BLOOD AND IRON: THE RISE AND FALL OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE
By Katja Hoyer, Pegasus, 253 pages, $27.95
I For Germany became a nation — the Second Reich — on Jan. 17, 1871. The ceremony to mark unification took place not in Munich, Frankfurt, or Berlin, but at the Palace of Versailles. That setting was an indication of the new nation’s fragility. Otto von Bismarck, the architect of unification, understood that to hold the ceremony in a German city would foment jealousy among the fractious states that had reluctantly agreed upon unity. Versailles instead symbolized something distinctly German: namely, victory in the war against France.
Bismarck insisted that unity could be forged only in war. A common struggle against an external enemy would turn Bavarians, Saxons, and Prussians into Germans. He engineered three unifying wars: first against Denmark in 1864, then against Austria in 1866, and finally against France in 1870. Before those conflicts, “Germany” was a loose collection of 39 states unable to agree on much of anything. Distinctiveness was the stuff of pride. As Katja Hoyer writes in Blood and Iron: The Rise and Fall of the German Empire, the new nation was “a mosaic, hastily glued together with the blood of its enemies.”
A nation forged in war, however, required perpetual conflict to preserve that tenuous unity. When Germans looked outward they felt genuinely German; when they looked inward, they perceived myriad points of conflict. Ancient chauvinisms were exacerbated by modern incongruities — between rich and poor, Protestant and Catholic, rural and urban, socialist and conservative. For disparate Germans to come together required a common sense of embattlement. “The system fell because it was flawed from the outset,” argues Hoyer, “built on foundations of war, not fraternity.”
Unification was a work of genius that required a genius to make it work. Bismarck was a cacophony of contradictions: an autocrat who fostered democracy, a fierce Prussian who promoted German nationalism, an ultraconservative who courted socialists, a warmonger who mastered diplomacy. His strength lay in his willingness to defy his own political instincts. Under his supposedly conservative guidance, Germany developed the most advanced social welfare system in the world. Contradictions were tolerated in the pragmatic interest of a strong nation. That was the essence of Bismarckian realpolitik.
Bismarck was fortunate to be left alone to craft his vision, free from monarchical meddling. Kaiser Wilhelm I was a die-hard Prussian who despised the notion of German unity. For him, that ceremony at Versailles was “the unhappiest day of my life” because it led to “the burial of the Prussian monarchy.” He was therefore content to let his chancellor shape the new nation in the manner he saw fit.
Bismarck’s autonomy lasted until 1888, when Wilhelm II assumed the throne. In stark contrast to his grandfather, the new kaiser believed fervently in German nationalism and demanded “our place in the sun.” For Bismarck, that promised disaster. Wilhelm, he argued, was a “hothead
Succinctness is an impressive and sadly undervalued quality in an author. … Katja Hoyer manages to pepper her trim narrative with some lovely frills. The mark of a really good short book is its ability to inspire curiosity. Blood and Iron achieves just that.
[who] could not hold his tongue, was susceptible to flatterers, and was capable of plunging Germany into a war without knowing what he was doing.”
Hoyer describes Wilhelm as “whimsical, outrageous and ... foolish.” His antics seem delightfully bizarre until we remind ourselves that he was important and powerful. “The kaiser is like a balloon,” Bismarck reflected, “if you don’t keep fast hold of the string, you never know where he will be off to.” Wilhelm, however, did not want to be tethered. He was a neo-absolutist, a 20th-century monarch with 16th-century instincts. “The will of the King is the highest law,” he insisted. “One cannot help but observe similarities to certain modern politicians,” Hoyer reflects.
Wilhelm could not tolerate a strong chancellor. As Hoyer writes, he wanted instead a “sock puppet” to implement his every whim. That proved intolerable for Bismarck, who resigned in 1890. The genius gave way to the buffoon. Thereafter, Germany became the kaiser writ large, the nation’s aspirations an outgrowth of the kaiser’s insecurities. A supremely covetous man, he wanted an empire and a navy because Britain had both. His grandiose desires, writes Hoyer, were eventually achieved, but only “in exchange for diplomatic isolation and looming economic catastrophe.”
Wilhelm did not specifically want a world war, but that was the logical outcome of his erratic behavior. This story, Hoyer reflects, ends “where it had started: in blood and iron,” but “the First World War proved to be too much blood and iron for the young state.”
There’s nothing particularly new in this assessment. The most impressive feature of this book is not its thesis but its brevity. Until now, I didn’t realize that it was possible to write a short book about Germany. Succinctness is an impressive and sadly undervalued quality in an author. A strict word count is a cruel tyrant; difficult decisions about what goes in have to be made and creativity inevitably curtailed. Hoyer nevertheless manages to pepper her trim narrative with some lovely frills. The mark of a really good short book is its ability to inspire curiosity. Blood and Iron achieves just that.
Careless historians often draw a straight line from Bismarck to Hitler. That, Hoyer argues, is “simplistic.” There’s much to admire in what Bismarck created and Wilhelm ruined. Important elements of the Second Reich survive in today’s Germany, a nation widely respected as stable, mature, and responsible. What this story reveals is how easily governmental institutions can be destroyed when people are led astray by intoxicating notions of a place in the sun. That, perhaps, is a lesson for us all.