage Stamps for State Commemorative Years: From Heritage, Iconography and Place to Placelessness.” In Branding the Nation, the Place, the Product, edited by Ulrich Ermann and Klaus-Jürgen Hermanik. New York: Routledge, 2018. Chowdhury, Kairul Haque. “Three Bangladeshi Plays Considered in Postcolonial Context.” MA (Hons) thesis, University of Wollongong, 1999. Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. London: Routledge, 2017. Child, Jack. Miniature Messages: The Semiotics and Politics of Latin American Postage Stamps. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008. Chowdhury, Mahfuz R. Economic Exploitation of Bangladesh. New York: iUniverse Inc, 2004. Cobley, Paul and Litza Jansz. Introducing Semiotics: A Graphic Guide. London, Icon, 2012. Commonwealth Stamps Opinion. “Bangladesh Issues 71 Shocking War Crimes Stamps.” Commonwealth Stamps Opinion. Accessed December 29, 2018. http:// commonwealthstampsopinion.blogspot.com/2017/09/1076-bangladesh-issues-71­ shocking-war.html. Deans, Phil. “Isolation, Identity and Taiwanese Stamps as Vehicles for Regime Legitimation.” East Asia 22, no. 2 (2005): 8–30. Deans, Phil and Hugo Dobson. “East Asian Postage Stamps as Socio-Political Artefacts.” East Asia 22, no.2 (2005): 3–7. Feroze, Shahriar. “That Unsung ‘Philatelic War.” The Daily Star. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.thedailystar.net/that-unsung-philatelic-war-55642. Fuller, Harcourt. “Building a Nation: Symbolic Nationalism During the Kwame Nkrumah Era in the Gold Coast/Ghana.” PhD diss., London School of Economics and Political Science, 2010. Hammett, Daniel. “Expressing ‘Nationhood’ under Conditions of Constrained Sovereignty: Postage Stamp Iconography of the Bantustans.” Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space 46, no. 4 (2014): 901–919.

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Haque, Muhammad Azizul. “Rethinking the Population Problem.” The Daily Star. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.thedailystar.net/op-ed/politics/ rethinking-the-population-problem-1251607. Kevane, Michael. “Official Representations of the Nation: Comparing the Postage Stamps of Sudan and Burkina Faso.” Santa Clara University. Accessed January 21, 2019. https://scholarcommons.scu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article= 1028&context=econ. King, Ross. “Monuments Writ Small: Postage Stamps, Philatelic Iconography, and the Commercialization of State Sovereignty in North Korea.” In Exploring North Korean Arts, edited by Frank Rüdiger. London: Distributed Art Publishers, 2011. Lauritzen, Frederick. “Propaganda Art in the Postage Stamps of the Third Reich.” The Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts 10 (1988): 62–79. Londoni. “First Postage Stamps of Bangladesh.” Londoni. Accessed December 29, 2018. http://www.londoni.co/index.php/23-history-of-bangladesh/1971-muktijuddho/ 155-muktijuddho-bangladesh-liberation-war-1971-first-postage-stamps-of­ bangladesh-history-of-bangladesh. Ministry of Foreign Affairs. “Role of MOFA in Liberation War.” Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Accessed September 26, 2017. https://mofa.gov.bd/site/page/ 3164add5-f0b4-432e-99e3-342057675660. Mookherjee, Nayanika. The Spectral Wound: Sexual Violence, Public Memories, and the Bangladesh War of 1971. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2015. Mookherjee, Nayanika. “The Aesthetics of Nations: Anthropological and Historical Approaches.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 19, no.1 (2011): S1–S20. Mullick, Biman. “Articles About Biman.” BimanMullick.com. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://bimanmullick.wordpress.com/articlesvideos-about-biman/. Mullick, Biman. “The First Eight Stamps of Bangladesh.” BimanMullick.com. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://bimanmullick.wordpress.com/stamps/. Niazi, A. A. The Betrayal of East Pakistan. London: Oxford University Press, 2000. Osmond, Gary. “‘Modest Monuments’? Postage Stamps, Duke Kahanamoku and Hierarchies of Social Memory.” The Journal of Pacific History 43, no. 3 (2008): 313–329. Peirce, Charles Sanders. “Three trichotomies of Signs.” Marxists.org. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.marxists.org/reference/subject/philosophy/ works/us/peirce2.htm. Peyser, Allen C. “Bangladesh Overprints.” American Philatelist (April 2013): 342–344. Pierce, Todd. “Philatelic Propaganda: Stamps in Territorial Disputes.” IBRU Boundary and Security Bulletin 4, no. 2 (1996): 62–64. Qureshi, Khalida. “Britain and the Indo-Pakistan Conflict over East Pakistan.” Pakistan Institute of International Affairs 25, no. 1 (1972): 33–34. Raento, Pauliina and Stanley D. Brunn. “Visualizing Finland: Postage Stamps as Political Messengers.” Geografiska Annaler: Series B, Human Geography 87, no. 2 (2005): 145–164. Raento, Pauliina. “Communicating Geopolitics through Postage Stamps: The Case of Finland.” Geopolitics 11, no. 4 (2006): 601–629. Raghavan, Srinath. 1971: A Global History of Creation of Bangladesh. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013. Raju, Zakir Hossain. Bangladesh Cinema and National Identity: In Search of the Modern? London: Routledge, 2015.

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200 Manu Sharma Reid, Donald M. “The Symbolism of Postage Stamps: A Source for the Historian.” Journal of Contemporary History 19, no. 2 (1984): 223–249. Riaz, Ali. Bangladesh: A Political History since Independence. London: I.B. Tauris, 2016. Saikia, Yasmin. Women, War, and the Making of Bangladesh: Remembering 1971. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011. Scott, David. “National Icons: The Semiotics of the French Stamp.” French Cultural Studies 3, no. 9 (1992): 215–234. Scott, David. European Stamp Design: A Semiotic Approach to Designing Messages. Academy Editions Ltd, 1995. Selth, Andrew. “Burma Puts its Stamp on the World: Philately and Foreign Policy.” Lowy Institute. Accessed January 21, 2019. http://www.lowyinterpreter.org/ the-interpreter/burma-puts-its-stamp-world-philately-and-foreign-policy. Siddique, Mohammad Abu Bakar. “Parliament declares March 25 Genocide Day.” Dhaka Tribune. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://www.dhakatribune.com/ bangladesh/2017/03/11/march-25-declared-genocide-day/. Stonehouse, John. Death of an Idealist. London: W. H. Allan, 1975. Subramaniam, Arjun. India’s Wars: A Military History, 1947–1971. Noida: Harper Collins, 2016. Visit Bangladesh. “National Symbol.” Visit Bangladesh. Accessed December 29, 2018. https://visitbangladesh.gov.bd/about-bangladesh/national-symbol/.

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9

Semiotics beyond agency Violence and meaning in the theater of war Gal Hertz

Introduction In this chapter, I examine the semiotics of war through the prism of the theatrical staging of violence. The three case studies I analyze here deal— each in a different way—with the function of signs in relation to the per­ formance of violence. With this perspective, I am moving away from the notion of agency, as well as the economy of perpetrator and victim, cause and effect, guilt and innocence that goes with it, toward an understand­ ing of violence as an action that is related to bankruptcy and failures in processes of signification. The semiotics of the theater, which the authors I examine in this chapter use and develop, allow them to stage violence in ways in which signs are not simply used by agents but rather act upon and affect them, while the notion of subjectivity and agency in these plays is problematized or even dismissed completely. In this sense, beyond being avant-garde theater, these performances may provide an insight into the semiotics of the war experience itself. In this framework, I examine the works of three dramatists who form a kind of tradition of engaging with the staging of violence: Bertolt Brecht’s opera The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny (1930), created together with Kurt Weill, the Israeli playwright Hanoch Levin’s Murder (1997) and the piece New Middle East (2013) by the two young, contemporary Palestinian writers Moataz Abu Saleh and Bashar Murkus. In all three cases, the theater functions as a medium for the problematization of agency in relation to the representation of violence. The main issue that each of these plays highlight is that violence as the use of excessive force, attached to anxiety and desire, cannot be understood as a means to an end. At the same time, the superfluous acts of violence that are the focus of these plays are neither meaningless nor unnecessary, as they might appear at first. They have, so I wish to show, a constitutive effect within this semiotic frame­ work by addressing a crisis of signification. Violence in these cases there­ fore should not be reduced to moral misconduct, but ought to be read as a response and an acting out of a semiotic impasse.

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Discourses of violence: semiotics, agency and war Dealing with the semiotics of war also means giving an account of an impasse of communication, signification and meaning that those who take part in the events often experience. The question of how to give voice to traumatic experiences, how to express the physical and mental pain and how to give adequate representation to horror is a debated issue in the dis­ course of war and violence. After the Second World War, Hannah Arendt wrote, “Violence itself is incapable of speech, and not merely that speech is helpless when confronted with violence.”1 Elaine Scarry continues this line of thought. Attaching language to violence and pain, she argues, “intense pain is also language-destroying: as the content of one’s world disintegrates, so the content of one’s language disintegrates as the self dis­ integrates, so that which would express and project the self is robbed of its source and its subject.”2 From this perspective, war and violence disrupt language, and the loss of speech relates to the disintegration of the self. James Dawes’ work along these lines presents a rich analysis of the crisis of language and the boundaries of expression in times of war. His analysis is admirable, but while he promises to give an account of the function of language vis-à-vis violence, his focus seems to go elsewhere. What he studies is not language at war as such, but how it relates to agency, such as the loss of the ability to speak or the usage of language as a mode of resistance. The right for free speech and the ability to express pain, as he has it, work against the coercive and destructive power of violence. Dawes’ thesis is, briefly, that language and speech oppose and resist the immoral disruption of war and violence. This thesis allows him to pack a wide range of literary sources together with thinkers from Immanuel Kant to Jürgen Habermas, Karl Otto Apel and Judith Butler. “Insofar as violence-as-coercion is an assault upon free agency, and the act of speaking is conceived of as the fundamental sign and application of our free agency,” Dawes writes, “then the volitional use of language is miraculously an assault upon violence, a contradiction of its felt coercion through assertion of the will.”3 One could ask, however, if violence is not also a result of a use of language, such as

1 Hannah Arendt, On Revolution (New York: Viking, 1963), 9.

2 Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and the Unmaking of the World (New York:

Oxford University Press, 1985), 35. 3 James Dawes, The Language of War – Literature and the Culture of War in the US From the Civil War to World War II (Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 2002), 2. Dawes provides both a historical and a cultural analysis of the ways the experience of war affects literary, legal and philosophical representations. Dawes ends his book not with a study of language or literature, but with the discourse of human rights, and with it an explicit endorsement of universal normative objectivity (p. 218). It is as such a short­ coming of the analysis of language beyond agency and its semantic implications that I wish to develop here.

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provocation or propaganda? Are not many perpetrators of violence willingly (and even enthusiastically) participating in rather than forced to do violent actions? Does violence not also create meaning and send messages rather than be inexpressive? Is it not also a form of self-constitution? Is violence really the opposite of language, or is it perhaps its infamous accomplice? Dealing with such questions demands giving attention to the performa­ tive nature of language, to its constitutive dimension (that has no inherent morality) and to the way it functions within a social and political context. It calls for an understanding of semiotics that goes beyond notions of rep­ resentation, agency and recognition, toward one that deals with relations between the constitutive and the semantic potential of language, beyond the intentions or interests of the speaker. As Erika Fischer-Lichte shows, it is precisely such tensions that underline the semiotics of the theater and which allows perhaps a different form of outlet.4 Before going into the semiotics of theater as a critical model, it is important to look at the relations between language and war, beyond moral agency. In How to Tell a True War Story,5 Tim O’Brien questions the idea of a moral resistance that stems from the language of stories of war: If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, there­ fore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.6 For O’Brien, a war story is not about resistance and an expression of inner free will. The language of war is not simply disrupted but rather, as his examples show, immersed in the experience. It is not about a univer­ sal message, what O’Brien calls “abstractions,” but rather the ability of the story to be loyal to the experiences, which also means voicing the inherent gap between signs and actions, reality and imagination, moral judgment 4 Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Semiotics of Theater, trans. Jeremy Gaines and Doris L. Jones (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984). The unique nature of the semiotics of theater is that they deal with “signs of signs”: the objects on stage as well as actors’ ges­ tures and speech, for example, all relate not to their material form or cultural function but their ability to stand for something else, to be interpreted by the audience: “nature becomes sign, existence becomes meaning.” Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Semiotics of Theater, trans. Jeremy Gaines and Doris L. Jones (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), 140. 5 Tim O’Brien, “How to Tell a True War Story,” in Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology, ed. Paula Geyh et al. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998), 174–183. 6 Tim O’Brien, “How to Tell a True War Story,” in Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology, ed. Paula Geyh et al. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998), 174.

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and lack of agency.7 It is precisely the presentation of these gaps, which for O’Brien becomes the condition of the possibility of telling the story. In other words, a war story calls for different semiotics. To use Julia Kristeva’s distinction between the semiotic and the symbolic, what is required in a war story are semiotics that address the relation between signifiers and experi­ ences and are attached to emotions, anxieties and desires, rather than the symbolic, i.e. processes of representation.8 From this perspective, a war story needs to account for experiences in relation to signs: how words lose meaning and the ways the experiences of war reconstitute meaning. Indeed, stories of war should deal with experi­ ential gaps and with events that cannot be easily articulated. They should somehow express the “unbearable lightness” of killing as well as its consti­ tutive dimension for becoming a soldier. O’Brien shows how the experience of losing a comrade redefines the meaning of the words and the relation to fighting itself. How such experiences blur the boundaries between moral and brutal, just and cruel. In one of his examples, he writes about the killing of a baby water buffalo and shows how a cruel act that may seem senseless has a distinctive role within this context. O’Brien is therefore not arguing against telling stories of war—true war stories should be told, but they require a different semiotic approach: one that carries with it the gaps and collapses of meaning, the instability of signifiers and an account of the very limit and shortcoming of expression. It is precisely for this reason—the creation of meaning from emptied signifiers—that violence as a ritual performative practice comes into play. What O’Brien calls for is a semiotic approach that can relate to the different functions of signs in the context of war, which accounts for the ways emptied signs operate, i.e. not as what agents use in order to communicate or produce meaning, but rather as what now defines the action and—to a large extent—(re)constitutes the agent. In other words, 7 Take this paragraph, for example. O’Brien is here not simply portraying an idyllic war adventure but reconstructs the experiential gap between what we know or think about war and the actual experience of being in war: “You admire the fluid symmetries of troops on the move, the harmonies of sound and shape and proportion, the great sheets of metalfire streaming down from a gunship, the illumination rounds, the white phosphorous, the purply black glow of napalm, the rocket’s red glare. It’s not pretty, exactly. It’s astonish­ ing. It fills the eye. It commands you. You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference—a powerful, implacable beauty— and a true war story will tell the truth about this, though the truth is ugly.” Tim O’Brien, “How to Tell a True War Story,” in Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology, ed. Paula Geyh et al. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998), 180. 8 Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language – A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Language, trans. Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine and Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980). For Kristeva, the semantic refers to the pre-conscious stage and to the rhyth­ mical and expressive aspects of language, while the symbolic relates to meaning, rules and culture. It is the meeting point of these contrasted dimensions of language that are at work in the process of subjectivization.

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stories of war and the discourse of violence call for a semiotic approach, which on the one hand focuses and studies signs in crisis, and on the other hand goes beyond representation and agency toward performance and the constitution of meaning through performance. What is meant by the semiotics of rituals? Dealing with “signs of the sacred,” Robert Yelle provides a valuable discussion that may assist here in the further articulation of such semiotics of performance.9 The context he studies are religious practices and rituals in order to explain how signs work on the minds and emotions of believers. In particular, he is interested in the ways in which rituals both involve and redefine the relation with signs. In the religious practices he examines, signs are not what agents use to com­ municate with each other or with God, but rather relate to a performance: they are used through bodily gestures and verbal utterances, sounds, des­ ignated places, clothing etc. Yelle’s semiotic approach is critical in relation to modern semiotic theories—like those of Ferdinand de Saussure, Charles Sanders Pierce or Claude Lévi Strauss. In particular, he addresses the key principle of the arbitrariness of the sign: “the fact that many magical tradi­ tions assert the opposite of this doctrine, by maintaining a natural or divine fitness of certain signs, … [seems] a confirmation of the difference between these naïve and more modern scientific approaches.”10 Yelle’s insight is that the ritual is not only making use of the sign but also, in a sense, revitalizes or reestablishes its semiotic function. In his study, Yelle shows how this ten­ sion between myths of origin and arbitrariness plays an important part in the rituals, both in addressing the gap of temporality between ancient time and present and in stressing that the action demanded from the believer sus­ tains and validates—recharges, if you will—the sign. While signs as sym­ bols are merely representations of objects or ideas, in rituals signs are able to produce an effect and are attached to action. Verses, for example, can be used as mantras; they may be repeated or read in a specific way, often entirely dismissing their literary meaning. The magical or mystical nature of signs in religion has to do with their ability to capture or relate to divinity by either their figure or shape, sound, or other forms of correspondence—in short, their iconicity.11 Such signs—magic words, symbols, relics or daily practices—work not in the symbolic sense by what they mean or represent,

9 Robert A. Yelle, Semiotics of Religion – Signs of the Scared in History (London/New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 162. 10 Robert A. Yelle, Semiotics of Religion – Signs of the Scared in History (London/New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 9–10. 11 On the notion of the iconic in the semiotics of theater see, for example, Keir Elam, The Semiotics of Theater and Drama (London/New York: Routledge, 1980). Elam writes, “Iconism is further conditioned by the law of the transformability of the sign. If one sign-system can do the work usually fulfilled by another, it is clear that direct similarity is quite dispensable.” Keir Elam, The Semiotics of Theater and Drama (London/New York: Routledge, 1980), 15.

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but mainly operate on the believer’s emotions. Furthermore, they allow him or her to experience and practice religion to the extent that “life itself becomes a ritual.”12 It is therefore not so much about using signs to perform a ritual (using a word or an object) but rather the processes of subjectivi­ zation and objectification that they provide (e.g. emotional relief), created through the performance. Such ritualistic engagement with sacred signs may cleanse or purify, encourage hope or ease pain. It allows the individual to be part of a communal body and transgress boundaries of immanence and transcendence. In this sense, signs can be considered as instructions not merely to the mind but also to the soul.13 How does such a semiotic approach to the sacred relate to that of a staging of violence? How may it be used for the telling or staging of a war story in the theater? In her study of ritual, sacrifice and theater, Erika Fischer-Lichte provides a notion of theatricality that links the performa­ tive semantics of the ritual to that of modern theater. What Fischer-Lichte defines as theatricality can be termed, as Yelle puts it, as a “semiotic recognition”: [F]or, by using the material products of that culture as its own signs, theater creates an awareness of the semiotic character of these material creations and consequently identifies the respective culture in turn as a set of heterogeneous systems of generating meaning.14 On a historical level, she examines the performative turn in staging and act­ ing, particularly in German culture, mainly in Berlin and Vienna around the fin de siècle: a shift from a textual to a performative culture, from role-playing to an acting out of their psyche and from the persona to the human—often female—body. These new theatrical performances often focused on the audience’s experience by the transgression of boundaries and the breaking of theatrical traditions. The new performance celebrated the unpleasant, the pathological and the primitive through eccentric, exagger­ ated bodily movements, unnatural voice acting and hyperrealistic staging, 12 Keir Elam, The Semiotics of Theater and Drama (London/New York: Routledge, 1980), 88. 13 Daniel Dor, Language as Instruction to the Imagination (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). Dor refers to the “symbolic landscape,” which allows the transition from the personal experience to the collective perception and possible articulation and is a common ground for communication. Hence, the words used by speakers for these experiences are always foreign to them, operating not by similarity or identification but rather by a social symbolic framework that maintains and regulates this gap. From this perspective, a crisis of language in this violent moment—such as war—has to do not with the gap itself (which is unavoidable), but with the collapse of a particular symbolic landscape. This usage of language is no longer mediated or negotiated in order to make sense but simply operates as a mechanism that provokes reaffirmation not by words but with action. 14 Fischer-Lichte, The Semiotics of Theater, 141.

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for example in Max Reinhardt’s 1907 staging of Elektra, together with Hugo von Hofmannsthal, starring the actress Gertrud Eysoldt. Since the boundary between the semiotic and the phenomenal body of the actress was blurred, the stage events were not experienced as an illu­ sion of a fictional world but as “tortuous reality,” which worked on the senses of the spectators and strained their nerves. [In the eyes of the crit­ ics:] “It raves, storms and whimpers incessantly. One watches the raging like the fight of wild beasts in a cage, with nerves lashed.”15 The body of the actress, which in traditional theater functioned on the stage as a sign, turns in this new production again into a body. Yet this body is not real or natural but estranged: it acts unnaturally, like a “beast in a cage”; it is acting transgression, hysteria, uncanniness and irrationality. Eysoldt is not trying to imitate the character of Elektra but rather uses her own body in order to create a different kind of theatrical effect. This new form of acting transgresses the boundaries between stage and audience and turns the spec­ tators into participants of something that looks more like an ancient ritual than a theater play. The effect on the audience, which the critics coined as a “tortuous reality,” relates not only to the bursting performance of Eysoldt but also to the murder story of Sophocles’ play. Reinhardt’s production seems to break with the medium’s conventions in order to be able to tell a murder story and, in doing so, turns the audience from innocent spectators into accomplices and perhaps potential murderers themselves.16 The semiotics of performance that I have tried to sketch here juxtapose the ritual and the theatrical in their interactive relation to signs and mark a shift from the symbolic forms of representation to the semantics of prac­ tice and action. From this perspective, signs are attached to emotions rather than ideas and semantically depend on their usage rather than their syntac­ tic function or grammatical difference. In the next step of my argument, I wish to show how violence may be understood in the prism of a ritual form that exhibits a strenuous relation with signs. More concretely, I show how it operates by undermining—rather than promulgating—the notion of agency.

Violence without agency An important argument for the need to move away from the paradigm of agency in order to understand the semiotics of violence was made by yet another scholar of religion, Talal Asad.17 He argues that a secular 15 Cited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, Theatre, Sacrifice, Ritual: Exploring Forms of Political Theatre (New York/London: Routledge, 2005), 5. 16 On Max Reinhardt’s theatrical innovation in this regard, see Martin Esslin, “Max Reinhardt: ‘High Priest of Theatricality,’” The Drama Review 21, no. 2 (1977): 3–24. 17 Talal Asad, “Agency and Pain: An Exploration,” Culture and Religion 1, no. 1 (2000): 29–60.

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enlightened notion of agency—i.e. individual responsibility and moral accountability for one’s actions—makes it impossible to understand reli­ gious rituals, particularly those that involve pain. The problem he identi­ fies is twofold: first, that agency represents or stands for something else, which means that it is different from itself. Second, that agency is con­ gruent with a human body and as such detached from social institutions and cultural constraints. Asad’s central concern is that by assuming the modern notion of agency, one places human action within a rational econ­ omy of means for ends, individualism and legal responsibility. As such, it ignores a wide range of human behavior, such as religious ritual, that operate on a different semiotic framework. Against the attempts of mod­ ern anthropological, sociological and philosophical traditions to interpret culture as based on personal accountability and autonomy, religion pre­ sents a different economy of the self: one who deals with disempowerment, willingness to suffer pain, humiliation, immersion in a communal practice or in a collective and other types of behavior that seem to disadvantage the self.18 Asad claims that agency also brings with it other emotional and moral dimensions: “Agency is built on the idea of blame. A world of appar­ ent accidents is rendered into a world of essences by attributing to a person moral/legal responsibility on whose basis guilt and innocence (and there­ fore punishment or exoneration) are determined.”19 Interestingly, Asad is also using theater as a counter-model for such a notion of agency. His first example is the modern theater, in which actors are demanded to give up their own stories and play a role—including texts and physical gestures— which is not theirs, and which is then staged according to traditions of acting and instruction from a director. This, however, opens rather than limits the actors’ ability to produce a dramatic effect. By giving up agency, they do not become passive objects but actively perform such a lack of agency. Asad’s second example is taken from ancient Greek theater. The act of King Oedipus of blinding himself should not be understood as a punishment for his immoral deeds. It was in fact a result of the will of the Gods, a faith which—although he did all he could to avoid it—he could 18 Peter van der Veer has taken up Asad’s critique of agency and applied it to the Hindu ascetic culture. His study shows how pain, humiliation and sacrifice are central to the understating of ascetic traditions: “The ascetic goes through a series of actions in which he inflicts pain and violence on his body or in which he undergoes severe self-humiliation. These are acts of self-disempowerment to attain a particular selfhood, which has its own powers. For example, to remain silent for years (the ascetic vow of silence) is to deprive oneself of the essential human power of speech. To become a slave (das) of god is to willingly enact a drama in which all the power is attributed to a transcendent, divine actor.” See Peter van der Veer, “Pain and Power – Reflections on Ascetic Agency,” in The Anthropologist and the Native: Essays for Gananath Obeyesekere, ed. H. L. Seneviratne (New York/New Delhi/London: Anthem Press, 2011), 203–221, here especially 207. 19 Asad, “Agency and Pain,” 34. Asad’s point is that agency, beyond the notion of individual freedom, is also linked to guilt and shame. By moving away from agency, he claims, dif­ ferent alternatives for moral action which are not accountability are opened.

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not prevent. He was not a free agent, and the deeds were neither his inten­ tion nor his choice. By inflicting pain on himself, he is not taking responsibil­ ity for a moral failure but as an act of “passionate necessity.”20 The blinding itself, the performance of pain, is an ethical act on its own, not a punish­ ment for breaking a norm nor a means for serving an ideal purpose.21 In the theater, like in religious practice, “[p]ain is not simply a cause of action, but often itself a kind of action.”22 Asad’s argument can be formulated in semiotical terms: on the one hand, an understanding of the play not as dealing with representations of morality and guilt, but with boundaries of human action and its tragic consequences; on the other hand, the crisis of signification—father, mother and son subverted into a scene of murder and incest—requires a “corrective” semiotical work on the ritual level, beyond the economy of personal guilt and personal moral accountability.23 Ruth Miller continues this line of thought while moving from pain in reli­ gious studies onto violence in a social context and in relation to the philosophy of language. In a critical essay, she examines what happens when agency is abandoned from the discourse of violence and asks, “why do even the most careful and critical descriptions of violence, and even those most wary of mod­ els of autonomous sovereign subjectivity, seem so often reducible to descrip­ tions of victims, of perpetrators, and of methods of helping or punishing them?”24 Her answer is that the discourse of violence starts from the wrong question: what are the meanings and causes for individual performances of violence? – a question that already links violence with agency and calls for a functionalist explanation—why?—in terms of individual interests, moral mis­ conduct or a response to social struggles. Like Asad’s claim against the way agency introduces secular thinking into the study of religion, for Miller, such moral agency as an interpretative framework for violence is the reason for the discursive impasse in talking about violence: “[v]iolence, in other words, is not in itself impossible to describe; the vocabulary of agency has made violence indescribable.”25 Miller’s critique also targets thinkers who attempt to separate

20 Asad, “Agency and Pain,” 39.

21 Asad’s claim here is that “acts can have an ethical significance without necessarily hav­ ing to be interpreted in terms of ‘answerability.’” In this sense, he not only challenges the reading of Oedipus’ self-mutilation but also questions a broad moral economy that such a reading presupposes. On his critical analysis of the relations between the mod­ ern concept of humanity and morals, see Talal Asad, “Reflections on Violence, Law, and Humanitarianism,” Critical Inquiry 41 (2015): 390–427. 22 Asad, “Agency and Pain,” 31. 23 Asad refers here to Freud’s reading of Oedipus not as a story of immorality, but as an acting out of unconscious drives. The question is not how should be judged Oedipus as an individual, but how his actions should be culturally sublimated. 24 Ruth A. Miller, “Violence Without Agency,” in Performances of Violence, ed. Austin Sarat, Carleen Basler and Thomas L. Dumm (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2011), 43–68. 25 Ruth A. Miller, “Violence Without Agency,” in Performances of Violence, ed. Austin Sarat, Carleen Basler and Thomas L. Dumm (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2011), 45.

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the subject and the speech act, like Judith Butler or Catherine MacKinnon.26 Although they focus on the performative and precarious nature of agency and propose complicated mechanisms of signification—they end up recon­ structing speaking (indeed, injured or victimized) agents that “speak truth to power” or give voice to victims—their performance is nevertheless communi­ cation with other subjects and depends on their reactions and response. An account of the performance of violence, Miller claims, should be based on different semiotic models. Its starting point is the simultaneity of the lin­ guist speech act (illocutionary, in John Austin’s term) and the physical action, in which the speaking subject is not conveying a message but becomes that message through the performance. Such performances, she asserts, “can have anything to do with agency because there is no space between speaker and speech.”27 From this perspective, she claims that subjects are not simply responsible for the violence they cause, not because they are not causing it, but because they are often constituted by it—and this is what the concept of agency tends to cloud.28 Again, the point here is not that interlocutors become agents through the acts—this takes us back to Butler’s thesis—but that, in fact, this form of constitution creates a performance of violence without agency. This opens up the challenging question: what might a critique of vio­ lence that is not based on the condemnation of agents look like? What is the function of signs in the performance of violence when agency is abandoned? These are key questions that I wish to explore in the following case studies.

Violence, agency and semiotics of desire: Brecht and Weill’s Mahagonny Denn Mahagonny das gibt es nicht

Denn Mahagonny das ist kein Ort.

Denn Mahagonny ist ein erfundenes Wort.29

26 Miller refers to Catharine A. MacKinnon, Feminism Unmodified: Discourses on Life and Law (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987) and Judith Butler, Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative (New York: Routledge, 1997). 27 Miller, “Violence Without Agency,” 55. 28 The case study that Miller offers is the late 19th- and early 20th-century women’s suffrage movement in America. Miller’s suggestion that the movement’s struggle was about trans­ forming the public sphere—which is made clear when agency, i.e. the struggle for the right to vote, becomes a struggle for the case study—is insightful, in particular since it stresses the claim of the inseparability of the act of speech and the physical body: women activists in the public sphere are both speech and bodies that perform while being constituted through this act. Yet this case study also limits a broader analysis of performance of violence, in other words, when such an attempt for becoming through the performance of violence is related not to a desire for agency, but to the sign. 29 Bertolt Brecht, Werke II. Große kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe (BFA). ed. Werner Hecht, Jan Knopf, Werner Mittenzwei, and Klaus-Detlef Müller (Berlin/ Weimar: Aufbau Verlag; Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1998), 331.

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[For there is no Mahagonny,

For Mahagonny is nowhere.

For Mahagonny is just an invented word.]

“Just an invented word,”30 as Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) puts it, gives a sense of the semiotic instability that underlines the piece.31 Mahagonny is an arbitrary sign: it is not a city located somewhere in the American Wild West; the opera is by no means a realistic one. The precarious sig­ nifier–signified relation is also emphasized with the rhyme “Ort-Wort” (in the citation above in German), which juxtaposes the linguistic and spatial locations and the symbolic, suggesting a (desired) place which is not a (real) place. Overall, it suggests an interchangeability of signs. This unstable semiotic is present throughout the opera in other invented words, such as the names of characters or other locations, constant rep­ etitions and different modes of speech: songs and the projection of texts, montages and a mix of genres in the music. Finally, there is the dramatic text itself—often absurd and full of clichés. But this does not mean that words are meaningless. Although the word Mahagonny is “just invented,” it has a social function nonetheless, as explained in the opera—it is a city of nets (Netzstadt) that is meant to attract wealthy people and extort their money. In Mahagonny, what matters is the functionality of the sign through its performance rather than its meaning and representation. This also means that Mahagonny is no ordinary “boom town” but a haven of pleasures, a consumer’s utopia.32 Mahagonny’s attraction is based on the experience of consumption par excellence. It is therefore better to think about this “invented word” not as the name of a city, but rather as a

30 For an insightful yet symptomatic reaction to this instability, i.e. an attempt to find a source of the word, see Nikolaus Müller-Schöll, “Just an Invented Word,” in “German Brecht, European Readings,” special issue, The Drama Review 43, no. 4 (1999): 27–30. 31 This instability of the text also relates to the unique process of co-creation of the opera by Brecht and Weill, as well as to the different changes that were introduced in different ver­ sions of the opera. On the conflicting ideas and the transitions in the text, see Edward D. Hars, “Excavating Mahagonny: Editorial Responses for Conflicting Visions,” in Der Text im musikalischen Werk, ed. Walter Dühr, Helga Lühning, Norbert Oellers and Hartmut Steinecke (Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag, 1998). 32 The opera can be understood, as suggested by Adorno and others, as portraying a bourgeois utopia, which is then exposed as a dystopia. This also relates to other ten­ sions developed in the opera between heaven and hell, “rise” and “fall,” satisfaction and destruction. The utopia relates to desire, while the presence of the dystopia is not so much repressed but more inspires anxiety. For further reading, see Wilhelm Vosskamp, “Zwischen Utopie und Apokalypse,” in Drama und Theater im 20. Jahrhundert, ed. Hans Dietrich Irmscher and Werner Keller (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 157–168.

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brand.33 It is not about the city as a place, but its function as a business (Geschäft), not simply the services it offers—whiskey bars, boxing rings and brothels—but something more, namely, the experience of unrestricted desire—“you can-do-anything-in” (“Hier-darfst-du-Schenke”). The sym­ bolic effect of Mahagonny as a brand goes beyond goods and pleasures: it serves different forms of needs. Jim Mahoney, the main protagonist, states this realization toward the end of the opera: Now I see it. When I came to this city, hoping that my money would buy me joy, my doom was already sealed. Here I sit now and have just noth­ ing. … The joy I bought was no joy; the freedom they sold me was no freedom. I ate and remained unsatisfied; I drank and became thirstier. Give me a glass of water.34 As he sits on the electric chair waiting for his execution, Jim’s confession is revealing. What he wanted to procure was not goods, but “joy” and “free­ dom,” marketing promises that are often used in advertisements even today. Consumption is not about procuring goods or reaching satisfaction but relates to that promise that transcends them. A critique of such transcend­ ence is voiced in his last sentence, which refers to the words of Jesus on the cross and juxtaposes, as I develop further, the capitalistic semiotic of desire with the Christian economy of sinning and repenting. This branding–con­ sumption–desire mechanism defines the city’s and its inhabitants’ identities. It is therefore not a story about the lives of lumberjack men from Alaska or the love affair between Jim and Jenny, but rather, as Kurt Weill notes, “the fate of the individual is depicted in passing only where it exemplifies the fate of the city.”35 The opera The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny tells the story of an American Sin City that turns from a capitalistic utopia of pleasure into a violent dystopia of abuse. The city is founded by three outlaws who are escaping justice. While their new city offers all sorts of luxuries, the rule is that everything is permitted as long as one can pay for it. Such a social con­ tract is not simply about putting price tags on all things but about putting everything on sale: the complete reification of all social relations, including

33 Naomi Klein formulates the concept of brand and attaches it to its symbolic and emo­ tional affect: the old paradigm had it that all marketing was selling a product. In the new model, however, the product always takes a back seat to the real product, the brand and the selling of the brand acquired an extra component that can only be described as spiritual. Advertising is about hawking a product. Branding, in its truest and most advanced incar­ nations, is about corporate transcendence. Naomi Klein, No Logo (London: Picador, 1995), 21. 34 Bertolt Brecht, The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny and The Seven Deadly Sins, trans. John Willet and Ralph Manheim (London: Eyre Methuen, 1979), 62. 35 Kim H. Kowalke, Kurt Weill in Europe (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1979), 515.

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friendship, love and justice. In their reified form, objects turn into desire: a desire that grows and reproduces itself and, as a result, creates an excess of consumption. Eating, sex, drinking and boxing—actions that are empha­ sized and repeated throughout the opera—become not simply pleasures that can be achieved or enjoyed but demand that need to be fulfilled. Although mostly understood as an anti-capitalist piece, Mahagonny also has a strong religious-ritualist element, which relates to what I already sug­ gested reading as semiotics of desire. The origin of the opera (particularly its early form “Mahagonny-Songspiel”) is in a collection of poems published under the title Domestic Breviary (Hauspostille) in 1926. The poems in the collection, written since 1916, are forwarded by Brecht’s “directions for the use of the individual lessons.”36 Among these directions are how the differ­ ent sections of poems (Lektionen) should be read (not at once, out loud, with a pause or accompanying gestures), how they suit different circumstances or moments in life (tragedies, times of danger or other specific occasions) and how they should serve specific groups of readers (the Mahagonny songs are meant for rich readers). Brecht makes clear that “these Breviary les­ sons are adjusted to the usage of the reader and should not be thoughtlessly consumed.”37 On the one hand, the lessons have a point and should not be just “consumed.” On the other hand, the directions given by Brecht are not about the meaning but the process of performance and consumption. These consumption and digestion elements in relation to the text, the “culinary,” as Brecht emphasizes in his notes to the opera, are central to the understanding of Mahagonny as “a culinary opera.”38 Brecht’s introduction does not explain the text but addresses—and parodies—its usage (Gebrauch), function and performance. Treating the poems as a prayer book also treats consump­ tion as a ritual and focuses on the semiotic and performative rather than the symbolic and communicative dimensions of language. In other words, Brecht aims to challenge not only the bourgeois society with its economic exploitation or moral hypocrisy but also the constitutive nature of its semi­ otics of consumption: how, instead of signification, signs instruct their usage and mark an object of desire. According to Brecht, it would be misleading to think about this society in secular terms as rational or calculated. By posing the question of what it means to desire objects,39 Brecht aims to expose the

36 Bertolt Brecht, The Collected Poems of Bertolt Brecht, ed. and trans. Tom Kuhn and David Constantine (New York: Liveright, 2018). 37 Bertolt Brecht, Hauspostille (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1999). 38 Bertolt Brecht, Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1963), 83–96. 39 Brecht writes in his Anmerkungen: “Das Vergnügen sollte wenigsten Gegenstand der Untersuchung sein, wenn schon die Untersuchung Gegenstand des Vergnügen sein sollte. Es tritt hier in seiner gegenwärtigen historischen Gestalt auf: als Ware.” Brecht further remarks, “Ware ist hier auch die Romantik. Sie tritt lediglich als Inhalt auf, nicht als Form.” Bertolt Brecht, Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1963), 87.

