Journal articles on the topic 'Italy – History – German occupation, 1943-1945'

This article compares Italian and German memory cultures of Fascism and Nazism using an analysis of Italian and West- and East-German satirical magazines published from 1943 to 1963. In the early post-war period, as a consequence of the anti-Fascist and anti-Nazi policies in Italy and in Germany that had been put into effect by the Allied occupation authorities, a significant part of the Italian and German public felt anxiety regarding the Fascist and the Nazi past and feared these past regimes as potential sources of contamination. But many, both in Italy and Germany, also reacted by denying that their country needed any sort of ‘purification’. This article’s main argument is that the interaction between these two conflicting positions exercised different effects in the three contexts considered. In Italy, especially during the years after 1948, the satirical press produced images that either rendered Fascism banal or praised it, representing it as a phenomenon which was an ‘internal’ and at least partly positive product of Italian society. I define this process as a sweetening ‘internalization’ of Fascism. In East Germany, by contrast, Nazism was represented through images linking the crimes committed in the Nazi concentration camps, depicted as a sort of ‘absolute evil’, with the leadership of the FRG, considered ‘external’ to ‘true’ German society. I define this process as a ‘demonizing’ externalization of Nazism, by which I mean a tendency to represent Nazism as a ‘monstrous’ phenomenon. In the West German satirical press, on the other hand, Nazism was not only ‘externalized’ by comparing it to the East German Communist dictatorship, but also ‘internalized’ by implying that it was a negative product of German society in general and by calling for public reflection on responsibility for the Nazi crimes, including West Germany as the Nazi regime’s successor. The demonization of the regime also played a crucial role in this self-critical ‘internalization’ of Nazism.

Abstract This piece of research aims to present a historiographical and methodological review of the history of the Jesuits, the civilian population and the military troops during the German military occupation in Italy between 1943 and 1945. The analysis of hitherto unexplored sources, accessible since 2 March 2020, allows historians to explore the archival heritage that was produced by the different religious communities of the Society of Jesus present in rural and urban territories, which carried out functions of education, pastoral care and assistance in the communities of reference. The analysis of the role and function of the religious orders as observers of ‚Great History‘ to tell the story of the life of the civilian population in the years of the Second World War and under military occupation represents a privileged point of view that still awaits investigation.

About 2,000 Jews were deported from Rome during the nine months of German occupation, half of them after the infamous German razzia of 16 October 1943. Who took part in their identification and arrest? Italian historiography has most commonly focused on a few ardent Fascist collaborators, while the majority of Italians were proclaimed to be engaged in rescue operations for persecuted Jews. Due to the long-standing hegemony of the notion of ‘italiani brava gente’ and the taboo against discussing Italian collaboration, almost no studies of the Jewish persecution during the German occupation in Italy have been undertaken. The analysis of over 50 trials against Fascist collaborators offers insight into the caccia all'ebreo on the micro-level of occupied Rome. Elaborating on different forms of denunciations characterizing the persecution as well as the diverse motives of the Italian perpetrators, this article presents a comprehensive picture of the collaboration between German occupation forces and the population of Rome.

Albania was considered "a wild province" by the British missions that served in the "land of the eagles"during the Second World War. First, the Italian occupation and then the German occupation created the ground forthe anti-fascist national liberation war, carried out by various political forces operating in the country at that time.This paper aims to analyze the approaches and controversies of the civil war in Albania through the lens of Britishmilitary missions’ (SOE) official documents, Albanian archival documentation as well as from the literature ofvarious authors. Referring to this documentation, the beginning of the civil war in Albania is related to thecapitulation of Italy in September 1943 and the arrival of the German army, which occupied Albania, Yugoslaviaand Greece in three weeks. Domestic political situation in Albania was strained because off encountered difficultiesin creating a common front by the nationalist forces. The main rivalry was between a part of National Front calledBalli Kombetar (BK) and Albanian Communist Party (ACP). BK was a republican, liberal and nationalist wingorganization with an anti-communist program. Meanwhile, ACP identified itself with the National Liberation Front.In the vortex of these events, in August 1943 it was organized a meeting called “Mukje Meeting” due to the name ofthe village where it was held. The two rival political forces concluded an agreement, which lasted only one month;the communists cancelled it under the directives of the Yugoslavs because it meant equal power for both politicalforces and territorial unification with Kosovo after the war. These and other decisions were officially announced atthe next conference organized by APC, called Labinot Conference II (September 1943). At the Central Archives ofAlbania it is found a circular - letter of October 1, year 1943 addressed to the APC Committees. Through it EnverHoxha, as the secretary of APC opposed the union of BK forces with National Front, describing them as enemies.From this moment and on began the civil war. The confrontations are confirmed by the reports of SOE addressed tothe British Foreign Ministry; it was reported that only 10% of the British weapons given to the communists wereused in the war against the Germans, while the rest, 90% of them were used to fight the opponents (BK). Communisthistoriography denied the existence of civil war by censoring the history learned by Albanians for 45 years. After thefall of the communist regime, it was a necessary reviewing and rewriting the history of Albania. Even today,historians share different opinions regarding the period of World War II and especially the (in)existence of the civilwar. The fact that Albania has had a civil war reflected in the struggle for power, just like the countries of the region,does not at all diminish the organization of a liberation war and its commitment to the Allies. To reflect about thisperiod of Albania's history, we will refer to historical facts, arguments and various sources, which prove theexistence of the civil war even after the liberation of the country. In January 1945, when the Germans had leftAlbania, it happen another confrontation, known as the Battle of Tamara. In the time when the victory of thecommunists was a fact and they were full of glory, this event is interpreted as the last step towards the power. Withthe coming of the communists in power, the civil war was replaced by the class war, which marked countlessvictims during the entire communist dictatorship.