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214 Gal Hertz ritualistic elements of the bourgeois world and the way symbols are com­ modified, turning literature into a carnivalesque expression of social life and leading to nothing less than dehumanization—moral bankruptcy—that still, or perhaps because of its new form, has a powerful effect: In the evening I once again take the Domestic Breviary in my hands. This is where literature attains the stage of dehumanization, which Marx observed in the proletariat, along with the desperation which inspires the proletariat’s hopes. The bulk of the poems deal with decline, and the poems follow our crumbling society all the way down. Beauty founded on wrecks, rags becoming a delicacy. Nobility wallows in the dust, mean­ inglessness is welcomed as a means of liberation. The poet no longer has a sense of solidarity, not even with himself. Risus mortis. But it doesn’t lack power.40 What I wish to emphasize here is that, for Brecht, the focus is on the social conditions, underlined by a transition from production to consumption and its consequences for the poetic language. On the one hand, this calls for endorsing meaninglessness in order to expose the processes of dehumani­ zation that society undergoes. This is the semiotic approach needed for an author who wishes “to tell a real social story.” As Adorno defines this in relation to Mahagonny, “Everything has been subjected to an evenly dis­ placed optical perspective which distorts the surface forms of bourgeois life into the grimaces of a reality otherwise hidden by ideologies.”41 On the other hand, beyond the gesture of “Risus mortis” (grin of death), there are mimetic relations between society and theater/opera, not only in the sense of pleas­ ure and satisfaction but also in terms of the function of signs. As Brecht emphasizes in his notes, the opera is not about pleasing the public but is intended as an epic opera: it aims to address the public’s ratio rather than its emotions and presents a study rather than a show. In other words, the epic opera works with and against the notion of pleasure (Genuss). It is therefore not surprising that the production of the Mahagonny-Songspiel in 1927 at the Baden-Baden festival was received as “a fifteen-minute scandal,”42 while the full opera, The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny, which premiered in 1930, was controversially received by the Weimar Republic (in contrast to Brecht and Weill’s Threepenny Opera from 1928). It was working against the

40 Brecht’s diary entry from 20 August 1940. Bertolt Brecht, Diaries 1934–1955, trans. John Willet (London/New Delhi/New York/Sydney: Bloomsbury, 2016), 89. Cited also in Stephen Parker, Bertolt Brecht – A Literary Life (London/New Delhi/New York/Sydney: Bloomsbury, 2014), 241. 41 Theodor W. Adorno, “Mahagonny,” trans. Jamie Owen Daniel, Discourse 12, no. 1 (FallWinter 1989–90): 72. 42 BFA 28, 289. Cited by Parker, Theodor W. Adorno, “Mahagonny,” trans. Jamie Owen Daniel, Discourse 12, no. 1 (Fall-Winter 1989–90): 72, 242.

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expectations of the public with its montage form, the fragmentation of the plot, strange musical citations and scandalous scenes. In the epic opera, there are no free agents but a desire that defines its customers, as expressed in a song from the play.43Mahagonny shows how the semiotics of desire, taken to its end, are essentially attached not only to the absorption of the individual in the performative practice of consump­ tion but also how this process leads to transgression—“all is permitted”— and that pleasure is attached to abuse. It is precisely this transformation from the perusal of pleasure to harmful desire that takes place in the cases of the men who arrive in Mahagonny from Alaska: Jack’s desire for eating ends up with him guzzling to death, while Jo’s habit of gambling causes him to challenge Trinity Moses (one of the outlaws that run the city) in the boxing ring, a fight that ends with his death. Note that the individuality of the characters is attached to the act of consumption, and their attempt to merge into the act brings their destruction. This could also be seen as a modern version of the Christian seven deadly sins and the punishment that follows.44 Lastly, it is the end of Jim Mahoney himself, the protagonist of the opera, whose desire is desire itself (transgression of the law). Unable to pay his bill for the whiskey he and his friends consumed, he is trailed, found guilty and executed for the worst crime imaginable—not being able to pay his bill. This act of violence also brings an end to the city itself, exposing not simply corruption or immoral behavior but the mechanism that is in play when signs (in their reified form) become marketing devices. Again, my point here is not that Jim or Jack were supposed to know better how to behave, but rather that, once they were part of this social game, the question of agency does not matter. Rather than staging agencies—indi­ viduals struggling with internal conflicts—Mahagonny stages the constitu­ tive process of desire. In his review of the opera, Adorno writes, This Jimmy Mahoney is a subject without subjectivity: a dialectical Chaplin. The more bored he becomes with the imposed anarchy, the more he wants to eat his hat, as Chaplin eats his shoes.45 Noam Yuran offers such a reading of capitalism on the basis of the constitu­ tion of subjects of insatiable desire. He writes, “the economic function of a thing can be seen to depend on the way it is desired.”46 Yuran suggests that the economy of desire is directly related to such a loss of subjectivity. This is, in his view, a modern version of the Greek myth of King Midas: everything he touched turned into gold, thereby finally rendering everything he desired 43 Brecht, Mahagonny, 33 (translation modified).

44 In this context, note Brecht and Weill’s later project (1933): The Seven Deadly Sins (ballet

chanté) 45 Adorno, “Mahagonny,” 73. 46 Noam Yuran, What Money Wants (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2014), 156.

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216 Gal Hertz untouchable and therefore unfulfilling. The important point in this myth is that desire in its pure form is not located in the subject who wants (an active agent), nor in the desired object (happiness as commodity), but in the way the boundaries between them collapse: when Midas’ daughter is turned into a golden statue, or when he hungers since he cannot put food in his mouth. What we have here, if you will, is the price for the interchange between sym­ bol and sign and the semiotics of desire that replaces the semiotics of meaning with a performance of consumption that merges the subject with the object.47 Let me turn now to my second thesis: how does Brecht’s semiotics of theater allow a critical position in this regard through the return of the ultimate sym­ bol, God, who decides to pay the shameful Sin City of Mahagonny a visit? Just before his execution, Jim asks the people of Mahagonny if they have no God. As a response, they perform for him a satirical play within a play: “God in Mahagonny.” God’s condemnation of Mahagonny finds no ear in the city, and when he threatens to send them to hell, they solemnly reply that they are already there. It is tempting to read this scene as expressing a “the­ ological unconscious” that underpins the dystopia of Christian-capitalist morality. Yet I wish to suggest reading it as a critique of classical theater/ opera: not simply a satire of the classical device of deus ex machina but a more radical rejection of the entire deontological moral approach. Such an approach, such a moral condemnation of the symbol, would have to rely on the logic of agency, but the people of Mahagonny have long passed it. The point is that Brecht and Weills’ critique does not go back to some agencybased moralism but to a different relation with signs and the demystification of their appeal. Yet even if all this is true, the question is still, what can Brecht’s theater sug­ gest, other than celebrating the defeat of the moral agent? How could his culi­ nary opera provide an outlet from this economy of desire? Perhaps this has to do with the way commodities are turned into signs again on the theater’s stage. I will not go into Brecht’s ideas of epic theater here, however. Instead, I end this section with Louis Althusser’s comments on the negative rather than recuperative effect that Brecht’s technique seeks to have on his viewers: Brecht overthrew the problematic of the classical theatre—when he renounced the thematization of the meaning and implications of a play in the form of a consciousness of self. … [T]o produce a new, true and active consciousness in his spectators, Brecht’s world must necessarily exclude any pretensions to exhaustive self-recovery and self-representa­ tion in the form of a consciousness of self.48

47 Noam Yuran, What Money Wants (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2014), 23–24. 48 Louis Althusser, For Marx, trans. Ron Brewster (New York: Verso, 1990), 143. Althusser stresses that in Brecht’s theater, identities, characters and heroes are impossible, and that is what the staging is meant to uncover.

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Brechtian figures in the Middle East: the desire for sovereignty FLUSHED SOLDIER: He’s dead.

PALE SOLDIER: It’s checked out.

(Silent moment over the boy’s corpse, the father raises his eyes to the soldiers)

THE FATHER: Why?

FLUSHED SOLDIER: There is no why here.49

While Brecht attempted to address the question of what it means to desire objects in a world of brands, the next case study will deal with the desire for sovereignty. The Israeli playwright Hanoch Levin (1943–1999), one of Israel’s most celebrated theater authors whose play I now turn to analyze, was much indebted to Brecht.50 At the time of the early signs of disillu­ sionment with the Oslo Agreement between the Israelis and Palestinians, while extensive terror and killings were taking place on both sides, and 2 years after the murder of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin (1922–1995), Levin wrote Murder—a play in three acts that premiered in 1997 in the Cameri Theater of Tel Aviv. The opening scene of the first act of the play shows three soldiers in an undisclosed Arab village in the West bank, tormenting a Palestinian boy to death. The father, who enters the scene, cannot save his child anymore. Holding his body, he desperately asks what his last words were. This murder leads to revenge being taken by the father in the second act, where he kills one of the soldiers together with his bride on their wedding night. This suc­ cessive murder leads to further violent killings in the third act, culminating in a cruel, almost carnivalesque circle of blood. The arbitrary announce­ ments in the play of a transition from war to peace and vice versa echo the gap between the politics and discourse of the historical reality of the “peace process.” Levin’s point, it seems, is that “war” and “peace” are only words, while violence is in fact the organizing principle of Israeli society and of Palestinian society as well. The importance of the opening scene, I argue, is not that the Palestinian boy is an innocent victim, brutally killed by morally corrupted soldiers. It is primarily about dismissing the boundaries between “justified” and

49 Hanoch Levin, “Murder,” trans. Barbara Harshav, Hebrew Studies 43 (2002), 129. 50 Erella Brown suggests an interesting study on the affiliation between Brecht and Levin’s theater in relation to desire. She writes the following in relation to Hefetz (Object/Desire), another play by Levin: “Rather than acknowledge that the stage figures ‘are not simple representations of living persons, but, instead, part of the theatrical apparatus whose dis­ continuous gestures are invented and shaped in response to an idea,’ Levin’s critics tend to supplement the missing subjective motivation by turning to the subject of the biographical author. According to Lyotard, this is called politics: ‘The subject is a product of the perfor­ mance apparatus, it disappears when the apparatus disappears.’” Erella Brown, “Politics of Desire: Brechtian ‘Epic Theater’ in Hanoch Levin’s Postmodern Satire,” in Theater in Israel, ed. Linda Ben Zvi (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1996), 173–200.

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“unnecessary” (superfluous) violence. The scene shows that although the killing serves no military purpose, the act itself nevertheless constitutes its own perverse form of meaning: exercising power, overcoming fear and expressing anger and a sadistic form of jouissance. This is emphasized in the play in several ways: first, when the boy’s father surprises the soldiers in the act, they first deny it, then falsely justify it, and finally dismiss the whole thing (in war, shit happens51). Second, the soldiers’ speech is a series of lies and clichés and by no means an honest expression. Third, the mur­ der does not trigger any form of accountability: “what’s done is done,” as the soldiers say. The father, however, cannot simply “go on.” As he articu­ lates in his speech, for him, words have lost their meaning. Thus, instead of speaking, he acts. He is a body in pain, one that can no longer make sense of life, thus turning into a subject of violence. Is Levin trying to condemn the brutality of the occupation, showing how it leads to circles of bloodshed? Does he wish to portray evilness beyond the ability of reconciliation? This is the suggestion of the theater theorist Freddie Rokem,52 who claims that the lack of accountability by the soldiers expresses the immoral nature of the conflict. But this logic turns back to the notion of agency in the face of superfluous violence in the framework of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, which, as I argue, Levin, following Brecht, moves away from. In other words, the question here is what does Levin’s play target, if not a critique of violent ideology or rootless killing? My alternative reading focuses on Levin’s semiotics of desire and the question of meaning and signification, which is central to his play. What Levin is trying to show is how occupation is a situation which is charged not simply with an urge for showing power, but with a desire for excessive power that is beyond reasoning and practical purposes: power in its pure form, if you will; an act that is more than what it is, namely a kind of ritual or sacri­ fice. This I wish to demonstrate through the murder scene of the first act in three different dimensions. First, we are dealing with highly arbitrary vio­ lence—a killing that has no value or military need, “violence for violence’s sake.” Second, this specific performance of violence stresses the relation between desire and abuse, which is attached to the application of power in the form of transgression. Third, an excess of symbolic elements along with

51 Levin, “Murder,” 148.

52 Freddie Rokem, “Narratives Without an Answer to the Question “Why?” – On Hanoch

Levin’s Murder,” Hebrew Studies 43 (2002): 201–215. Rokem is aware that the play poses the question Why? not in order to give an answer, but rather to stress that the events are beyond causality. Yet he still understands this unanswerability within the logic of agency, even if it is impossible: the kind of sincerity needed to acknowledge the unjust suffering of the victim will only be possible, Levin seems to imply, when those for whom this recogni­ tion can also become a form of consultation have already passed away. Freddie Rokem, “Narratives Without an Answer to the Question “Why?” – On Hanoch Levin’s Murder,” Hebrew Studies 43 (2002), 211.

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an assemblage of signifiers that fail to function properly: father and son, friend and foe, life and death, war and peace—are these words, essences or empty notions? And yet, there are three soldiers who engage in an act of sacrifice (of Isaac—Itzhak, or perhaps Ishmael?)53 and their attempted act of circumcision of the Palestinian boy (in Hebrew Mila [“word”]), a marking on the body. It is therefore not the demise of signifiers, the meaningless­ ness of violence and the indiscriminating violence of terror (the killing of both soldiers and civilians) that are at play here, but what I suggested as the transformation from a semiotics of meaning to that of performance. In other words, as my opening citation denotes, there is no answer to the question Why?. Violence here is not a means to an end but an act in its own right. Its language is pain; it needs nothing outside of itself to refer to. It functions and constitutes not warriors or terrorists but junkies of violence. This dimension is further developed in the play when the father of the dead boy sets out on his own violent campaign in order to find out what his son’s last words were, which he eventually never finds out. It is this very emptiness of meaning, which cannot be resolved on the symbolic level, that calls for a filling of the gap through action, a void that now cannot be filled by a word but rather by the flesh. The fact that the characters have no names but are only identified through bodily features (Pale Soldier, Orange Prostitute, Exhausted Worker etc.), that the action is not clearly situated and that the speech is itself full of clichés presents not a scene of a crime but a cultural crisis. This is not a national conflict that can be resolved on diplomatic terms but a crisis of meaning that is expressed in these categories, which in turn makes it unresolvable. This is not to say that there could not be a solution to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, but rather an assertion that coming to deal with the conflict requires dealing with its constitutive and functional dimensions. The play is, in this sense, a critique of violence par excellence, but not in the sense that violence is bad or meaningless, nor by exposing that something is rotten in the state of Israel, but rather as a theater, which stages the symbolic impasse together with its implications on sacrifice, violence and language. In doing so, it calls for re-signification, a differ­ ent semiotics that will provide an option to reevaluate what this conflict is about, beyond the level of ideas and meaning; in short, addressing its libidinal economy and the desire for both sovereignty and death.54

53 Further support for this thesis is found in Levin’s choice to include a poem, originally written for his satirical anti-militaristic play Queen of the Bathtub (1967), titled: “Father Dear, When You Stand Above My Grave.” The poem is sung by the character of Isaac, who is talking from the grave to his father Abraham. In the poem/song, Isaac denounces the glory and prestige of the act of sacrifice. Levin takes the words of Isaac and puts them in the mouth of the Palestinian boy in Murder. 54 See Jean-Francois Lyotard, “The Sublime and the Avant-Garde,” in The Lyotard Reader, ed. Andrew Benjamin (Cambridge: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 202–203.

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220 Gal Hertz Should this be considered a Brechtian play located in the West Bank? In my discussion on Mahagonny, I examined how an economy of desire is oper­ ating on the subjects: they are not desiring objects, but they themselves are part of a mechanism of consumption, in which a transgression of bounda­ ries takes place and replaces individual actions. In Levin, we see how the occupation operates in a similar way, namely as a mechanism of a desire for sovereignty in which, like in an economy of goods, the object cannot be attained and the desire can never be fulfilled, but rather constantly needs to be performed in dehumanizing circles. In the next case study, I wish to show how such a mechanism could remain in place, not as an expression of desire, but rather as a ritualistic mechanical habit that one just cannot stop.

Moataz Abu Saleh and Bashar Murkus: semiotics of disavowal No better, no worse, no change, no pain. Samuel Beckett, Happy Days SOLDIER: Nothing frightens me. I am only afraid of God.

WOMAN: The God above ground or the one in heaven?

SOLDIER: There’s only one God, you heretic!

WOMAN: You mean God above ground.

SOLDIER: Heretic, faithless,

You will witness hell with your own eyes!

I already did.

Moataz Abu Saleh, New Middle East

WOMAN:

The latter example above is from a play written by Moataz Abu Saleh and directed by Bashar Murkus called New Middle East. It was premiered as a cooperation between the Oyoun and the Khashabi Theatre in 2011. The play is, to some extent, an adaptation of Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days (1961), only this time it is not about a married couple but a soldier and a female vic­ tim in civil war–era Syria. The stage is covered with sand; a woman is only partly seen behind a mound of sand, while a masked soldier shovels dirt over her body, burying her alive. Their identity is unknown, nor is the rea­ son for this execution made clear, yet the soldier goes on with the burial as if he were following some higher command. Like in Happy Days, the woman attempts to engage the male soldier in dialogue in different ways. She shares stories of her life with him; she tries to convince him of the meaningless of his action; she tries—and surprisingly succeeds—in finding shared social ties and common experiences, even a love affair from the past. She does her best to inspire empathy or stress the similarities between their conditions, being together in nowhere, with no one who cares or gives a damn about them. All these attempts fail. The soldier is not becoming a moral agent, and instead he continues fulfilling his duty until the dirt piles up and covers the woman completely. Yet, once the woman’s voice is silenced, it seems that

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something happens to him, some kind of realization of the deed. He cries out her name, “Layla!” but there is no answer. Does he feel regret? Does he feel responsible? The play’s ending leaves these questions open: the silence is saturated with meaning and becomes unbearable. As in Hanoch Levin, the staging is of unnecessary violence and an act that serves no purpose, yet it seems to be addressing a tangible need—only this time, it is quite clear that the soldier gains no pleasure from the act. What has the woman done? Why does the soldier carry on? He could have just let her go, couldn’t he? The play does not supply answers, but it is clear enough that both the woman and the soldier who fulfills his duty are not there because of their ideological convictions. Beyond the power relations, underscored by gender, the woman represents freedom, love, openness, a modern way of life; she speaks in the name of the “new,” while for the sol­ dier, these words only stress the kind of emptiness and bankruptcy he aims to escape through his violent duty even more. His emptiness needs to be filled not by words but by acts, and the result will not make sense through reason but by going through with the execution. Perhaps a burden of signs, or maybe a symbolic impasse, has turned into a desire for the real, as Bashar Murkus explains, with the execution, “nothing is absurd anymore, everything became reality.”55 Indeed, the play seems to join the absurdity of war and its appalling real­ ism. As Moataz Abu Saleh explains, the idea for the play came from the horrifying news reports about the burial of living people in the civil war in Syria.56 The play deals with the experience of war, such as the air raids that interrupt the soldier’s shoveling and force him to find shelter in the woman’s ditch, or the horrors that the woman speaks about, e.g. the destruction of the school, the emptied village or the killing of her kids. However, at the same time, the play also distances itself from any clear historical narrative and holds back on many realistic measures, giving these events expression in a minimalistic style. The play is therefore by no means a documentary and is more of an allegory than a representation of reality. This is apparent in sev­ eral aspects: the setting is much too blurry, the protagonists are not affiliated to any specific side, the plot is constantly interrupted by (often unrealistic) comic relief, long moments of mere shoveling in silence and a kind of inti­ macy which is created and then broken again. These are the elements of what I wish to call the play’s semiotics of disavowal, which not only suggest a way of telling a war story but may also suggest a critical non-moralist perspective. 55 As stated in the booklet for the play New Middle East (Khashabi Theater, 2013), sent to me by the director Bashar Murkus. Unfortunately, there are as yet no published editions of the text or its articles. 56 In relation to the actual burial of living people in pits during the civil war in Syria, see, for example, the report here: International Business Times, “Man apparently buried alive by Syrian soldiers,” YouTube Video, 01:08. April 26, 2012, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=ELjZZqwpZyU.

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222 Gal Hertz The title New Middle East plays on the broken promises for a better future with a misleading usage of signs, implying peace (as also shown in Levin), an Arab spring, or a new world order. Such a crisis of meaning is not lim­ ited to politics or ideology in a general sense but is also present and felt on an existential level; it affects people’s perceptions of life, redefines relation­ ships and particularly stresses the physical bodies.57 What does it mean to be a woman in such a world? What about the man, who seems to lose his privileged position? Where is the place of tradition in this new future? And finally, can the old simply be dismissed or repressed?58 Beckett’s theater confronts such empty promises and jolly expectations; it deals with the limits of transition in life and with the consequences of repressing the past. His dramatic semiotics address, or even endorse, a crisis of meaning. Instead of communication, it displays disavowal. Such semiot­ ics challenge narratives and go beyond individual expression.59 They tell a story precisely through the suspension and interruption of the signification process. Phyllis Carey suggests reading Happy Days as a staging of such semantic impoverishment. She stresses that by gradually emptying words of their significance through repetition, distortion, misapplications, and clichés and by restricting Winnie’s movement to her eyes, Beckett focusses the audience’s attention more and more on two elements: seeing and silence.60 Carey stresses a dehumanization that takes place in the performance, reducing emotions to routines and speech to conventions and mechanistic gestures. While Happy Days uses these semiotics in order to contrast the experience of life (being trapped) with its symbolic representation (in lan­ guage and gestures)—a human condition as an enactment out of sync, if you will—New Middle East uses such gaps and impasses of meaning as an underlining mechanism of violence. 57 The cover of the booklet of the play shows a sketch of human evolution, from the monkey to homo sapiens, only here it ends with an image of a man holding a club. 58 One such example is the burial itself, which seems to be taken not from Beckett, but rather from pre-Islamic culture. In the Islamic Quran, the prophet Muhammad explicitly for­ bids this tradition. In this sense, the critique of the play could read that the violence of the Syrian war that uses the name of Islam is not an act of faith but a return to the era of ignorance—the Jahylliyah. I thank Adi Sorek for this comment. 59 Katherine Weiss, “Beckett’s ‘Happy Days’: Rewinding and Revolving Histories,” Review 75, no. 4 (Fall 2010): 37–50. Weiss follows Dominique De Capra’s notion of writing trauma and suggests a reading of the play as dealing with a repressed traumatic memory. I agree with the first part of her analysis, namely that the signifier does not represent but rather act out, yet I doubt whether Beckett stages a psychological mystery in this play that can be identi­ fied—that is, it cannot be resolved—rather than dealing with the crisis of meaning. 60 Phyllis Carey, “The Ritual of Human Techne in Happy Days,” in Myth and Ritual in the Plays of Samuel Beckett, ed. Katherine H. Burkman (Madison, NJ/Vancouver: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1987), 149.

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To conclude this part, by going beyond agency, I suggest an alternative to a melancholic reading of the play. It is not an attempt to moralize the viewer or condemn the inhuman behavior, but instead a staging of the process of such dehumanization. The play explores different forms of moral appeal, leaving no normative category that can succeed in forging moral consider­ ation or humanist behavior. If morality is to be applied here, it cannot be a result of the communicative action, nor obedience to a normative demand. Instead, moral action in such conditions would have to be based on some kind of interruption. This is the importance of citationality here, the fact that there is another context for this scene: first, Beckett, and second, the “geo-political” context, presented in the title of the play. This is an uncanny double image of the scene that, instead of reaffirming it, forces the process of signification to be reopened.

Epilogue What I have tried to show in this article, albeit quite briefly, is that by remov­ ing agency from the staging of violence, we are not facing simply absurd or meaningless acts. My argument was that violence is not necessarily a means to an end but a constitutive act that produces its own significance. Under such semiotics of performance, signs have a functional dimension that does not rely on the intention or will of the interlocutor but operates and instructs rather than is used or represented. If, in the section about Mahagonny, we saw how violence is attached to the economy of desire, with Levin we real­ ized that it also operates on the political level in a national conflict as a desire for sovereignty. With Abu Saleh and Murkus, we saw violence as the only form of resistance possible, in the light of total loss. With not much being solved, perhaps the view is shifted a little in a way that allows a better address of the question of the necessity of unnecessary violence in war. The theater, in these examples, provides a mimetic repetition, a staging that posts a critical perspective, even though does not present an alternative. In other words, by going beyond agency and representation, the semiotic of the theater provides not only a critique of immorality and meaninglessness of war, but also primarily a way of coming to terms with what violence actually does, rather than what it is supposed to symbolize or represent. Namely, how violence excites, desires, transgresses boundaries or reconsti­ tutes them, and how a semiotic of performance—beyond agency—allows a different way of looking and coping, and readdressing these needs.

Works cited Abu Saleh, Moataz and Bashar Murkus. New Middle East Khashabi Theater, 2013. Adorno, Theodor W. “Mahagonny.” Translated by Jamie Owen Daniel. Discourse 12, no. 1 (Fall-Winter 1989-90): 70–77. Althusser, Louis, For Marx. Translated by Ron Brewster. New York: Verso, 1990.

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224 Gal Hertz Asad, Talal. “Agency and Pain: An Exploration.” Culture and Religion 1, no. 1 (2000): 29–60. Arendt, Hannah. On Revolution. New York: Viking, 1963. Brecht, Bertolt. Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny. Frankfurt a. M., Suhrkamp, 1963. Brecht, Bertolt. The Collected Poems of Bertolt Brecht. Edited and translated by Tom Kuhn and David Constantine (New York: Liveright, 2018). Brecht, Bertolt. The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny and The Seven Deadly Sins. Translated by John Willet and Ralph Manheim. London: Eyre Methuen, 1979. Brecht, Bertolt. Werke II. Große kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe (BFA). Edited by Werner Hecht, Jan Knopf, Werner Mittenzwei, and KlausDetlef Müller. Berlin/Weimar: Aufbau Verlag and Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1998. Brecht, Bertolt. Hauspostille. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1999. Brown, Erella. “Politics of Desire: Brechtian ‘Epic Theater’ in Hanoch Levin’s Postmodern Satire.” In Theater in Israel, edited by Linda Ben Zvi, 173–200. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1996. Butler, Judith. Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative. New York: Routledge, 1997. Carey, Phyllis. “The Ritual of Human Techne in Happy Days.” In Myth and Ritual in the Plays of Samuel Beckett, edited by Katherine H. Burkman. Madison, NJ/ Vancouver: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1987. Dor, Daniel. Language as Instruction to the Imagination. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Dawes, James. The Language of War – Literature and the Culture of War in the US From the Civil War to World War II. Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 2002. Elam, Keir. The Semiotics of Theater and Drama. London/New York: Routledge, 1980. Esslin, Martin. “Max Reinhardt: ‘High Priest of Theatricality.’” The Drama Review 21, no. 2 (1977): 3–24. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. The Semiotics of Theater. Translated by Jeremy Gaines and Doris L. Jones. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. Theatre, Sacrifice, Ritual: Exploring Forms of Political Theatre. New York/London: Routledge, 2005. Hars, Edward D. “Excavating Mahagonny: Editorial Responses for Conflicting Visions.” In Der Text im musikalischen Werk, edited by Walter Dühr, Helga Lühning, Norbert Oellers and Hartmut Steinecke. Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag, 1998. Klein, Naomi. No Logo. London: Picador, 1995. Kowalke, Kim H. Kurt Weill in Europe. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1979. Kristeva. Julia, Desire in Language – A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Language. Translated by Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine and Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press, 1980. Levin, Hanoch. “Murder.” Translated by Barbara Harshav. Hebrew Studies 43 (2002). Lyotard, Jean-Francois. “The Sublime and the Avant-Garde.” In The Lyotard Reader, edited by Andrew Benjamin. Cambridge: Basil Blackwell, 1989. MacKinnon, Catharine A. Feminism Unmodified: Discourses on Life and Law. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.

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Miller, Ruth A. “Violence Without Agency.” In Performances of Violence, edited by Austin Sarat, Carleen Basler and Thomas L. Dumm, 43–68. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2011. Müller-Schöll, Nikolaus. “Just an Invented Word.” In “German Brecht, European Readings.” Special issue, The Drama Review 43, no. 4 (1999): 27–30. O’Brien, Tim. “How to Tell a True War Story.” In Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology, edited by Paula Geyh et al., 174–183. New York: W. W. Norton, 1998. Parker, Stephen. Bertolt Brecht – A Literary Life. London/New Delhi/New York/ Sydney: Bloomsbury, 2014. Rokem, Freddie. “Narratives Without an Answer to the Question “Why?” – On Hanoch Levin’s Murder.” Hebrew Studies 43 (January 2002): 201–215. Scarry, Elaine. The Body in Pain: The Making and the Unmaking of the World. New York: Oxford University Press, 1985. Van der Veer, Peter. “Pain and Power - Reflections on Ascetic Agency.” In The Anthropologist and the Native: Essays for Gananath Obeyesekere, edited by H. L. Seneviratne, 203–221. New York/New Delhi/London: Anthem Press, 2011. Vosskamp, Wilhelm. “Zwischen Utopie und Apokalypse.” In Drama und Theater im 20. Jahrhundert, edited by Hans Dietrich Irmscher and Werner Keller. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983. Weiss, Katherine. “Beckett’s ‘Happy Days’: Rewinding and Revolving Histories.” Review 75, no. 4 (Fall 2010): 37–50. Yelle, Robert A. Semiotics of Religion – Signs of the Scared in History. London/New York: Bloomsbury, 2013. Yuran, Noam. What Money Wants. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2014.

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Part III

War, semiotics, and politics

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10 “National decay and national resurrection” The semiotics of Quisling’s

conception of history

Fredrik Wilhelmsen Introduction Much academic effort has been devoted to exploring how to locate the extreme right, especially fascism, within modern history. Far less attention has been devoted to establishing how the far right locates itself within his­ tory. Yet, as the Norwegian researcher on terrorism and radicalization, Tore Bjørgo, writes in Racist and Right-Wing Violence: Patterns, Perpetrators, and Responses, Scandinavian extreme nationalists “seek support for their views from their interpretations of historical events.”1 “History,” Bjørgo contin­ ues, “come to serve as mythological justification of their political messages and as legitimation of the use of violence against immigrants and political opponents.”2 Bjørgo’s argument is not only true when it comes to contem­ porary extreme nationalists, but it also applies to the extreme right of the interwar period. Given only one extreme nationalist has been in power in Norway, Vidkun Quisling (1887–1945), it is important to understand how his party, the Nasjonal Samling (National Union), which now seems so alien to mainstream Norwegian history in the 20th century, imagined its own his­ torical significance within the chaotic and utterly unpredictable unfolding of events at the time. The aim of this chapter is (1) to examine the semiotics structuring Quisling’s conception of history, (2) to identify how Quisling’s conception of history is consistent with Roger Griffin’s ideal type model of generic fascism as a form of palingenetic ultranationalism, and at the same time, (3) to highlight how his ideology adapts the contents of its palingenetic myth to the unique culture and history of Norway. Finally, I will discuss a perceptible tension within the way he conceived history. On the one hand, Quisling’s conception of history revolves around a semiotic construction of binary oppositions, where exaggerated stereotypes of heroes and villains, 1 Tore Bjørgo, Racist and Right-Wing Violence: Patterns, Perpetrators, and Responses (Oslo: Tano Aschehoug, 1997), 219. 2 Tore Bjørgo, Racist and Right-Wing Violence: Patterns, Perpetrators, and Responses (Oslo: Tano Aschehoug, 1997), 219.

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good and evil, are pitted against each other, representing different – and contradictory – principles in permanent conflict. On the other hand, a myth of national rebirth lay at the heart of Quisling’s historical and political nar­ ratives. While the first connotes conflict and something bad, the latter con­ notes harmony and is articulated as the object of a quest. I will ask how these two semiotically opposite aspects fitted together and what understanding of politics was reflected in the division between the two aspects. Quisling’s speech “National decay and national resurrection,” which he held in the Colosseum Kino in Oslo in March 1941, will be used as the main case study in the present chapter – for several reasons: first, the speech provides a coherent articulation of Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling’s conception of Norwegian history, which is also expressed in ideas that circulated in other speeches, books and articles, but rarely in this succinct a form. Second, the central role ascribed to Norwegian history in speeches such as “National decay and national resurrection” can be interpreted as a failed attempt at winning over Norwegian minds with what Roger Griffin has called an “internal colonization of semiotic space.”3 Inspired by Gilles Deleuze’s and Felix Guattari’s analysis of “microfascisms” in A Thousand Plateaus,4 Griffin argues that before the German Nazis seized power and could impose their worldview through terror and propaganda, the NSDAP had already “gained a foothold in German society by a process of cultural osmosis”.5 In a time of crisis, where the existing social structures were under pressure, they “recoded” the social symbology and created new connections between the people, the party, the nation and its history. One could argue that the speech in question shows that Quisling attempted a similar semiotic recod­ ing, although he did not succeed in winning over the Norwegian people. Third, the speech also gives an insight into the ideology of the Nasjonal Samling during World War II. Quisling famously headed the collaboration­ ist government of Norway during the occupation by Nazi Germany. Even though this speech was held before Quisling served as Minister President from 1942 to 1945, it is important because it can give us an insight into the ideology of Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling at a time when his movement still believed that a national resurgence, in line with their ultranationalist ideology, was possible. More importantly, however, it can illustrate how seamlessly Quisling adapted his vision of Norway’s struggle against decay to changing historical contexts, a fact that will be considered in the context of Michael Freeden’s concept of ideological morphology, a theory that combines insights from 3 Roger Griffin, “Notes Towards the Definition of Fascist Culture: The Prospects for Synergy between Marxist and Liberal Heuristics,” Renaissance and Modern Studies 42 (2001): 111. 4 See especially the chapter “1933: Micropolitics and Segmantarity” in Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (London: Continuum, 2004), 229ff. 5 Griffin, “Notes Towards the Definition of Fascist Culture,” 111.

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semiotics and Walter Bryce Gallie’s notion of essentially contested concepts in order to explain how ideologies can change over time. It is clear that the decision to focus on one speech means that the chapter does not set out to provide an exhaustive account of everything Quisling said and wrote about historical topics. However, in order to provide a more com­ prehensive picture of his semiotic use and conception of history, the article will also draw upon other sources, such as Quisling’s speech “The Battle between Aryans and Jewish power” and the 1934 party program of the Nasjonal Samling. As such, the aim is to tap into elements relevant not only to the under­ standing of Quisling’s ideology during World War II, but also to the ideology of the Nasjonal Samling in general, and in particular its ability to adapt to rapidly changing historical circumstances.

The semiotics of quisling’s conception of history Quisling’s notion of the shape of history was summed up most clearly in “National Decay and National Resurrection.” The speech has been labeled as the most powerful speech Quisling ever held by Norwegian historians Hans Fredrik Dahl6 and Jan-Erik Ebbestad Hansen.7 It was broadcast by NRK Radio (the Norwegian equivalent to the BBC), and all the ministers from Reichskommisars Terboven’s government were present, as well as uni­ formed party representatives and members of the Hird, and they interrupted the speech frequently with cheers and applause.8 But how can Quisling’s conception of history help us understand fascism as a generic phenomenon? In his highly influential definition of “generic fascism,” Roger Griffin proposes that an idea of national rebirth should be seen (ideal-typically) as constituting the “mythic core” of fascist ideology. According to Griffin, “[f]ascism is a genus of political ideology whose mythic core in its various permutations is a palingenetic form of populist ultranationalism.”9 In The Nature of Fascism, he argues that fascism represents “a revolutionary form of nationalism […] one that sets out to be a political, social and ethical revo­ lution, welding the ‘people’ into a dynamic national community under new elites infused with heroic values. The core myth that inspires this project is that only a populist, trans-class movement of purifying, cathartic national rebirth (palingenesis) can stem the tide of decadence.”10 It is worth stressing here that Griffin follows a common practice of distin­ guishing between upper case “Fascism” and lower case “fascism”: the first is restricted to Mussolini’s movement and regime, while the latter refers to a family of movements on the far right (such as Italian Fascism, German 6 7 8 9 10

Hans Fredrik Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall (Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 1992), 208. Jan-Erik Ebbestad Hansen, Norsk tro og tanke, vol. 2 (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2001), 56. Jan-Erik Ebbestad Hansen, Norsk tro og tanke, vol. 2 (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2001), 56. Roger Griffin, The Nature of Fascism (London: Routledge, 1993), 26. Roger Griffin, The Nature of Fascism (London: Routledge, 1993), 26, xi.