Abstract This paper develops out of a specific event. In 2020, the town of Münsingen in the Swabian Alps commissioned its authors to write a historical report on the Italian Fascist Monterosa Division, focusing on its function and role in the German occupation of Italy from 1944 to 1945. The issue to be clarified was the extent to which the division was involved in war crimes during this period. The background to the request was a monument erected in 1986 in the Ehrenhain, Münsingen’s „grove of honour“, by the division’s veterans’ association (Associazione degli appartenenti alla divisione Monterosa). This monument has since led to repeated controversy and heated debate over its Fascist symbolism and the division’s involvement in anti-partisan warfare in Italy. Our paper focuses on the experience of officers in the Fascist regime, the division’s operations against partisans and at the front, its crimes, and the attempts of the veterans’ association in the post-war period to gain official recognition in both Germany and Italy. The Monterosa Mountain Division was created in 1943/1944 by Benito Mussolini’s Repubblica sociale italiana (RSI) as one of four military divisions to join front-line combat with the German Army in Italy. Largely composed of young conscripts from Northern Italy, its older non-commissioned officers had extensive war experience from the Italian occupation of Greece and the Balkans, and from the Eastern Front. Its commander, General Mario Carloni, was a hardliner, an energetic, ruthless, and politicised Fascist officer who after the collapse of the Italian state in 1943 chose to continue fighting for Mussolini’s side and to support the German occupation of Italy. German instructors trained the Monterosa Division in Münsingen. In late August 1944, it was sent to Italy and assigned to coastal defense duties on the east coast of Liguria, an area almost completely controlled by partisans. The division thus became involved in anti-partisan actions and began to take hostages, shoot civilians and prisoners of war, and destroy village houses. In 1951, a division association was founded, with former General Carloni as its honorary president. Until 2001, it tried in vain to gain recognition from the Associazione Nazionale Alpini (ANA), the most important veterans’ and reservists’ association of Italian mountain troops. In Germany, on the other hand, the former Monterosa soldiers found faster access to veterans’ associations. The first visit by former division members to Münsingen took place as early as 1952. In the 1970s, these visits became increasingly regular and were given official sanction. During the 1980s, the division association’s connections further expanded and ultimately resulted in the erection of a memorial to the fallen. In Germany, of all places, the RSI veterans received the recognition that was so difficult for them to obtain in their home country.

Using Italian and Albanian archive sources, this essay analyses the effectiveness of Italian policy in Albania, during the years of its union with Italy (1939–1943), in the creation of a model Fascist state and in the generation of support for Italy among the Albanian population. Through the creation of party and state structures similar to those in Italy, Fascism intended to give voice to Albanian Nationalist demands, but Italian policy was undermined by a basic defect which helped to cool any initial enthusiasm: the loss of all semblance of Albanian independence and the exploitation of local resources to the benefit of the Italians alone. The Italy-Greece conflict cast a shadow on the Fascist fighting ability which not even the creation of ‘Great Albania’ (thanks to the help of the Germans) removed. As Italy's military fortunes changed for the worse, they were forced to address a growing resistance until the tragic conclusion of 8th September 1943 and the end of the occupation.

ABSTRACTOf the almost 80,000 prisoners-of-war held by Italy at the time of the Armistice with the Allies of 8 September 1943, more than half succeeded in escaping and almost 18,000 were not recaptured, largely due to the help offered spontaneously by Italian civilians. The records of the Allied Screening Commission preserved in Washington, and other official papers available in England, South Africa and Australia, complemented by oral history fieldwork among former escapers and their Italian helpers, reveal an Anglo-Italian epic of anti-heroism, whose protagonists nevertheless displayed great courage, ingenuity, perseverance and humanity.Exploration of this neglected but critical dimension of the secret history of the years of occupation and resistance between 1943 and 1945 throws new light upon the characteristics and the long-term potential of a submerged nation of peasants, charcoal-burners and shepherds. The article is an attempt to historicise their expression of an often overlooked but universal peasant culture of survival, far deeper at the time than political commitment, but not without ultimate political importance.

This article provides a detailed analysis of the individuals who enrolled in Vichy fighting units at the end of the German occupation. Those groups were mostly created in late 1943 and early 1944, and acted as effective subsidiaries to German troops, treating civilians and partisans with extreme violence. The enrolment of those men was a consequence of their political beliefs, notably strong anti-communism. But the fact that their behaviour seems born of desperation (some were recruited after D-Day) is a hint that it was shaped according to other cultural patterns, especially an image of masculinity rooted in the memory of the First World War and developed, among others, according to fascist and Nazi ideologies: a manhood based on strength, the violence of warfare and the image of the soldier. This article provides an analysis based on judiciary documents from the time of the purge, with a careful reconstruction of personal trajectories and self discourse in order to understand the masculine identity these sometimes very young men tried to realise through political engagement in the guise of warriors.

The article addresses the question to what extent American antitrust policy in Germany and Italy during the 1950s, was a success or not. Did these nations adopt this policy, did they adapt themselves to it, or did they completely reject it? By a detailed comparison of these two big European nations, Germany and Italy—both defeated powers of the Second World War, and both therefore strongly dependent on postwar American aid—the effects of the American antitrust policy will be analyzed. Eventually, the Germans better adapted, after initial resistance of German big business, to the American plans than the Italians, however, only in an amended and softer form. The Italian resistance—but we even use the expression prolonged rejection—to the economic reforms were much stronger. The US administration envisioned a unified free European market without cartels as early as 1943, however, it would take another fifty years before these ideas would be implemented.

The article is devoted to the participation of French pilots of the Normandy squadron in battles on the Soviet-German front as part of the Red Army in 1943-1945. After the defeat of France at the first stage of World War II (1940), the occupation of its territory by Germany and the organization of the Resistance movement “Fighting France” in London by General Charles de Gaulle, the pilots joined him expressed a burning desire to fight the enemy in the skies over Soviet soil. Their participation in the ranks of the Soviet Air Force was a unique event in the history of the Great Patriotic War of the Soviet Union (1945-1945). The article analyzes the information of the Soviet press during the war years about the French squadron “Normandie-Niemen”, which fought in the Soviet Air Force on the Soviet-German front. It is shown that Soviet readers during the Great Patriotic War could get a very complete and reliable idea of the military exploits of French pilots, find out the names of heroes, get acquainted with the military everyday life of officers, appreciate their patriotism and sincere friendly feelings for the Soviet Union and its people. Along with stories about the air battles of the Normandy, the articles of Soviet correspondents contained information about the history of France, how the pilots reacted to the defeat of their country, how and where they fought in the first stage of the Second World War. The press of the war years gave brief sketches of the everyday life of French fighters on Soviet soil, about the curious events that happened to the pilots of the squadron. On the example of newspaper publications 1943-1945. about the military alliance of our and French pilots, you can get an idea of how the cooperation of the countries of the anti-Hitler coalition developed and strengthened.

ABSTRACT During the Second World War, the central Mediterranean island of Malta was famously besieged by the Italian navy and intensively bombed by Italian and later German air forces, from June 1940 until Allied victory in North Africa in May 1943 brought an end to the siege. It was then scheduled as a staging post to support the Allied invasion of Sicily from North Africa in July 1943 and of mainland Italy from Sicily in September. From 1941 until 1945, two Tunnelling Companies Royal Engineers, overlapping in succession, excavated underground facilities safe from aerial or naval bombardment. In 1943 and then 1944–1945, two Boring Sections Royal Engineers in succession drilled wells to enhance water supplies, initially for increased troop concentrations. Borehole site selection was guided in 1943 by the Director of the Geological Survey of Great Britain (Edward Battersby Bailey: 1881–1965) and by geologists Captain Frederick William Shotton (1906–1990) and Major Gordon Lyall Paver (1913–1988). In 1944, it was guided by geologist Captain Howard Digby Roberts (1913–1971), leading a detachment from 42nd Geological Section of the South African Engineer Corps that pioneered earth resistivity surveys on the island. Overall, these military studies generated a new but unpublished geological map of the island at 1:31,680-scale and refined knowledge of its geological structure: a much faulted but otherwise near-horizontal Oligo-Miocene sedimentary sequence. Further refinement was achieved as a consequence of the 1944–1945 drilling programme, led principally by geologist Captain Thomas Owen Morris (1904–1989) of the Royal Engineers. By 1945, this had helped to develop an improved water supply system for the island, and plans to develop groundwater abstracted from a perched upper aquifer (in the Upper Coralline Limestone and underlying Greensand formations, above a ‘Blue Clay’) as well as from the main lower aquifer, near sea level (in the Globigerina Limestone and/or underlying Lower Coralline Limestone formations).