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Nazism, as well as Quisling’s own party, the Nasjonal Samling), grouped together under the heading “generic fascism.”11 Griffin uses the term “palingenetic ultranationalism” to refer to a “core vision” of the imminent – or, in the case of post-1945 fascisms, eventual – rebirth of the nation, the race, or the people that bind together this family of far-right movements.12 Already in the title of Quisling’s speech, we get a clue that his ideol­ ogy and conception of history fits Griffin’s definition of generic fascism. Semiotically, Quisling’s outline of the history of Norway was structured around the binary opposition between the concepts of “decay” and “rebirth” and the image of an organic “people” that need to be saved from a state of decadence by combating the “alien” forces that threaten them. Abandoning socialist, liberalist, and humanistic narratives of gradual development and progress and rejecting the revolutionary alternative pursued by Marxism– Leninism, Quisling instead imposed on the history of Norway a threefold division, summarized in his own words as “past greatness, national decay in the present, and new greatness in the future.”13 These sets of dichotomies – and the relations between them – structured Quisling’s narration of history: past periods connote either desirable (great­ ness) or undesirable (decay) qualities, and these qualities are simultaneously related to the different people that are plotted into history. “The Norwegian people” may denote the inhabitants of Norway and their ancestors, but it also connotes an organic, unified and pure people who reject Judaism, lib­ eralism and Marxism and who are true to the “life enchanting” values that Quisling identified as compatible with the “Nordic character.” Similarly, “Jewish” connotes – as we will explore in more detail bellow – much more than it denotes: using biological metaphors, Quisling identified Jews and Judaism with the opposite of Norwegians. Whereas “the Norwegian peo­ ple” were identified with “life,” “growth” and “rebirth” (and “national socialism”), a “Jew” or “Judaism” connoted “decay.” The binary opposition between “decay” and “rebirth” thus played an important semiotic and ideological role in Quisling’s speech: it not only carved out the space for a future national regeneration, but it also helped articulate a “concrete other”14 – the Jew – against which a unified – and

11 Roger Griffin, Fascism (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2018), 4.

12 However, it is important to underline that it is “ultranationalism” – not nationalism – that

is paired with “palingenesis.” The prefix “ultra” is significant, because it highlights that fascist nationalism has moved far beyond any form of nationalism compatible with liberal democracy, or with the humanistic or egalitarian values found in either liberal or socialist forms of nationalism. Griffin, Fascism, 41–42. 13 Vidkun Quisling, Quisling har sagt: For Norges frihet og selvstendighet: Artikler og taler 9. April 1940 – 23. Juni 1941, vol. 3 (Oslo: Gunnar Stenersens forlag, 1941), 74. All transla­ tions from Norwegian are mine, unless otherwise indicated. 14 Stephen Hartnett, “The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism: Analysing Pound’s Cantos 12-15,” boundary 2 20, no. 1 (1993), 73.

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unifying – national identity could be constructed as its opposite. However, “the Jew” was not portrayed as signifying one single entity. The historian Ivo de Figueiredo has described the Nasjonal Samling’s antagonist and “concrete other” as a “three-headed monster,”15 made up of Marxism, lib­ eralism and Judaism. This gives a good idea of how the Nasjonal Samling semiotically constructed their perceived enemy. As Stephen Hartnett has suggested, one of the characteristics of fascist semiotics is that it represents the interests of the people in all-encompassing nationalist terms, expanding certain signifiers such as the people and the nation while at the same time con­ densing the meaning of other signifiers – such as class, Marxism, liberalism, democracy and finance capital – into an image of the enemy, represented by “the Jew.”16 This is reflected in “National Decay and National Resurrection.” In the Colosseum, Quisling spoke of the political situation in Norway after 1905 (after the country regained its independence after the dissolution of the union with Sweden), portraying liberalism and Marxism as essentially Jewish phenomena – as two different varieties of Jewish materialism, linked to two separate nations or people (and thus “alien” for Norwegians): Liberalism and Marxism, the English-Jewish and the Russian-Jewish materialist world system, that’s what the leaders of the Norwegian peo­ ple had to offer the thirsty souls when “the national workdays” were about to start. Borrowed and alien and pernicious ideas that do not match the Nordic character, and otherwise are in themselves false and evil. Our leaders talked about freedom and democracy, but meant London and Marx and their own mammonic interests.17 Pieced together, this resulted in a Manichaean division of history and society into different peoples and groupings, where “we” – i.e. the Norwegian people – were semiotically constructed as connoting the “healthy,” fully human crea­ tors of civilization, while “they” – i.e. “our” antagonists, represented by Jews, English liberalism and Russian Marxism – were represented discursively as con­ noting the degenerate and backward destroyers of civilization. Furthermore, it resulted in a profoundly ahistorical approach to history: without regard for the historical and political context, Quisling spoke of “the struggle” between “us” and “them” “that runs through the whole life of the world,”18 thus establishing a direct connection between the past and the present, between historical battles and the ideological and geopolitical conflicts of his own times. According to Quisling himself, however, the essentialist approach and the triadic scheme built around the biological metaphors of “decay” and “rebirth”

15 16 17 18

Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen, 130.

Hartnett, “The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism,” 74.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 84.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 75.

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only reflected “the overwhelming feeling and the living faith of the whole Norwegian people. Moreover, it is a prophecy about the battle we are fighting today.”19 The idea that the past prophetically points towards contemporary conflicts is illustrative of the semiotics of Quisling’s use and representation of history. Because he built his ideology around a myth of national rebirth, it became important for Quisling to paint a picture of Norwegian history where some sort of “Golden Age” could signify the “true” heroic values of Norwegian people – in stark contrast to the themes of disintegration, anomy and decay that he associated with Jews and Norway as a parliamentary democracy. In the speech, for instance, Quisling explained that he was giving an overview of Norway’s history “since [it] emerged in the light of history as a united nation”20 in order to avoid the analysis being limited by “cur­ rent demands,”21 i.e. the contemporary social and political pressures that the government was facing. Instead, Quisling wanted to identify the historical origins of contemporary issues in order to get to the root of the problems and offer a remedy that would open up a new perspective for the future: “We need to go back to our bygone national heydays in order to acknowledge what really lives inside our people and what we can accomplish. We need to seek the root causes of our national decline in order to remedy them. We need to clarify the real lifelines in the development of our people in order to follow and strengthen them.”22 As we have seen, this myth of national rebirth is cen­ tral not only to the way Quisling semiotically constructed history around the binary opposites of good and bad, life and death, but also – according to an increasingly hegemonic academic consensus – to fascist ideology as such. Connected to the representation of history as a battle between “us” and “them,” moving through cycles of “decay” and “rebirth” was another central aspect that supported large parts of Quisling’s and the Nasjonal Samling’s ideology: the binary opposition between “us” and “them” was also plotted into an almost apocalyptic notion of history, which predicted the imminent collision between the “old” and the “new system.”23 This apocalyptic hori­ zon in the ideology of Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling has been identified by both Ivo de Figueiredo and Kjetil Braut Simonsen.24 However, the latter described Quisling’s apocalyptic horizon as articulating a “fear” of

19 20 21 22 23 24

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 89.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 128.

Both Simonsen and de Figueiredo have emphasized the dualistic and apocalyptic aspects

of Quisling’s ideology (de Figueiredo in the ideology of NS in general, Simonsen in the context of Quisling’s anti-Semitism), as well as his use of tropes from conspiracy theories. See: Kjetil Braut Simonsen, “Vidkun Quisling, antisemittismen og den paranoide stil,” Historisk tidsskrift 96, no. 4 (2017): 446–467; Hans Olaf Brevig and Ivo de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen: Nasjonal Samling 1933-1940 (Oslo: Pax forlag, 2002).

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destruction and downfall if the enemies of the nation reached their goals.25 The problem with this interpretation is that it misses the fact that decay and disintegration are already present in Quisling’s narrative. More importantly, however, it fails to recognize how the apocalyptic upheaval was entwined with the palingenetic myth and, as such, conceptualized as a necessary step in order to resurrect past greatness. At first, this line of reasoning may seem peculiar. Does not the belief in a national rebirth suggest that Quisling did not envision a coming apoc­ alypse? Not necessarily. Christian eschatology – which undoubtedly con­ tains the most dominant apocalyptic vision of the end of terrestrial time in the history of ideas – already had the same semiotic duality in it. The word “apocalypse” originates from the Greek noun apokalypsis and verb apocalypsein, both of which may mean “disclosure” and “revelation” – as in Apocalypse Ioannou or “the Revelation of John.”26 As expressed in the Book of Revelation, the Christian vision of the end times was linked together with an expectation of redemption in the future, more precisely, the reign of Christ inaugurated by His “second coming”: the “last days” were a prerequisite for salvation. This is also the case with Quisling, who referred to apocalyptic semiotics in his vision of history. Early in “National Decay and National Resurrection,” he outlined his thoughts on the devel­ opment of history in a way that both demonstrated his apocalyptic notion of the latter and offered a textbook example of Griffin’s definition of generic fascism. Quisling here linked together the idea and semiotics of past great­ ness, present decay and coming greatness with another millenarian myth, the old Norse idea of Ragnarok: This whole line of thought is all more penetrating because it is closely connected with our forefathers’ vision of the development of the battle that runs through the whole life of the world, a vision which is apparently deeply rooted in the soul of the people and is based on the belief that the world, their own world, would perish in the battle against the evil, destruc­ tive forces of darkness, but that it only goes under to be reborn greater.27 Here the myth of rebirth is semiotically constructed in such a manner that it both signifies the end and a new beginning: the world goes under in order “to be reborn greater.”28 Yet it does not represent the end for Norwegians, but for the alien influence in and over Norway. “Ragnarok” thus connotes the purging of this alien influence that will install a new beginning for the Norwegian nation. 25 Kjetil Braut Simonsen, “Quislings konspiranoia,” Fri tanke, 25 May 2018. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://fritanke.no/bakgrunn/quislings-konspiranoia/19.10825. 26 Rikke Louise Peters, “Redaktionelt,” Slagmark 53 (2008): 8. 27 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 75. 28 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 75.

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As such, the semiotic construction of the end times in these passages should probably not be read in literary, metaphysical or religious terms. Rather than comparing Quisling’s vision of a new order directly to Norse or Christian ideas of salvation, we should recognize that Quisling’s semiotics were drawing on cultural archetypes or tropes of the sort explored by Carl Gustav Jung29 and Mircea Eliade30 and used a familiar apocalyptic semiotic structure of death and renewal to point towards a future phase of regenera­ tion and renewal.31 As Griffin has highlighted, the triumph of a new life over decadence and decay is a theme with a vast variety of semiotic manifesta­ tions in the religious, artistic, emotional and social imagination of humans throughout history.32 He argues that in contrast to Christianity and Norse mythology, however, the fascist upheaval was constructed as something that would be “created within a secular and linear historical time,”33 in the form of what Reinhart Koselleck calls a “temporalized utopia.”34 This is a point that clearly applies to the semiotics of Quisling’s historical vision. The Manichaean division of history and the vision of Norway as suffering from historical decay, which would eventually be brought to an end through national unity, was present in the ideology of the Nasjonal Samling right from when the party was founded in 1933. The ideology was, however, more polarized and totalized throughout the 1930s, as de Figueiredo has pointed out.35 But even from 1934, the Nasjonal Samling’s party program was already characterized by doomsday rhetoric and semiotics related to the eternal struggle between good and evil, as well as a Manichaean division of society into contradictory forces. The basic semiotics of “us” and “them” were the same in 1934 as in the Colosseum seven years later. The program painted a picture of Norway with a broad brush, depicting a country in the midst of upheaval, where a decisive, final battle between contradictory forces would soon be fought out. “Norway is in the midst of a fateful upheaval,” the program declared in its opening paragraphs: “Dragged into the general world crisis, split and weakened in class struggle and party struggles, with

29 Carl Gustav Jung, ed., Man and his Symbols (New York: Anchor Press, 1964). 30 Mircea Eliade, Cosmos and History: The Myth of the Eternal Return, trans. Willard R. Trask (New Jersey: Princton University Press, 2005); Mircea Eliade, The Sacred & the Profane: The Nature of Religion, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1987). 31 For a discussion about the difference between religious and political use of a palingenetic myth, see Griffin, The Nature of Fascism, 29–36. 32 Roger Griffin, “Staging the Nation’s Rebirth: The Politics and Aesthetics of Performance in the Context of Fascist Studies,” in Fascism and Theatre: Comparative Studies on the Aesthetics and Politics of Performance in Europe, 1925–1945, ed. Günther Berghaus (New York: Berghahn Books, 1996), 11–29. 33 Griffin, The Nature of Fascism, 36. 34 Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, transl. by Keith Tribe (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004). 35 Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen, 128, 150–151.

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heavy-handed and unstable governance, the Norwegian people now stand at a crucial crossroad.”36 However, the nature of the historical upheaval was envisaged differently in 1934, compared with the time under German occupation. Anti-Semitism, and therefore anti-Semitic semiotics, were yet to play an important role in the program from 1934. However, the tendency to construct the interests of the people in all-encompassing nationalist terms while condensing the meaning of other signifiers were the same: in the program, it was “materi­ alism,” in both its liberalist (capitalist) and Marxist variants, that connoted the enemy of the nationalist movement who were going to install the new national rebirth. Here, Marxism and liberalism were joined together in a common materialistic ideology. Judaism, however, was not yet included in the semiotic construction of the enemy37: The world crisis and Norway’s crisis is not due to material poverty. Outwardly it is an organizational crisis, economically and socially, mon­ etarily, politically and judicially. But the crisis is first and foremost the outer visible expression of great spiritual upheavals that follows from a historical turning point. The spiritual crisis has gotten its sharpest expression in the predominant selfish materialism that kills idealism, faith and the will to sacrifice and creates unrest in society and in human beings. Our time is characterized by increasing enlightenment, of special­ ization, of mechanical engineering and of economies of scale, and shows a tremendous increase in the interdependence between people and the urge to social justice and secure cooperation. But at the same time, we see how individuals and parties, economic and professional associations ruthlessly exploit and override the people for selfish purposes. Both in its Marxist and in its liberal capitalist form, this materialism is an enemy of the righteous and solidarity of cooperation as time evolves.38 Both Marxism and liberalism – here reduced to two different expressions of the same materialist ideology – were thought to lead “the cultural commu­ nity towards destruction.”39 However, the nationalist movement – signifying healthy, spiritual and unifying principles – answers “the people’s longing for a new and better era,”40 according to the Nasjonal Samling. The fact that Judaism was not yet discursively represented as the main antagonist to national unity perhaps makes it easier to identify how the dualistic construction of society and history was not only motivated by (ultra)nationalism and racism, but was also related to a distinction between 36 37 38 39 40

Nasjonal Samling, Program for NS (Oslo: Thuleselskapet, 1940), 3.

For more on this, see Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen, 130.

Nasjonal Samling, Program for NS, 3–4.

Nasjonal Samling, Program for NS, 4

Nasjonal Samling, Program for NS.

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idealism and materialism. As de Figueiredo has pointed out, a key idea in the 1934 party program was that the crisis it described actually – on a deeper level – expressed another, more important one: the Nasjonal Samling imagined that they were in the midst of a vast historical upheaval and transition, in which a materialistic era was giving way to a new spiritual and idealistic epoch.41 This conception of history – the decisive transition between two different historical periods – permeated the party’s ideology. “The notion of history was characterized by determinism and an almost metaphysical belief in the necessity of history,” de Figueiredo writes: “The world crisis and the imminent transition to a new era were not a matter of chance, but a necessary fulfilment of the ‘fate of history’.”42 The change in the semiotics of the enemy – from materialism to Judaism – can be explained both with reference to a growing identification with Nazi Germany, as Hans Fredrik Dahl has done,43 and with reference to the crisis the Nasjonal Samling experienced after the parliamentary elections in 1936, as de Figureido has done.44 The prospect of ever becoming the populist mass movement that their rhetoric suggested was small. As a consequence, the party changed both its tactics – it no longer tried to become a mass movement but restructured itself into a revolutionary vanguard party – as well as parts of the party’s ideology and its semiotics. A profound anti-Semitism was added to their traditional anti-materialism, and the struggle between “the national movements” and Judaist materialism was framed as an apocalyptic battle.45 Despite these changes, however, the party followed the same ideological and semiotic pattern: their worldview was structured around the same pal­ ingenetic myth, but Quisling seamlessly adapted his myth to absorb, among other things, a brand of anti-Semitism known from Nazi Germany. This fact can be considered in the context of Michael Freeden’s theory of ideological morphology, which posits an “ineliminable core” of each ideology, as well as adjacent and “eliminable” or peripheral features. Drawing on Walter Bryce Gallie’s notion of essentially contested concepts, 46 Freeden argues that polit­ ical ideologies represent “particular patterned clusters and configurations of political concepts.”47 The central political concept in an ideology does not have an intrinsic meaning but is defined in relation to these clusters of concepts. 41 42 43 44 45

Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen, 130.

Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen.

Hans Fredrik Dahl, Quisling – en norsk tragedie (Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 2012), 182.

Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen, 128.

Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascismen. Anti-Semitism was, however, already

incorporated into the ideology of the Nasjonal Samling in 1935, but the anti-Semitic prop­ aganda became more dominant after 1938. Brevig and de Figueiredo, Den norske fascis­ men, 168. 46 W.B. Gallie, “Essentially Contested Concepts,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 56 (1956): 167–198. 47 Michael Freeden, “Political Concepts and Ideological Morphology,” The Journal of Political Philosophy 2, no. 2 (1994): 141.

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For instance, one could argue that, in liberalism, “equality” is mainly defined in relation to legal terms, while socialist ideologies to a larger extent relate it to economic/material terms (class, redistribution, etc.). “By bolting together a large number of concepts,” Freeden writes, ideologies decontest the meaning of a concept through the “association with its neighbouring concepts,” and as such, “ideologies obtain clear ideational profiles.”48 Freeden’s theory can be used to make sense of how the ideology of the Nasjonal Samling could change in its “neighbouring concepts” but still be centered around the same core. Quisling’s ideology always contained units such as the ideas of rebirth and nationalism and the organic Norwegian people/race – “ineliminable” parts of the ideology. Consistently with the dynamic principle of ideological morphology, however, Quisling was prepared to add new concepts and units around its core and downplay others, such as the identification of the main enemies and allies of Norway’s rebirth, in response to the chaotic and utterly unpredictable unfolding of events at the time. As a result, the defining feature of the Nasjonal Samling’s ideology that de Figueiredo identified in the party program of 1934 was still evident in the speech Quisling gave in the Colosseum – but new elements had been added. Now his forecast of Norwegian history culminated in a battle of apocalyptic dimensions. In Quisling’s conception of history, different peo­ ple are equipped with different historical tasks. They have a destiny to ful­ fill, a principle they seek to realize. In the speech, he struck a messianic note and wrote that “the Norwegian people still have a great mission in the world, and therefore will not go under, but walk onwards towards a greater future. Because a people cannot go under as long as it has a historical task to fulfill.”49 But what was needed in order to accomplish this historical task? In his outline of the history of Norway, Quisling condensed and dramatized historical time towards the present, the last days of the old inter­ national order. He evoked a limited temporal horizon, a foreshortening of the timeframe for the transformation that was probably aimed at reinforc­ ing the will to action and supporting the narrative of Norwegians as a cho­ sen people.50 His own movement, described as a “national socialism” and an “organized community of people on a national basis,”51 could not coexist with “English-Jewish” liberalism, referred to with typical Manichaean rhet­ oric as “the Midgard serpent that lies around the world, gnawing on the roots of the Nordic tree of life.”52 One of them had to go under in order for the other to achieve resurrection. 48 Michael Freeden, “Political Concepts and Ideological Morphology,” The Journal of Political Philosophy 2, no. 2 (1994), 160. 49 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 75. 50 Maria Brockhoff, “Om de indlysende fordele ved verdens undergang,” Slagmark 53 (2008): 102. 51 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 94. 52 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 89.

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This was not the only example of Quisling’s pairing of apocalyptic rhet­ oric with a palingenetic myth. In the speech “The Battle between Aryans and Jewish Power,” which he held in Frankfurt am Main in the same month as the speech in the Colosseum, he outlined the history of Jews’ relationship with Norway. As in “National Decay and National Resurrection,” Quisling ended his speech in Frankfurt on an apocalyptic note. As the title indicated, he saw the contact between Norwegians and Jews as a battle between dif­ ferent races. According to Quisling, Norway was in the midst of a process of national regeneration, where “the old system” was replaced by a cleans­ ing new order that would put an end to the historical decay. The ongoing process of establishing a new order was here also welded together with the Norse myth of Ragnarok, and he described a contemporary historical development where the antagonisms in society were simplified and “in real­ ity reduced to a duel between Judaism and the European principle”: Out of the national decay and breakdown that the Jews brought upon our people, a national resurrection is emerging. A new Norway rises on the solid foundation of national socialism and the principles of the Nordic race, working together with our brother people, the Great Germanic Reich, and determined to take our place and to make an effort in the new Europe, freed from England and Israel. Thus, in a strange way, realizing the living idea in the ancient Nordic myth of a battle that runs through the life of the world between Aryan and Jewish power would end in one last great battle, Ragnarok, the darkness of the Aryans, caused by the Aryans taking up the Jews in their midst and as such weakening their divine power. But the world of the Aryans only goes under to be reborn greater. In the decisive battle, the world-serpent and the war-wolf are killed. The old goes under, and a new world breaks forth, populated by a more vigorous and happier human race.53 In line with this apocalyptic narrative, Quisling, in his projection into the future, claimed that England and “English-Jewish” capitalism would go under, a downfall that was “a prerequisite if Norway again shall be free and great. Our history shows this clearly enough.”54 Why did Quisling think that the history of Norway showed this “clearly enough?” What had happened in the past that so “clearly” pointed prophetically towards the future? In the following section, I will look more closely into the constituents that together made up Quisling’s conception of history. Taking the speech he held in the Colosseum in 1941 as a starting point, I will focus on how the binary oppo­ sites of “decay” and “rebirth” and “Jews” and “the Norwegian people” were plotted into a historical narrative.

53 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 118. 54 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 90.

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“What Norway once was, it shall once again become” In the previous section, the general characteristics of Quisling’s conception of history and its semiotics have been established: how he abandoned narratives of history as a progressive evolution of mankind; how he instead built history around the opposite concepts of “decay” and “rebirth;” how his conception of history was based on the construction of an organic “people” that needed to be saved from a state of present disintegration by combating the forces that threatened it; and how this struggle was semiotically constructed as a bat­ tle between binary opposites – a battle that would find its solution in a final apocalyptic ending. A further look into the specific content of Quisling’s con­ ception of history can reveal how his ideology not only fits into Griffin’s under­ standing of fascism, but also how, in line with “ideological morphology,” the palingenetic myth was adapted to become a detailed narrative of decay and rebirth, tailored to be appropriate to the particular Norwegian circumstances. As we have seen, Quisling divided Norway’s history into three periods. First, a past Golden Age (storhetstid), followed by a long period of historical decay – a period that Quisling himself, in 1941, believed was still continuing. The most important historical era in his imagining of history, however, was the one that had not yet arrived but that the past allegedly pointed prophetically towards: “a new era of greatness in the future.”55 In line with this, the purpose of the speech was not to study the two earlier epochs but to mobilize his listen­ ers to prepare for this third, upcoming historical epoch. As such, the history of Norway was reconstructed only to the extent that it could support this seem­ ingly paradoxical “futural thrust” towards a new era.56 To support his claim that his understanding of history only reflected the “liv­ ing faith”57 of the whole Norwegian people, Quisling drew on Peter Andreas Munch (1810–1863), the 19th-century historian known for writing The History of the Norwegian People (Det norske Folks Historie) in eight volumes.58 In addi­ tion, Quisling mobilized central figures from Norway’s literary history, such as Henrik Ibsen (1828–1906), Olav Aukrust (1883–1929), and Johan Sebastian Welhaven (1807–1873). The fact that the latter’s sonnet cycle The Dawn of Norway (Norges dæmring) was a satirical work does not seem to have dawned on Quisling, who quoted Welhaven’s prophecy that “[w]hat Norway once was, it shall once again become.”59 But what was it that Norway had once been that Quisling wanted to recreate? Moreover, how did he insert and integrate events and agents into a coherent historical narrative about the history of Norway?

55 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 74.

56 Roger Griffin, “Fixing Solutions: Fascist Temporalities as Remedies for Liquid

Modernity,” Journal of Modern European History 13, no. 1 (2015): 5–23. 57 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 74. 58 Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 209. 59 Johan Sebastian Welhaven, Norges Dæmring: et polemisk Digt (Christiania: Johan Dahl, 1834), 81. I would like to thank Peter Hatlebakk for this point.

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The semiotics of the golden age As mentioned earlier, the palingenetic myth that Quisling built his ideology around – where an organic “people” needed to refind its true inner self and reverse a state of decadence under “alien” influence – made it important for him to paint a picture of history where a “Golden Age” could signify the “true” heroic values of the Norwegian people. Such a golden age made it pos­ sible for him both to disassociate the aspects he labeled as “materialistic” and “decay” from the Norwegian people and to relate them to an “alien” influence. More than anything else, Quisling used geopolitical influence and dom­ inance as criteria when measuring Norway’s past greatness. According to “National Decay and National Resurrection,” the golden age of Norway stretched from the middle of the 8th to the middle of the 11th century. During these 300 years, “Norwegians sailed together with other inhabitants of the north in large numbers to foreign lands, [where they] besieged and con­ quered or transformed Western Roman Christianity, while Norway itself, with iron and blood, was united into one kingdom.”60 By around the year 1000, Norwegians had set foot in England, Scotland, the Faroe Islands, the Shetland Islands, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, Dublin, and even America – “500 years before Columbus,”61 as Quisling was careful to highlight. This made them “rulers over the North Atlantic, as well as the entire sea between England, Scotland and Ireland […].”62 The Norwegians’ influence stretched over northern France (Normandy), all the way down to the Mediterranean and even to Russia, he claimed. On other occasions – as in the article “Erneuerungsgedanken im nor­ wegischen Volke”63 – Quisling would stretch out the golden age, making it fit into the idea of “Norgesveldet,” i.e. the idea, popular in 19th- and early 20th-century historiography, that Norway had been a powerful nation in the Viking Age and in the High Middle Ages. He was not the only one in the Nasjonal Samling who subscribed to this idea: Gulbrand Lunde (1901–1942), the Minister of Culture under the NS government, was also an exponent of it.64 Like Quisling, Lunde applied the pattern “Golden Age–Decay–Future Rebirth” to Norwegian history, highlighting the unification of Norway into one kingdom by Harald Hårfagre (ca. 850–932) as an early peak, while Håkon Håkonsson’s (1204–1263) kingdom in the High Middle Ages stood out as the culmination of the whole period.65 60 61 62 63 64

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 76.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 145.

Øystein Sørensen, Hitler eller Quisling: Ideologiske brytninger i Nasjonal Samling 1940–1945

(Oslo: Cappelen, 1989), 31. 65 Øystein Sørensen, Hitler eller Quisling: Ideologiske brytninger i Nasjonal Samling 1940–1945 (Oslo: Cappelen, 1989), 31. Also see Gulbrand Lunde, Kampen om Norge II: Foredrag og artikler 1940–1941 (Oslo: I kommisjon hos Gunnar Stenersens forlag, 1942), 87.

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This notion of “Norgesveldet” can illustrate how the palingenetic myth was tailored to particular Norwegian circumstances: “Norgesveldet” was used in a similar way to how Mussolini’s movement used the idea of present-day Italians being the ancestors of the late Republican and early Imperial Roman Empire, namely as one of its “founding myths”66 that was to serve as a model for the future. However, if the elements Quisling highlights from Norwegian history are assembled, a peculiar image emerges. What unites the motley crew of Vikings, kings, warriors, and authors that he highlights? What picture of Norway emerges? Despite his obvious interest in history, Quisling did not recognize how history conditions existence and experience. This anti-historicist charac­ ter of the fascist preoccupation with history has been captured by Fernando Esposito and Sven Reichardt, who have described how the movements of Hitler and Mussolini abandoned both Marxist and liberalist narratives of progress and instead used the past as “a malleable material,”67 where one could arbi­ trarily cherry-pick from history and declare it as a foundation for the future. Even though Quisling was not exactly arbitrary – he had a clear idea of what period he wanted to resurrect – Esposito’s and Reichardt’s arguments clearly apply to Quisling’s essentialist and hence ahistorical approach to the past. Decay and disintegration Despite the idea of “Norgesveldet,” the year 1066 already represented a cru­ cial turning point for Quisling in his outline of the development of history in “National Decay and National Resurrection.”68 According to Quisling, when Harald Hardråde fell at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, decay set in.69 The battle thus marked the beginning of the transition from the first to the second era in his historical scheme (decay “in the present”): Norway’s influ­ ence and expansion faded, while William the Conqueror from Normandy started to exert a Roman – and soon Jewish – influence over the British Isles: [I]t was of fatal importance to Norway that it was not the Norwegians from Norway and the Norwegian king who defeated the Anglo-Danes and 66 Jan Nelis, “Back to the Future: Italian Fascist Representations of the Roman Past,” Fascism: Journal of Comparative Fascist Studies 3 (2014): 1–19. 67 Fernando Esposito and Sven Reichardt, “Revolution and Eternity: Introductory Remarks on Fascist Temporalities,” Journal of Modern European History 13, no. 1 (2015): 40. 68 “Erneuerungsgedanken im norwegischen Volke” was written after “National Decay and National Resurrection”; one possible interpretation of the inconsistencies between the two representations of history may have to do with the clarity of the argument. It is probable that Quisling applied the same idea of “Norgesveldet” in “National Decay and National Resurrection” but did not clarify the argument that the turning point happened in 1066, but that the real consequences were not to be seen until the year 1300. Something that sup­ ports this argument is the fact that Gulbrand Lunde also used the year 1066 as a turning point, despite writing about “Norgesveldet.” See Lunde, Kampen om Norge, vol. 2, 87. 69 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 79.

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244

Fredrik Wilhelmsen in the end conquered England, but the Romanized and French-speaking Normans from Normandy. That’s the reason why England and the British dominions and America today speak half Latin and half German, rather than Norwegian. And it is ultimately also the reason why Norway eventu­ ally was reduced to a sort of English province which had not even status as a British dominion, but was brutally sacrificed for English plutocratic interests under the leadership of a Danish prince as an English vassal in Oslo. It is also for this reason that England was Judaized, because the Jews followed after the Normans from the mainland.70

The further destiny of Norway was marked by being under the thumb of England, a country that in Quisling’s eyes “enforced” its alien influence upon Norway, spreading ideas he regarded as hostile to the Norwegians as an organic people. After the defeat at Stamford Bridge, the “RomanGerman Christian culture” asserted its hegemony over the “distinctive Nordic-Germanic” one, and the Norwegian people were “forced into false forms of life that belonged to a totally alien mindset.”71 With the ascent of the new “false forms of life,” decay spread quickly. First, the country was thrown into civil war before the negative development in Norway accelerated in the 14th century. The Sverre clan died out, then came the Black Death, which Quisling was careful to emphasize “came from England to Norway via Bergen”:72 “The Norwegian people went into hibernation. All the foreign countries that Norwegians had conquered in the past were lost, and even the area of the mother country shrank and became and more cramped.”73 In the Reformation, when Norway came under Danish rule, the coun­ try hit rock bottom in Quisling’s eyes. However, when you hit rock bot­ tom, there is nowhere to go but up. Although Norway – in 1941 – had not yet risen out of decay, he described the history of Norway from the 16th century as a process where Norwegians “slowly began to regain strength and national consciousness.”74 The “national uprising” emerged in the 19th century, “as well as the biological force.”75 The result was that Norway went through an “outer”76 revolution in 1905; the country regained full formal independence, thus realizing “a national ideal”77 that the people had fought for. But the revolution was only an outer shell because a moral void had emerged in the heart of the nation state.78 Instead of gaining real

70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, emphasis in original.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 80.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 81, emphasis in original.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 81.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 83.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, emphasis in original.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

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freedom and independence, both in the outer and the interior, Norway was now dominated by the two recurring antagonists in Quisling’s semiotic construction of history: Marxism and liberalism. These imported goods had no place in Norway, he argued – in fact, they were to blame for the fact that the national unity and resurgence that had been possible in 1905 failed to materialize: “The leaders of the Norwegian people had no creative idea, no nurturing and strengthening plan to give to the people for their future life, in conjunction with the demands of the hour and the needs of the peo­ ple,” Quisling wrote. “Their only prescription was liberalism, and, as an antidote to this, the red poison of Marxism.”79 The semiotics of the antagonists The anti-historicist character of Quisling’s conception of history also becomes evident in his semiotic constructions of liberalism and Marxism. As seen earlier, a binary opposition between “national forces” and “Jewish materialism” played an important semiotic and ideological role for Quisling. With it, he was able to construct a “concrete other”80 against which a uni­ fied Norwegian national identity could be constructed. Having first reduced liberalism and Marxism to signifying “materialism” in the early 1930s, he would eventually – under the influence of Nazi racial history – go on to link the competing ideologies to other national identities: Russia (Marxism) and England (liberalism). 81 As such, he tried – despite the influence Nazi Germany obviously had on the Nasjonal Samling’s worldview – to portray his own ideology as the only true Norwegian one. In this context, history served a crucial role in the semiotic construction of the opposition between “us” and “them.” To support his Manichean division, a struggle against both Russia and England – and the ideas they were said to represent – was portrayed as something that runs through the whole history of Norway. Instead of trying to understand past agents and events on their own prem­ ises, Quisling forced his semiotic binaries upon history and essentialized them. For instance, the Battle of Stamford Bridge was not seen as an expres­ sion of the logic of geopolitical power struggles in the 11th century but was depicted in a teleological manner in a way that established a direct relation with present-day ideological conflicts. The threat posed by the Marxists in the East was a recurrent motif in Quisling’s ideology.82 However, in “National Decay and National Resurrection,” England and liberalism were portrayed as the biggest threats to Norway. The reason was the political development after Norway broke out of the union with Sweden in 1905. Instead of gaining real independence, 79 80 81 82

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 84, emphasis in original.

Hartnett, “The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism,” 73.

Hartnett, “The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism,” 73.

See for instance: Vidkun Quisling, Russland og vi (Oslo: Blix forlag, 1941).

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246 Fredrik Wilhelmsen Norway, due to “English-Jewish” liberalist influence, had a “complete dependency on England,”83 he argued. Norway was once again subject to a foreign power due to the ideological influence of liberalism.84 The country had chosen the wrong side, and was therefore doomed for disaster due to the negative influence of materialism: When war came on 9 April last year, Norway was in fact on the verge of being dissolved. Our people had left the path of justice and duty and set sail on the course of materialism, taken in tow by the great English ship. It was busy making money and living easy. It had lost its old virtues: self-discipline, a strict family life, contentment and devotion. It was split by class struggle and the warring political factions, spiritually dis­ solved in cultural Bolshevism and decadent liberalism, and hardened in quasi-religion and disguised materialism.85 Quisling’s conception of history had traits in common not only with apoc­ alyptic imaginary, but also with conspiratorial thinking. Like conspiracy theories, Quisling’s representation of history was supposed to pull away the curtain and reveal what powers really governed the world.86 Since he had already identified England with liberalism, and liberalism with Judaism, the logical conclusion was that Judaism was the hidden cause of all perceived misery. England’s influence on Norway after 1905 was therefore proof that “the governing of our fatherland [fell] into the hands of a clique of unscru­ pulous leaders who worked in the service of the International Jewry and the Peripheral Albion”87: Norway’s national decay and collapse is the result of a series of restrictive and dissolving powers that have gained strength in generation after gener­ ation, even for centuries. These destructive forces are all closely linked to each other, and in the end they actually merge into one powerful stream, which we can call the Anglo-Jewish world capitalism, the Midgard serpent that lies around the world, gnawing on the roots of the Nordic tree of life.88 In the speech cited earlier, “The Battle between Aryans and Jewish Power,” Quisling gave a more comprehensive historical description of the relation between Judaism and Norway than he did in “National Decay and National Resurrection.” It is thus also a better source when analyzing Quisling’s semiotic construction of the Jew as an enemy of the Norwegian people. 83 84 85 86 87 88

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 85.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 85.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 85.

Brockhoff, “Om de indlysende fordele ved verdens undergang,” 92–93.

Brockhoff, “Om de indlysende fordele ved verdens undergang,” 84.

Brockhoff, “Om de indlysende fordele ved verdens undergang,” 89.

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As the title indicates, Quisling saw the relationship between Norwegians and Jews as a battle between different cultures and races. According to Quisling, Norwegians and Jews first came into contact with each other in the 8th century “when the Scandinavian Vikings and warrior merchants in Russia collided with the Khazars, a highly mixed Jewish merchant people in South Russia.”89 The contradictions between the two people were evident from day one, he argued, since resistance to Judaism is inscribed in the culture and way of life of the Norwegian people. It is interestingly to note, however, that Quisling – who used the Cross of St. Olav as the party emblem of the Nasjonal Samling and headed a party bent on defending “the core values of Christianity”90 – wrote that the Christianization of Norway led to a development where “a Jewish-coloured world of ideas [began] to exert its disturbing influence on the soul of the Nordic people.”91 However, after Christianization, several hundred years would pass before really significant Jewish influence spread in Norway. Only when the so-called Jew clause, which denied Jews access to Norway, was abolished in 1851 did “regular Jewish immigration to Norway”92 start, he argued. On the one hand, Quisling’s anti-Semitism carried several characteristics familiar from interwar anti-Semitic semiotics. He identified Jews with both international capitalism and communism, and considered them to be “cos­ mopolitan” and “rootless,” “materialistic” and “unnational.” Yet the way Quisling interpreted the alleged Jewish influence over the recent history of Norway made his anti-Semitism stand out from the most dominant forms of anti-Semitism in Norway in the first half of the 20th century. As historian Terje Emberland has emphasized, anti-Semitism in Norway at this time was primarily of a xenophobic character. The Jews constituted a minority, and as such it was difficult to argue that they represented a significant power elite or internal threat to Norwegian society. Thus, Emberland concludes, the hos­ tility towards Jews manifested itself mainly as a fear of a potential external threat that could challenge the Norwegian national identity.93 However, in Quisling’s semiotic construction of the Jew, s/he represented both an inter­ nal and an external threat. He exaggerated the actual population ratios, ignored the fact that the last census had counted only 1,359 people who belonged to the Mosaic religious community94 and – in the spirit of fake news that rationalized the Nuremberg Race Laws – claimed the presence of “around 3,000 full Jews in Norway,”95 which, if you included “specific

89 90 91 92 93

Brockhoff, “Om de indlysende fordele ved verdens undergang,” 104.

Nasjonal Samling, Program for NS, 8.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 105, emphasis in original.

Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 107.

Trond Berg Eriksen et al., Jødehat: Antisemittismens historie fra antikken til i dag (Oslo:

Cappelen forlag, 2005), 402. 94 Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 213. 95 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 107.