Agricultural research as a system of permanent research institutes for agricultural needs during the Second World War on the territory of Ukraine has proved to be a remarkable period in the study of the history of science. Within 6 years it changed its structure several times to meet the needs of the party that captured Ukrainian territories: in Western Ukraine from the Polish model to the Soviet one; under fascist occupation - to meet the needs of the Germans and Romanians; evacuation and re-evacuation, which also required reorganization, re-institutionalization of the institutions to new climatic conditions in the critical situation of the war time. A separate aspect of the research is an analysis of changes in the organizational structure of the agrarian research institutes during the German occupation. This article is aimed at analyzing the organizational structure of agricultural research in the period of the German occupation during World War II on the territory of the Reichskommissariat «Ukraine» on the basis of original sources. The analysis of these issues will allow us to reflect on the events of the World War II more closely, better understand the plans of Nazi Germany on the development of Ukrainian lands meant for the prospective settlement of the Germans, the organizational drawbacks of the Soviet agricultural research and Nazi’s attempts to overcome them. Utilization of the Ukrainian arable farm lands became a major geostrategic and military aspect German invasion plans. For the effective exploitation of this territory, all German scientific forces were united to study the agricultural potential of the occupied lands. With the establishment of new occupation authorities in Ukraine, their primary actions were to collect maximum information from scientific documentation and materials on breeding, to involve the best local scientists to projects aimed at deep study of the occupied territories for the prospective German settlers. The main organization responsible for the collection and export of scientific material from the occupied territories was the Rosenberg Operational Headquarters, which collaborated with the Imperial Ministry of Occupied Eastern Territories. The departments of this ministry belonged to the Central Research Service of the East, under supervision of all German scholars who came for scientific work on the territory of the Reichscommissariat «Ukraine». In order to study the scientific potential of the agricultural sector in the autumn of 1941, the Center for Research of Agriculture and Forestry for Northwestern Ukraine was created. During 1942-1943 agricultural scientific institutions accounted to the Institute of Local Lore and Economic Research, and later to the National Research Center with the allocation of a separate Special Group on Agricultural Research. This structure allowed the occupational authorities to control the institutional, financial, personnel and scientific issues of the institutions and integrate domestic agricultural research with the German science management. Despite the presence of the Ukrainian administration representatives in each agricultural research institute, all issues were resolved solely by the German authorities subordinated to the Imperial Ministry of Occupied Eastern Territories The occupation authorities planned to use the scientific potential of these institutions for better development of the invaded territories. This issue was in the center of attention, both for economic, scientific and ideological benefits of the new government. With approaching military actions, German curators were ordered to export scientific records, elite seed funds and valuable literature. At the beginning of 1945, researchers of agricultural research institutes and scientific documentation were scattered among different German institutions in Poland and Germany. Thus, despite numerous difficulties caused on the territory of Ukrainian lands by the Second World War and German interference into the organizational framework of agricultural science, this situation proved to have a positive turn, because Ukrainian scientists never ceased their work, managed to preserve the agricultural potential of Ukraine.

The politics of Italian national identity. Edited by Gino Bedani and Bruce Haddock. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2000. Pp. vii+296. ISBN 0-7083-1622-0. £40.00.Fascist modernities: Italy, 1922–1945. By Ruth Ben-Ghiat. Berkeley, University of California Press, 2001. Pp. x+317. ISBN 0-520-22363-2. £28.50.Le spie del regime. By Mauro Canali. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2004. Pp. 863. ISBN 88-15-09801-1. €70.00.I campi del Duce: l'internamento civile nell'Italia fascista (1940–1943). By Carlo Spartaco Capogreco. Turin: Einaudi, 2004. Pp. xi+319. ISBN 88-06-16781-2. €16.00.The American South and the Italian Mezzogiorno: essays in comparative history. Edited by Enrico Dal Lago and Rick Halpern. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Pp. 256. ISBN 0-333-73971-X. £28.50.Disastro! Disasters in Italy since 1860: culture, politics, society. Edited by John Dickie, John Foot, and Frank M. Snowden, Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Pp. ix+342. ISBN 0-312-23960-2. £32.50.Remaking Italy in the twentieth century. By Roy Palmer Domenico. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2002. Pp. xiv+181. ISBN 0-8476-9637-5. £16.95.Twentieth century Italy: a social history. By Jonathan Dunnage. Harlow: Pearson, 2002. Pp. xi+271. ISBN 0-582-29278-6. £16.99.Milan since the miracle: city, culture and identity. By John Foot. Oxford: Berg, 2001. Pp. xiv+240. ISBN 1-85973-550-9. £14.99.Squadristi: protagonisti e tecniche della violenza fascista, 1919–1922. By Mimmo Franzinelli. Milan: Mondadori, 2003. Pp. 464. ISBN 88-04-51233-4. €19.00.For love and country: the Italian Resistance. By Patrick Gallo. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2003. Pp. viii+362. ISBN 0-7618-2496-0. $55.00.The struggle for modernity: nationalism, futurism and Fascism. By Emilio Gentile. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2003. Pp. xix+203. ISBN 0-275-97692-0. $69.95.Italy and its discontents. By Paul Ginsborg. Harmondsworth: Allen Lane, 2001. Pp. xv+521. ISBN 0-713-99537-8. £25.00.Silvio Berlusconi: television, power and patrimony. By Paul Ginsborg. London: Verso, 2004. Pp. xvi+189. ISBN 1-84467-000-7. £16.00.Fascists. By Michael Mann. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Pp. x+429. ISBN 0-521-53855-6. £15.99.Mussolini: the last 600 days of Il Duce. By Ray Moseley. Dallas: Taylor Trade publishing, 2004. Pp. vii+432. ISBN 1-58979-095-2. $34.95.Lo stato fascista e la sua classe politica, 1922–1943. By Didier Musiedlak. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2001. Pp. 585. ISBN 88-15-09381-8. €32.00.Italy's social revolution: charity and welfare from Liberalism to Fascism. By Maria Sophia Quine. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Pp. xv+429. ISBN 0-333-63261-3. £55.00.La seduzione totalitaria: guerra, modernità, violenza politica (1914–1918). By Angelo Ventrone. Rome: Donzelli, 2003. Pp. xvi+288. ISBN 88-7989-840-X. €24.00.With its winning of an American Academy Award, the film Life is beautiful (1997), brought its director and leading actor, Roberto Benigni, global fame. Benigni's zaniness and self-mockery seemed to embody everything that has convinced foreigners that Italians are, above all, brava gente (nice people). Sometimes, this conclusion can have a supercilious air – niceness can easily be reduced to levity or fecklessness. In those university courses that seek to comprehend the terrible tragedies of twentieth-century Europe, Italians seldom play a leading role. German, Russian, Polish, Yugoslav, and even British and French history are each riven with death and disaster or, alternatively, with heroism and achievement. In such austere company, brava gente can seem out of place.

The purpose of the article is the analysis of reconstruction processes in the social sphere of railway transport, based on the materials of the history of the Vinnytsia railway, the tracks of which served the territory, enterprises, subjects of agricultural production in Vinnytsia, Kamianets-Podilska (now Khmelnytska), Zhytomyr , Kyiv regions after their liberation by the Soviet army in 1943-44. The object of the study goes beyond the regional framework and allows to project the processes that took place within the boundaries of one business entity and on other railways in the regions of Ukraine. This article is an attempt to find effective methods of researching the social history of the region. The research methodology is based on source science methods, principles of objectivity, historicism, analysis and generalizations. Scientific novelty consists in the introduction into scientific circulation of new sources, facts from the social history of Vinnytsia and the Vinnytsia railway line as a separate, large business entity, which was a key element of Podillia's economy. Conclusions. The material losses of railway transport on the scale of Ukraine were significant - more than 10 billion rubles. Damages to the Vinnytsia highway amounted to more than 340 million rubles. For the restoration of the war-ravaged national economy, the state allocated only seven percent of the amount of losses that Ukraine suffered as a result of the war and occupation. It is logical that under such conditions, railway tracks, hub stations, and enterprises were the first to be rebuilt. Railway workers were faced with a great burden of problems and trials, the overcoming of which required not only the reconstruction of the industrial, but also the social sphere of transport. As archival documents testify, the restoration of the social sphere was started not after the end of the bloody German-Soviet war, but simultaneously with the rebuilding of the main assets of the railway industry.

Analysis of the previously unknown to the scholarship documents strives to close the gaps in studying unknown facts and events of the history of Orthodoxy in Ukraine in the days of the Great Patriotic War. The article presents new archival sources in order to explore the history of Orthodoxy in Ukraine more fully and objectively. The significance of the publication of these archival documents stems from current processes and state of the Orthodox Church in Ukraine, where it has exposed to persecution by the political elite of Ukraine. Certain circles of the Ukrainian clergy support the split of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church and its persecution. During the Great Patriotic War religious life in the occupied Ukrainian territories was extremely ambiguous. The Nazi occupiers encouraged the split in the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, which resulted in emergence of the Ukrainian Autonomous Orthodox Church, which maintained canonical ties with the Russian Orthodox Church, and Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church, which was non–canonical and sought to break all ties with the Moscow Patriarchate. The authors have carried out archeographic and source–studies analysis of the new documents in order to establish their authenticity, time and place of their origin and to determine their novelty and scientific and practical significance. Archival sources identified in the course of documentary project ‘Orthodoxy in Ukraine in the days the Great Patriotic War of 1941–1945’ shed light on the situation, describe numerous killings of priests of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, speak of cooperation of the episcopate of the Ukrainian Autocephalous Church with the occupation authorities. The attempt to create a unified Ukrainian Orthodox Church failed. In spring 1943, the troops of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN) opened hostilities against the Nazis, who responded by ceasing all support of their spiritual pillar, the Autocephalous Church. The Moscow Patriarchate of the Russian Orthodox Church only recognized legitimacy of the Autonomous Orthodox Church in Ukraine. After the bishops of the Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church escape in the steps of the retreating German army, the Orthodox parishes on the territory of Ukraine passed into jurisdiction of the Moscow Patriarchate of the ROC.