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248 Fredrik Wilhelmsen mixed groups,”96 meant there were 10,000 Jews in Norway. Nevertheless, the small number of Jews in Norway had, according to Quisling, little bearing on the evaluation of the “Jewish question” in Norway. In fact, the actual figures were considered of less importance because the Jews could – with help from England – exert control over Norway by spreading their “destructive ideas.”97 Using such deceitful rhetoric, Quisling was able to portray Judaism as both an internal and an external threat – a threat that had already left its mark on the history of Norway. In fact, the recent history of Norway could, in Quisling’s eyes, be defined in relation to the “Jewish problem.” An “accel­ erating Judaization”98 of society showed itself in all areas: using the semiotic strategy mentioned earlier,99 Quisling condensed the meaning of a multitude of signifiers he deemed as “bad” and “alien” and let them run together in the image of the Jew. According to Quisling, Jews controlled the economy and the finance industry, as well as politics, media, literature, science, enter­ tainment, business, education, and child upbringing. This “invisible Jewish empire”100 was either driven by “the obvious Jews,” by the “Jewish mixed types” of former immigrant families, or the “allies” of the Jews in “the international Jewish systems, Liberalism and Marxism.”101 He even argued that 10,000 Norwegians had been turned into “artificial Jews” through Freemasonry.102 Through this insidious “Judaization process,”103 the influ­ ence of Jews in Norway had become “camouflaged and almost invisible,”104 according to Quisling. This made it “so much more effective and danger­ ous”105 compared with other countries where the mechanisms in play were much more visible.106 He even called the presence of Jews in Norway a “con­ centrated attack on the life nerve [of the Norwegian people].”107 The German occupation, however, was given a positive connotation, and was described in redemptive terms in both “National Decay and National Resurrection” and “The Battle between Aryans and Jewish Power.” In the former speech, the occupiers were referred to as “our race-conscious Germanic brothers and the creators of national socialism,” while the war had only accelerated the natural evolution of history and brought about a change of system that would eventually come anyway. Adapting to the new histor­ ical circumstances imposed by the Nazis’ attempt to create the “Greater 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107

Quisling, Quisling har sagt. Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 108. Quisling, Quisling har sagt. Hartnett, “The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism,” 74. Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 114. Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 109, emphasis in original. Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 114. Quisling, Quisling har sagt. Quisling, Quisling har sagt. Quisling, Quisling har sagt. Quisling, Quisling har sagt. Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 117.

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Germanic Reich,” Quisling reasoned in a manner that portrayed the occu­ pation as a realization of his own vision of a national resurgence, as it drove out the powers he believed led to decay and accelerated the forces of national unification and rebirth.108 As we have seen, Quisling’s representation of history evolved into a battle of apocalyptic dimensions between Norway and “English-Jewish” liberalism: Purging the English-Jewish and capitalist influence in every area – dynastic, political, social, economic and cultural – is the prerequisite for Norway’s national resurgence, and is therefore a main task for our move­ ment of national unification. Only in this way can there be an opening for positive national politics. In all, the defeat of plutocratic England is a pre­ requisite if Norway again shall be free and great. Our history shows this clearly enough. So does the current situation and our own hard-earned experiences. And England is going to go under along with the doomed cap­ italist system, whose creator and head is international Judaism, based in England, and on which England’s world power depends.109 However, what was needed in order to create national unity and a resur­ gence? 110 Fernando Esposito and Sven Reichardt have noted that even though both German Nazis and Italian Fascists interpreted history as a “force of destiny,” they still believed one could shape history through an act of will.111 This also applies for Quisling. Even though he saw his concep­ tion of history as a “logical interpretation of undisputed facts,”112 he still stressed that “loyalty” was a prerequisite for a future rebirth: “loyalty to the Norwegian people and faith in its mission in the world, loyalty to the movement for national unification that brings the new Norway forward and faith in its mission.”113 So what position did Quisling himself occupy in the national rebirth that his conception of history envisages? On the one hand, he thought that the Nasjonal Samling would bring Norway out of its historical decadence, ral­ lying the nation and bringing it back to former heights by removing alien influences from Norway. On the other hand, Quisling thought that the Nasjonal Samling represented a historic watershed, something radically

108 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 88–89.

109 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 90, emphasis in original.

110 At the end of “The Battle between Aryans and Jewish Power,” Quisling suggested a

“solution” to the “Jewish problem.” He said that the “solution” could not be to “extermi­ nate” or “sterilize” Jews, but to give them their own country. Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 118–120. 111 Esposito and Reichardt, “Revolution and Eternity,” 39.

112 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 75.

113 Quisling, Quisling har sagt.

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new. Under the heading “The new order puts the people’s welfare over the economic interests and the interests of party politics,” Quisling wrote that the Nasjonal Samling heralded a new way of both conducting and under­ standing politics. But what understanding of politics did Quisling have?

“Politics is now something completely different from the days of party politics” In the rest of this chapter, I will discuss what understanding of politics we can infer from Quisling’s conception of history and its semiotics. The simple answer to that question is that Quisling’s semiotized history reflects an anti-democratic understanding of politics. In “National Decay and National Resurrection,” for instance, he announced that the party rep­ resented something radically different from what it meant in a democratic system: politics would no longer revolve around class struggle and competi­ tion between different parties. Rather, the Nasjonal Samling would guide the people and overcome conflict through a process of national rebirth, wherein a strong government would neutralize the contradictions in society and rise above parliamentary politics, the different parties and class interests. These were ideas Quisling had spearheaded as early as in 1930, when in the obit­ uary, “Political thoughts at the death of Fridtjof Nansen,” he semiotically constructed a strong man as a remedy to the perceived troubles arising from a weak, chaotic and divided democracy. Using his typical binary opposi­ tions, Quisling claimed that Norway was in need of “a new political order, clear, determined and positive,” where a national hero like Nansen would “liberate the fatherland from class struggle and party politics, and imple­ ment a national unification and resurgence on the basis of sound political and economic principles.”114 Quisling’s anti-democratic attitudes also became clear when he drew on the myths surrounding historical figures like Harald Hårfagre and Olav Haraldsson (995–1030). Just as Norway was united and Christianized by power, Quisling was going to resurrect past greatness through power: “All legitimate means must be used if it is to have an effect, and since people, as a rule, only have understanding and respect for power, one has to use power in order to estab­ lish the rule of law and a bring about the resurrection of the country. Norway was united by power. And it became Christian by power.”115 Furthermore, instead of being considered irrelevant due to the historical developments since the Viking Age, Harald Hårfagre was portrayed as a model for the present. In the minds of Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling, the governmental structure had to be based on what was unique and distinctive about Norway. “What 114 Vidkun Quisling, Quisling har sagt: Citater fra taler og avisartikler, vol. 1 (Oslo: J.M. Stenersens forlag, 1940), 10. Emphasis in original. 115 Quisling, Quisling har sagt, 92.

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have democracy and party politics to do with the Norwegian character?”116 Quisling’s minister of culture, Gulbrand Lunde, asked rhetorically. Rather than parliamentarism, Quisling and Lunde saw the Führerprinzip as some­ thing essentially Norwegian – and the reason was to be found in the history of Norway. Rather than copying a governmental structure from another coun­ try, the Führerprinzip would re-establish the strong leadership that character­ ized the rule of the kings in the Golden Age of Norway.117 Quisling’s claim that the National Samling invoked a new understanding of politics was true enough. The radical break that Quisling went on to rep­ resent – in his own semiotic construction, a transition from the inefficiency and conflict of party politics to a healthy order that served the interests of all Norwegian people – was a transition from democratic to anti-democratic politics. The important thing for Quisling was not that the people got to choose its representatives so that the will of the people was expressed indi­ rectly through the parliamentary system. Rather, in line with Hartnett’s analysis of fascist semiotics as portraying the interests of the people in all-encompassing nationalist terms, expanding certain signifiers such as the people and the nation, Quisling obviously thought that it was the identity between the rulers and the ruled that was of importance.118 Through his representation of history, Quisling pointed towards a double justification that is typical of anti- or non-democratic regimes.119 He was the authentic and only servant of the interests of the people – interests he believed could not be expressed in political elections, since elected assemblies, by their very nature, were divisive institutions. Furthermore, his movement was portrayed as representing a higher mandate and as charged with a historical mission – a mission that could only be realized by a strong leadership that eliminated counter-revolutionary tendencies that could potentially lead to setbacks.120 Yet does the binary semiotics that underpins this anti-democratic attitude express something more? What implicit theoretical principles are expressed in Quisling’s anti-democratic attitude? When we drill into his rhetoric to lay bare the core concepts he is using, an interesting contradiction emerges in the place that existential and physical conflict occupies in his imaginings of the new historical phase that is dawning in Norway’s history.

116 Quoted in Sørensen, Hitler eller Quisling, 44.

117 Quoted in Sørensen, Hitler eller Quisling.

118 Nils Gilje, “Carl Schmitt – politisk eksistensialisme og konservativ ordenstenkning,”

in Politisk filosofi: Fra Platon til Hannah Arendt, ed. Jørgen Pedersen (Oslo: Pax forlag, 2013), 677. Sverre Riisnæs, who served as Minister of Justice under the occupation, provided an argument for this vision in his pamphlet: Sverre Riisnæs, Den nye stat på nasjonalsosialistisk grunn (Oslo: Nasjonal Samlings rikstrykkeri, 1941). 119 Øyvind Østerud, Statsvitenskap: Innføring i politisk analyse (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2014), 119. 120 Øyvind Østerud, Statsvitenskap: Innføring i politisk analyse (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2014).

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Initially, it is tempting to assume that the binary semiotic pattern that underpins Quisling’s political thinking has much in common with the German philosopher and jurist Carl Schmitt’s (1888–1985) conception of the political. According to Schmitt, the political is reducible to an existential distinction between friend and enemy. In The Concept of the Political, Schmitt attacked “liberal” or “liberal-neutralist” notions of politics and argued that conflict and antagonism were anthropological traits of human nature. “The political,” Schmitt wrote, “is the most intense and extreme antagonism, and every con­ crete antagonism becomes that much more political the closer it approaches the most extreme point, that of the friend-enemy grouping.”121 Furthermore, Schmitt spelled out the inference from this axiom, namely that “[t]he concepts of friend, enemy, and combat receive their real meaning precisely because they refer to the real possibility of physical killing. War follows from being enemies. War is the existential negation of the enemy.”122 Similar ideas seem to inform Quisling’s conceptions of history and politics: as we have seen, a binary semi­ otic pattern structured his notion of history. For instance, it was characterized by a Manichaean division between friend and enemy, us and them, and, from this existential distinction, war was there as an ever-present possibility. In recent years, the Belgian political philosopher Chantal Mouffe has used Schmitt’s concept of the political as a point of departure and implied that part of the success of far-right movements in recent years is related to this semiotics of enmity. According to Mouffe, at least part of the popular­ ity of the populist far-right stems from the fact that they recognize – albeit in a very problematic way – that there exists an “ontological dimension of radical negativity”123 and from this construct a distinction between “us” and “them.” This ontological dimension of radical negativity is, according to Mouffe, something “that cannot be overcome dialectically,”124 the result being that “full objectivity can never be reached and that antagonism is an ever-present possibility. Society is permeated by contingency and any order is of a hegemonic nature, i.e. it is always the expression of power relations.”125 Mouffe’s use of Schmitt to shed light on today’s movements on the far right points towards something significant in the way these ideologies semi­ otically construct antagonisms and historical narratives. But can we apply her theories to Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling?

121 Carl Schmitt, The Concept of the Political, trans. George Schwab (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 29. 122 Carl Schmitt, The Concept of the Political, trans. George Schwab (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 33. 123 Chantal Mouffe, Agonistics: Thinking the World Politically (London: Verso Books, 2013), xii. 124 Chantal Mouffe, Agonistics: Thinking the World Politically (London: Verso Books, 2013). 125 Ibid. Mouffe does not, however, support the far right’s use of the friend/enemy distinc­ tion; rather, her objective is to argue that the left wing should be focused on conflict rather than consensus.

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When exploring this question, it is important to underline that Mouffe’s theories about the political were formulated as an interpretation of con­ temporary right-wing populist movements, not extreme-right ideologies, either in the past or present. Although the means, and important parts of the perception of reality, are different between the extreme right and rightwing populist movements, some key objectives and ideas still coincide.126 Both operate, for instance, with a sharp semiotic distinction between “us” and “them,” which makes Mouffe’s theories transferable to more extreme movements than she herself discusses. And if we look at “National Decay and National Resurrection,” we find that Quisling also made use of a dis­ tinction between friend and enemy and that he thought that, from this exis­ tential distinction, conflicts, and even war, was there as a possibility. However, there are dangers involved when applying theories onto ideolo­ gies too hastily. It can lead us to glossing over inconsistencies in the politi­ cal ideologies in question. If we only focus on the semiotic construction of friends and enemies, we may miss a tension in Quisling’s conception of his­ tory. One striking feature is that Quisling thought that the Nasjonal Samling could rise above the antagonisms in society and neutralize them. Although he stressed that the use of power is essential when establishing a new order (or, in Mouffe’s words, that “any order is of a hegemonic nature”), he also thought that the ideology of the Nasjonal Samling was characterized by the fact that its politics would serve everyone and avoid any special interests.127 Quisling’s and the Nasjonal Samling’s ideas about a national unification that transcended both class struggles and party politics fit into Griffin’s descrip­ tion of fascism “as a revolutionary form of nationalism,”128 where an idea of national rebirth, which stems “the tide of decadence”129 and puts an end to class conflict, constitutes the “core myth”130 of the ideology. As we have seen, we find this “mythical core” in the ideology of Quisling. This idea of rebirth, however, has consequences for the way he thinks of the political. We should be careful not to overlook a core tension in how Quisling envisioned the national unification and rebirth. On the one hand, Quisling and the Nasjonal Samling had an apocalyptic and Manichaean understanding of history built around semiotic opposites that fit into Schmitt’s concept of the political. One feature of Quisling’s concep­ tion of history, for instance, was the idea that the crisis and conflicts in soci­ ety, in reality, expressed deeper historical patterns and conflicts (between “us” and “them”). On the other hand, however, one could argue that Quisling imagined that the national rebirth – in the future – could establish 126 Anders Ravik Jupskås, Ekstreme Europa: Ideologi, årsaker, konsekvenser (Oslo: Cappelen Damm, 2012). 127 Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 168. 128 Griffin, The Nature of Fascism, xi. 129 Griffin, The Nature of Fascism. 130 Griffin, The Nature of Fascism.

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what we might call a “post-political” condition where earlier antagonisms were put to rest. So, even though his representation of history certainly did suggest that different political groupings express some deeper contradictions (racial, reli­ gious, cultural, historical) that can never be leveled out, the myth of rebirth introduces other ideas, and this creates a tension in his conception of history. The national resurgence is imagined as something that could rise above con­ flicting interests in society and form a new consensus; the conflicts described were soon to find their solution, and this idea was as crucial to his conception of history as the idea of battles between Nordic people and Judaism, between idealism and materialism, running through history. Quisling’s semiotic con­ struction of a strong leader who liberates the fatherland from class struggle and party politics – i.e. his variant of the notion of a Führer – assumes pre­ cisely that one can reach an impartial stance where contradictory values and interests are reconciled. As scholars, we should be careful to recognize the different semiotic constructions involved, and how they can create tensions and inconsistencies like this, instead of glossing over them by searching for a deeper “meaning” or “connection” that would make the ideology – or con­ ception of history – more hermeneutically sound than it actually was. How the semiotics of a coming rebirth that could reconcile conflicting interests affected Quisling’s worldview not only comes to the surface in the political texts he penned or helped to author. His actions also seem to have been driven by the image of a future reconciliation. The name “Quisling” has become identified with high treason and cooperation with the enemy because the man himself failed to appreciate, as Hans Fredrik Dahl has put it, “what was disgusting, shameful, and distasteful in the fact that a politi­ cian and officer could stab both the king and the government in the back in a moment of national emergency, when an alien power struck under the cover of night’s darkness.”131 According to Dahl, this error stems “from […] a mis­ conception that the number of his followers was supposed to be much bigger than it actually was.”132 However, Quisling’s assessment of the situation in April 1940 was not a pragmatic one based on the misconception that his movement in fact was now bigger; rather, it was an idealistically motivated decision based on the notion that the policies of the Nasjonal Samling would serve the higher interests of the Norwegian people. He even stated to Hitler that “I have never claimed that my political program has a majority behind it in Norway today.”133 Rather, he claimed to represent “a small but decisive minority”134 that represented the “real” interests of the people, a vanguard. In time, it could

131 132 133 134

Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 118.

Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall.

Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 117 and 118.

Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 117.

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therefore be assumed that they would draw wider circles of Norwegian people into the movement, once they were in power. As Dahl points out, Quisling thought that if he could only get into power, support for the Nasjonal Samling would rise and resistance to him would fade out, since the movement, in his own eyes, represented the real, metapolitical, long-term interests of the nation.135 In reality, however, the Nasjonal Samling represented only a marginal­ ized faction, which had no legitimacy to speak on behalf of the majority of Norwegian people. But Quisling saw it differently, as Dahl points out: For him, the program of NS distinguished itself because it served every­ one. It was for the totality, encompassed all considerations, avoided all the special interests – and differed therefore from every other program. As he had often said, in reality, everyone actually agrees with our pro­ gram. The many years of thinking that lay behind it had gone into find­ ing the synthesis, “the mening (deepest instinct, core sentiment) of the Norwegian people,” as he often put it. That the people for so many years had been prevented from endorsing their own interests was due to the old system and its men – the usurpers, the career politicians.136 So, even though Quisling’s conception of history is permeated by his semi­ otic construction of a binary opposition between “our” healthy, life-en­ chanting principles and the destructive principles that his “enemies” signified, he does not seem to have subscribed to a philosophy of history where the antagonisms that he constructs semiotically are seen as an irre­ ducible “ontological” fact, which Mouffe’s theory seems to imply. Rather, his myth of a national rebirth projects a future situation where the antago­ nisms he discursively constructs are overcome, at least inside the “organic” community.

Conclusion A deeper look into Quisling’s conception of history and its semiotics con­ firms the heuristic value of the dominant working consensus in comparative fascist studies that Roger Griffin has put forth, namely that a palingenetic myth constitutes a “core” in fascist ideologies. The semiotics of Quisling’s notion of Norwegian history revolve around the image of an “organic’ peo­ ple who will reverse a period of decay by re-establishing a modern version of an earlier golden age in which the “eternal” qualities of the nation/race assert themselves in a new phase of civilizational creativity and sociopoliti­ cal and cultural greatness. Furthermore, the study of Quisling’s conception

135 Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 118.

136 Dahl, Quisling: En fører for fall, 168, emphasis in original.

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of history and the semiotics that underpin it corroborates a handful of hypotheses put forward in the field of comparative fascist studies: 1 It corroborates the tendency in fascist ideologies to construct the nation or race semiotically as an organic entity that has both an unchanging, synchronic “eternal” aspect and a temporal, diachronic, historical dimension in which the drama of decay and rebirth is enacted through the triumph over the demonized “enemies of the nation”. 2 It demonstrates how palingenetic myths can draw on tropes or motives from Manichaeism and apocalypticism/millennialism, as well as con­ spiracy theories. 3 It underlines the extreme sophistication with which fascism’s generic myths were adapted to become a detailed narrative of decay and rebirth, tailored to be appropriate to the particular circumstances of each nation where fascism arose. Quisling’s idea of “Norgesveldet,” for instance, played the same semiotic function as the construction of present-day Italians as the ancestors of the late Republican and early Imperial Roman Empire did for Mussolini’s movement: it served as one of its “founding myths.”137 4 It corroborates – by analyzing how history is semiotized through binary oppositions – the primacy of the cultural sphere over poli­ tics, economics, and society as the main locus of a total process of fascist regeneration. Quisling can be seen as an exponent of some sort of “vulgarized idealism”138 that rejects the materialism of lib­ eralism and socialism and demands the renunciation of self-interest and class-interest in the name of the nation and the higher interests of “the people.” In this context, the semiotic construction of binary oppositions plays a central role, since it constructs the Jew as a “con­ crete other” against which a unified – and unifying – national identity can be built. 5 It also corroborates the value of Freeden’s theory of ideological mor­ phology, which posits an “ineliminable core” to each ideology that lies at the center of “eliminable” or adaptable adjacent and peripheral fea­ tures. Combining Freeden’s theory with Griffin’s ideal type model of generic fascism enables us to recognize how Quisling, in his outline of the history of Norway, seamlessly adapted his myth of Norway’s rebirth to absorb elements of Nazi anti-Semitic semiotics and racial science, as well as its theories of “Aufnordung” (re-Nordification). Furthermore, the combination of two theoretical approaches to the study of politi­ cal ideology can help us explain how Quisling both tried to adapt his

137 Nelis, “Back to the Future.” 138 Roderick Stackelberg, Hitler’s Germany: Origins, Interpretations Legacies (New York: Routledge, 1999).

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palingenetic myth to the new historical situation and, at the same time, tried to locate Norway within the Nazi vision of a new European order and a Greater Germanic Reich. By analyzing the semiotics of Quisling’s evolving historical vision both as a contribution to the study of Norwegian fascism and as a contribution to comparative fascist studies using the methodological principles just men­ tioned, this article will hopefully encourage scholars in other countries to apply the same approach to “their own” fascisms so that a more comprehen­ sive picture of both the generic and the idiosyncratic elements in the “fascist philosophy of history” can be established as an international phenomenon.

Works cited Bjørgo, Tore. Racist and Right-Wing Violence: Patterns, Perpetrators, and Responses. Oslo: Tano Aschehoug, 1997. Brevig, Hans Olaf and Ivo de Figueiredo. Den norske fascismen: Nasjonal Samling 1933- 1940. Oslo: Pax forlag, 2002. Brockhoff, Maria. “Om de indlysende fordele ved verdens undergang.” Slagmark 53 (2008): 91–103. Dahl, Hans Fredrik. Quisling: En fører for fall. Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 1992. Dahl, Hans Fredrik. Quisling – en norsk tragedie. Oslo: Aschehoug forlag, 2012. Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Translated by Brian Massumi. London: Continuum, 2004. Eliade, Mircea. The Sacred & the Profane: The Nature of Religion. Translated by Willard R. Trask. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1987. Eliade, Mircea. Cosmos and History: The Myth of the Eternal Return. Translated by Willard R. Trask. New Jersey: Princton University Press, 2005. Eriksen, Trond Berg et al. Jødehat: Antisemittismens historie fra antikken til i dag. Oslo: Cappelen forlag, 2005. Esposito, Fernando and Sven Reichardt. “Revolution and Eternity: Introductory Remarks on Fascist Temporalities.” Journal of Modern European History 13, no. 1 (2015). Freeden, Michael. “Political Concepts and Ideological Morphology.” The Journal of Political Philosophy 2, no. 2 (1994): 140–164. Gallie, W.B. “Essentially Contested Concepts.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 56 (1956): 167–198. Gilje, Nils. “Carl Schmitt – politisk eksistensialisme og konservativ ordensten­ kning.” In Politisk filosofi: Fra Platon til Hannah Arendt, edited by Jørgen Pedersen. Oslo: Pax forlag, 2013. Griffin, Roger. The Nature of Fascism. London: Routledge, 1993. Griffin, Roger. “Staging the Nation’s Rebirth: The Politics and Aesthetics of Performance in the Context of Fascist Studies.” In Fascism and Theatre: Comparative Studies on the Aesthetics and Politics of Performance in Europe, 1925–1945, edited by Günther Berghaus. Providence: Berghahn Books, 1996 Griffin, Roger. “Notes Towards the Definition of Fascist Culture: The Prospects for Synergy between Marxist and Liberal Heuristics.” Renaissance and Modern Studies 42 (2001): 95–115.

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Griffin, Roger. “Fixing Solutions: Fascist Temporalities as Remedies for Liquid Modernity.” Journal of Modern European History 13, no. 1 (2015): 5–23. Griffin, Roger. Fascism. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2018. Hansen, Jan-Erik Ebbestad. Norsk tro og tanke, vol. 2. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2001. Hartnett, Stephen. “The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism: Analysing Pound’s Cantos 12-15.” boundary 2 20, no. 1 (1993): 65–93. Jung, Carl Gustav, ed. Man and his Symbols. New York: Anchor Press, 1964. Jupskås, Anders Ravik. Ekstreme Europa: Ideologi, årsaker, konsekvenser. Oslo: Cappelen Damm, 2012. Koselleck, Reinhart. Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time. Translated by Keith Tribe. New York: Columbia University Press, 2004. Lunde, Gulbrand. Kampen om Norge II: Foredrag og artikler 1940-1941. Oslo: I kommisjon hos Gunnar Stenersens forlag, 1942. Mouffe, Chantal. Agonistics: Thinking the World Politically. London: Verso Books, 2013. Nasjonal Samling. Program for NS. Oslo: Thuleselskapet 1940. Nelis, Jan. “Back to the Future: Italian Fascist Representations of the Roman Past.” Fascism: Journal of Comparative Fascist Studies 3 (2014): 1–19. Østerud, Øyvind. Statsvitenskap: Innføring i politisk analyse. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2014. Peters, Rikke Louise. “Redaktionelt.” Slagmark 53 (2008). Quisling, Vidkun. Quisling har sagt: Citater fra taler og avisartikler, vol. 1. Oslo: J.M. Stenersens forlag, 1940. Quisling, Vidkun. Quisling har sagt: For Norges frihet og selvstendighet: Artikler og taler 9. april 1940 – 23. juni 1941, vol. 3. Oslo: Gunnar Stenersens forlag, 1941. Quisling, Vidkun. Russland og vi. Oslo: Blix forlag, 1941. Riisnæs, Sverre. Den nye stat på nasjonalsosialistisk grunn. Oslo: Nasjonal Samlings rikstrykkeri, 1941. Schmitt, Carl. The Concept of the Political. Translated by George Schwab. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007. Simonsen, Kjetil Braut. “Vidkun Quisling, antisemittismen og den paranoide stil.” Historisk tidsskrift 96, no. 4 (2017): 446–467. Simonsen, Kjetil Braut. “Quislings konspiranoia.” Fri tanke, 25 May 2018. https:// fritanke.no/bakgrunn/quislings-konspiranoia/19.10825. Sørensen, Øystein. Hitler eller Quisling: Ideologiske brytninger i Nasjonal Samling 1940 1945. Oslo: Cappelen, 1989. Stackelberg, Roderick. Hitler’s Germany: Origins, Interpretations Legacies. New York: Routledge, 1999. Welhaven, Johan Sebastian. Norges Dæmring: et polemisk Digt. Christiania: Johan Dahl, 1834.

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11 Legitimate or improper economic collaboration? The struggle about the past after the German occupation of Norway Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen1 All spheres of Norwegian society collaborated with the German occupier through the 5 years of occupation from 1940 to 1945. After the war, the Kingdom of Norway convicted 46,085 citizens of treason because of their relations with the enemy. The majority were convicted because of mem­ bership in the domestic Nazi party (Nasjonal Samling) or other types of politically and ideologically motivated collaboration. However, the courts convicted 3355 citizens of economic treason for having aided the enemy “in such a way or under such circumstances that the behavior must be consid­ ered improper.”2 Although Norwegian business and industry collaborated extensively throughout the occupation, it is difficult to disclose the exact number of enterprises and citizens working for the occupier. The fact that estimates for Norwegian labor working on German contracts for shorter or longer periods vary from 150,000 to 300,000 people3 reflects this uncer­ tainty. Yet the Norwegian public prosecution only investigated some 16,000 citizens for violations of the laws on economic treason, which resulted in the 3355 convictions mentioned earlier. The low number of convictions proves that jurisprudence regarded economic collaboration as illegal in particu­ lar circumstances only. Jurisprudence treated economic collaboration dif­ ferently from political and ideological collaboration, which indeed was the main target of treason jurisprudence. The purpose of this chapter is to show how the fixing of a penal demarca­ tion through the notion of “improper” (utilbørlig) behavior set the boundary between legal and illegal economic relations with the enemy. We elaborate on the semiotic meaning of “improper” in the period from its war-related inception through to the post-occupation legal purges.

1 Martin Steffensen would like to thank the Royal Norwegian Society of Sciences and Letters (Det Kongelige Norske Videnskabers Selskab) for their financial support with the work on this paper. 2 Erik Solem, Landssvikanordningen: Prov. Anordn. Av 15. Desember 1944 Med Tillegg (Oslo: Tanum, 1945), 51. 3 Harald Espeli, “De gjorde landet større,” Historisk Tidsskrift 106, no. 1 (2006): 382–399.

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Research on the jurisprudence of economic treason in Norway after World War II is almost nonexistent, but the scant scholarship has pointed at ambiguities, though with softer penalties as time passed.4 Yet a pioneer­ ing study pointed at a systematic sociopolitical bias in that the big and powerful businesses escaped being convicted of treason whereas the small and powerless did not.5 From a semiotic perspective, this chapter enhances the understanding of the fluid border that distinguished between legiti­ mate economic collaboration and criminal economic treason. Aware of the strong negative moral–political connotations pertaining to the notion of “collaboration” and that Hein Klemann and Sergei Kudryashov warned against using it on economic relations in occupied countries,6 we neverthe­ less choose to apply the term on legitimate economic contracts with the enemy as well. Our justification leans on Norwegian historian Ole Kristian Grimnes’ argument that the semantic notion of “collaboration,” because of its negative connotation, provides extra motivation for elaborating the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate forms of cooperation with the enemy.7 The Norwegian government-in-exile enacted the provisional ordinance on economic treason in 1944, during which time the Norwegian territory was occupied and the Kingdom of Norway was at war with Nazi Germany. Evidently, this was a most dramatic condition that indeed influenced the language, i.e. the semantics, of law. So did the postwar period of transitional justice, for which the legal purges were implemented. As our aim is to iden­ tify how legislators and subsequently jurisprudence drew the line between “proper” and “improper” economic relations, legal semiotics guide our historical scrutiny. Anne Wagner, a scholar of legal semiotics, has pointed out that law and language are “closely linked to social and cultural events within a specific period of time and space.”8 Susan Tiefenbrun argued that scrutinizing the language of law through the lens of semiotics will “uncover the basic structural elements of the meaning of the term” and that the method “involves decoding its multiple codes … in order to expose the deep structure of the term and unravel its complexities.”9 The first section provides an overview of the economic relations between the occupied and the occupier as well as the legacy it left in terms of memory

4 Johs. Andenæs, Det vanskelige oppgjøret, 2nd ed. (Oslo: TANO-Aschehoug, 1998). 5 Dag Ellingsen, Krigsprofitørene og rettsoppgjøret (Oslo: Gyldendal, 1993). 6 Hein Klemann and Sergei Kudryashov, Occupied Economies. An Economic History of Nazi-Occupied Europe, 1939–1945 (London: Berg, 2012), 305. 7 Ole Kristian Grimnes, “Kollaborasjon og oppgjør,” in I krigens kjølvann, ed. Stein Uglevik Larsen (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1999), 47–57. 8 Anne Wagner, “Mapping Legal Semiotics,” International Journal for the Semiotics of Law - Revue internationale de Sémiotique juridique 23, no. 1 (2010): 78. 9 Susan Tiefenbrun, Decoding International Law: Semiotics and the Humanities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 3 and 85–86.

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discourse. The next section explores how the legislators framed their notion of economic treason. The third section elaborates on how the meaning of “improper” changed during the interim period after liberation before the Supreme Court elaborated the notion of “improper.” The fourth section analyzes how the Supreme Court applied the notion in a few cases that set precedents. By exploring the change of context, a key word in semiotic anal­ ysis, throughout, we will understand why the denomination of “improper” changed as well. We nevertheless suggest that the notion of “improper” never settled consistently.

Economic collaboration and its postwar legacy According to Lorentz Vogt (1883–1958), the director of the Federation of Norwegian Industries from 1924 to 1942, the occupation confronted indus­ try with two alternative approaches, either to sabotage or to cooperate.10 Supported by Norwegian civilian authorities, business and industry chose the latter. For several legitimate reasons, the official Norwegian attitude toward economic collaboration was from the beginning of the occupation to “keep the wheels turning.” The alternative might have been massive unemployment, social crisis and ultimately hunger. This attitude lingered well into 1942, when officials started encouraging various forms of resist­ ance, e.g. to work slowly. Nevertheless, Norwegians continued to “keep the wheels turning” as the Nazis reinforced their already massive expansion program. In spring 1941, the Reichskommissariat identified 1600 German building projects in Norway, several of which were large.11 Hans Claussen Korff (1905–2000), a senior official in the Reichskommissariat whom the Norwegian government engaged after the war to reconstruct German eco­ nomic activity in Norway, claimed that Norwegian companies accepted business contracts with German agencies so easily that their resistance was not worth mentioning.12 A German record suggests that by late 1940, less than 9 months after the invasion, German agencies performed about 50 percent of building activity in the country, and that by late 1941, the share had reached 90 percent.13 In effect, the Norwegian construction indus­ try was almost completely engaged in building airfields, fortifications, bar­ racks, railroads, roads, bridges, power stations, industry etc. on German

10 Lorentz Vogt, Det Organiserte, Offisielle, Økonomiske Samarbeide Med Okkupantene (Oslo: Eget forlag, 1947), 1–2. 11 Hans Otto Frøland, “Organisasjon Todt som byggherre i Norge,” Historisk Tidsskrift 97, no. 3 (2018): 174. 12 Hans Claussen Korff, Norwegens Wirtschaft im Mahlstrom der Okkupation, part 2, undated and unpublished manuscript, 376, located in Riksarkivet, Oslo (henceforth RAO), PA 951, box 2. 13 Report by Wick (Abteilung Technik) on construction activity of the Reichskommissariat, 14 April 1942, RAO, RAFA-2174, Ef-L0002, folder 9.

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262 Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen demand. Unsurprisingly, rough postwar estimates suggest that by summer 1941, about 165,000 Norwegians were working for German agencies that were somehow involved in building activities (i.e. transport). Over the next few years, the number decreased only slowly, and by June 1944, the number was still 145,000.14 To compensate for the labor shortage, which was preva­ lent from spring 1941, the Nazis from autumn 1941 started bringing foreign forced labor to the country. An estimate suggests that the Nazis brought about 130,000 foreigners to Norway to work, of which the bulk were Soviet POWs.15 The German demand for construction firms made Albert Speer (1905–1981) recruit close to 500 companies in the German Reich to start operating in Norway.16 Typically, large Norwegian companies or company combines entered into contracts with German agencies and further engaged smaller Norwegian firms to fulfill their contracts. Hence, there could be several contract lev­ els between the German actors and those Norwegian individuals who in the end were convicted of economic treason. Indeed, the relation between Norwegian and German actors was continuously asymmetrical and an implicit threat lingered that firms might have their equipment confiscated if they rejected business contracts with the Germans, but much evidence suggests that the Germans generally did not have to use brute force. Their preferred instrument was to offer generous contracts and pay.17 By 1940, the Norwegian term “brakkebaron” (barracks baron) had already surfaced, referring to Norwegian craftsmen who earned excessive war profits from building wooden barracks for the German garrisons. The profits tempted Norwegians to collude, and by autumn 1942, the resistance movement informed the government-in-exile that carrying “a carpenter’s pencil and a saw” was sufficient to let the Germans accept incompetent people as build­ ing contractors.18 The magnitude of economic collaboration with the enemy did not fit well with the master narrative of occupation that settled in the postwar years. This narrative was clearly one of patriotic memory, as observed in most

14 Statistisk Sentralbyrå, Statistisk-økonomisk utsyn over krigsårene (Oslo: Aschehoug, 1945), 218–233. 15 Frøland, “Organisasjon Todt som byggherre,” 170; Gunnar Hatlehol, “Einsatzgruppe Wiking og kampen om arbeidskraften 1942–1945,” Historisk Tidsskrift 97, no. 3 (2018): 240–255. 16 Simon Gogl, “Profittsøken uten kontroll? De tyske byggebedriftene under Einsatzgruppe Wiking,” Historisk Tidsskrift 97, no. 3 (2018): 224–239. 17 Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner, “Perfecting the Art of Stealing: Nazi Exploitation and Industrial Collaboration in Occupied Western Europe,” in Industrial Collaboration in Nazi Occupied Europe, ed. Hans Otto Frøland, Mats Ingulstad and Jonas Scherner (London: Palgrave Macmillan), 1–34. 18 Mats Ingulstad, “I nyordningens tegn? Organisasjon Todt og reguleringen av den norske byggebransjen,” Historisk Tidsskrift 97, no. 3 (2018): 272.

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western European countries formerly occupied by the Nazis.19 The binary couple of national heroes’ and traitors’ responses to an overwhelming and evil occupier structured the plot of the narrative. Norwegian discourse did not apply the term “collaboration,” meaning illegitimate or treason­ ous cooperation with the enemy, to cover the Norwegian context. The term was exclusively applied to foreign and, in particular, to the French context. The discourse simply applied the term “landssvik” (national trea­ son).20 Hence, public discourse fitted well with the master narrative. The historian Magne Skodvin (1915–2004), who in 1955 was commissioned by the Ministry of Justice to elaborate the postwar legal purges from a histo­ rian’s angle, aptly pointed at why economic collaboration offended public sentiment: the repressive occupation made war profits inversely related to fellow citizens’ misery, and war profiteers’ actions were therefore evidence of their lacking a sense of community and solidarity. When war profiteers in retrospect presented their actions in a redeeming light, he maintained the impact was “brutal” on the public sentiment.21 According to Johs. Andenæs (1912–2003), a legal expert in criminal law who served the Director of Public Prosecutions after the war, the legal notion of “improper” was widely per­ ceived as collaboration “contrary to general norms of national behavior” (“i strid med den alminnelige norm for nasjonal handlemåte”).22 Obviously, an essentialist notion of national behavior structured the postwar narrative of the occupation. In the postwar legal settlement, the notion surfaced in juris­ prudence as “nationally blameworthy” (“nasjonalt daddelverdig”) behavior. Despite the strong and durable master narrative, widespread economic collaboration as well as the official endorsement of it during the first half of the occupation unsurprisingly caused contradictions and ambiguities in public debate. One critical argument said that government policy and jurisprudence violated the principle of equality before the law and that the motivation for this was profoundly political – to win elections.23 Another said that the legislators of the Treason Ordinance ended up as judges dur­ ing the postwar settlement, hence violating the principle of separation of

19 Pieter Lagrou, The Legacy of Nazi Occupation: Patriotic Memory and National Recovery in Western Europe, 1945–1965 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Susanne Maerz, Die langen Schatten der Besatzungszeit: “Vergangenheitsbewältigung” in Norwegen als Identitätsdiskurs (Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2008); Synne Corell, Krigens ettertid. Okkupasjonshistorien i norske historiebøker (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 2010). 20 Eirik Holmen’s chapter in the present volume discusses the “Semiotics of Collaboration” in more detail. 21 Magne Skodvin, “Historisk innleiing,” in Justis- og politidepartementet, Om Landssvikoppgjøret (Gjøvik/Mariendal, 1962), 33. 22 Andenæs, Det vanskelige oppgjøret, 132. 23 Oliver Langeland, Dømmer ikke (Oslo: Heim & Samfund, 1948), 231, 268; Oliver Langeland, For at I ikke skal dømmes (Oslo: Heim & Samfund, 1949), 24, 64–65, 124.