The Nazi looting of works of art and cultural goods during 1933–1945 is usually divided into institutionalized and unauthorized, that is, wild one. The former was conducted by state and party special organizations and authorities, while the latter, widespread extensively in the east, was practiced by many Germans on their own account. The author suggests introducing a separate category of “specialized looting”, encompassing those who engaged in looting with full awareness – on their own account and/or on commission – and who were proficient in evaluation of the artistic goods and knew where and in whose possession they could be found. In the Reich and in occupied France and Holland there were many such expert robbers. In Poland their number remained small after the initial wave of official confiscations. The most notable exception was the Dutchman, Pieter Nicolaas Menten (1899–1987), who after the war became one of the wealthiest citizens of Holland and owner of a private art collection unavailable to the public. The scope, character, and methods of the looting conducted by Menten for his private use in Kraków and Lvov during the German occupation between early 1940 and the end of 1942 make him a very special case in the history of Nazi looting. These aspects are analyzed on the basis of extensive archival materials and evidence collected in Holland and Poland during the investigations and trials against Menten (the first one took place in the late 1940s and was followed by next ones in the late 1970s), who was accused of collaboration with the Germans and the massacre of Jewish inhabitants of the Galician villages of Urycz and Podhorodce in the summer of 1941. Menten was never sentenced for the looting of works of art in Kraków, where he was an appointed forced administrator of four Jewish artistic salons, or in Lvov, where he appropriated art collections and furnishings of several Lvov professors murdered on 4 July 1941. He was never found guilty even though when in January 1943 he left the General Government and went to Holland he took – with Himmler’s special permission – four railway carriages of valuable works of art, gold and silverware, antique furniture, and Oriental rugs. The post-war collection of works of art in Menten’s possession wasn’t liable to confiscation under Dutch law and has become dispersed.

Проблема дослідження полягає у відсутності знань про конкретний перелік і якість психолінгвістичних інструментів інформаційно-психологічного впливу (ІПВ) у підписах під фотографіями (на прикладі фашистських газет Рейхскомісаріату «Україна»). У статті автор ставить мету ідентифікувати, описати й класифікувати психолінгвістичні інструменти ІПВ в підписах під фотографіями, які були розміщені в газетах, що виходили в період із 1 вересня 1941 до 10 листопада 1944 року на території Рейхскомісаріату «Україна» (далі – РКУ) й фінансувалися фашистським режимом. Дослідник звертається до таких методів: спостереження, класифікація, узагальнення, контент-аналіз, інтент-аналіз, кількісно-якісний метод. Упродовж дослідження автор піддає аналізу 81 підпис під 85 фотографіями, опублікованими в газетах, що виходили в період із 1 вересня 1941 до 10 листопада 1944 року на території Рейхскомісаріату «Україна» й фінансувалися фашистським режимом. За результатами дослідження були описані й класифіковані на 8 груп (та 23 підгрупи) психолінгвістичні інструменти інформаційно-психологічного впливу в згаданих газетах РКУ. Установлено, що в газетах РКУ найчастотнішими є психолінгвістичні інструменти інформаційно-психологічного впливу, які відносяться до груп «Німеччина» (9 підгруп) і «Інші» (6 підгруп). Література References Воропаев С. Энциклопедия Третьего рейха [Текст] / С. Воропаев. – М.: Локид-Миф,1996.Voropayev, S. (1996). Entsiklopediya Tret'yego Reykha [The Encyclopedia of the ThirdReich]. Moscow: Lokid–Mif, 1996. Горевалов С. І. Фотокореспонденти й документальна фотографія періоду Другоїсвітової війни (до 70-річчя Великої Перемоги) / С. І. Горевалов // Наукові запискиІнституту журналістики. – 2014. – Т. 54. – С. 192–195.Gorevalov, S. (2014). Fotokorespondenty i Dokumental'na Fotografíya Períodu DrugoyiSvítovoyi Víyny (Do 70–Ríchya Velikoyi Peremogi) [Photocorrespondents andDocumentary Photograph During World War II]. 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The article deals with the organisation of art life in Maribor during the German occupation. Based on archival material, various aspects of the Maribor affiliate of the Graz-based association Comradeship of Styrian Artists and Friends of Art (Kameradschaft Steirischer Künstler und Kunstfreunde) are presented, as well as art exhibitions held in Maribor from 1941 to 1943. The activity of the Maribor affiliate is set in the context of the German occupation policy in Lower Styria, especially in the context of their efforts to Germanise the region and annex it to the Third Reich.