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powers.24 The third maintained that heavy industry, which was crucial to rebuilding the country economically after the war, made a particularly large contribution to the Nazi war effort but escaped attention, as opposed to the smaller firms.25 Of a leftist bias indeed, empirical investigations subse­ quently sustained the latter allegations.26 Allegations entered popular cul­ ture as well. The movie The Reward (Belønningen, 1980) narrates a plot in which a building contractor who had earned considerable war profits was able to sustain his wealth into the postwar years, whereas a former seaman in the Norwegian merchant navy sailing for the Allied coalition had sunk into misery and drinking.27 The books and the film testify to a durable tension between legal justice and moral justice. They are evidence that contradic­ tions and paradoxes lingered before they were taken up by New Left critique from the 1970s. Responding to lingering critique, in 1955, the Ministry of Justice and Police commissioned an examination of the legal purges, which appeared in public in 1962 and were discussed in Parliament.28 At that time, the Supreme Court still had to settle treason cases. Only in 1964 was the legal settlement formally concluded. However, the Labor government that had taken office in November 1945 had already responded to the critiques in the 1940s. Øystein Thommessen (1890–1986), who served as Acting Director of Public Prosecutions, submit­ ted a report in 1950 that addressed the relevance of the wide spectrum of critiques against the purges. He admitted that jurisprudence related to eco­ nomic treason had so far been less consistent than jurisprudence for political or ideological treason and emphasized that distinguishing between legitimate economic collaboration and treason was a matter of very complicated judg­ ment. However, he referred to acts of economic treason as minor collaboration (“mindre samarbeidshandlinger”), which therefore invoked weak sanctions. Indicative of his underlying bias was his statement that the main challenge was to provide evidence because of the large number of people working for the Germans (“antallet tyskerarbeidere er så stort”).29 Admittedly, the magni­ tude of the collaboration and the corresponding lack of capacity were a major challenge, but in legal terms, the main problem was ambiguity in the source of 24 Arne Bergsvik, Vi er ikke forbrytere (Oslo: Eget Forlag, 1950), 201–209.

25 Helge Krogh, 6. kolonne? Om den norske storindustriens bidrag til Nazi-Tysklands krig­ føring (Oslo: Radikalt forlag, 1946), 70. 26 Terje Valen, De tjente på krigen. Hjemmefronten og kapitalen (Oslo: Forlaget Oktober, 1974); Ellingsen, Krigsprofitørene og rettsoppgjøret. 27 The Reward, 1980, written and directed by Bjørn Lien. It won the silver prize at the 12th Moscow International Film Festival. 28 Justis- og politidepartementet, Om landssvikoppgjøret. Submitted to the parliament (Storting) as Stortingsmelding nr. 17 (1962–63), published in Stortingsforhandlinger, vol. 3b, 1962–63. 29 Brev til Det Kgl. Justis- og politidepartement fra konstituert riksadvokat Ø. Thommessen, August 30, 1950, in Stortingsmelding nr. 64 (1950) Angrepet på rettsoppgjøret med landss­ vikerne, in Stortingsforhandlinger, vol. 2c, 1950, 9 and 16–17.

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law. Rightly, Andenæs maintained in retrospect that the official policy to keep the economy running caused this ambiguity.30 He also argued that a temporal contextual change that had occurred during the occupation had influenced jurisprudence. Because Norwegian resistance had taken stronger hold from 1942 and the government-in-exile had endorsed resistance more explicitly, the legal norm changed.31 Collaboration that was regarded as legitimate in 1940, and consequently legally “proper” during the purges after the war, might have been regarded as illegitimate in 1943, and hence legally “improper” after the war. Similar acts might invoke different judgments depending on the time of their occurrence.32 In retrospect, professor Andenæs concluded that mis­ takes of law (rettsvillfarelse) easily occurred in occupied Norway and, conse­ quently, it would have been unfair to apply the normative scale of 1943 and 1944 on collaborative actions during the first year of occupation.33 An inquiry commissioned by Parliament on the actions taken by the civilian authority (Administrasjonsrådet) established in Oslo after the King, the Cabinet and leading parliamentarians fled the capital concluded that it could not be an efficient defender of national values (nasjonale verdier) because it worked to keep the economy running. This was referred to as a dark side (skyggeside) of its policy, forced upon the authority. The national values of its members were, however, not questioned.34

The legal foundation of economic treason The legal purges were based on the military and civil criminal laws of 1902 as well as provisional ordinances adopted by the government-in-exile in London, among which the Treason Ordinance of 15 December 1944 was the most significant. The most notable actors in the planning of transitional justice were the government-in-exile and the leadership of the resistance movement (Hjemmefrontens Ledelse). This section presents how the Treason Ordinance of 1944 was legislated and elaborates the significance of eco­ nomic treason in this process in order to disclose “the deep structure” (cf. Tiefenbrun) of the term “improper.” A legal basis for prosecuting economic traitors already existed in the Criminal Law, which covered crimes against the integrity of the State. Article 86(9) stated that “improper activity with the enemy” was criminal, which included having economic relations with enemy states.35 However,

30 31 32 33 34

Quoted in Ellingsen, Krigsprofitørene og rettsoppgjøret, 24.

Andenæs, Det vanskelige oppgjøret, 160.

Justis- og politidepartementet, Om landssvikoppgjøret, 277.

Andenæs, Det vanskelige oppgjøret, 133.

Stortinget, Innstilling fra Undersøkelseskommisjonen av 1945 I–VI (Oslo: Aschehoug &

Co., 1946), 207. 35 Almindelig borgerlig straffelov. Ch. 8: Forbrydelser mod Statens Selvstændighed og Sikkerhed (1902).

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266 Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen written in 1902, legislators had passed this law with a short war in mind, not a long-lasting occupation in which extensive collaboration would be inevitable and in conformity with international law.36 When Nazi Germany invaded Norway on 9 April 1940, Parliament had enacted several revisions to the Criminal Law, but Article 86(9) remained intact. Thus, the law would regard even the most indirect strengthening of Germany’s warfare, such as the supply of food or clothing to the German garrison, as improper and trea­ sonous. Further, it prescribed a minimum sentence of 3 years (maximum 21 years) of imprisonment for such criminal acts. Obviously, the extensive economic collaboration during the 5 years of occupation made the Criminal Law less suitable for dealing with treason. To understand the underlying rationale of the December 1944 Treason Ordinance, we must consider the first Treason Ordinance, enacted in January 1942, as well. However, this primarily targeted political–ideological treason. When the Minister of Justice announced the ordinance on the radio network from London, he warned “good Norwegians” that every member of Quisling’s Nasjonal Samling party after 9 April 1940 fell under the ordi­ nance.37 One purpose of the 1944 revision was to include a broader reper­ toire of collaboration under the notion of treason, implying that the revision must catch a larger share of the population.38 A committee appointed by the resistance movement’s leadership in Oslo was responsible for every provisional ordinance given after 1943, except for the War Criminal Ordinance of May 1945.39 Why would the government-in­ exile allow the resistance movement to work out the Treason Ordinance? In his study of the leadership of the resistance movement, Grimnes disclosed that the government-in-exile felt forced to prepare for the future transition to democracy to prevent Allied intervention in the Norwegian civil admin­ istration after a German defeat. Consequently, in order to prepare swiftly for new regulations that would prevent such action, the government-in-exile depended on the resistance movement in Oslo, whose leadership was better informed about the situation within occupied Norway.40 The resistance movement’s leadership was influenced by ideas tabled by Einar Løchen (1918–2008). He was a legal expert serving at the Legal Office (Rettskontoret) in the Norwegian government-in-exile’s office in Stockholm. At the turn of the year 1942–1943, the Legal Office started registering Norwegian citizens who ought to be taken into custody immediately after a German surrender, and by May 1945, this list comprised around 16,000 persons 36 Convention Respecting the Laws and Customs of War on Land (Hague IV) (1907). 37 Stortinget, “Beretning om Justisdepartementets virksomhet fra 1. september 1939 til 8. mai 1945,” in Den norske regjerings virksomhet fra 9. april 1940 til 22. juni 1945 I–II, Bind 1. Utgitt av Stortinget (Oslo: Aschehoug & Co., 1948), 195. 38 Borge and Vaale, Grunnlovens største prøve, 57. 39 Borge and Vaale, Grunnlovens største prøve, 26. 40 Ole Kristian Grimnes, Hjemmefrontens Ledelse (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1977), 131–133.

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suspected of serious treason.41 The list did not include economic collabora­ tors suspected of economic treason, but the Norwegian Office kept lists of economic collaborators as well.42 In a lecture for the Norwegian Association of Lawyers (Den norske juristforeningen) held in Stockholm in January 1944, Løchen argued that existing jurisprudence on economic treason was too broad and the minimum sentence too strict for “economic war crimi­ nals.” Having identified three groups of what he called “economic war criminals,” he focused on the group he regarded as the most significant in terms of the coming legal purges, those who produced for, worked for or sup­ plied the German garrison.43 Løchen described the boom in the construction industry as being due to German demand before stating that “actually, all parts of Norwegian business and industry has more or less directly come to work for the Germans” and warning that the Kingdom of Norway could not stamp the bulk of its citizens as criminals. Consequently, he commenced by elaborating on whether the Criminal Law of 1902 was an adequate regulation. This led him to recommend additional supplying legislation that would pro­ vide for a more fine-meshed jurisprudence than the Criminal Law. He called for making distinctions among the bulk of Norwegian collaborating compa­ nies. Companies that worked on German contracts by force, by requisition or by other provisions of international law had to be judged differently from companies that entered into contracts voluntarily and proactively, he argued. Companies established before the invasion had to be judged differently from those who emerged during the occupation or pursued profits by moving into a new sector during the occupation. He anticipated that businesses that had moved proactively to profit from German demand would claim they did so for the sake of the company and its workers, not for war profits. He further called for “national” guidelines targeting Norwegian businesses and companies in order to warn them not to extend or expand their German operations.44 The lecture shows that Løchen had good knowledge about the wide spec­ trum of economic collaboration in Norway. It further reveals that his elab­ oration conformed to the essentialist notion of an adequate national norm of behavior (cf. Andenæs: “alminnelige norm for nasjonal handlemåte”). His speech was indeed a defense of the nation, and he explicitly emphasized that the future legal judgments relating to economic collaboration must “put the nation first” (“hensynet til landet må gå først”). He consequently implied national semiotics that would deem some form of collaboration unacceptable,

41 Stortinget, “Beretning om Justisdepartementets virksomhet,” 191. The list has been pub­ lished, see Liste nr.1 over mistenkte for grovere arter av landssvik (Oslo: Vega Forlag, 2014). 42 See for example Rapport til Kgl. Norsk Legasjon, Internatkontoret fra Krimkonst. Willem Gram, in RA, S-3138/0043/D/DA/L0075/0009: Anr. 522/45 Dørum, Edvin, Landssvikarkivet, Bodø politikammer. 43 The other groups related to corruption and trade on the black market. 44 Einar Løchen, “Om behandling av norske økonomiske forbrytere under landssvikoppg­ jøret,” Lov og Rett 2 (1991): 106.

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namely those acts which supposedly threatened the national interest. The meaning of this statement suggests that Løchen deeply shared the view that war profits offended the nation and threatened its solidarity, as formulated by Magne Skodvin. After the war, Løchen served as an expert in the Directorate for Compensation (Erstatningsdirektoratet), an institution authorized by the Treason Ordinance, the purpose of which was to estimate and implement fines, compensation and the confiscation of war profits for treason convicts. It is interesting, however, that Løchen also admitted that the State would not be able to bring every war profiteer to justice and, therefore, suggested prioritizing those who had “contributed to the enemy military power” (“ydelser til fiendens krigsmakt”).45 This argument indeed contains an implicit moral judgment but also underlines the significance of the impact of the act (German efficiency) as opposed to the significance of the motive behind the act (war profits). Løchen’s lecture was forwarded to the resistance movement in Oslo, where a small group of four persons trained in law worked out the revised ordi­ nance during 1944. The group consisted of Jens Chr. Hauge (1915–2006), Sven Arntzen (1897–1976), Erik Solem (1877–1949) and Wilhelm Thagaard (1890–1970).46 Formulations in the preparatory works of the group clearly suggest that they shared Løchen’s view that war profits violated the soli­ darity of the nation. A note held that “excessive war profits” (“uforholds­ messig vinning”) were the enduring motive behind “improper” commercial relations and that justice would imply that profits must be confiscated, fines imposed as a penalty and compensation invoked for the damage caused. It warned that “[t]hose who have betrayed their country and caused damage upon individuals and community … must not escape the purge as affluent men.”47 Their discourse was deeply moral on behalf of the national fabric. Løchen’s remark about the significance of whether the business relations had an impact on the German war effort did not find its way into the ordinance. The Treason Ordinance was valid from December 1944 but published only in August 1945, when the legal purges started. Moreover, only in December 1946 was the public informed that the four members of the resistance move­ ment’s leadership had worked it out. Three of the group’s members later had prominent functions in the postwar purges. Arntzen was the Director of Public Prosecutions while Hauge was the head of the Directorate for Compensation and Solem was a presiding judge in the Court of Appeal, where he dealt with cases involving the leading Norwegian Nazis, including Quisling. Solem also authored the commentaries to the Treason Ordinance,

45 Einar Løchen, “Om behandling av norske økonomiske forbrytere under landssvikoppg­ jøret,” Lov og Rett 2 (1991): 108. 46 Borge and Vaale, Grunnlovens største prøve, 45. 47 Stortinget, “Innst. S. nr. 160 (1963-64), Innstilling fra justiskomitéen om landssvikoppg­ jøret,” in Stortingsforhandlinger, vol. 6a (1963–64), 338.

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in which he stated that one of its purposes was to make up for the defects in the Criminal Law concerning economic crimes.48 The ordinance dealt with economic treason in Article 2, which said that “improper” economic collaboration was criminal. Yet although the concept of “improper aid” to the enemy was a pivotal point in both the Criminal Law and the Treason Ordinance, the meaning of “improper” varied between the two. From a semiotic perspective, they carried different signs. First, the requirements for activities to fall within the range of improper differed. The four authors of the Treason Ordinance had in 1944 been of the opinion that they must narrow down the concept of “improper aid” and “so to speak decrimi­ nalize many relations that in a short occupation would have led to a sentence,” because the State “could not put a substantial part of the Norwegian people on trial.”49 Solem emphasized in his commentary that the legislator delineated the area under which economic collaboration was criminal.50 The ordinance emphasized the following behavior explicitly: when the legal subject had ini­ tiated the relation or acted in close agreement with the enemy, had sought to accelerate or to expand his or her business, had sought help from the enemy to hinder or complicate inspection or prosecution or had secured for him/ herself or others improper profit or benefits.51 Solem stressed that this list was not complete, but the list itself confirms that the ordinance targeted pursuits of war profits, implying that these violated the solidarity of the nation, and thus the fabric of the national community. This view clearly echoed Løchen’s Stockholm lecture of January 1944. The delineation policy affected criminal sanctions as well. Whereas violations of the Criminal Law had a minimum sentence of 3 years of imprisonment, the Treason Ordinance had no mandatory minimum sentence and was open to various alternative sanctions. Article 3 limited maximum detention (impris­ onment, forced labor) to 3 years and introduced fines, confiscations and disqualifications (loss of civil rights) to the repertoire of sanctions. Article 5 established that courts might omit penal sanctions when workers and sub­ ordinate functionaries fell under the area of economic treason. To conclude, the differing requirements for impropriety made fewer activities “improper,” but the new sentencing framework of the Treason Ordinance did in practice make it possible to sentence a higher number of citizens compared with the Criminal Law of 1902 because the latter prescribed a minimum penalty of 3 years’ detention. Most cases of economic treason would presumably not have fallen under the Criminal Law, which indeed motivated the enacting of the Treason Ordinance.

48 Solem, Landssvikanordningen, 38. 49 Justis- og Politidepartementet, Samling av diverse provisoriske anordninger, kgl. resolus­ joner, m.v. 1945 (Oslo: Justis- og Politidepartementet, 1945), 114. 50 Solem, Landssvikanordningen, 55. 51 Solem, Landssvikanordningen, 56–58.

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270 Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen However, the ordinance had no trace whatsoever of Løchen’s suggestion to prioritize those citizens who had provided aid of military importance. We do not know why the legislators chose not to include this criterion, but we do know that they read his lecture carefully and therefore actively chose not to explicitly include this part of his ideas as they had done for war profits. At the least, it shows that there was a limit to the delineation policy, as this criterion would have narrowed the notion of economic treason even further. Having received the ordinance draft from the resistance movement in May 1944 and observed the provision on improper economic aid to the enemy, the Ministry of Justice in London recorded: “All reports from home indicate that peo­ ple add weight to the future purge. Those who have shamelessly [ubluferdig] enriched themselves on the country’s misfortune [ulykke] are reputedly as hated and despised as the members of the Quisling party.”52 Obviously, the Ministry not only shared the perceptions and views of the resistance move­ ment but conveyed it in the same rhetoric as well. From a semiotic point of view, the two agencies worked in tandem. For whatever motives the criterion was omitted, the consequence was leg­ islation that was too vague to enforce efficiently and consistently. At the end of the day, police as well as public prosecutors in the lower courts had to wait until the Supreme Court clarified the meaning of “improper” economic aid to the enemy.

The interim period from liberation to the Supreme Court set precedents Peircean theory holds that new meaning occurs when signs are reinter­ preted.53 The Supreme Court did not get to reinterpret the “signs” of the Treason Ordinance before late 1946, but public authorities and the media debated the issue. New meaning was thus created even before the Supreme Court made precedent-creating decisions. The resistance movement had already started arresting suspects of treason on 9 May 1945 and soon an institutional apparatus was set up to investigate possible treason. In the months following the liberation, extensive public anger triggered various forms of vigilance against persons who had been on the wrong side during the war.54 The newspaper Arbeiderbladet, a mouth­ piece for the Labor Party, expressed this retaliation bias with the statement that “formal law must not hinder an effective legal purge.”55 The acting tran­ sition government authority, consisting largely of the resistance movement, 52 Provisorisk anordning om endring i Provisorisk anordning av 22. januar 1942 om tillegg til straffelovgivningen om forræderi, undated, Norsk Hjemmefrontmuseum, Oslo, box NHM 148, file Landssvik: lovgivningen. 53 Kevelson, The Law as a System of Signs, 12. 54 Borge and Vaale, Grunnlovens største prøve, 61. 55 Borge and Vaale, Grunnlovens største prøve, 62.

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acted swiftly to repress vigilantism, and the first treason trial opened on 15 July. A national government, in office from late July to early November 1945 and consisting of representatives from the major political parties as well as the resistance movement, provided further momentum. The notions of “war profiteers,” “barracks barons” and even “betrayers for Judas money” infused the vocabulary of the public anger. A newspaper post in October 1946 claimed that for each political traitor, the category of treason targeted by the purge so far, one could count at least 10 war profiteers.56 Voices called for a general confiscation of war profits because the Treason Ordinance was too soft and leveled that the legal regulation on economic treason must catch up with the regulation on political treason.57 The Labor Party press succinctly phrased the agony when claiming that the public demanded that “barracks barons” must be held responsible.58 Obviously, former economic collaborators made up a large part of the labor force and would not join the choir, and we do not know to what extent vigilan­ tism occurred toward economic collaborators. Vigilantism occurred largely against political and ideological collaborators, which is one reason why the government prioritized the quislings in the purges. The part of the purges deal­ ing with economic collaboration did not properly begin until late 1946 when the Supreme Court took up the first cases on economic treason. This section explores how the understanding of “improper” economic aid to the enemy developed in the period from liberation to the first Supreme Court cases. Throughout this interim period, confusion prevailed about where to draw the line between “proper” and “improper” economic collaboration. Whereas the prosecution of quislings was at the center of public attention in 1945, several elaborations on the economic part of the purges entered the public sphere in 1946. The earliest was a directive of 10 February 1946 from the Director of Public Prosecutions, Sven Arntzen, which he distributed to the district attorneys. His message was very different to the one he and the three other authors had voiced when writing the Treason Ordinance in 1944. Instead of clarifying the existing repertoire of criteria in the Ordinance, he stated that the prosecution must emphasize “the character of the work,” meaning whether it was significant to German warfare. Further, he concluded that one should generally prosecute only “those who had done work of direct military importance….”59 Arntzen reintroduced the argument that Løchen had made in early 1944 but which had been rejected by the resistance move­ ment and the government-in-exile. This change of opinion from actively 56 57 58 59

“De økonomiske landssvikere,” Adresseavisen, October 7, 1946.

“Tyskarbeiderne og de andre,” Adresseavisen, September 10, 1946.

Ellingsen, Krigsprofitørene og rettsoppgjøret, 170.

Directive of 10 February 1946 from the Director of Public Prosecutions, cited in Ot.

meld. nr. 2 (1945–1946), Om inndragning av tyskerfortjeneste utenfor landsvikforhold, in Stortingsforhandlinger, vol. 3b, 1945–46, 18–19.

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excluding the element in 1944 to arguing that it should be the weightiest one in 1946 might be explained by the change of context. In 1944, the resist­ ance movement planned the purge in deep secrecy in occupied Oslo and might have anticipated that it would be possible to implement an effective and wide economic purge without consistent guidelines. In 1946, however, Arntzen had realized that the economic cases were too complex, the law too ambiguous, and consequently that further guidelines were in great need. The next occurred in September 1946, when Arntzen again discussed “improper” aid to the enemy in a speech before the Norwegian Association of Judges, which he immediately published in the Journal of the Director of Public Prosecutions and which received much attention in the media.60 The speech confirmed the views expressed in the February directive. He also pointed out that unlike the other parts of the purges, after 16 months, the cases relating to economic treason were still awaiting the Supreme Court to set precedents for the standard of impropriety as well as for sentencing. Altogether, it is obvious that Arntzen felt uncomfortable with the legisla­ tion, for which he was partly responsible himself. The last was a report submitted to Parliament on 8 November 1946 by the Minister of Justice and Police, written by legal experts in the ministries, which elaborated whether Parliament ought to enact legislation that would allow for the confiscation of war profits on civil grounds. The committee’s assignment followed from the general concern of the public that legislation targeted war profits insufficiently, but the committee answered no to the question, as opposed to Danish policy.61 To reach this conclusion, the report necessarily had to elaborate the notion of “improper” war profits as laid down in penal law. Unsurprisingly, the report maintained that deciding the meaning of “improper” implied most difficult judgments, which explained why the notion of “improper” had not yet settled on its precise meaning.62 Like the directive of February 1946, however, the report pointed at military significance for the German war effort as the most weightiest aspect when deciding whether an economic relation with the enemy was “improper.” When the military nexus operated directly, such as with weapons production, the building of bunkers, gun emplacements, fortifica­ tions, reparations of airplanes and military vehicles, the economic activity was obviously “improper” and fell under treason. The report, however, admitted that military relevance would be less obvious in other sectors of the economy. The three messages are clear evidence that Einar Løchen’s secluded sug­ gestion in January 1944 to establish military significance as a prime crite­ rion for judging whether an economic relation with German agencies was

60 Sven Arntzen, “De økonomiske landssviksaker,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 23 (1946), 1–17. 61 Ot. meld. nr. 2 (1945–46) Om Inndragning av tyskerfortjeneste, 37. 62 Ot. meld. nr. 2 (1945–46) Om Inndragning av tyskerfortjeneste, 12.

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“improper” had ultimately been accepted by important legal institutions such as the Director of Public Prosecutions and the Department of Justice and Police. Introducing military significance as a central criterion in the judgment surely made the nexus with the notion of violating the nation’s capacity to sustain its solidarity less evident. At the same time, the three messages did not explicitly de-emphasize the criteria relating to a proactive pursuit of war profits. The notion that war profits violated the national norm and sentiment still lingered and was confirmed by the report originating in the inquiry of Administrasjonsrådet.63 It influenced legal discourse in public media, and as late as 1949, an editorial in the Labor Party newspaper maintained that war profiteers were the “most unpleasing and contemptible” (“utiltalende og forak­ telige”) among the group that “failed and betrayed” (“sviktet og svek”) when the nation was tested.64 Obviously, by introducing military significance as cri­ terion judgments regarding economic treason, it had become more complex, and precedents from the Supreme Court were needed more than ever before.

The Supreme Court “Law language has the peculiar trait of claiming to regulate its own cre­ ation,” Susan Tiefenbrun states.65 When the Supreme Court handled the first case on economic treason in October 1946,66 it started settling a mean­ ing of “improper aid to the enemy” that would guide subsequent juris­ prudence. This process indeed illustrated how the semantic change of law language is institutionally controlled.67 Further, it is well established that time itself affects processes of transitional justice.68 This was the case in the Norwegian legal purges as well: public anger weakened and legislation was made softer, whereas courts tended to sentence more mildly the later the conviction occurred. Hence, with reference to Kevelson’s approach to legal semiotics, the “social and cultural events” influencing the legal language was different in 1946 from 1944.69 Arguably, the Supreme Court would now judge business relations with the occupier with less sentiment and more knowledge. In the speech elaborated in the previous section, the Director of Public Prosecutions, Sven Arntzen, admitted the benefits of initiating the 63 64 65 66

Stortinget, Innstilling fra Undersøkelseskommisjonen av 1945, 207.

“Rettstanken i faresonen,” Arbeiderbladet, December 3, 1949.

Tiefenbrun, Decoding International Law, 46.

This case was against three brothers named Nilsen who were found guilty of extensive

construction work of high military importance. See “Høyesteretts Dom I L.Nr. 317, S.Nr. 125/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 25 (1946): 71. 67 Tiefenbrun, Decoding International Law, 46. 68 Jon Elster, Oppgjøret med fortiden: Internasjonalt perspektiv på overgangen til demokrati (Oslo: Pax, 2004), 144; Ivo de Figueiredo, “Et rettferdig oppgjør? Etterkrigsoppgjøret som rettslig og historisk problem,” in Et rettferdig oppgjør? Rettsoppgjøret i Norge etter 1945, eds. Øystein Sørensen and Hans Fredrik Dahl (Oslo: Pax, 2004), 42–44. 69 Kevelson, The Law as a System of Signs, 6.

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274 Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen purge on economic treason at this stage because an earlier start might have caused erroneous judgments.70 In the following, we provide a brief view of the role of the Supreme Court in the legal purges before elaborating its role in settling the meaning of “improper” with regard to economic treason. Already by early autumn 1945, the Supreme Court had exercised its nor­ mative function with precedent-making decisions that confirmed the legal­ ity of the provisional ordinances and confirmed their anticipation of hard jurisprudence.71 However, these early cases related to political and ideolog­ ical treason. The judgment of guilt was far more complex in cases of eco­ nomic treason, and by November 1946, the Supreme Court had handled no case in which the notion of “improper” was central. In the case against the three Nilsen brothers the preceding month, it was evident to the court that their economic relation to the enemy was “improper.” Therefore, the Supreme Court had made no effort to elaborate the meaning of the term. This only occurred in the two cases against Elling Helbostad and Willy Andrew Rudjord in November and December 1946, which resulted in an acquittal for both defendants. Helbostad had been working voluntarily as a mechanic at a German car repair shop outside Oslo from 1941 until the liberation. He had not been a member of the Quisling party Nasjonal Samling and had generally worked “as reluctantly and inefficiently as possible,” according to the court proceed­ ings.72 Assumedly, Helbostad’s behavior fits that of an average Norwegian citizen working on German contracts. Nevertheless, in June 1946, the Oslo City Court judged his job to have been “improper aid to the enemy” and sentenced him to a fine of 650 Norwegian kroner (NOK). The other accused, Rudjord, had entered several jobs on German military facilities at Lista in southern Norway between July 1940 and the end of 1944. He had sought work at German workplaces due to economic problems and had started building barracks for a Norwegian company that supplied the Germans. Later, in 1942, he worked for a German company called Fix & Söhne, where he was responsible for a group of Russian prisoners of war. The Lyngdal District Court sentenced him to a fine of 500 NOK.73 Both Helbostad and Rudjord appealed on a point of law, arguing that their work was not “improper,” and their cases went directly to the Supreme Court due to the need for precedence-creating decisions in economic trea­ son cases. Why, and on what grounds, did the Supreme Court unanimously disagree with the City and District Courts? Henry Larssen, the first-voting 70 Arntzen, “De økonomiske landssviksaker,” 5.

71 Harald Espeli, Hans Eyvind Næss, and Harald Rinde, Våpendrager og Veiviser.

Advokatenes Historie i Norge (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2008), 235. 72 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 76 B, S.Nr. 472/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 29–31. 73 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 414, S.Nr. 513/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 154.

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judge in both cases, emphasized that although Helbostad ought to have behaved more clearly in accordance with “the national norm” (“man savner en mer mer aktiv nasjonal opptreden”) after resistance increased and the resistance movement settled, his continuous jobs in the German repair shop did not make his behavior “improper.” For activities to be considered improper, Larssen stated, they “must to a great extent be considered nation­ ally blameworthy.”74 He further referred to the motives of Section 5 in the Treason Ordinance, which allowed for a milder sentence or impunity for those who only worked as subordinate employees and performed activities that might fall under economic treason. The reason behind this mitigation was that due to the high number of people working for the Germans, one should only prosecute those who were guilty of “particularly objectionable activities” (“særlig mislige forhold”).75 Larssen substantiated his argument by referring to the directive of 10 February 1946 on economic treason from the Director of Public Prosecutions. As mentioned in the previous section, this established a clearly narrowed down repertoire of activities falling under economic treason, evidence that the semantics of treason changed. When elaborating the repertoire of activities and criteria, it pointed at “direct mil­ itary importance” as carrying the most significant weight but included road and bridge building in addition to the more obvious fortifications and bun­ kers. Although it was important for the enemy to have their cars repaired, Helbostad’s work was not of any “direct military importance,” Larssen con­ cluded. The Supreme Court therefore acquitted Helbostad. In the Rudjord case the next month, Larssen referred to the Helbostad judgment, empha­ sizing that every activity the Germans benefitted from could not be regarded as “improper.”76 The semiotics of collaboration were naturally adjusted to fit the semantics of legal accusations. By clarifying the requirements for “improper” through the cases against Helbostad and Rudjord, the Supreme Court established a precedent, including for the lower courts. Legally, the meaning of “improper” had changed. The meaning as provided when the government-in-exile adopted the Treason Ordinance in December 1944 was no longer valid. By highlight­ ing military importance as the basic criterion, the Supreme Court had taken the view that Einar Løchen had leveled in his Stockholm lecture in early 1944 but which the resistance movement in Oslo and the government-in­ exile in London had ignored. Historian Erling Sandmo indicates in his vol­ ume of the history of the Supreme Court that this precedent only occurred 74 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 76 B, S.Nr. 472/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 30. 75 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 76 B, S.Nr. 472/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 30–31. 76 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 76 B, S.Nr. 472/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 30–31; “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 414, S.Nr. 513/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 154.

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276 Hans Otto Frøland and Martin Steffensen later in the purges, with reference to a case from 1949.77 The acquittals of Helbostad and Rudjord, as well as that of a mason named Reidar Fognes in December 1946,78 prove that the Supreme Court was of this opinion much earlier. These decisions, however, did not make the rest of the purge easy in any sense. It was still challenging for the police and prosecution all over the country to follow the Supreme Court’s guidelines, and disagreements occurred amongst judges of the Supreme Court as well. Dissenting opinions in economic treason cases because of differing interpretations of “improper” occurred twice in March 1947. The first inci­ dent was in the case against a truck driver named Hans Aron Andersen. He worked under two Norwegian construction companies, Kruse Smith and Engesland, between 1941 and 1944, for which he transported sand and gravel used to build roads connected to Wehrmacht fortifications on Tromøya outside Arendal. Therefore, on 18 November 1946, Arendal City Court held that the work was of military importance. He was convicted and ordered to pay a fine of 1000 NOK and have 12,000 NOK based on his war profits confiscated, after which he appealed. The first-voting judge, named Edvin Alten (1876–1967), agreed with the City Court and dismissed his appeal. Three of the four other judges consented with judge Alten. Judge Bent Berger (1898–1985), however, dissented. He stated with reference to the Helbostad case that the economic activities must be judged as “nationally blameworthy” to be “improper,” and he did not believe Andersen was guilty of something “nationally blameworthy.”79 Eleven days later, Judge Berger again dissented on the same grounds by referring to both Helbostad and Rudjord. In this case, one other judge agreed with Berger that the defend­ ant’s work was not “nationally blameworthy” and thereby “improper.”80 These dissensions show the complexity of economic treason cases. Judges of the Supreme Court agreed that activities must be considered “nation­ ally blameworthy” but disagreed on what “nationally blameworthy” really meant. In practice, reinterpretations and clarifications of “improper” cre­ ated new challenges for all instances of the legal system, from the police to the courts. The most complicated issue when judges decided whether an activity was “nationally blameworthy” was in defining which activities were of “direct military importance.” In some cases, this was obvious. For example, there was no doubt that repairing cars was not of any direct mil­ itary importance, or that building fortifications was. Yet there were still

77 Erling Sandmo, Siste Ord. Høgsterett i norsk historie 1814–1965: 1905–1965, vol. 2 (Oslo: Cappelen, 2005), 349. 78 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L.Nr. 95 B, S.Nr. 678/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 28 (1947): 175. 79 “Høyesteretts kjennelse i sak L.Nr. 112, S.Nr. 54/1947,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 34 (1947): 9–11. 80 “Høyesteretts kjennelse i sak L.Nr. 19 B, S.Nr. 68/1947,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 34 (1947): 84.

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gray areas, for example, cases regarding the building of infrastructure, such as railways or highways, which were important to German warfare. In a decision of 7 June 1947, the Supreme Court decided that railways were in fact of military importance. However, this occurred only late in 1946, when Arntzen’s successor as Director of Public Prosecutions, Andreas Aulie (1897–1990), decided to appeal Salten District Court’s decision to acquit Leif Normann, who had been involved in barracks building on the Nordland Line (Nordlandsbanen) north of Fauske. There is reason to believe that this decision had little impact beyond a small number of cases associated with the Normann case, as courts in later cases did not treat the Nordland Line as militarily important.81 Andenæs, in retrospect, mentioned railways as an example of work of “less military importance,” unlike airports and forti­ fications,82 suggesting it remained a gray area, even though the Supreme Court had decided in the Normann case that it was not. Food supply, however, is also important to warfare, so there was a need to draw a line to get a clear understanding of perhaps the weightiest factor when considering whether aid to the enemy was improper or not. Obviously, drawing the line regarding when food supply would be “nationally blame­ worthy” would turn out to be extremely complicated. Two cases from April 1947 and April 1948 are telling about how the views developed. Both of the accused, Alfred Schjelderup Hansen and Jacob Stolt-Nielsen, had exported herring to Germany during the war. Trondenes District Court had in May 1946 sentenced Hansen to prison for 5 months and deprived him of his civil liberties, such as the right to vote, for 10 years. The District Court stated, “in the Total War, it was obviously of big impact for Germany, who was our enemy, to import as much fish as possible.”83 It further argued that the aid was improper because “the nutritional conditions in Norway became increasingly bad, in such a way that the Norwegian people needed the fish themselves.”84 Three out of five Supreme Court judges agreed with this reasoning, but two dissented, arguing that the herring export was not “improper,” mostly because a quota of herring exports to Germany was necessary to secure sufficient supplies for Norwegian needs. Norwegian Supply Authorities (Forsyningsmyndighetene) had negotiated quotas with German authorities throughout the occupation. The dissenting judges held that, without proof that Hansen had exceeded this quota to profit from the circumstances, one could not judge his exports “improper.”

81 For more on the Leif Normann case and the Nordland Line in the legal purges, see Martin Steffensen, “Kollaborasjon, rettsoppgjør og krigsviktig bistand: En studie av utilbørlighets­ begrepet i det økonomiske landssvikoppgjøret,” (Master’s thesis, NTNU, 2018). 82 Andenæs, Det vanskelige oppgjøret, 159. 83 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L. Nr. 47 B, S.Nr. 498/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 36 (1947): 10. 84 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L. Nr. 47 B, S.Nr. 498/1946,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 36 (1947): 10.

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One year later, the Supreme Court tried a similar case. Jacob Stolt-Nielsen, a shipowner and managing owner of an export company, had been involved in herring exports in 1940 and later from 1943 to 1945. In July 1946, the police in Haugesund issued him with a fine of 20,000 NOK and demanded the confis­ cation of 40,000 NOK. What happened then was remarkable. In June 1947, 11 months after the fine was issued, the Director of Public Prosecutions, Andreas Aulie, appealed to the advantage of the accused, because he believed the deci­ sions were founded on an incorrect application of the law. In other words, this meant that Aulie did not find Stolt-Nilsen’s economic activities “improper.” His arguments echoed the dissenting judges from a few weeks before when he emphasized that the export of herring was necessary to get essential goods in return. When the Supreme Court handled the case in April 1948, all five judges agreed that although Germany had benefitted from the herring export, it was not “improper.”85 This semantic reinterpretation of “improper” included an evaluation of the civil benefit the relations had had for the Norwegian popula­ tion. “Civilian benefits” could now compensate for “military importance” in several scenarios, such as food supply or the building of infrastructure. As its omission and subsequent support might suggest, when the Supreme Court approved “military importance” as a major criterion, it was probably nothing more than a “necessary evil” to implement the purge against the war profiteers. When the civilian benefit of militarily important construc­ tions became part of the equation as well, jurisprudence acknowledged that activities that were to the Germans’ advantage could be to the benefit of Norway as well, either during the occupation (e.g. trade for civilian con­ sumption) or after (e.g. industry, infrastructure for reconstruction). These gradual mitigations illustrate the factor of time in transitional justice pro­ cesses, and they express at least an attempt to clarify better guidelines in such cases, although this was still very complicated. The other factors in the Supreme Court’s evaluation of whether a case was “nationally blameworthy” and therefore “improper,” such as whether the economic activity occurred before or after a “national resistance” set­ tled, when the company was established, and the magnitude of profits, were easier to identify and therefore modestly discussed in the Supreme Court.

Concluding remarks: semiotic shifts Through a semiotic analysis of how “improper aid to the enemy” was con­ sidered by different actors, this chapter has identified how the meaning of the term changed. As Norwegian civilian authorities accepted and even encour­ aged commercial collaboration during the first years of the occupation, an antithetical semantics of collaboration developed that challenged this policy.

85 “Høyesteretts dom i sak L. Nr. 98 B. S. Nr. 597/1947,” Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad 47 (1948): 116–120.

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The negative notion of “barracks barons” illustrates this. This sentiment, reflecting the idea that war profiteering violated the solidarity of the (young) nation, took stronger hold and, from 1942, the government-in-exile adjusted itself to the sentiment more clearly. The result was the Treason Ordinance of December 1944, which targeted war profiteers and war profits. By explicitly introducing the notion of commercial treason, the semiotics of collaboration changed. However, because so many Norwegians were involved in economic collaboration, the legislation was ambiguous as the decisive legal norm was “improper.” The semantics of “improper” was “nationally blameworthy.” War profiteers did not belong to the category of “good Norwegians,” another term used to distinguish between legitimate collaboration and national treason. By not adding the criterion “military importance” to the repertoire of war profits criteria mentioned in the ordinance, the resistance movement and the govern­ ment-in-exile probably wanted to confiscate as much war profits as possible. However, when the legal purge on commercial treason started in 1946, the Supreme Court included “military importance” in the repertoire of criteria, with the result that the legal meaning of “improper” was narrowed down. The semiotics of collaboration seemingly shifted again. One might anticipate that the precedential decision would lead attention away from the previous focus on war profits, but jurisprudence showed that drawing a consistent line between military and civilian utility was difficult as well. Consequently, law enforcement was inconsistent and jurisprudence ambiguous. The semiotics of transitional justice never really settled. The notion of “improper” economic aid to the enemy never found a consistent meaning. We explain this by the vast number of Norwegians who had entered into contracts with German agencies. On a deeper psychological level, this was itself a violation of the nation, which legislators and law enforcement officers were unable to solve.

Works cited Archival material Riksarkivet (RA), Oslo: RAFA-2174, Ef/L0002 (Organisation Todt)

PA-951 (Private archive Hans Claussen Korff)

S-3138/0043/D/DA/L0075/0009: Anr. 522/45 Dørum, Edvin (Landssvikarkivet,

Bodø politikammer) Norsk Hjemmefrontmuseum (NHM), Oslo: Box NHM 148, Jens Chr. Hauge

Other material Riksadvokatens Meddelelsesblad: RM., no. 23, 1946: 1-17 [Director of Public Prosecution Sven Arntzen’s speech]

RM., no. 25, 1946: 71 [David, Henrik Johan and Håkon Nilsen]

RM., no. 28, 1947: 30 [Elling Helbostad]

RM., no. 28, 1947: 154 [Willy Andrew Rudjord]

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RM., no. 28, 1947: 175 [Reidar Fognes]

RM., no. 34, 1947: 9 [Hans Aron Andersen]

RM., no. 34, 1947: 84 [Torgeir Ingvald Annaniassen]

RM., no. 36, 1947: 10 [Alfred Schjelderup Hansen]

RM., no. 47, 1948: 116 [Jacob Stolt-Nielsen]

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Justis- og politidepartementet. “Om landssvikoppgjøret. Gjøvik: Mariendal Boktrykkeri, 1962.” [Available as St. meld. 17 (1962– 63)]. Stortingsforhandlinger, vol. 3b, 1962–63]. Kevelson, Roberta. The Law as a System of Signs. New York: Plenum Press, 1988. Klemann, Hein and Sergei Kudryashov. Occupied Economies: An Economic History of Nazi-Occupied Europe, 1939–1945. London: Berg, 2012. Krog, Helge. 6. Kolonne? Om den norske storindustriens bidrag til Nazi-Tysklands krigføring. Oslo: Radikalt forlag, 1946. Lagrou, Pieter. The Legacy of Nazi Occupation: Patriotic Memory and National Recovery in Western Europe, 1945–1965. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Langeland, Oliver. Dømmer ikke. Oslo: Heim & Samfund, 1948. Langeland, Oliver. Forat i ikke skal dømmes. Oslo: Heim & Samfund, 1949. Løchen, Einar. “Om behandling av norske økonomiske forbrytere under landss­ vikoppgjøret.” Lov og rett, 2 (1991): 105–113. Maerz, Susanne. “Die langen Schatten der Besatzungszeit: Vergangenheitsbewältigung.” In Norwegen als Identitätsdiskurs. Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2008. Sandmo, Erling. Siste Ord. Høgsterett i norsk historie 1814–1965, Vol. 2: 1905–1965. Oslo: Cappelen, 2005. Skodvin, Magne. “Historisk innleiing.” In Om landssvikoppgjøret. Gjøvik: Mariendals Boktrykkeri, 1962. Solberg, Finn Jørgen. Liste Nr. 1: Over Mistenkte for Grovere Arter Av Landssvik. Oslo: Vega forlag, 2014. Solem, Erik. Landssvikanordningen. Prov. anordn. av 15. desember 1944 med tillegg. Oslo: Tanum, 1945. Statistisk sentralbyrå. Statistisk-økonomisk utsyn over krigsårene. Oslo: Aschehoug, 1945. Steffensen, Martin. “Kollaborasjon, rettsoppgjør og krigsviktig bistand: En studie av utilbørlighetsbegrepet i det økonomiske landssvikoppgjøret.” Master’s thesis, NTNU, 2018. Stortinget. Innstilling fra Undersøkelseskommisjonen av 1945, vols. I–VI. Oslo: Aschehoug & Co., 1946. Stortinget. “Beretning om Justisdepartementets virksomhet fra 1. september 1939 til 8. mai 1945, in Den norske regjerings virksomhet fra 9. april 1940 til 22. juni 1945 I-II, Bind 1.” In Utgitt av Stortinget. Oslo: Aschehoug & Co., 1948. Stortinget. “Innst.S. nr. 160 (1963–64) Innstilling fra justiskomitéen om landss­ vikoppgjøret.” In Stortingsforhandlinger, vol. 6a. Oslo: Stortinget, 1963–64. Tiefenbrun, Susan. Decoding International Law: Semiotics and the Humanities. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Valen, Terje. “De tjente på krigen.” In Hjemmefronten og kapitalen. Oslo: Oktober, 1974. Vogt, Lorentz. Det organiserte, offisielle, økonomiske samarbeide med okkupantene. Oslo: Eget forlag, 1947. Wagner, Anne. “Mapping Legal Semiotics.” International Journal for the Semiotics of Law – Revue internationale de Sémiotique juridique 23, no. 1 (2010): 77–82.

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12 Eastern Europe in the shadow of a propaganda war Józef Mackiewicz and

totalitarian propaganda1

Katarzyna Bałżewska In the era of the Great War, propaganda activity acquired the status of a professional, institutionalized tool that helped in waging an offensive war. From that time and throughout the interbellum period, propagan­ dists were commonly identified with enemies, and the word “propaganda” itself was associated with the corruption, deceit and lies of the opposite side of the conflict.2 These kinds of pejorative connotations strongly reas­ serted themselves in the course of the Second World War when propaganda gained huge momentum and became a universal means of manipulation that affected the minds of millions of people. In the Soviet Union and the Third Reich, propaganda functioned not only as an inseparable part of external policy but also played one of the most crucial roles in the process of totalitarian state formation. Having burst into schools, factories, offices, newspapers, science, culture and the entertainment industry, it touched all spheres of human life and completely changed the landscape of the public space. As a political, psychological and educational tool used to spread ideology, propaganda had a great influence on shaping the views of the masses and the everyday language that people used to communicate with each other. Without a doubt, its flagrant ubiquity is one of the hallmarks of totalitarian systems. Today, it is hard to imagine how Nazi Germany would have looked with­ out Joseph Goebbels (1897–1945), the man whose name has become a syn­ onym of a vocational propagandist. One should underline, though, that the famous Reichsminister did not invent totalitarian propaganda from scratch, since the Nazi propagandists had predecessors in the Soviet Union, and they eagerly imitated the ones they officially despised. In Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler (1889–1945) admitted that he saw in propaganda “an instru­ ment which just the Socialist-Marxist organizations mastered and knew

1 The article expands and recapitulates chosen theses from a monograph Przestrzenie totali­ tarnego zniewolenia. Doświadczenie wojny i okupacji w twórczości Józefa Mackiewicza (2020). 2 See Mark Crispin Miller, “Introduction,” in Propaganda, ed. Edward Bernays (New York: Ig Publishing, 2005), 14, 29.

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how to apply with expert skill.”3 In turn, Goebbels noted in his diary on 26 April 1928 that Germans “can learn a lot from the Bolsheviks, in particu­ lar, propaganda incitement.”4 Reading numerous accounts of intellectuals who travelled to the USSR in the 1920s and 1930s, we can notice that many of them regularly underscored the conspicuous impact of propaganda on the unification of the Soviet citizens.5 Vladimir I. Lenin (1870–1924), Joseph Stalin (1878–1953) as well as Hitler were perfectly aware of the weight of per­ suasion and unsparingly used it for political indoctrination. Nonetheless, the German Führer considered propaganda as a form of art, whereas in the Soviet Union it was treated in pragmatic categories as an ideological work.6 From the very beginning of the war, Nazi propagandists had the most modern devices at their disposal to announce the Wehrmacht’s victories on the Eastern Front to the world. However, a few years later, advanced tech­ nical solutions did not protect Germany from ultimate defeat, amongst the contributions to which was an ill-arranged propaganda campaign targeted at the inhabitants of the eastern occupied territories. It seemed that the Nazi leaders were so confident of their victory and blinded by ideology that they forgot that “preparations for the linguistic and cultural challenges of con­ flict are a key factor in the success of any intervention.”7 In other words, war cannot be limited only to the number of soldiers, divisions and ordnance, as it is also a matter of soft power. In this field, the Soviets achieved much better successes, outrunning Goebbels on several levels. One of the most telling pieces of evidence of that prevalence turned out to be, in a sense, the final triumph of Stalin in 1945. Dictionaries usually define propaganda as “information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote a political cause or point of view.”8 If we confront this very basic definition with the Nazi understand­ ing of the “promotion” of Hitler’s “point of view” in Eastern Europe and then place it in the context of psycho-semantic factors, it will help us to realize why the Germans’ propaganda strategy fell on deaf ears and failed. To provide a full picture of Goebbels’ debacle, it seems justified to compare

3 Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, trans. Ralph Manheim (New York: Reynal & Hitchcock, 1941), 227. 4 “Man kann von den Bolschevisten, vor allem im Anfachen, in der Propaganda, viel ler­ nen,” In Tagebücher 1924–1945, ed. Joseph Goebbels, (Munich: Piper Verlag, 2003), 286. 5 See, for example, Bertrand Russell, The Practice and Theory of Bolshevism (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1964); Stanisław Mackiewicz, Russian Minds in Fetters, trans. Eustace Sapieha (London: Routledge, 2017); Antoni Słonimski, Moja podróż do Rosji (Łomianki: Wydawnictwo LTW, 2007). 6 See Bogusława Dobek-Ostrowska, Janina Fras and Beata Ociepka, Teoria i praktyka propagandy (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 1997), 54. 7 Hilary Footitt and Michael Kelly, eds., Languages at War: Policies and Practices of Language Contacts in Conflict (Basingstoke/New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 71. 8 Oxford Dictionaries, s.v. “Propaganda.” Accessed October 22, 2018. https://en. oxforddictionaries.com/definition/propaganda.

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the two totalitarian propaganda machines, especially their tactical plans, audience, psycholinguistic capacity to adapt to local conditions and general functioning in the area of a direct clash between Nazism and communism. From that perspective, we can look at the war in Eastern Europe not only as an armed conflict but also as an intensive propaganda battle, based on dif­ ferent models of semiotics. In the occupied territories, propagandists were responsible for the process of communication between the enslaved society and new totalitarian authorities. It was not an easy task, as they operated in hostile semiotic territory. However, if they had had any insight into public feelings and their semiotic approach had been well-balanced, they would have been able to sustain a relative calm amongst the people and got the subversive moods under control. To examine these issues, I am going to refer to selected observations by Józef Mackiewicz (1902–1985), a Polish author, reporter and political com­ mentator who had an opportunity to watch German and Soviet methods of rule from close range during the occupation of Eastern Europe, and who was very well acquainted with the complex social background and ethnic structure of his home country. Mackiewicz learned the power of propaganda early, to wit in 1919, when he voluntarily joined the Polish Army at 16 and fought in the Polish–Soviet War. On the front, he was able to observe what a mighty tool communist propaganda materials were for the first time and how handily the Bolsheviks, in accordance with Lenin’s recommendations, used all possible slogans and false promises to win support for their ideas. Mackiewicz developed his knowledge on the subject during the interwar period while he worked for the Vilnius-based newspaper Słowo (The Word) that extensively analyzed various matters concerning the Third Reich, the Soviet Union and Polish–Soviet neighborhood. At that time, Vilnius was the capital of Wilno Voivodship – the north-easternmost district of Poland that directly bordered Stalin’s state. That area, along with the whole Polish eastern wall, was especially exposed to communist infiltrations and provo­ cations. In the 1930s, Mackiewicz called upon the Polish government many times to take adequate measures against Soviet propaganda that preyed on social discontent.9 During the war, his journalistic experience and linguistic intuition enabled him to gain a deep insight into the differences between the mechanisms of two totalitarian propaganda machines and their impact on the attitudes of Eastern Europeans toward the occupation apparatus. He illustrated his reflections in many works that can be treated as testimonies of the gloomy era of the depravation of language, semantic distortions and “simplified definitions,” as the character of one of his novels described it.10 In 1939, the tense political situation in Europe led to the outbreak of one of the most tragic conflicts in the history of the old continent. The Polish

9 See Józef Mackiewicz, Fakty, przyroda i ludzie (London: Kontra, 1993), 293. 10 Józef Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić (London: Kontra, 2017), 53.

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experience of the Second World War was exceptional for at least two rea­ sons. First of all, in September 1939, following the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, Poland was divided by two totalitarian regimes: the Third Reich and the USSR. Second, the German occupation of Poland – and, after Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union, the German occupation of the whole of Eastern Europe – significantly differed from the German occupation of Western Europe. In the eastern occupied territories, the Nazis implemented very brutal politics of terror and annihilation. The persecution of Polish national culture and language, violence and the systematic executions of Polish citizens resulted both from the policy of Lebensraum and Hitler’s racist views on Jews and Slavs, classified in the Nazi propaganda diction­ ary as Untermenschen (“subhumans”). Steve Thorne has argued that this term was “perhaps the most straightforward way of dehumanizing the other”11 and, as a matter of fact, had basically nothing to do with humanity. For the label only outwardly referred to a certain human hierarchy, but in reality, the prefix “sub” added to the base word “human” signified its negation. Propaganda often operates with simple dichotomous, black and white linguistic divisions that signify what is “good” and worth following and what is “bad” and deserves condemnation. For this reason, the word Untermensch, to have a proper resonance in German society, formed a pair with the word Übermensch (“overman”). It connoted a famous Nietzschean concept that, however, in Goebbels’ propaganda, was basically reduced to a synonym of a “pure blood” German. While the notion encompassed a pos­ itive semantic area and evoked dignity in the Third Reich, for the Eastern Europeans portrayed by Mackiewicz, it was quite the opposite: it was tinged with sarcasm and bitter irony and epitomized the bloody Nazi version of a Prussian Kulturträger (“culture bearer”).12 Besides, in the eyes of Poles, Hitler’s Übermensch disclosed the dark side of all German stereotypes, such as the passion for Ordnung that was pulled into the war machine and its crimes.13 In this light, an emblematic restriction that Mackiewicz also discussed was the “Nur für Deutsche” sign that was encountered on park benches, in cinemas and restaurants, and means of public transport in many Eastern European occupied cities. It manifested German supremacy pursuant to the doctrine of Herrenvolk (“the master race”) and legitimized, among other things, racial segregation. The sign, itself having a strong ideologi­ cal overtone, appropriated urban space and, in a rough way, reminded the conquered nation about its inferiority and thereby its subordinate place in 11 Steve Thorne, The Language of War (London: Routledge, 2006), 38. Nota bene, the more outright Nazi approach to that issue expressed another phrase, “Lebensunwertes Leben” (“life unworthy of life”), that referred, in particular, to Jews. 12 See Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 300, 440.

13 See Tomasz Szarota, Niemcy i Polacy. Wzajemne postrzeganie i stereotypy (Warszawa:

Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN, 1996), 141.

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relation to the German nation. One can say, in vain, as in everyday practice, that this peculiar privilege took a ridiculous form. While staying in Cracow at the end of the war, Mackiewicz’s attention was once grabbed by a tram and the compartment was divided by a rope. The first half of the vehicle, which was “only for Germans,” was empty, whereas in the second half, which was for “non-Aryans,” people were packed like sardines. Mackiewicz con­ cluded that every Pole who travelled in this way, even for just one stop, must have unconsciously felt nothing but hostility toward Germans.14 The “Nur für Deutsche” sign was not perceived by Polish receivers just like another inconvenient occupational principle to follow. Filtered through emotions, it became a striking representation of the irrational and oppressive char­ acter of Nazism. However, degrading rules worked against those who had set them up; hence, we cannot forget about their “positive” side effects. The heavy-handed language used by the Nazis generated defensive reflexes in the vast majority of Polish society and consolidated the nation by creating a clear demarcation line between victims and invaders. To a certain extent, it also maintained the will to fight. Radical and primitive German regulations directly translated into a negative perception of all German propaganda. Most Poles disdained and rejected the statements conveyed by Goebbels, by their nature, or read Nazi news upside down. Another popular defensive reaction was mocking Nazi rules by setting them against semiotic back­ grounds that differed from the original. The meaning of the slogan is labile and, depending on the context, it can turn out to be a double-edged sword. Therefore, at night, Poles involved in the underground movement painted the “Nur für Deutsche” slogan on cemetery gates or street lamps, suggest­ ing that the best thing for the Nazis was to be hanged and buried.15 Such actions, along with painting anti-German graffiti on the walls, not only ridi­ culed the enemy with his own discourse and stripped the Nazi ideology of a pathetic mask, but also helped to overcome fear and warned Germans of the planned revenge. This way, in the occupied cities, a brush and a can of paint became instruments of the resistance’s fight and were used to reestablish “symbolic” control over the public city space. Mackiewicz asserted, though, that openly trampling on human dignity and the constant humiliations served every day by the occupying authori­ ties, at the end of the war, led to the situation that the Polish society living under the Nazi regime did not pay enough attention to the forthcoming Soviet threat – the Red Army marching west to seize power over the entire region. German propaganda had signalized that turn of events, but, as we mentioned before, many people ignored that danger, since it was difficult to imagine for them more abysmal methods of rule than those of the Nazis. For those who had not experienced Soviet occupation yet, “the communist

14 See Józef Mackiewicz, Nudis verbis (London: Kontra, 2017), 417. 15 See Szarota, Niemcy i Polacy, 155–156.

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devil was not so black as it was painted;”16 others believed that Stalin must defeat Hitler first, and afterwards the West would declare war on the Soviet Union to liberate Eastern European nations. Ironically, communist prop­ aganda soon made use of that naïve belief, and in order to force the indig­ enous people into submission across the conquered lands, it promoted an anti-Western narrative (“Don’t count on the West, they are not gonna help you!”17) that compromised, by the way, the policies of liberal democracies. When Hitler attacked the USSR in 1941, many Eastern Europeans, except Jews, welcomed that fact with satisfaction. But the initial euphoria was very quickly replaced by disillusionment. People expected liberation from the communist yoke as well as the disbanding of collective farms, but the Germans deprived them of these hopes completely by bringing new repres­ sion, terror and roundups. Mackiewicz was of the opinion that Hitler’s savage politics and thoughtless propaganda contributed to the populari­ zation of pro-Soviet sympathies in Polish society and thereby prepared the ground for the postwar communist occupation of the country. Even some German characters in one of his novels tell jokes and anecdotes revealing the ineffectiveness of the Nazi propaganda methods practiced by Hitler’s eastern administration which, paradoxically, served communist interests. For example, the Reichkommisar of Ukraine, Erich Koch, who gained recognition due to his exceptional cruelty toward Ukrainians, was said to deserve to have a monument put up in Moscow to honor his efforts for saving Bolshevism. Another of the jokes floating around then was about Stalin, who sent a troop of bombers to Berlin and told the pilots to bomb everything except the ministry of propaganda building.18 The bestiality of the Nazi occupation authorities, who treated Eastern Europeans as subhu­ mans, created amongst autochthons the ironic conviction that the Germans made the best possible anti-German propaganda in the region. One of Mackiewicz’s articles19 directly points out the counterproductive­ ness of Nazi propaganda efforts in Ostland and reveals its weakest semiotic links. In Smolensk in 1943, the Germans arranged a travelling propaganda exhibition. Its first section consisted of mock-ups showing poverty in the Soviet collective farms (kolkhozes), while the second part displayed mockups presenting the prosperity of happy German farmers and the rich vil­ lages to which Eastern Europeans were supposed to go as farmhands. Mackiewicz noted that people tacitly scowled at the exhibition, as over the past two decades they had seen pretty similar pictures in Soviet books, films and magazines showing, by contrast, affluent life in the Soviet kolkhozes. Those who had previously lived in the communist state were familiar with

16 17 18 19

Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 613.

See Józef Mackiewicz, Optymizm nie zastąpi nam Polski (London: Kontra, 2007), 92.

Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 195.

See Mackiewicz, Fakty, przyroda i ludzie, 43.

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this kind of visual language, understood its propagandist dimension and knew very well how to decipher it. By rehashing Soviet propaganda pat­ terns, the German authorities revealed their imitativeness in relation to the communist system. The Polish author remarked that an ordinary Russian visiting this sort of Nazi exposition, which was in fact a semiotic analogon of Soviet propaganda, could not draw another conclusion than that the same Bolshevism awaited him in the Third Reich, but modeled in a German way. There, the process of perception was based on anticipation, probability and experience.20 Paraphrasing Umberto Eco’s famous concept, one could characterize these visitors as “model recipients” of propaganda codes. It seems that it was Goebbels’ big strategic mistake that he did not take into account the above-described specific competences of Eastern Europeans. The happy, grinning faces on the street posters did not mirror reality, but were a distinctive feature of the totalitarian state and a priori indicated propagandistic falsehoods. However, Nazi propaganda materials in Eastern Europe were not only badly adjusted in terms of visual semiotics but also in their psychological aspects. We must bear in mind that an average peasant from that area had an extremely aloof and reserved personality, and had too much experience of communist totalitarianism to believe in predictable Nazi bluffs. In the discussed case, Mackiewicz pointed at one more interesting reac­ tion on totalitarian propaganda, that is, silence. Eugen Baer considered it as “the linguistic phenomenon par excellence” that appears “when language is no longer adequate to our experience.”21 He also added: “it becomes a sign of that which, for some reason, I ‘cannot say (yet, anymore),’ and which for precisely this reason I affirm as language-related in the deepest sense.”22 Many protagonists in Mackiewicz’s works remain silent up against propa­ ganda that, in the years of war, became the major “dispatcher” of meanings. Inhabitants of Eastern Europe often ceased to talk because words had ceased to refer to “their” environment in favor of ideology. Instead of speaking, they instinctively preferred to use paralanguage: gesticulations, sighs and other non-verbal forms of communication that at that time seemed more authentic, reliable and garble-proof. In this light, the semantic of silence can be perceived as one of the most salient interpretative elements expressing the psychological horror of enslavement. However, aversion to speaking during the war resulted from many factors. During the occupation, it was better “not to know” and “not to talk aloud” about certain things. Living under the constant fear of getting arrested aroused mistrust and people learned 20 See also Umberto Eco, Nieobecna struktura, trans. Adam Weinsberg and Paweł Bravo (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo KR, 1996), 369. 21 Eugen Baer, “Thomas A. Sebeok’s Doctrine of Signs,” in Classics of Semiotics, ed. Martin Krampen, Klaus Oehler et al. (New York: Plenum, 1987), 203. 22 Eugen Baer, “Thomas A. Sebeok’s Doctrine of Signs,” in Classics of Semiotics, ed. Martin Krampen, Klaus Oehler et al. (New York: Plenum, 1987), 203.

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to be cautious, ergo be quiet. The monopoly on “the truth” and “the right” in the public space belonged to the occupiers, so there was no place for free speech anymore. However, in private contacts, discretion and reticence were regarded as virtues as well. Talkativeness was connected with the risk of death. At the time of occupation, silence, understood as “the linguistic phenomenon,” functioned as a capacious semantic figure. Depending on circumstances, it could denote apathy, resignation, grief, hatred, infirmity etc. In a symbolic way, silence also connoted death. Last but not least, one can read it as a “muted scream” – a cry to the world for help or a “protest” against the hustle and bustle of war. When in June 1941 Hitler took over the lands previously controlled by Stalin, German propagandists tried to take advantage of crimes commit­ ted by the Soviets in the first days of Operation Barbarossa. In contempo­ rary historiography, these are known as NKVD prisoner massacres, and their genesis is closely joined with the retreat of the Red Army. Mackiewicz remembered the Soviet evacuation from Vilnius as incredibly chaotic and disorganized. At the time, in the annexed territories of Poland, Lithuania, Belarus, Estonia and Ukraine, NKVD agents received the call to execute thousands of political inmates without trials in order that they did not fall into the hands of the approaching Wehrmacht soldiers. One such mass execution took place in Prowieniszki, a small colony near Kaunas. Before the outbreak of the war, there was a high-security prison there; during the communist occupation, the Bolsheviks set up a transitional labor camp in Prowieniszki. The day after Hitler’s attack, the Soviets murdered the Lithuanian administration there before gathering all the prisoners in a roll­ call square, then a tank drove into the standing people and shots were fired at them from the machine guns. No one could hide or run away from that trap. Overall, around 470 people were killed. Only two men miraculously survived under the corpses of the other prisoners. Shortly after, when the Germans arrived at the scene of the crime,23 they made use of the tragedy in their propaganda and started publishing photographs of the bodies in newspapers so that people could see the Bolsheviks’ barbarity. However, it was questionable whether this form of anti-Soviet campaign brought any spectacular effects. On the one hand, communist mass murders were appall­ ing and shocking, but on the other, pointing out the Soviet murders by the Germans smacked of hypocrisy as everyone could see how the Nazis, in a similarly ruthless way, killed thousands of Jews (including women and children) with impunity at the same time. Timothy Snyder24 asserted that 23 Mackiewicz’s relation was based on the talk with one of the survivors who was a former leader of the Polish police force. See Mackiewicz, Fakty, przyroda i ludzie, 229. 24 Timothy Snyder, Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin (New York: Basic Books, 2010), 194–195. Nota bene, Germans themselves quickly recognized the logistic potential of Prowieniszki and adapted it for their own purposes to detain Jews, Poles, Russians and others, so the place still functioned as a jail and execution site.

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NKVD massacres and other Soviet crimes helped Germans to justify mur­ dering Jews. Nazi propaganda presented that as an act of retaliation against Jews, who were commonly identified with the supporters of communism but who, ironically, were also amongst the prisoners murdered by the Soviets. The most widely known usage of Soviet murders in Nazi propaganda was the Katyń Massacre that, during and after the war, became the object of a very dirty political game. When Goebbels revealed information about the mass graves of missing Polish officers in Katyń in April 1943, Hitler rec­ ommended incorporating that finding into their anti-Bolshevik propaganda to the maximum possible extent25 in order to divide the Allies as well as to overshadow Nazi atrocities. In April and May, the Germans organized a series of visits to the exhumation site for journalists from outside the Third Reich so they could verify as witnesses that this particular crime was com­ mitted by the Soviets. It was not a big surprise that German propaganda, strongly rooted in anti-Semitism, presented Katyń as Judeo-Bolshevik work. Victor Klemperer, in his famous study LTI: Lingua Tertii Imperii, categorized anti-Semitism as the most effective propaganda means that opened the doors to the spectrum of semantic manipulations. The word ‘Jew’ and its derivatives were regularly used by Goebbels in such propa­ ganda techniques as name-calling, scapegoating or demonization, to men­ tion only a few. Nevertheless, in terms of Katyń, we can observe peculiar cracking in the Nazis’ anti-Semitic offensive. On the one side, in occupied Poland, the Germans distributed various leaflets and brochures with photos from Katyń suggesting that the executioners had been Jews, but simultane­ ously they also published lists of the names of the killed officers on which Mackiewicz, while in Katyń, noticed many Jewish surnames. The Germans did not focus on that fact, but on the other hand, they could not omit it. We must remember that they initially overestimated the number of murdered people found in graves and did not want to dissent from the early propa­ ganda, so in a way, they needed those names. For Mackiewicz, in 1943, Jews on official Nazi Katyń lists constituted one of many indisputable proofs that the mass murder was committed by the Soviets.26 It was probably the first and last time during the war that the Nazis were forced to officially admit that the Jews had been victims of the war. German anti-Soviet propaganda did not only exploit Jewish stereotypes and myths. After Hitler’s attack on Stalin, Goebbels returned to old slo­ gans comparing Bolsheviks to “wild Asian hordes.” However, Mackiewicz explained that this kind of rhetoric was unconvincing in Eastern Europe, as it did not correspond at all with the typical image of a communist that one

25 See Goebbels, Tagebücher 1924–1945, 1923. 26 Mackiewicz analyzed this and many other issues on Katyń and its propaganda dimension in the first published book on the subject: Józef Mackiewicz, The Katyn Wood Murders (London: Hollis and Carter, 1951).

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could meet in Vilnius, which was occupied by the Soviets until June 1941. One can state that it caused nothing but semiotic dissonance. The NKVD usually intimidated people behind closed doors, not in front of the eyes of the people in the streets, like the Germans often did. For propaganda reasons, Soviet authorities and political officers were disciplined in public places and tried to behave rather politely toward autochthons27 to win them over to the ideas of Marxism–Leninism. Again, we can see here that Goebbels did not fully regard the circumstance that, before 22 June 1941, Eastern Europeans had experienced the Soviet methods of rule, so they could easily compare their own observations with German propaganda coverage of the Bolsheviks. The Soviet occupation of the eastern part of Poland had a totally different trajectory to the Nazi occupation of western Poland. Nazis, as opposed to communists, did not search for confidants and henchmen in the conquered territories. That difference had strong repercussions in the receptions of both ideologies and also determined the semantic stencils of their respective propaganda. Mackiewicz asserted that a fundamental mistake of democratic countries toward the Soviet Union consisted in treating the communist state as a continuation of the Russian Empire. In his view, applying old cultural codes to the communist reality had been causing constant misunderstandings that came out at the level of communication. The Polish author was of the opinion that “dialogue is excluded with someone who, under the same words and notions, understands and prompts different content.”28 The communist perception of language was an entirely new phenomenon that required a new analytical approach. The Soviets also used words that did not share the same “grammar” with the Western world.29 Besides, the language of communist propaganda, unlike the language of Nazi propaganda, was very flexible and easily adjusted to various conditions in different areas.30 On 17 September 1939, the Red Army crossed the Polish border and started the occupation of the eastern provinces of the country. Communist propaganda called that moment the “liberation” of the Poles from fascist, capitalist and bourgeois oppression. These kinds of stigmatizing epithets belonged to the flagship arsenal of Soviet diction. By the way, in official Soviet historiography, the communist state has never been presented as an

27 See Józef Mackiewicz, Prawda w oczy nie kole (London: Kontra, 2007), 116.

28 Józef Mackiewicz, Szabla i pałka gumowa (London: Kontra, 2015), 523.

29 Alain Besançon, Krótki kurs sowietologii: na użytek władz cywilnych, wojskowych i kościel­ nych (Warszawa: CDN, 1984), 52. 30 We should add that communists often fueled local conflicts in the territories of Eastern Europe to satisfy their political interests and to make use of them in their propaganda. Take, for instance, the decision of Stalin to put Vilnius into the hands of Lithuanians, thus inflaming nationalistic tensions between Poles and Lithuanians. We must remember that in the shadow of the Nazi–Soviet war, there were many guerrilla conflicts on the Eastern front between Soviet, Ukrainian, Polish, Lithuanian and Belarusian partisans. Each of the sides also had their own propaganda, which was often based on nationalistic resentment.

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aggressor. The Red Army never “invaded” other countries but always “lib­ erated” them by bringing “fraternal help” or “freedom.” All of these terms had distorted senses, though. John Wesley Young called this process “seman­ ticide,” which we can translate as “the wrongful redefining.”31 The Soviet Union had a long tradition in this practice as in the 1930s, Stalin, being “the supreme owner of the words,”32 proved that any expression and any defini­ tion could be reformulated in accordance with the needs of the Party. For that reason, communist propaganda was uncompromising. It had no lim­ its in faking statistics and no inhibitions in spreading disinformation. The instrumentalization of language was a factor that gave the Soviets an enor­ mous advantage over their ideological and political opponents. Mackiewicz argued that communism “robbed words of their original meaning”33 and caused not only conquered nations but also democratic countries to use Soviet-corrupted vocabulary. It is enough to mention the worldwide replica­ tion of Soviet slogans concerning the “Great Patriotic War.” Underscoring “Russian patriotism,” which in reality was reduced to anti-Germanness, in the fight with Hitler stood in contradiction with the supposedly internation­ alistic character of the communist doctrine. The notion of patriotism, along with all the references to the historic figures of Tsarist heritage repeated by the Soviets, in this light, became a tactical tool based on empty clichés. Mackiewicz wrote that after 22 June 1941, “the propaganda of the Western powers profited from the occasion to endow their Soviet ally with a ‘patri­ otic-nationalist-Russian’ character” and allowed for the rebirth of wishful thinking “to see in the Soviet Union a return to the old Russia.”34 However, such false identifications weakened the position of democratic countries in the diplomatic arena and strengthened Stalin’s totalitarian state. Mackiewicz faced a significant case of “semanticide” in the middle of 1940 in Vilnius during a campaign promoting the so-called “first free elections”35 organized by Moscow after the annexation of the three Baltic countries. But the Soviet polls did not in any way resemble voting in the Western world. A more suitable word would be “nominations,” as all candidates were fully approved by the communist party. In the context of these events, Czesław Miłosz in The Captive Mind raised the following questions: Why, then, were the cities and countryside covered with propaganda leaflets and handbills; why did megaphones shout day and night; why the trucks decorated with huge portraits of candidates; why the 31 John Wesley Young, Totalitarian Language: Orwell’s Newspeak and its Nazi and Communist Antecedents (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1991), 105. 32 Aleksander Wat, Świat na haku i pod kluczem. Eseje (Warszawa: Czytelnik, 1991), 43. 33 Józef Mackiewicz, Triumph of Provocation, trans. Jerzy Hauptmann, S. D. Lukac and Martin Dewhirts (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009), 39. 34 Mackiewicz, Triumph of Provocation, 95. 35 Mackiewicz, Fakty, przyroda i ludzie, 102.

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garlands, the meetings, and the platforms? Why the propaganda if one had no choice? No one could understand. Yet on election day everyone flocked to the polls. They had to vote; for when one turned in one’s bal­ lot, one’s passport was stamped. The absence of this stamp meant that the owner of the passport was an enemy of the people who had revealed his ill will by refusing to vote. Some people, naively, handed in torn or crossed-out ballots; but they were declared valid and affirmative. The final tallies were impressive. The first act of the parliaments thus elected was to make a formal request for incorporation into the Soviet Union. That favor was granted.36 We may ask, like Miłosz, why communists invested so many financial resources and energy into propaganda circus, if the result was a foregone conclusion? What was the aim of imposing opposite meanings on words and calling aggression “liberation,” slavery “freedom,” lack of toleration “tolerance,”37 censorship “liberty of speech,” repression “lawfulness” etc.? It seems that one can examine that phenomenon from different vistas. Mackiewicz claimed that this kind of “verbal juggling” led to the mental paralysis of society. In Miłosz’s account, we can observe how the Soviet propaganda machine encircled the people from all directions. Presumably, increasing the pressure of agitation had enough potency to crush every individual emotionally, which most often equated with a catastrophic feel­ ing of the inevitability of living in the communist semiosphere. As a result, moral passiveness and lethargy gradually overpowered the inhabitants of the occupied lands. A single man bombarded with propaganda materials remained helpless and his voice could not be heard in the roaring mass. Let us note that in the aforementioned fragment, Miłosz cites an emblem­ atic communist propaganda slogan, namely, the “enemy of the people.” The phrase was one of the most popular Soviet expressions used to discredit antagonists of the regime. In the context of Marxist doctrine, the figure of “an enemy” embodied the essence of communist thinking about the world. The “enemy of the people” was the killing label that conduced divisions of society and eliminated unwanted individuals from the public sphere. The Soviet authorities needed enemies of various kinds, as their “existence,” no matter whether real or delusional, legitimized terror, violence and an atmosphere of intimidation. The communist state deliberately cultivated the game of political appear­ ances and practiced propaganda masquerades as illusions, and myths were a relevant part of the communist ideology. In the 1930s, Polish Sovietologist Stanisław Swianiewicz (1899–1997) wrote that myth (in the meaning of

36 Czesław Miłosz, The Captive Mind, trans. Jane Zielonko (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1980), 228. 37 Mackiewicz, Triumph of Provocation, 40.