SUMMARYIt is essential to know the history of Catholic Church in Poland during German occupation when it comes to exploration of aggregate history of Polish nation in this difficult time. The issue of repression against Polish clergy from Lublin diocese by German authorities in years 1939-1944 and powers of Third Reich, was presents in various aspects, in many scholarly articles, monographs and group works. However, the aforementioned publications do not exhaust basics to educate foil and fair-minded view on this problem.German army went in to Lublin on 18 September 1939, after dramatic defense of the citizens.After the short time of reign of Wehrmacht units, on 26 October 1939, Führer proclaimed his decree on creating administrational entity called Generalna Gubernia, which involved four regions, including lubelski region with Lublin as its capital. This decree embraced the area of pre-war Lubelskie Voivodeship. The occupation authority’s division of administration did not violate the structure of deanery in the diocese. However, under the new circumstances, deans and rectors had difficulties executing administrational functions. When the Lubelski District was created. Bishop Marian Leon Fulman and suffragan, Bishop Władysław' Goral wielded authority in this area.It is necessary to mention that bloody operations of the police and SS are especially remembered in the history of Church in Lublin and the whole area. These two bodies were executing the most important strategic tasks within the scope of ‘maintaining order’, prevention, requital, or even genocide and extermination. This group was led by SS- Brigadeführer Odilo Globocnik (till September 1943) and SS-Gruppenführer Jacob Sporrenberg.The most significant German operations, when it comes to repression of catholic clergy in, the Lubelski District are repressive or intimidating actions.In the Lubelski District, occupation authorities applied the same methods of repression and extermination both to all citizens and clergy. Lublin’s clergymen were dying in executions, they were taken as hostages, arrested and send to concentration camps. Hie repression involved priests on every level of church hierarchy. What is more, it must be said that only Polish bishops out of all occupied countries were arrested and taken to concentration camps.In the Lubelski District, the main place where the people were arrested was Lublin and prison of Security Police and Security Service. Prison on the Castle, as it was called, was subdued to the leader of SS and the police in the district. The prison m Lublin was without undoubtedly a place of terror and attrition of prisoners held in it on the mass scale. This prison became the place of direct extermination where executions were done by firing squad, hanging, or even by gassing. Executions had unitary or mass character, they were sometimes done in a company of eyewitnesses, but usually they were confidential, performed at night or in the morning.The first ‘purifying’ action of intelligentsia, which started with arrests in November and was follow ed by verdicts of executions for bishops and the execution itself on 23 December, was perceived by the leaders of SS and the police, Odilo Globocnik, as fight with leading layer of society, who could potentially organize actions against German authorities, they could give signal to ruthless fight with ‘unwanted elements’. Repressions took place on the local scale, because they involved only people from Lublin or from area around Lublin. The way in which this action was prosecuted indicates that it was chaotic strike, because the enforcement authority which held power at the beginning of the November did not have full records of the intelligentsia.Globocnik considered Catholic Church an important monument of Polish national spirit, so he began the purging of the district by first destroying the Church. It can be validated by the three mass arrests of clergy on 9 Nov, 11. Nov and 17 Nov 1939.The effect of the policy realized by Odilo Globocnik is presented in statistics relating to repressing of clergy in years 1939-1945. 200 out of 459 priests from Lublin diocese in 1939 fell victim to German terror.

Artiklis rekonstrueeritakse luuletaja, tõlkija ja kultuurikriitiku Ilmar Laabani suhtlusvõrgustiku kujunemisprotsess lähikondsetega tema paguluses elamise ajal ning analüüsitakse selle toimimist aastatel 1946–1999. Juhtumiuurimus põhineb Laabanile saadetud kirjadel. Laabani suhtlusvõrgustik tervikuna on struktuurilt ebatüüpiline: domineerib rahvusvaheline segment ning kõige nõrgemalt on välja kujunenud kontaktid lähikondsetega, mis üldjuhul moodustab pagulaste suhtlusvõrgustikes kõige olulisema osa. Artiklis arutletakse võrgustiku eripära põhjuste üle, mis võisid olla nii isiklikku laadi kui ka generatsiooni-spetsiifilised. --- During WWII Ilmar Laaban (1921–2000) fled Estonia for Sweden where he would become an internationally known poet, translator and critic of culture. The present case study focuses on Laaban as a refugee. Its aim is to reconstruct the process of the development of his contact network with his kith and kin – relatives and close friends of the family – and describe its functioning. With this in mind I have studied the letters sent to Laaban in the years 1943–2000 both by Estonians in exile and people living in Estonia that are stored in the Laaban collection of the Estonian Cultural History Archives of the Estonian Literary Museum (EKM EKLA, f 352). Such letters of daily life were selected for study whose content revealed the writer’s family relations or close communication with Laaban. After the selection process, I studied (1) the letters’ content, while also detecting the temporal limits of the development of the contacts and the strategy of establishing them, as well as (2) the cryptic mode of writing of the correspondents which I commented on a far as possible. On the basis of the letters analysed it appears that the first attempt to get in touch that could be related to close family and friends took place in Stockhom in 1946 when Laaban received a letter from Lilly von Pressentin – the only person from Laaban’s intimate circle who fled to the West during the German occupation. The communication that started turned out to be frequent and lasted for at least a year. There are no letters indicating any communication with the kith and kin from the following ten years. The process was re-initiated by Dagmar Normet who gave Laaban’s family in Tallinn news on his life in Stockolm after returning from a trip of representatives of Soviet Estonian creative people to Sweden in 1956. His father Eduard Laaban started to look for ways of getting in touch with his son via letter but received no reply. After several failed attempts, a successful contact was established by changing the strategy: Ilmar Laaban’s onetime nanny Minna wrote to his wife Cornelia in 1957 and received a reply. Judging by the handwriting, the letter was actually written by Eduard Laaban. In 1958 the contact between Ilmar Laaban and his family was cut off again; one of the reasons might have been connected with the fact that Eduard Laaban would pass away in 1959. In 1984 Ilmar Laaban himself wrote to Pressentin’s daughter Dagmar Siitam, who lived in Estonia, and showed an interest in photos of family members who were already dead by then. Siitam and Laaban’s correspondence came to an end in 1991. In the 1980s Laaban started to communicate with Cornelia Laaban’s niece Külliki Suurma as is evident from letters preserved from the period 1987–1999 that are addressed to Laaban and his then partner Aino Tamjärv. Thus, Laaban’s contact network consisting of five friends and relatives was operative strarting from his third year in exile up to his final years. In four cases out of the five ut was Laaban’s friends and family who initiate and maintained the contact. The structure of Laaban’s contact network is atypical for a refugee – it is dominated by an international segment, i.e. his communication with people who were not Estonians. Laaban also had close contacts with other Estonians in the global diaspora all that started to take form in the first months of his exile. Communication with Estonians at home, that is essentially dedicated to culture, is less prominent and more short-lived. The least developed part of Laaban’s contact network is formed by contacts with family and friends, which generally tend to dominate refugees’ contact networks. The reasons for hindered contacts with friends and family could have been of a personal nature, but also generation-specific. Young men who headed for exile in their twenties were not particularly active when it came to re-establishing contacts – an opinion that is corrobrated by a case study on Harri Teramaa (Ojamaa 2021), Raimond Kolk’s memoirs Tuulisui ja teised. Märkmeid aastaist 1945–1950 (1980; “Tuulisui and others. Notes from the years 1945–1950”) and Käbi Laretei’s autobiographical novel En bit jord (1976; “A lump of earth”). At the beginning of their exile Laaban’s generation lived for the future; their becoming refugees coincided with the age of becoming independent, they were starting careers and families of their own. It was only when they reached a mature age that they started to look back and rediscovered an interest in their roots.