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Georges Sorel), while being daily bread for the Soviet masses, constituted in society “the sense of sublimity,”38 sacrifice and importance. In Soviet prop­ aganda, language preceded actions. And if we take into account the fact that the Sovietization process in the Baltic countries during the 1940s fol­ lowed a similar course as in the USSR a decade earlier, then we can assume that communists wanted to create a like sense of mythical transition in the annexed lands. Another possible explanation of the Soviets reaching for notions char­ acteristic of parliamentary democracies and using them as a cover-up for violent political actions is complex. It cannot be excluded that Moscow’s propaganda subconsciously externalized that very communist obsession of overhauling capitalism. One could notice similar linguistic manipulations on many occasions in the USSR, where people were constantly told that they lived in the most democratic and free state in the world. Superlatives presupposed the uttermost character of the communist system and made the ideologization process a “historical necessity.” Nazi propaganda language was truculent, vulgarized and off-putting; however, Hitler’s views were pretty transparent to politicians from other countries. In that respect, Soviet rhetoric was sneakier and more calculated. The linguistic fluidity of communist propaganda outside the borders of the Soviet Union generated chaos in the reception of the communists’ intentions, which helped Stalin to smooth away the aggression of the regime. Inside the country, as we said before, manipulations within meaning structures (vide “first free elections”) aimed to habituate Soviet citizens to thinking in ideological frames. However, living in a world where words were desemanti­ cized and detached from reality undermined social links and brought about the disintegration of human bonds. We must underline that Soviet propa­ ganda, by the neutralization of the semantics of certain groups of words, at the same time neutralized undesirable behaviors in society, such as the possibility of riots or revolts. The indifferent masses, deprived of adequate words to articulate their discontent, were more vulnerable to psychologi­ cal manipulation and subjection. Therefore, in his works, Mackiewicz often portrayed people who, faced with Soviet propaganda, were afraid to protest because any objection toward the communist order was treated as sabotage that could cause imprisonment. As Aleksander Wat stressed,39 Soviet propaganda deformed and “grabbed,” in particular, universal notions and virtue words essential for social integrity. Peace, freedom, equality, justice, honor etc., having under­ gone a process of “linguistic entropy”40 in the communist state, meant some­ thing totally opposite compared with in Western countries. It seems that

38 See Marek Kornat, Polska szkoła sowietologiczna 1930–1939 (Kraków: Arcana, 2003), 327.

39 Wat, Świat na haku i pod kluczem, 25.

40 Wat, Świat na haku i pod kluczem, 26.

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the overuse of the word “peace” and its derivatives in particular deserves a separate reflection. The USSR cared a lot about its external reputation, so it never missed an opportunity to stress its ostensibly peaceful orienta­ tion. The positive connotations of this adjective gave the doctrine not only a camouflage, but also a sui generis prestigious image. Peace, in most cultures and communities, is a naturally desirable condition; hence, communist propaganda exploited that common state of affairs. Mackiewicz believed that it was important to confront propaganda utterances with facts and, if possible, clarify the semantics of words used by communists to bring back their original meaning. To that end, the Polish author argued not to confuse communist “peace” with peacefulness. In his view, the latter term better reflected the core of the communist system, since peacefulness was a dis­ tinctive feature of “prison.”41 In German-occupied Poland, people clearly knew who the enemy was who helped in forming the structures of the Polish Underground State and resist­ ance movement. In the Soviet occupational zone, communist propaganda, in a way, pushed inhabitants of the conquered areas to active participation in the Sovietization of their countries. It is enough to mention the celebra­ tion of communist holidays or attendance of political meetings and Mayday parades, during which autochthons were obliged to demonstrate their approval for Stalin. Soviet propaganda strived to blur boundaries between an occupier and a victim of occupation. The situation in which “victims” contributed to enforcing the administrative structures of the totalitarian system blurred the responsibility for evil as well. The inability to authen­ tically distinguish who was a collaborator, a communist supporter or a victim made existence under the regime controlled by Soviet propaganda a psychologically exhausting experience. In occupied Eastern Europe, Soviet partisans also had to “work” as polit­ ical educators and agitators at the same time. In this light, we can look at the Red Army not only as a military force but also as an army of propagandists. The Soviets did not separate themselves completely from the lives of autoch­ thons, but, when possible, permeated into the structures of local commu­ nities. It enabled them to exercise control over them and, if necessary, to take action to silence malcontents. They also used whispering propaganda and encouraged the people to spread pro-Soviet slogans. In the novel Nie trzeba głośno mówić (Better Not to Talk Aloud), Mackiewicz described extensive propaganda courses for the Soviet commanding officers and how the communist propagandists should act in the hostile territory. A special group of partisans were taught, among other things, various techniques of

41 Mackiewicz often compared the Soviet bloc to the figure of jail. After the war, he under­ mined the Soviet “peaceful coexistence” theory by referring to East Berlin, which had been surrounded by “a wall bristling with machine guns,” which signified “a wall dividing the meaning of human words” (Mackiewicz, Triumph of Provocation, 194).

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persuasion and how to select words during conversations with indigenous people in Eastern Europe. “A gun in the hands of a Nazi is an instrument of crime, the same gun in the hand of the Soviet soldier is an instrument to administer just punishment,”42 says one of the protagonists, and his deduc­ tion captures not only his dialectical skills, but also the enormous persua­ sive potential of the propaganda that was rooted in Marxism–Leninism. In Mackiewicz’s work, high-ranking Soviet political officers are presented as canny experts of human nature. For example, they were instructed to call all Germans, without exceptions, “fascist cannibals,”43 since pejorative denota­ tions strengthened negative emotions amongst autochthons and their hatred toward German authorities. It is also worth mentioning that at the talks with Eastern Europeans, they could not emphasize Jewish suffering under the Nazi regime. The identification of Jews, Ukrainians and Belarussians as one uniform Soviet mass allowed them to claim that German terror was the same for all the “Soviet people.”44 In fact, Soviet propagandists believed that such understatements were needed due to the anti-Semitic atmosphere in Eastern Europe.45 In conclusion, I suggest referring to another example of “perseveration”46 that exposed the linguistic tactics of Soviet propaganda: In November 1939 an agitator had toured the villages lecturing. [People] had listened to him in silence. After the lecture the agitator had answered questions. His audience had been chiefly interested in matters of material well-being. They asked whether in the Soviet Union there was plenty of sugar; whether one could buy cloth for making suits. Whichever commodity they had asked about the agitator had the same answer: there was plenty of everything in the Soviet Union, but they would have to wait for a time until the goods were delivered. Then [one of the peasants] asked: “And do you have plenty of misery?” He had used the Polish word for misery which the agitator did not understand; [but] to be on the safe side he had replied: “Yes, plenty,” adding that they would be soon delivering it! … This had been greeted with a burst of laughter.47 Propagandists were usually people deprived of a sense of humor, as any form of spontaneity in the totalitarian system was perceived as subversion. In the Soviet Union, people went to gulags for using inappropriate words 42 43 44 45 46 47

Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 257.

Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 150.

Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 256.

Mackiewicz, Nie trzeba głośno mówić, 151.

Wat, Świat na haku i pod kluczem, 197.

Józef Mackiewicz, Road to Nowhere, trans. Lew Sapieha (London: Collins & Harvill

Press, 1963), 146–147.

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in public, joking about the regime or making fun of the communist prop­ aganda. The joker from the earlier quotation was also arrested the next day. However, at this point, it is worth looking closer at the phrase ada­ mantly repeated by the agitator (“there is plenty of everything in the Soviet Union”). As a person representing the communist system, he had no right to express doubt, and the mechanical reprising of the same sentence was supposed to create a sense of confidence. In turn, indefinite pronouns such as “everything,” “everybody,” and “all” used in the Soviet propaganda sig­ nalized the complete appropriation of all spheres of human life and usurped the right to total control over the situation in the state. Mackiewicz’s perception of the language of totalitarian propaganda resulted from his knowledge and experience as a witness of two occupa­ tions. The Polish author condemned both forms of totalitarianism, as both were based on terror and violence. However, he warned against reducing anti-communism to fascism, since such a simple identification strength­ ened the Soviet propaganda narrative. He argued that the language of communist propaganda, which subjugated vocabularies in the tight frames of Marxist doctrine, paved the way for the Bolsheviks to preponderate over their political rivals. The present comparative semiotic study of the two forms of totalitarian propaganda during the Second World War on the Eastern front leads to the following conclusions: the language of Soviet propaganda was characterized by flexibility, an expansive tendency and a sort of peculiar semantic innovation, while German propaganda was out of touch with Eastern realities, and was in most cases imitative, inconsiderate and non-elastic. Therefore, Mackiewicz asserted that communist propa­ ganda had a much more devastating impact on the human psyche than that of the Nazis and, thus, was one of the most dangerous weapons in the hands of the Soviet authorities.

Works cited Baer, Eugen. “Thomas A. Sebeok’s Doctrine of Signs.” In Classics of Semiotics, edited by Martin Krampen, Klaus Oehler et al. New York: Plenum, 1987. Besançon, Alain. Krótki kurs sowietologii: na użytek władz cywilnych, wojskowych i kościelnych. Warszawa: CDN, 1984. Dobek-Ostrowska, Bogusława, Janina Fras and Beata Ociepka. Teoria i praktyka propagandy. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 1997. Eco, Umberto. Nieobecna struktura, translated by Adam Weinsberg and Paweł Bravo. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo KR, 1996. Footitt, Hilary and Michael Kelly, eds. Languages at War: Policies and Practices of Language Contacts in Conflict. Basingstoke/New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Goebbels, Joseph. Tagebücher 1924–1945. München: Piper Verlag, 2003. Hitler, Adolf. Mein Kampf, translated by Ralph Manheim. New York: Reynal & Hitchcock, 1941. Kornat, Marek. Polska szkoła sowietologiczna 1930–1939. Kraków: Arcana, 2003.

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Mackiewicz, Józef. Fakty, przyroda i ludzie. London: Kontra, 1993. Mackiewicz, Józef. Nie trzeba głośno mówić. London: Kontra, 2017. Mackiewicz, Józef. Nudis verbis. London: Kontra, 2017. Mackiewicz, Józef. Optymizm nie zastąpi nam Polski. London: Kontra, 2007. Mackiewicz, Józef. Prawda w oczy nie kole. London: Kontra, 2007. Mackiewicz, Józef. Road to Nowhere, translated by Lew Sapieha. London: Collins & Harvill Press, 1963. Mackiewicz, Józef. Szabla i pałka gumowa. London: Kontra, 2015. Mackiewicz, Józef. Triumph of Provocation, translated by Jerzy Hauptmann, S. D. Lukac and Martin Dewhirts. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009. Miller, Mark Crispin. “Introduction.” In: Propaganda, edited by Edward Bernays. New York: Ig Publishing, 2005. Miłosz, Czesław. The Captive Mind, translated by Jane Zielonko. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1980. Oxford Dictionaries, s.v. “propaganda.” Accessed October 22, 2018. https://en. oxforddictionaries.com/. Snyder, Timothy. Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin. New York: Basic Books, 2010. Szarota, Tomasz. Niemcy i Polacy. Wzajemne postrzeganie i stereotypy. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN, 1996. Thorne, Steve. The Language of War. London: Routledge, 2006. Wat, Aleksander. Świat na haku i pod kluczem. Eseje. Warszawa: Czytelnik, 1991. Young, John Wesley. Totalitarian Language: Orwell’s Newspeak and its Nazi and Communist Antecedents. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1991.

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Epilogue

War semiotics in the

post-cold war world

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13 Brinkmanship A cold war parody of statesmanship Rolf Hugoson

Nukespeak is making headlines, again. At a Singapore meeting in June 2018, Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un appeared to agree upon North Korea terminating its nuclear weapons program—although the effects of the agreement remained unclear.1 Diplomatic discourse had pre­ viously been highly polemical, a famous example being a Trump tweet from January 2018: “North Korean Leader Kim Jong Un just stated that the ‘Nuclear Button is on his desk at all times.’ Will someone from his depleted and food starved regime please inform him that I too have a Nuclear Button, but it is a much bigger & more powerful one than his, and my Button works!”2 This is also a remarkable example of metonymy. President Trump, rather than saying nuclear arms, talks about the button that would launch the arms, as if unaware that the actual weapons system is more complex than the simple mechanism of a revolver, where indeed there might be just one trigger. In Trump’s imaginary, the aggregated effect of the American arsenal is then reflected back (a relevant semiotic term is meta­ lepsis) to the button, declared to be “bigger & more powerful” than Kim Jong-un’s button.

1 Benjamin Haas, “North Korea is Still Developing Nuclear Weapons, Says IAEA,” The Guardian, August 22, 2018. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.theguard­ ian.com /world/2018/aug /22/north-korea-still-developing-nuclear-weapons-iaea­ report-un; Benjamin Haas, “North Korea: Secret Missile Site Revealed in New Satellite Images,” The Guardian, December 6, 2018. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.the­ guardian.com/world/2018/dec/06/north-korea-secret-missile-site-upgrades-satellite­ images. 2 Donald Trump (@realDonaldTrump), “North Korean Leader Kim Jong Un…,” January 2, 2018, 16:49. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://twitter.com/realdonaldtrump/ status/948355557022420992. See Lauren Gambino, “Donald Trump Boasts That His Nuclear Button Is Bigger than Kim Jong-Un’s,” The Guardian, January 3, 2018. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jan/03/ donald-trump-boasts-nuclear-button-bigger-kim-jong-un.

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In reaction to this confrontation, journal headlines saw the return of the word “brinkmanship.”3 However, the terminology was not explained. Was brinkmanship intended as a serious attitude? Or did it remain a sign of recklessness? Early in 2017, US and NATO officials had voiced their concerns over Russian violations of the 1987 Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty.4 The INF was a prelude to the end of the Cold War. Notably, it had allowed the infamous Soviet SS-20 nuclear missiles to be scrapped. However, almost three decades later, Russia had deployed a new intermediate-range missile, SSC-8 in the NATO classification. In October 2018, President Trump—rather than insisting on the treaty being followed—announced that the United States would also withdraw from the INF.5 Back in 1987, the INF had been decided upon at an apparently friendly summit in Reykjavik between President Ronald Reagan and General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev.6 In the same year, hardly by chance, critical theorist David Shepheard (Manchester University) published an ambitious effort to interpret “the debate on nuclear arms” in semiotic terms.7

Semiotics and nuclear discourse In 1987, Shepheard focused official debate and mentioned discourse by social movements against nuclear arms.8 He tentatively used Greimas’ narratolog­ ical model, whose textual roles or “actants” helped him reveal structural characteristics: “for example [alternative models abound], that the subject of the task of arms control be the political leadership, the object being set

3 E.g. Rick Noak, “Under Trump, Nuclear Brinkmanship is the New Normal,” Washington Post, January 3, 2018. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/ worldviews/wp/2018/01/03/under-trump-the-threat-of-nuclear-war-is-the-new-normal/? noredirect=on&utm_term=.26d53e596151; Demetri Sevastopulo and Bryan Harris, “Explainer: Trump and Kim’s summit brinkmanship,” Financial Times, May 30, 2018. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.ft.com/content/dcc48a64-63b3-11e8-a39d-4df188287fff. 4 Reuters, “Russia Missile Violates ‘Spirit and Intent’ of Arms Treaty, Top US General Says,” The Guardian, March 8, 2017. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.theguardian. com/world/2017/mar/08/russia-cruise-missile-violates-treaty-us-general. 5 Steven Pifer, “RIP INF: The End of a Landmark Treaty,” Brookings.edu. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://www.brookings.edu/blog/order-from-chaos/2018/11/01/rip-inf-the-end-of­ a-landmark-treaty/. 6 David Reynolds, Summits: Six Meetings that Shaped the Twentieth Century (New York: Basic Books, 2007), 286–293. 7 David Shepheard, “Nuclear Strategy/Nuclear Poetics,” Paragraph 9, no. 1 (1987): 31–48. 8 Shepheard did not comment upon important contextual events such as the 1986 Chernobyl disaster—reported to an international audience by Soviet authorities only after drasti­ cally increased radiation levels had been discovered in Sweden, 1000 km from the nuclear power plant in Chernobyl. Chernobyl Gallery, “Timeline,” Chernobyl Gallery. Accessed May 7, 2020. http://www.chernobylgallery.com/chernobyl-disaster/timeline/.

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out for a skillfully negotiated peace; the destinateur and the destinataire in this instance are the ‘people.’”9 Indeed, plans and propaganda often reveal a stable structure, which could be analyzed with reference to a Greimasian model, e.g. the leader of a state (sender) could promise the people (receiver) that something called sovereignty (object) existed, whereupon the people joined an army (subject) and possibly found allies (supporters) before setting out to reach sover­ eignty (object) by attacking or defending themselves in a struggle (quest) with the enemy (opponent): “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills.” Shepheard did not merely repeat structuralist ideas of the 1960s. Greimas’ synchronic perspective had been challenged for failing to explain the diachronic ability to move from one synchronic state to another. Differently put, a modern political debate is rarely shaped as a neoclassical tragedy with unity of place, time and action. Shepheard argued that in the present circumstance, “the end” of the debate appeared as an unclear objec­ tive. Rather than coming up with an alternative, he suggested an exit from the “nuclear poetics” revealed by the narratological model: “We have talked our way into nuclear arms, now we must talk our way out of them.”10 Nuclear arms discourse is less dominant three decades after the end of the Cold War, but arguably it still concerns us. To make sense of a specific “nuclear” semantic such as “brinkmanship,” perhaps we can begin by stating the obvious, that this is a sign—a combination of signifying word and signified concept—used in specific historical situations. There, we can also identify agents not satisfied with established scripts, finding themselves in language as a field of power, where roles are continuously redescribed. “Brinkmanship” has been used more recently to denote, e.g. bargaining in ordinary business between private firms. But the shadow of the Cold War should be kept in mind, includ­ ing when the word is used to describe agency in other epochs—regrettably, it is rare to encounter an author so careful to mark out his anachronism as historian Gordon Martel: “In the summer of 1938, Hitler had embarked upon an exercise that would, had it occurred in the 1950s, be regarded as brinkmanship.”11 “Brinkmanship” was invented during the Cold War in an effort to shape perceptions of statesmen. The word was first engaged in debate and in conflict and did not originate as a scientific concept, even if a move in that direction was made later on. But first, we should note that modes of action implied by brinkmanship were modified by their given name, on “the brink of war.” It is difficult to evade this problem by trying to establish more substantial positions connected with a specific set of political agents, because their roles are shaped

9 Shepheard, “Nuclear Strategy,” 41. 10 Shepheard, “Nuclear Strategy,” 44. Also see Paul Ricoeur, Temps et récit, vol. 2, second edition (Paris: Seuil, 1991), 88–114. 11 Gordon Martel, Modern Germany Reconsidered: 1870–1945 (London: Routledge, 2002), 186.

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by their encounters as narrated “on the brink.” Furthermore, if brinkman­ ship signifies by dramatizing the situation, reactions from the audience can also interfere. As always, “deeds and words” remain intimately connected.12 To what extent was brinkmanship used, for example, during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis? We shall return to this question below. In general, the option explored in this chapter is to reflect upon the semiotics of historical discourse, analyzing the transformations and implications of the signs used. The brink is a key term, as is the connecting depth, the abyss. In French and German, the word brinkmanship is often left untranslated, but it can also be transformed into “strategie du bord de l’abîme” and “Politik am Rande des Abgrunds,” respectively. These translations shed some light on brinkman­ ship by suggesting that what matters is to combine strategy or policy with the margin that separates peace and war: precisely, the brink or “the abyss” of nuclear war—so far, merely a hypothetical entity.

The Abyss as a sign of the unthinkable The atom bomb was produced by careful scientific thought in the 1940s, and the physical effects of “explosions” were thoroughly investigated. It was also argued that the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs were signs that persuaded the Japanese leadership that surrender was preferable to annihilation.13 But ever since, the dominant tendency has been to interpret the iconic mushroom cloud as a catastrophe, including for whoever would dare to use nuclear weapons. To say the least, the effects of their use in a possible global war have remained difficult to calculate. Nuclear war was, thus, portrayed as “the unthinkable” by strategists, who recognized that full-scale use of this weapon would lead to chaos: moral, environmental, strategic and historic chaos.14 Nina Tannewald later argued that nuclear weapons have remained in storage because of a nuclear “taboo”: “associated with widespread popular revulsion against nuclear weapons and widely held inhibitions on their use.”15 Nevertheless, the peculiar workings of “brinkmanship” are concerned with this effort of statesmen to manage nuclear arms rationally, a task difficult or impossible to combine with notions of a nuclear taboo and the inconceiva­ bility of nuclear war. Historian Beatrice Heuser, musing on the 20th century uses of Clausewitz’s famous definition of war as “the continuation of politics by other means,” concludes that Western strategists “very quickly” reached

12 Thukydides’ terms were: “erga kai logoi”; Cicero wrote: “quid actum et quid dictum.” See Catherine Darbo-Peschanski, L’Historia: Commencements grecs (Paris: Gallimard/folio essays, 2007), 375. 13 Richard Rhodes, The Making of the Atomic Bomb, 2nd ed. (London: Penguin, 1988), 683–697. 14 Herman Kahn, Thinking About the Unthinkable (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1962); Fred Kaplan, The Wizards of Armageddon (New York: Touchstone, 1983), 11. 15 Nina Tannenwald, “The Nuclear Taboo: The United States and the Normative Basis of Nuclear Non-use,” International Organization 53, no. 3 (1999): 435.

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the conclusion after 1945 that nuclear war could not be included in visions of rational warfare. She quotes strategy historian Russell Weigly to support her thesis: “The rational purposes of statecraft could not be thus served.”16 Even if the nuclear Third World War remained hypothetical, the Cold War remained, with smaller wars and ideological and geopolitical conflicts break­ ing out over various resources. Former allies often appeared as enemies, and the intentions of the opponent remained in doubt. Nuclear arsenals were con­ tinuously growing. The total number of “warheads” reached a peak in 1985. Almost 70,000 were then stockpiled or deployed worldwide. The INF and other bilateral treaties have since allowed for a diminished number.17

Adlai Stevenson’s Parody The precise origins of the word brinkmanship were established long ago.18 It was first used in print in February 1956, when newspapers reported that dem­ ocratic presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson (1900–1965) had attacked John Foster Dulles (1888–1959) in a speech. Dulles had been Secretary of State in the cabinet of Republican President Dwight D. Eisenhower (1890–1969) since 1953. Stevenson’s attack followed the praise Dulles had received in Life Magazine (January 1956) under the headline: “How Dulles Averted War: Three Times He Brought U.S. Back from the Brink.”19 Stevenson was dismissive: “we hear the Secretary of State boasting of his brinkmanship—the art of bringing us to the edge of the nuclear abyss.”20

16 Beatrice Heuser, Reading Clausewitz (London: Pimlico, 2002), 150. 17 The United States and Russia (formerly the Soviet Union) still control most weapons, stored in the United States and in Russia (as well as on board submarines, ships and aircraft) while up to 200 are held by NATO forces in Belgium, Italy, the Netherlands and Turkey. The estimated total number in 2018 was 14,485. The smaller nuclear powers control 1180 nuclear weapons: France (300), China (280), the United Kingdom (215), Pakistan (150), India (140), Israel (80) and North Korea (possibly ca. 15). Hans Kristensen and Robert Norris, “Status of World Nuclear Forces,” American Federation of Scientists (2018). Accessed May 7, 2020. https://fas.org/issues/nuclear-weapons/status-world-nuclear-forces/. 18 Susan Ratcliffe, Concise Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 361. 19 James Shepley, “How Dulles Averted War: Three Times He Brought U.S. Back from the Brink,” Life Magazine, January 16, 1956, 70–79. Stevenson was not the first to react to the Life article, as is clear from a long editorial comment in the following issue (January 30), beginning: “In view of the attacks made on Secretary of State John Foster Dulles,” the Editor-in-Chief made it clear that this was not an interview, but an article “based on back­ ground conversation with the Secretary,” written by a reporter, further edited by the editor who had cleared the article—unlike the Secretary. Furthermore: “most of the attacks on Secretary Dulles are based on one paragraph of direct quotations from the Secretary con­ taining the words ‘verge of war’ and ‘brink’. Taken in the context of the whole article, there is nothing in Secretary Dulles’ words which is contrary to common sense.”Henry R. Luce, “A Statement by the Editor-in-Chief,” Life Magazine, January 30, 1956, 20. 20 Adlai Stevenson, “Excerpts from Address by Stevenson,” New York Times, February 26, 1956.

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Indeed, Dulles had assumed the role of an aggressive diplomat, willing to recommend the use of nuclear weapons. But Cold War historians rarely fail to mention that when Dulles emphasized that US policy implied such a will­ ingness, he did not go far beyond the documents approved by the President and the National Security Council (NSC), such as the NSC 162/2 paper of October 30, 1953.21 Parts of the American public were nevertheless appalled by Dulles’ 1954 argument for “massive retaliatory power”—a threat to use nuclear weapons also beyond zones of actual conflict: “Local defenses must be reinforced by the further deterrent of massive retaliatory power […] by means and at places of our choosing.”22 Diplomatic protocol did not allow the enemy to be named, but there was little doubt at the time that Dulles was warning the Soviet Union and China. Dulles later emphasized how the lack of clarity could help confuse opponents: “It should not be stated in advance precisely what would be the scope of military action if new aggression occurred. That is a matter as to which the aggressor had best remain ignorant. But he can know and does know, in the light of present policies, that the choice in this respect is ours and not his.”23 An impor­ tant corollary would be that, by changing the status of a conflict to being local, regional or global, adversaries would be able to control the agenda on each level. Stevenson lost against Eisenhower in the 1952 presidential election but remained the Democratic candidate for the 1956 election and was aware that a President from the Democrats would have to negotiate his position by “the abyss.” President Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882–1945) had commanded the scientific project to construct an atomic bomb, while President Harry S. Truman (1884–1972) had ordered the weapon to be exploded over Japan.24 Although Stevenson was skeptical of Dulles, he was not arguing that the nuclear deterrence strategy should be abandoned.25 Instead, Stevenson invented a neologism to attack the character of Dulles’ foreign policy. To “bring us to the edge of the nuclear abyss” on purpose must be a form of recklessness. If Dulles boasted about this, he was irresponsible; thus, Stevenson, as already quoted, “we hear the Secretary of State boasting of his brinkmanship—the art of bringing us to the edge of the nuclear abyss.”

21 Lawrence Freedman, The Evolution of Nuclear Strategy, 3rd ed. (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 77–82. 22 John Foster Dulles, “The Evolution of Foreign Policy,” The Department of State Bulletin 30, no. 751 (1954): 108. 23 John Foster Dulles, “Policy for Security and Peace,” Foreign Affairs 32, no. 3 (1954): 360. 24 Rhodes, Making of the Atomic Bomb. 25 Stevenson did propose a ban on H-bomb testing. See Bert Cochran, Adlai Stevenson: Patrician Among the Politicians (New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1969), 272–274; Harold F. Harding, et al., “Rhetoric and the Campaign of 1956,” Quarterly Journal of Speech 43 (1956): 37.

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So, what did he mean? I would like to suggest that the semiotics of brink­ manship can be explained at least in part as parody. Parody, according to Gérard Genette, is a “hypertext” or a “paratext” that invents a new text on the basis of an original, which is transformed in part by the parody.26 For Stevenson, it was not necessary to actually mention “states­ manship,” the archetypical sign that “brinkmanship,” by placing itself by its side as a slightly different alternative, turns into parody. Statesmanship is sufficiently close to the lexical appearance of brinkmanship, albeit together with a host of older words—e.g. craftsmanship, seamanship and marks­ manship—typically denoting accomplished skills in some difficult activity. Within his parody, Stevenson retained the idea of statesmanship as an “art” in the classical sense of a technique, something that can be taught. But what kind of parody did Stevenson orchestrate? Was he just making fun of Dulles? That would be brinkmanship as ludic parody. Or did he suggest that Dulles was a threat? This would be polemic parody, if we follow the classifications explored by the literary theorist Genette. He also identified two intermediate modes between the polemic and ludic: the satiric (closer to the polemic) and the ironic (closer to the ludic).27 Stevenson kept close to these alternatives. He did not enter into the blatant polemics of saying that Dulles was “rattling his sabre” or acting as a “warmonger.” In a satirical mode, he invented that ambiguous sign, “brinkmanship.” Yet another alternative to parody would be the realistic mode or “pastiche.” To simplify, we might say that the pas­ tiche aims at an improvement upon the original text. Even if this was not Stevenson’s aim, he was campaigning for the role of President in 1956 and had reason to avoid being derisive about established US policy. Thus, he merely suggested that Dulles had failed as a statesman by bragging about his accom­ plishments rather than deploring the necessity to remain on the brink.

Thomas Schelling’s Irony In retrospect, the semiotic effect can also be termed ironic since, over the years, others have used Stevenson’s invention differently. When discourse on nuclear arms spread, “brinkmanship” in the early 1960s even appeared as a serious alternative. In semiotic terms, it became a pastiche of states­ manship rather than the parody intended by Stevenson. To him, the parody would have seen perennially obvious, since he followed classical rules by replacing the “higher” call of the state with the “lower” call of the brink: to change the content of high drama by introducing grotesque characters instead of Gods is classical theatrical parody. However, as we have seen, the brink is linked with the abyss—in concrete and in abstract terms, a place where the low reconnects with the high. Beyond all, the abyss is a sign of the 26 Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes: la littérature au second degreé, 2nd ed. (Paris: Seuil, 1992), 46. 27 Genette, Palimpsestes, 46.

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rationally “unthinkable” nuclear war. Still, at least one strategic theorist felt compelled to reinterpret brinkmanship as a new instrument for statesmen. In 1960, Harvard professor of political economy Thomas Schelling (1921– 2016) ignored Stevenson’s parody and suggested that “brinkmanship” was indeed an art of bargaining with nuclear weapons. Schelling belonged to the scholarly community who had begun to take an interest in the uses of nuclear weapons. Because, to invent new weapons and formulate policies for their use, the military (in all countries concerned) had turned to the academy. Already in 1946, the US Air Force created an independent research center named RAND. First focusing on air warfare, RAND interest extended to strategies for deploying nuclear weapons and consequences of such warfare, particularly after the successful Russian bomb test in 1949.28 Schelling worked at RAND, but he also had experience as a trade negotiator in international conferences, where he had reflected upon “the art of bargaining.”29 In 1960, he published Strategy of Conflict, which was widely read, although it hardly captured the essence of nuclear diplomacy. Schelling presented an overview of the new field of “game theory”—invented by Oskar Morgenstern and John von Neumann, who in the late 1940s had joined forces to apply mathematics to “economic behavior.” Schelling suggested that, in “strategy,” game the­ ory “is concerned not just with the division of gains and losses between two claimants but with the possibility that particular outcomes are worse (better) for both claimants than certain other outcomes.” Schelling suggested that he did not claim that real agents necessarily follow such principles.30 The success of Schelling’s book arguably depended not just upon the mathematics of his theories but also upon his similes or allegories. In narra­ tive examples, he did not merely elaborate upon the details of the theory but aimed for empirical relevance.31 Schelling’s brinkmanship involves placing oneself close to disaster before remarking that being on the slope is so risky that disaster could ensue, even if we try to prevent it. The frightening threat, according to Schelling, consists in A making it clear to B that they stand

28 Alex Abella, Soldiers of Reason: The RAND Corporation and the Rise of the American Empire (Harcourt: New York, 2008); Kaplan, Wizards of Armageddon. 29 Kaplan, Wizards of Armageddon, 330. 30 “The advantage of cultivating the area of ‘strategy’ for theoretical development is not that, of all possible approaches, it is the one that evidently stays closest to the truth, but that the assumption of rational behaviour is a productive one.” Thomas Schelling, The Strategy of Conflict, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), 4–5. 31 Schelling also explained: “The brink is not, in this view, the sharp edge of a cliff where one can stand firmly, look down, and decide whether or not to plunge. The brink is a curved slope that one can stand on with some risk of slipping, the slope gets steeper and the risk of slipping greater as one moves toward the chasm. […] One does not, in brinkmanship, frighten the adversary who is roped to him by getting so close to the edge that if one decides to jump one can do so before anyone can stop him.” Strategy of Conflict, 199. Schelling’s curved slope allegory is slightly confusing, and he should probably also have italicized the negation “not” that precedes “decides.”

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on a slope where common disaster would follow from falling—the threat is not that A might decide to fall: “Brinkmanship involves getting onto the slope where one may fall in spite of his own best effort to save himself, drag­ ging his adversary with him.”32 Brinkmanship, for Schelling, is, therefore, different from a point-blank threat to the adversary. Such an alternative “trip-wire” threat merely consists in saying that if you do not obey, I will jump, and then we will both fall.33 Schelling turns for a moment here from the geometrical calculations of game theory, hinting at an ambiguous real­ ism, where actual decision-making processes can be irrational: “a nation can get even into a major war somewhat inadvertently, by a decision process that might be called ‘imperfect’ in the sense that the response to particular contingencies cannot exactly be foreseen.”34 In semiotic terms, Schelling’s brinkmanship becomes an ironic sign, denying the positive pastiche he has first introduced, by marking out the possible catastrophe: “If […] we recognize that there are ordinary human limitations on the intellectual and emotional ability of governmental deci­ sion makers during the conduct of dangerous maneuvers on the brink of war, it ought to be clear that there is such a thing as getting into a situation from which it looks as though the nation may successfully extricate itself but in which there is some appreciable risk that, try as it does within the limits it allows itself, it may not succeed.”35 Stevenson’s original parody is here matched by the irony of Schelling’s ambiguous conclusion, where the “art” of “controlling” the uncontrollable becomes dependent upon chance.

A textbook crisis Schelling’s fascination with brinkmanship as a rational art was hardly enter­ tained by statesmen approaching the brink of war during the Cuban Missile Crisis, “[t]he textbook crisis of the nuclear age.”36 Of course, other “textbook events” exist, covering a multitude of 20th-century disasters—a library of good and bad examples, from periods before as well as after the invention of the atom bomb. Notably, in the spring of 1962, American historian Barbara Tuchman published her book The Guns of August, which was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for General Non-Fiction the following year. Tuchman had studied the beginning of the First World War, the initial lesson of the 20th century. She highlighted the danger of sticking to rigid plans for military mobilization and 32 Schelling, Strategy of Conflict, 200. 33 The “trip-wire” metaphor is introduced when brinkmanship is explained again in Thomas Schelling, Arms and Influence (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1966), 99–101. 34 Schelling, Strategy of Conflict, 201. The sentence continues: “[…] may depend on certain random or haphazard processes […] faulty information, faulty communication, misun­ derstanding, misuse of authority, panic, or human or mechanical failure.” 35 Schelling, Strategy of Conflict, 203. Also see comments on Schelling in Freedman, Evolution, 206–211. 36 Freedman, Evolution, 231.

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described how even the German Kaiser, who belatedly (in early August 1914) asked for a slowdown, had to comply with the blunt answer from the Chief of the General Staff that “it cannot be done.”37 As shall soon be made clear, Tuchman’s lesson concerning a statesman’s ability to move on the brink of war might has affected the course of events in 1962. It should be noted that the missile crisis negotiations were not referred to as “brinkmanship” by the American leadership. One of President John F. Kennedy’s (1917–1963) senior advisors would have vetoed any suggestion to introduce this terminology as a positive notion: Adlai Stevenson, now ambassador to the UN, was responsible for explaining the American posi­ tion to other diplomats. Since the event, the word has only occasionally been used to portray the policy of the US President.38 But in 1962, the dominant metaphors, possibly established by President Kennedy (in an interview with reporters after the crisis), identified a struggle among presidential advisors between “hawks,” who favored a surprise air attack on Cuba, and “doves,” who wanted to negotiate with the Soviet Union.39 Before the confrontation was dramatized in 1962, Kennedy had experienced a foreign policy setback in the spring of 1961; indeed, it was a small military disaster that would have made him wary of experiments on the brink. Not long after Kennedy’s taking command of the White House, he had authorized CIA plans for a small inva­ sion of Cuba, with the vague aim of starting a rebellion to overthrow Fidel Castro’s revolutionary regime. Instead, the CIA-trained Cuban force of some 1,400 soldiers failed to grow into a political force. The CIA had also under­ estimated the capacity of the regular Cuban army. Kennedy first allowed an initial “secret” bombing of Cuban airports, but refused further air force intervention, which is why the invasion ended in Castro’s victory. Kennedy’s failure on the battlefield of the Bay of Pigs made headlines around the world. In August of the same year, Kennedy was instead awarded a small and pre­ carious victory in Berlin where East German leader Walter Ulbricht decided to build the Berlin Wall, admitting that East Germans wanted to escape

37 Barbara Tuchman, The Guns of August (New York: Macmillan, 1962). 85. In a sense, Tuchman portrayed two perspectives on government: government as statesmanship—a situation where political leaders make strategic choices—as opposed to government as organizational routines. These contrasting perspectives would later make up the analyti­ cal backbone of Allison’s influential explanation of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Graham T. Allison and Philip D. Zelikow, Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis, 2nd ed. (New York: Longman, 1999). 38 Consider the following critique of such assumptions: “The conventional account of the crisis also requires major revision in respect of the notion that the US ‘stood firm’ and exercised brinkmanship to force a Soviet climbdown. Such an account tends to lead to conclusions about the possibility of nuclear diplomacy.” Len Scott and Steve Smith, “Lessons of October: Historians, Political Scientists, Policy-Makers and the Cuban Missile Crisis,” International Affairs (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1944-) 70, no. 4 (1994): 659–684. 39 Ernest May and Philip Zelikow, eds., The Kennedy Tapes: Inside the White House during the Cuban Missile Crisis (New York: Norton, 2001), 136, 463 n. 13.

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their own country, which is why they had to be hindered somehow, the East German dictator assumed. But it was also clear that the Cold War oppo­ nents could not agree upon a common German policy. When Kennedy read Tuchman’s just-published book The Guns of August the following year, he could reflect upon the possible similarities between his own experiences and the European disaster of 1914, when overreliance on military planning trans­ formed a small secret service disaster in peripheral Serbia into a World War. During the missile crisis, according to his brother Robert, John F. Kennedy declared, “I am not going to follow a course which will allow anyone to write a comparable book about this time, The Missiles of October.”40 Kennedy did not want to end up in the history books as a parody of the Kaiser. In the now traditional account, the Cuban Missile Crisis is said to have begun in mid-October 1962.41 Aerial surveillance photos revealed that the Soviet Union—already supporting Castro with tanks, artillery and advisors—was also building launch ramps for larger missiles. The interpretations of such pictures also involved a kind of semiotics—not just of the simpler semantic kind, but also in a more pragmatic sense of trying to understand what the opponent wanted to reveal, as we shall see. Careful semiotic interpretation is called for when words and deeds conver­ gence like this, when agents shape a different narrative to avoid repeating a disastrous example. Kennedy continuously shifted the parallels between past examples and present possibilities, not satisfied with using just one analogy— or paratext, as Genette would say. A key analogy for Kennedy was the 1956 Suez War, the failed Anglo-French effort to prevent Gamal Abdel Nasser from nationalizing the Suez Canal. President Dwight D. Eisenhower had vetoed fur­ ther military action, but the European blunder—imperial powers disregarding a weaker state—had made it difficult for “the West” to criticize the Soviet inva­ sion of Hungary. Might the Soviets, Kennedy wondered in 1962, use a possible American intervention in Cuba as an excuse for invading West Berlin?42

40 Quoted in Robert F. Kennedy, Thirteen Days: A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, new ed. (New York: Norton, 1999 [1968/1971]), 97–98. Concerning Kennedy’s interest in histor­ ical examples, we might refer to his 1955 book Profiles in Courage, but also to an anecdote by Theodore H. White, who recalled a flight with the then presidential candidate in late June 1960. Kennedy was preparing himself, trying to understand his future role in the national decision making system, gathering information, weighing options, communicat­ ing with friends and opponents: “Now he was questioning about China, and his questions came sharp, fast, as the interlocutor responded. Could China have been saved in 1945 and 1946? He asked. What had happened? The interlocutor tried to recall a sequence of decisions far away in Chunking in the fall of 1945, and the candidate cut in: Who made that decision? When? Who had command decision? Why was command decision not exer­ cised? What was Chou En-lai like? Mao Tse-tung?” Theodore H. White, The Making of the President 1960 (New York: Atheneum, 1961), 146. 41 “On Tuesday morning, October 16, 1962…” See Kennedy, Thirteen Days, 19. 42 Ernest May and Philip Zelikov, The Kennedy Tapes: Inside the White House during the Cuban Missile Crisis, (Norton: New York, 2002), 15, 111.

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312 Rolf Hugoson Kennedy was not alone in seeing parallels with Suez. A British cartoon by Victor Weisz published in the Evening Standard on October 25, 1962 con­ tains two drawings, the second a parody of the first. The first bears the date 1956 and the caption “Suez,” and in it, we see Eisenhower holding the coat­ tails of British Prime Minister Anthony Eden, preventing him from walking over the brink. The second drawing is marked Cuba, 1962, and now it is PM Harold Macmillan who merely looks on while President Kennedy is por­ trayed as walking over the brink.43

Dramatizing the crisis The “brink of war” of October 1962 was, thus, a complicated historical situation, different from Schelling’s simple allegory involving agents on a slope. Its complexity increased due to historical continuity and territorial variations when statesmen within a series of conflicts took turns to address each other. The 1961 Bay of Pigs and the crisis in Berlin have already been mentioned. The following year, the Americans gradually learned about the deployment of missiles on Cuba, ordered by Chairman Nikita Khrushchev (1894–1971), planned since the summer by the Soviet military and affected in secret. Kennedy had already made a public pledge in September to protect the United States from possible “offensive weapons” based on Cuba.44 The Americans and the Soviets used various forms of intelligence gath­ ering and diplomatic negotiations, trying to understand what the other was aiming for, before formulating responses. Thus, to suggest that the Soviet missiles in Cuba were equipped with nuclear warheads was at the time merely a reasonable American assumption, one that would help explain why the Soviets had already installed smaller surface-to-air missiles—an exclu­ sive weapon exported to select allies—to protect Cuban airspace in early September. In other words, the assumption that not just missiles but also nuclear arms had arrived in Cuba was not self-evident. As late as 1989, RAND scholar Arnold Horelick tried to understand the rea­ soning of Kennedy’s advisers: “What did the term ‘operational’ mean to you?” Arthur Schlesinger Jr. pointed at the archive and answered: “The CIA report of October 23 estimated that four MRBM [Medium Range Ballistic Missile] sites were operational, but didn’t indicate whether there were warheads there.” Robert McNamara, Secretary of Defense from 1961 to 1968, referred to logic rather than to CIA intelligence: “Well, we put very little trust in CIA estimates 43 Victor Weisz, Evening Standard, October 25, 1962: British Cartoon Archive, University of Kent, VY2030. Accessed May 7, 2020. https://archive.cartoons.ac.uk/Record.aspx? src=CalmView.Catalog&id=VY2030. 44 John F. Kennedy, “US Reaffirms Policy on Prevention of Aggressive Actions by Cuba” (statement September 4, 1962), Department of State Bulletin 47 (September 1962): 450. Accessed May 7, 2020.https://ia801703.us.archive.org/7/items/departmentofstat471962unit_ 0/departmentofstat471962unit_0.pdf; May and Zelikov, Kennedy Tapes, 3–19.

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of when the missiles would be operational. … We had to assume they might have been and we weren’t going to go a route that risked millions of lives.”45 In the fall of 1962, Kennedy was able to treat the Cuban missile deployment as a partial and on-going operation rather than as a preestablished brink to a general war, the abyss where all nuclear weapons available would be used. Indeed, it has been reported that the National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy at first (in September) “contended that we should not treat the mat­ ter [of possible Cuban missiles] as a major issue.”46 After the event, it has also been argued that the American decision makers’ fear of nuclear war occurring through planned escalation should not be mixed up with a fear of an accident, a fear of the hazardous: “It is clear that neither the hawks nor the doves believed there was some highly specifiable random chance that nuclear war would occur, because nuclear war is not a random event.”47 This fear of the random was, for Schelling, an important criterion that made brinkmanship relevant. To the extent that Kennedy practiced such brinkmanship, a vision of accidental catastrophe was arguably presented to his Chiefs of Staff and the leaders in Congress, to whom the President had to demonstrate that he was in control but that the ground was slippery, which was why they should abstain from supple­ menting his policy with too simple solutions when the stakes were so high.48 The situation could have developed into a threat in accordance with Schelling’s brinkmanship pastiche if Khrushchev had been able to point at the completed arsenals and talk about the risk of war. But the Americans man­ aged to set the scene differently. Kennedy’s and his advisors’ redescription of the crisis was decisive, allowing them to prevent Khrushchev from com­ pleting the Cuban missile bases. But Kennedy and “the ExCom” also wanted Khrushchev to remove the weapons from Cuba. After a week of intense secret debate, Kennedy made a public TV address on October 22. The text was also sent to Soviet Foreign Secretary Andrej Gromyko (1909–1989). Kennedy called upon Chairman Khrushchev to join the United States in searching for peace­ ful solutions and to “move the world back from the abyss of destruction.”49 In his long speech, the American President also delivered a carefully worded threat to the Soviet Union: “All ships of any kind bound for Cuba 45 James Blight and David Welch, eds., On the Brink: Americans and Soviets Reexamine the Cuban Missile Crisis (New York: Hill and Wang, 1989), 54–55. 46 George W. Ball, The Past has Another Pattern: Memoirs (New York: Norton, 1982), 289. Johnson (interview 41) recalls that this was a tentative discussion point from Bundy at a later stage. Both agree that this idea was turned down almost immediately. 47 Blight and Welch, On the Brink, 204. However, they might have overestimated the rationality of all agents involved. Cf. Arthur Schlesinger Jr., “Foreword,” in Thirteen Days: A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, new ed., by Robert F. Kennedy (New York: Norton, 1999), 8f. 48 Kennedy, “Tapes,” 109–123, 163–193. 49 John F. Kennedy, “Radio and Television Address to the American People on the Soviet Arms Build-up in Cuba, October 22, 1962,” John F. Kennedy Presidential Library. Accessed April 10, 2019. https://www.jfklibrary.org/learn/about-jfk/historic-speeches/ address-during-the-cuban-missile-crisis.

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314 Rolf Hugoson from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back. This quarantine will be extended, if needed, to other types of cargo and carriers.”50 Furthermore, he said, “[I]t is difficult to settle or even discuss the problems in an atmosphere of intimidation. That is why this latest Soviet threat … will be met with determination. Any hostile move anywhere in the world against the safety and freedom of peo­ ples to whom we are committed—including in particular the brave people of West Berlin—will be met by whatever action is needed.”51 Beyond this diplomatic wording, American superiority in terms of con­ ventional forces close to the Caribbean made the blockage of Cuba a sub­ stantial threat to the Soviet forces.52

Roland Barthes’ and Khrushchev’s threats When Khrushchev in return pointed at the danger of a nuclear war, nobody was surprised. He had made a habit of making such threats, apparently trying to scare the Americans. Repetition can reinforce a message, but it might also make it appear routine. Roland Barthes watched American gangster films in the 1950s and found that a drawn revolver was “not strictly terrifying; it corresponds to a certain inflection of reasoning in a play by Marivaux.” He furthermore argued, “The Colt’s abrupt extraction from the jacket […] in no way signifies death, for the usage has long since indi­ cated that we are dealing with a simple threat […]. The Colt is language, its function is to maintain a pressure of life, to elude time’s closure, it is logos, not praxis.”53 Of course, Barthes’ semiotic interpretation concerned drama enacted on screen with traditional weapons. But it was also possible to make jokes about Khrushchev’s nuclear threats. Already in 1960, a cartoon by Michael Cummings was published in the British newspaper Daily Mail. It depicts John Foster Dulles standing on the top of a cliff, with a happy Khrushchev down below balancing on a small tree or branch protruding from the cliff wall. The caption has Dulles commenting, “To think they once accused me of brinkmanship!”54 50 John F. Kennedy, “Radio and Television Address to the American People on the Soviet Arms Build-up in Cuba, October 22, 1962,” John F. Kennedy Presidential Library. Accessed April 10, 2019. 51 John F. Kennedy, “Radio and Television Address to the American People on the Soviet Arms Build-up in Cuba, October 22, 1962,” John F. Kennedy Presidential Library. Accessed April 10, 2019. 52 Arnold L. Horelick, “The Cuban Missile Crisis: An Analysis of Soviet Calculations and Behavior,” World Politics 16, no. 3 (1964): 363–389. 53 Roland Barthes, The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 44. 54 Michael Cummings, Daily Mail, October 18, 1960: British Cartoon Archive, University of Kent, MC0799. Accessed April 10, 2019. https://archive.cartoons.ac.uk/Record.aspx? src=CalmView.Catalog&id=MC0799&pos=3.

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In the fall of 1962, Khrushchev might have realized that it was precisely the American fear of nuclear war that would make the deployment of Cuban missiles unacceptable. But rather than turning up as an unacceptability that would have forced the Americans to yield, Khrushchev’s weapons were revealed before they were fully loaded. They were not drawn by Khrushchev as a revolver—they were discovered by the Americans. Khrushchev’s motives or goals remain somewhat unclear because of the lack of sources. Moving in secret, he apparently planned to begin bargaining only after the completion of the Cuban bases. The aim involved a moment of surprise, which had to be accompanied by an earlier moment of dissimu­ lation. The operational missiles would have formed a part of the combined Soviet Union nuclear weapons arsenal, a substantial threat: deadly praxis, not merely logos, to paraphrase Barthes. Yet even during the installation phase, Khrushchev was tempted to downplay the threat constructed on Cuba. The initial operation would have to appear more innocent, simply because, ideally, the Americans would not learn about the missiles in advance. Thus, Robert F. Kennedy recalls that when he first contacted the Soviet Ambassador, Dobrynin explained that “[Robert] could assure the President that this mili­ tary buildup was not of any significance.”55 The Soviets worried about premature discovery, but their search for signs was coded by apprehensions—as were the American interpretations: “Doubtless the U.S. reaction to the arrival of each new type of weapon was closely observed in Moscow. However, the problem of interpretation must have become increasingly difficult over time, because as the character of the weapons shipped to Cuba grew more complex, their delivery and deploy­ ment became increasingly covert. It was uncertain if the U.S. Government was tacitly accepting the presence of new Soviet weapons – or if they just had not yet learned of their arrival. If so, the Soviet leaders evidently resolved these uncertainties in favor of assuming U.S. toleration.”56 At that moment, Khrushchev made a last-ditch effort to downplay his threat, likening the Cuban weapons to “a smelly goat.” According to Khrushchev, the Soviet Union had its “goats” (American nuclear missiles) in Italy, Greece and Turkey—now, the United States had its goat in Cuba. The Americans might not like their goat, but simply had to get along with it, Khrushchev argued.57 Despite the apparent logic, in semiotic terms, the persuasive effect of the threat about the risk of a full-scale nuclear war was blunted by the simulta­ neous argument that nuclear weapons could easily be tolerated.

55 Kennedy, Thirteen Days, 21.

56 Horelick, “The Cuban Missile Crisis,” 280.

57 Nikita Khrushchev, “Khrushchev’s Conversation with Mr. W.E. Knox, President

Westinghouse Electrical International, Moscow, October 24.” Accessed May 20, 2020. https://static.history.state.gov/frus/frus1961-63v10-12mSupp/pdf/d419.pdf.

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316 Rolf Hugoson

Kennedy’s statesmanship During the event, “the abyss” or “the brink” was mentioned, but rarely in an effort at game-theoretical bargaining, where the risk of falling together is highlighted. As we have seen, Khrushchev tried to portray the Cuban missiles as “business as usual.” Kennedy successfully portrayed his actions as a turn away from the abyss. Khrushchev was forced to negotiate the Cuban missiles as a separate and uncompleted entity, a tolerable threat to the Americans. The Cuban missiles were not portrayed as an area of insecurity in the same sense as the whole Soviet arsenal or, more generally, global thermonuclear war. On October 22, Kennedy could persuasively argue that the “quarantine” (a carefully planned euphemism for blockade) of Cuba would increase the security of the region. If the bases were not completed, there would be fewer weapons. On Friday evening the same week (October 26), Washington received Khrushchev’s first letter to the president “on teletype”: it was “per­ sonal, discursive, and emotional” and included an offer to withdraw the missiles, if President Kennedy promised not to invade Cuba.58 Later in the evening there instead followed, broadcast on radio, a new message: “it bore the unmistakable marks of an official communication … to our dismay, it changed the terms of the offer by establishing a paral­ lel between the Soviet missiles in Cuba and our Jupiters in Turkey.”59 The ExCom first considered replying to the second letter in the negative. Robert F. Kennedy proposed an alternative, described by George Ball as an exam­ ple of “what McGeorge Bundy would later call the Trollope ploy—evoking the image of a Victorian maiden who would construe even the tiniest ges­ ture as a marriage proposal she could then eagerly accept. Why not … sim­ ply ignore the second formal note? Why not reply to Khrushchev’s personal letter as though the second note had not existed?”60 The ExCom elected to reinterpret the order of the messages, pretending that the second version had not compromised the first Soviet bid. So a message received its func­ tional role during the negotiations not just because of its actual content but also because of the recipient’s interpretive choices. Careful planning—and brainstorming—had preceded the initial pres­ entation of the American attitude and the terms for the negotiations to be carried out.61 The ensuing positions of the adversaries and their respective allies were manipulated by the order of presentation, not just by the contents 58 59 60 61

Ball, Past has Another Pattern, 304. Ball, Past has Another Pattern, 305. Ball, Past has Another Pattern, 307. When the long initial debates in the ExCom ended with President Kennedy’s decision to make his public speech, the experienced diplomat Alexis Johnson also set down their plan in what he called a three-page “scenario”: “in very simple terms the exact action, both military and political, to be taken in various stages.” Alexis Johnson, “Oral History Interview,” John F. Kennedy Presidential Library, JFK#1, 6/18/64, 11/07/64, 48. Accessed May 20, 2020. https://www.jfklibrary.org/asset-viewer/archives/JFKOH/Johnson%2C%20 U.%20Alexis/JFKOH-UAJ-01/JFKOH-UAJ-01.

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of the speeches, letters and pictures revealed to the public or to the adver­ sary. The diachronic process changed the positions of the players, a semiotic interpretation suggests. The different roles for the agents involved were con­ structed in part through constitutional arrangements and more (the United States) or less (the Soviet Union) democratic politics that obliged agents to follow a specific sequence of actions—but these arrangements were contin­ uously modified: agents staged surprises for their opponents, they gathered new intelligence, and they recollected historical examples that redefined as analogies offered clues on how to avoid repeating fatal mistakes. Kennedy “immediately”—after a week of secret military preparations— revealed pictures of the missiles and told the world that a “quarantine” would begin. Kennedy’s persuasive campaign also allowed him to keep the military planning machinery in reins while arguing that he wanted to move away from the brink. Indeed, he also made Khrushchev an offer, but this was kept secret until 1978, although it is briefly referred to in Robert F. Kennedy’s 1968 memoir.62 The point is not that such statesmanship will always be successful or resistant to critique, transformations and transfigu­ rations. It has often been argued that the Cuban Missile Crisis introduced an era of détente.63 But the peaceful solution did not end the Cold War or stop the production of nuclear warheads. What Kennedy did was set an example by avoiding being entangled in parodical brinkmanship. Instead, he reinforced the traditional institution of statesmanship as personal lead­ ership, with some concern for collective deliberation.

Trump again In 2018, President Trump acted in a different historical situation, although reporters identified a likeness with Cold War scenes. They reflected upon the duel between Trump and Kim Jong-un as a form of brinkmanship.64 Indeed, there is something of Khrushchev in Trump’s boasting about his nuclear arsenal. But Trump also superficially respects some of the nuclear taboo by talking about his powerful button, rather than about his powerful weapons. Again we can recall how Barthes found that the drawn revolver in the gangster movies signified “merely a threat.” However, when Barthes dismissed the revolver, this was in contrast with the real action brought about by the gangster boss snapping his fingers to command a “burst of gunfire,” a gesture that according to Barthes truly signifies death: Phenomena which common philosophy still judges to be considerable, such as the death of a man, are reduced to a diagram, presented under the volume of an infinitesimal gesture: two fingers snapped, and at the other end of our field of vision a man falls down in the same convention 62 Schlesinger, “Foreword,” 13.

63 Louis Halle, The Cold War as History (London: Chatto & Windus, 1967).

64 See footnote 3 above.

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318 Rolf Hugoson of movement. […] The exiguity of the decisive gesture has a whole mythological tradition, from the numen of the ancient gods, who with a nod overturned men’s fate, down to the tap of the fairy’s wand.”65 Returning to Trump, we realize that the focus on the button signifies the pres­ ence of a mechanism that once initiated moves automatically, quickly and cat­ astrophically. The button signifies the short step between a command and the deaths of thousands or millions, an electromechanical scenario that would make the rapid mobilization of 1914 seem like slow motion. Trump’s bragging about his button (his ability to snap his fingers), thus, resembles brinkman­ ship according to Stevenson’s original parody of statesmanship: “boasting of his brinkmanship—the art of bringing us to the edge of the nuclear abyss.” Of course, that infamous tweet was a brief moment, followed by other announcements and diplomatic proceedings. Despite Plato’s efforts in envi­ sioning an ideal Republic, statesmanship has never had clear contours. Contemporary affairs of state and foreign policy more typically appear as complex assemblages, incorporating geopolitics and ideological conflict as well as international trade and the global challenges of climate change. Lurking in the shadows, opportunities for brinkmanship remain.

Works cited Abella, Alex. Soldiers of Reason: The RAND Corporation and the Rise of the American Empire. Harcourt: New York, 2008. Allison, Graham T. and Philip D. Zelikow Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis. 2nd ed. New York: Longman, 1999. Ball, George W. The Past has Another Pattern: Memoirs. New York: Norton, 1982. Blight, James and David Welch, eds. On the Brink: Americans and Soviets Reexamine the Cuban Missile Crisis. New York, NY: Hill and Wang, 1989. Barthes, Roland. The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Chernobyl Gallery. “Timeline.” Chernobyl Gallery. Accessed May 5, 2019. http:// www.chernobylgallery.com/chernobyl-disaster/timeline/. Cochran, Bert. Adlai Stevenson: Patrician Among the Politicians. New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1969. Cummings, Michael. Daily Mail, October 18, 1960: British Cartoon Archive, University of Kent, MC0799. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://archive.cartoons. ac.uk/Record.aspx?src=CalmView.Catalog&id=MC0799&pos=3. Darbo-Peschanski, Catherine. L’Historia: Commencements grecs. Paris: Gallimard/ folio essays, 2007. Dulles, John Foster. “The Evolution of Foreign Policy.” The Department of State Bulletin 30, no. 751 (1954): 107–110. Dulles, John Foster. “Policy for Security and Peace.” Foreign Affairs 32, no. 3 (1954): 353–364.

65 Barthes, The Eiffel Tower, 43.

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Freedman, Lawrence. The Evolution of Nuclear Strategy. 3rd ed. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Gambino, Lauren. “Donald Trump boasts that his nuclear button is bigger than Kim Jong-un’s.” The Guardian, January 3, 2018. https://www.theguardian. com/us-news/2018/jan/03/donald-trump-boasts-nuclear-button-bigger-kim­ jong-un. Genette, Gérard. Palimpsestes: la littérature au second degree. 2nd ed. Paris: Seuil, 1992. Haas, Benjamin. “North Korea is Still Developing Nuclear Weapons, Says IAEA.” The Guardian, August 22, 2018. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/aug/22/ north-korea-still-developing-nuclear-weapons-iaea-report-un. Haas, Benjamin. “North Korea: Secret Missile Site Revealed in New Satellite Images.” The Guardian, December 6, 2018. https://www.theguardian.com/ world/2018/dec/06/north-korea-secret-missile-site-upgrades-satellite-images. Halle, Louis. The Cold War as History. London: Chatto & Windus, 1967. Harding, H.F., R. Lasch, B. Baskerville, D. Ehninger and E.J. Wrage. “Rhetoric and the Campaign of 1956.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 43 (1956): 29–54. Heuser, Beatrice. Reading Clausewitz. London: Pimlico, 2002. Horelick, Arnold L. “The Cuban Missile Crisis: An Analysis of Soviet Calculations and Behavior.” World Politics 16, no. 3 (1964): 363–389. Johnson, Alexis. “Oral History Interview.” John F. Kennedy Presidential Library, JFK#1, 6/18/64, 11/07/64, 48. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://www.jfklibrary.org/ asset-viewer/archives/JFKOH/Johnson%2C%20U.%20Alexis/JFKOH-UAJ-01/ JFKOH-UAJ-01. Kahn, Herman. Thinking About the Unthinkable. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1962. Kaplan, Fred. The Wizards of Armageddon. New York: Touchstone, 1983. Kennedy, John F. “US Reaffirms Policy on Prevention of Aggressive Actions by Cuba” (statement September 4, 1962), Department of State Bulletin 47 (September 1962): 450. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://ia801703.us.archive.org/7/items/ departmentofstat471962unit_0/departmentofstat471962unit_0.pdf. Kennedy, John F. “Radio and Television Address to the American People on the Soviet Arms Build-up in Cuba, October 22, 1962.” John F. Kennedy Presidential Library. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://www.jfklibrary.org/learn/about-jfk/ historic-speeches/address-during-the-cuban-missile-crisis. Kennedy, Robert F. Thirteen Days: A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, New ed. New York: Norton, 1999 [1968/1971]. Khrushchev, Nikita. “Khrushchev’s Conversation with Mr. W.E. Knox, President Westinghouse Electrical International, Moscow, October 24.” Accessed May 5, 2019. https://static.history.state.gov/frus/frus1961-63v10-12mSupp/pdf/d419.pdf. Kristensen, Hans and Robert Norris. “Status of World Nuclear Forces.” American Federation of Scientists (2018): https://fas.org/issues/nuclear-weapons/sta­ tus-world-nuclear-forces/. Accessed May 5, 2019. Luce, Henry R. “A Statement by the Editor-in-Chief.” Life Magazine, January 30, 1956. Martel, Gordon. Modern Germany Reconsidered: 1870–1945. London: Routledge, 2002. May, Ernest and Philip Zelikow, eds. The Kennedy Tapes: Inside the White House during the Cuban Missile Crisis (Norton: New York, 2002).

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Noak, Rick. “Under Trump, Nuclear Brinkmanship is the New Normal.” Washington Post, January 3, 2018. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/ worldviews/wp/2018/01/03/under-trump-the-threat-of-nuclear-war-is-the-new­ normal/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.26d53e596151. Pifer, Steven. “RIP INF: The End of a Landmark Treaty.” Brookings.edu. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://www.brookings.edu/blog/order-from-chaos/2018/11/01/rip-inf­ the-end-of-a-landmark-treaty/ Ratcliffe, Susan. Concise Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Reuters. “Russia Missile Violates ‘Spirit and Intent’ of Arms Treaty, Top US General Says.” The Guardian, March 8, 2017. https://www.theguardian.com/ world/2017/mar/08/russia-cruise-missile-violates-treaty-us-general. Reynolds, David. Summits: Six Meetings that Shaped the Twentieth Century. New York, NY: Basic Books, 2007. Rhodes, Richard. The Making of the Atomic Bomb. 2nd ed. London: Penguin, 1988. Ricoeur, Paul. Temps et récit, vol. 2. 2nd ed. Paris: Seuil, 1991. Schelling, Thomas. The Strategy of Conflict. 2nd ed. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980. Schelling, Thomas. Arms and Influence. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1966. Schlesinger, Arthur Jr. “Foreword.” In Thirteen Days: A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, new ed., by Robert F. Kennedy. New York: Norton, 1999. Scott, Len and Steve Smith. “Lessons of October: Historians, Political Scientists, Policy-Makers and the Cuban Missile Crisis.” International Affairs (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1944-) 70, no. 4 (1994): 659–684. Sevastopulo, Demetri and Bryan Harris. “Explainer: Trump and Kim’s summit brinkmanship.” Financial Times, May 30, 2018. https://www.ft.com/content/ dcc48a64-63b3-11e8-a39d-4df188287fff. Shepheard, David. “Nuclear Strategy/Nuclear Poetics.” Paragraph 9, no. 1 (1987): 31–48. Shepley, James. “How Dulles Averted War: Three Times He Brought U.S. Back from the Brink.” Life Magazine, January 16, 1956, 70–79. Stevenson, Adlai. “Excerpts from Address by Stevenson.” New York Times, February 26, 1956. Tannenwald, Nina. “The Nuclear Taboo: The United States and the Normative Basis of Nuclear Non-use.” International Organization 53, no. 3 (1999): 433–468. Trump, Donald (@realDonaldTrump). “North Korean leader Kim Jong Un…” January 2, 2018, 16:49. https://twitter.com/realdonaldtrump/status/948355557022420992. Tuchman, Barbara. The Guns of August. New York: Macmillan, 1962. Weisz, Victor. Evening Standard, October 25, 1962: British Cartoon Archive, University of Kent, VY2030. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://archive.cartoons. ac.uk/Record.aspx?src=CalmView.Catalog&id=VY2030. White, Theodor H. The Making of the President 1960. New York: Atheneum, 1961.

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Index

Ador, Gustave 82 Alien Enemy Act 81 Alien Property Custodian 83, 86, 92 American Civil War 40, 41 Arco auf Valley, Anton Graf von 111 Aristotle 4, 190 Asia 50, 183, 185, 290 Atlanta, Georgia 87, 88 Augustine of Hippo 4 Bangladesh 11, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 189, 190, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197 Barthes, Roland 1, 7, 9, 165, 168, 314, 315, 317 Barton, Clara 41 Bavaria 100, 101, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 113, 115, 116 Belgium 146, 160, 162, 305 Berlin 41, 50, 51, 111, 115, 119, 206, 287, 310, 311, 312, 314 Bingold, Konrad 85, 87, 93 Biosemiotics 6 Blackstone, William 81 British Empire 10, 30, 134, 137, 139, 155 Boer War 42, 174 Bodø 10, 48, 159, 160, 171, 172, 173, 174, 176, 177, 178, 180 Bolshevism 11, 106, 107, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 174, 246, 287, 288 Brecht, Bertolt 12, 201, 210, 211, 213, 214, 216, 217, 218, 220 brinkmanship 12, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 310, 313, 314, 317, 318 Burckhardt, Carl J. 50, 51 Catalonia 23 Charles II, King of Spain 20, 26

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Charles III, Archduke of Austria 20 Charles VI, Holy Roman Emperor 23 Churchill, John, 1st Duke of Marlborough 30 Churchill, Winston 106 collaboration 11, 51, 52, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 133, 136, 142, 149, 154, 155, 158, 159, 181, 230, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 269, 271, 275, 278, 279 commemoration 2, 3, 8, 9, 10, 11, 111, 183, 189, 195 communication 2, 6, 7, 18, 29, 31, 32, 83, 99, 128, 131, 132, 166, 167, 168, 179, 187, 194, 202, 210, 222, 284, 288, 291, 316 Criminal Law, Norway (1902) 265, 267, 269 Cuba 310, 311, 312, 314, 315 Cuban Missile Crisis 304, 309, 311, 317 Directorate for Compensation 268 Dulles, John Foster 305, 306, 307, 314 Dunant, Henry 39 Eberhard Louis, Duke of Württemberg 22 Eckart, Dietrich 112, 113, 114 Eco, Umberto 2, 6, 288 economic treason 259, 260, 261, 262, 264, 265, 267, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276 Eisenhower, Dwight D. 305, 306, 311, 312 Eisner, Kurt 108, 109, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115, 116, 124 enemy aliens 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 102 extreme right 160, 229, 253

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322

Index

fascism 128, 169, 229, 230, 231, 235, 241, 253, 256, 257, 297 Federation of Norwegian Industries 261 Fermann, Olaf Willy 51, 52, 53 First Geneva Convention 37, 39 First World War 11, 42, 43, 44, 79, 80, 81, 103, 107, 108, 111, 115, 124, 309 Fort Douglas, Utah 87, 88 Fort McPherson, Georgia 87, 88, 90 Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia 11, 80, 81, 85, 87, 88, 91, 94, 102 Foucault’s Pendulum 6 France 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 42, 57, 58, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 71, 73, 160, 242 Franco-Prussian War 41 Galicia 115 Geertruidenberg 19, 21, 22 German-Americans 87 German Chamber of Commerce 50 Germanophobia 84 German Revolution 11, 107, 114, 115, 117, 124 Goebbels, Joseph 107, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 146, 148, 282, 283, 285, 286, 288, 289, 291 Goldschmidt, Richard 92 Grand Alliance 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 31, 33, 34 Great Britain 11, 20, 21, 24, 25, 29, 85, 129, 133, 136, 137, 145, 146, 151, 152, 153, 155 Gromyko, Andrej 313 Hagen, Arnulf 49 Hasperg, Gustav von 91 Heyerdahl, Fridtjof 50, 51, 52 Hitler, Adolf 50, 66, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118, 119, 121, 122, 135, 142, 143, 144, 146, 148, 158, 243, 254, 282, 283, 285, 287, 289, 290, 292, 294, 303 Hot Springs, North Carolina 92 ideology 8, 9, 118, 144, 153, 169, 170, 174, 218, 222, 229, 230, 231, 232, 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, 241, 242, 245, 253, 254, 256, 282, 283, 286, 288, 293 India 139, 183, 185, 186, 187, 191, 192 Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty 302 International Committee of the Red Cross 82

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interpretation 5, 10, 54, 57, 58, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 67, 70, 71, 73, 93, 112, 115, 129, 181, 190, 191, 196, 229, 235, 249, 253, 276, 278, 311, 314, 315, 317 James Francis Edward Stuart 21 Japan 42, 44, 306 Japanese Red Cross 42, 45 Judeo-Bolshevism 11, 106, 107, 111, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124 jurisprudence 259, 260, 263, 264, 265, 267, 273, 274, 278, 279 Kennedy, John F. 310, 311, 312, 313, 315, 316, 317 Khrushchev, Nikita S. 312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317 Kim Jong-un 301, 317 language 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 12, 56, 58, 61, 62, 63, 65, 70, 71, 79, 80, 81, 86, 98, 100, 103, 131, 134, 146, 154, 159, 164, 165, 167, 168, 171, 174, 178, 179, 180, 181, 185, 188, 202, 203, 209, 213, 214, 219, 222, 260, 273, 282, 284, 285, 286, 288, 291, 292, 294, 297, 303, 314 legitimization 2, 3, 8, 187 Lenin, Vladimir I. 106, 108, 113, 114, 283, 284 Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor 20 Levin, Hanoch 12, 201, 217, 218, 220, 221, 222, 223 Liberation War, Bangladesh 11, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 189, 192, 194, 195, 196, 197 Liebknecht, Karl 110 London 25, 64, 128, 160, 161, 162, 187, 196, 233, 265, 266, 270, 275 Louis XIV, King of France 20, 21, 22, 23, 26, 27, 28, 29 Luxemburg, Rosa 110, 111, 115 Mackiewicz, Józef 12, 282, 284, 285, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297 Meinich, Jens 45, 46 Mein Kampf 112, 115, 148, 282, 283 Ministry of Information, Great Britain 128 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 285 Moscow 109, 111, 287, 292, 294, 315 Moynier, Gustave 40, 43 Munich 108, 111, 112, 113, 115

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Index Murder 12, 201, 217, 219 Murkus, Bashar 12, 201, 220, 221, 223 Nansen, Fridtjof 45, 250 Napoleon 41 Narvik 48, 49, 159, 160, 167, 168, 169, 171, 173, 176, 180 Nasjonal Samling 46, 158, 160, 170, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 242, 245, 247, 249, 250, 252, 253, 254, 255, 259, 266, 274 National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) 107, 230 New Middle East 12, 201, 220, 222 North Africa 50 North Sea 159 Norwegian Association of Lawyer 267 Norwegian Red Cross 39, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53 Noyes, Charles 88 nuclear arms 301, 302, 303, 304, 307, 312 Nuremberg 85, 120, 123, 247 Orgelsdorfer Eulenspiegel 11, 80, 94, 95, 98, 103 Oslo 47, 51, 169, 172, 173, 217, 230, 244, 265, 266, 268, 272, 274, 275 Paris 25, 28, 29, 31, 58 Pakistan 183, 185, 186, 187, 192, 193, 194 Pavenstedt, Adolf 91, 92 Pavenstedt, Paula 91 Peace 10, 11, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 38, 43, 51, 63, 108, 119, 136, 139, 142, 151, 153, 154, 166, 217 219, 222, 294, 295, 303, 304 Peace of Westphalia 17, 41 Peirce, Charles S. 5, 57, 58, 59, 62, 64, 67, 69, 70, 73, 166, 167, 169, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 197, 270 Penrose, Charles 93, 98 Philip V of Anjou 20, 21, 28 Picture Post 134 Poland 146, 284, 285, 289, 290, 291, 295 Polish Army 284 Polish-Soviet War 284 prisoner of war (POW) 43, 44, 47, 48, 50, 51, 88, 102, 262 propaganda 9, 11, 81, 106, 107, 114, 115, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152,

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323

153, 154, 155, 173, 187, 188, 203, 230, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297, 303 Quisling, Vidkun 12, 68, 158, 162, 163, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 176, 179, 180, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 266, 268, 270, 271, 274 Red Cross 11, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 82, 85, 103 Red Cross Civil Air Defence Group 49 Ricoeur, Paul 57, 59, 60, 61, 67, 70 Rørholt, Arnold 51 Rosenberg, Alfred 112, 121 Russian Revolution 106, 107, 108 Russo-Turkish War 42, 43 Saleh, Moataz Abu 12, 201, 220, 221, 223 Saussure, Ferdinand de 5, 18, 58, 70, 164, 190, 205 Second Geneva Convention 43 Second World War 11, 38, 39, 45, 48, 57, 61, 62, 63, 66, 69, 72, 73, 117, 123, 128, 129, 130, 149, 161, 162, 165, 167, 168, 180, 181, 202, 282, 285, 297 semantics 2, 6, 10, 12, 17, 19, 20, 26, 60, 64, 124, 132, 169, 206, 207, 260, 275, 278, 279, 294, 295 semiotics 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 15, 37, 53, 56, 58, 60, 61, 63, 68, 73, 77, 79, 80, 91, 96, 101, 102, 117, 121, 123, 124, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 158, 159, 161, 164, 165, 167, 168, 176, 179, 180, 181, 189, 190, 194, 196, 197, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 207, 210, 213, 215, 216, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 227, 229, 231, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 241, 242, 245, 247, 250, 251, 252, 254, 255, 256, 257, 260, 267, 273, 275, 279, 284, 288, 299, 302, 304, 307, 311 sign system 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 80, 81, 97 Singapore 301 South Asia 183, 185 Soviet Union 48, 108, 118, 123, 124, 282, 283, 285, 286, 287, 291, 292, 293, 294, 296, 297, 305, 306, 310, 311, 313, 315

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Spain 11, 20, 23, 26, 28, 40, 128, 129, 133, 134, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 149, 150, 152, 153, 154, 155 Stalin, Joseph 122, 283, 284, 287, 289, 290, 291, 292, 294, 295 Steen, Sigrid 49 Stereotypes 132, 229, 285, 290 Stockholm 266, 267, 269, 275 Stonehouse, John 187 Swift, Jonathan 30 Terboven, Josef 46, 160, 179, 231 The Name of the Rose 6 theory of codes 2 theory of sign production 2, 7 The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny 12, 201, 212, 214 Thirty Years’ War 19

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Thommessen, Øystein 264 Till Eulenspiegel 94, 98 Trump, Donald 301, 302, 317, 318 Uexküll, Jakob von 6 Uniform 8, 37, 40, 134, 135, 231, 296 United States 11, 40, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 86, 87, 88, 103, 186, 302, 305, 312, 313, 315, 317 Utrecht 19, 28, 31, 32, 33 Vilnius 284, 289, 291, 292 Vogt, Lorentz 261 War of the Spanish Succession 10, 17, 20 Wehrmacht 46, 276, 283, 289 Weill, Kurt 201, 210, 211, 212, 214, 216 Wilson, Woodrow 82, 84, 85, 86, 87

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