During World War II, the Soviet Union’s food supply was in a state of crisis. Hitler’s army had occupied the agricultural heartlands of Ukraine and Southern Russia in 1941 and, as a result, agricultural production for the entire nation had plummeted. Soldiers in Red Army, who easily ate the best rations in the country, subsisted on a daily allowance of just under a kilogram of bread, supplemented with meat, tea, sugar and butter when and if these items were available. The hunger of the Red Army and its effect on the morale and strength of Europe’s eastern warfront were causes for concern for the Soviet government and its European and American allies. The one country with a food surplus decided to do something to help, and in 1942 the United States agreed to send thousands of pounds of meat, cheese and butter overseas to help feed the Red Army. After receiving several shipments of the all-American spiced canned meat SPAM, the Red Army’s quartermaster put in a request for a more familiar canned pork product, Russian tushonka. Pound for pound, America sent more pigs overseas than soldiers during World War II, in part because pork was in oversupply in the America of the early 1940s. Shipping meat to hungry soldiers and civilians in war torn countries was a practical way to build business for the U.S. meat industry, which had been in decline throughout the 1930s. As per a Soviet-supplied recipe, the first cans of Lend-Lease tushonka were made in the heart of the American Midwest, at meatpacking plants in Iowa and Ohio (Stettinus 6-7). Government contracts in the meat packing industry helped fuel economic recovery, and meatpackers were in a position to take special request orders like the one for tushonka that came through the lines. Unlike SPAM, which was something of a novelty item during the war, tushonka was a food with a past. The original recipe was based on a recipe for preserved meat that had been a traditional product of the Ural Mountains, preserved in jars with salt and fat rather than by pressure and heat. Thus tushonka was requested—and was mass-produced—not simply as a convenience but also as a traditional and familiar food—a taste of home cooking that soldiers could carry with them into the field. Nikita Khrushchev later claimed that the arrival of tushonka was instrumental in helping the Red Army push back against the Nazi invasion (178). Unlike SPAM and other wartime rations, tushonka did not fade away after the war. Instead, it was distributed to the Soviet civilian population, appearing in charity donations and on the shelves of state shops. Often it was the only meat product available on a regular basis. Salty, fatty, and slightly grey-toned, tushonka was an unlikely hero of the postwar-era, but during this period tushonka rose from obscurity to become an emblem of socialist modernity. Because it was shelf stable and could be made from a variety of different cuts of meat, it proved an ideal product for the socialist production lines where supplies and the pace of production were infinitely variable. Unusual in a socialist system of supply, this product shaped production and distribution lines, and even influenced the layout of meatpacking factories and the genetic stocks of the animals that were to be eaten. Tushonka’s initial ubiquity in the postwar Soviet Union had little to do with the USSR’s own hog industry. Pig populations as well as their processing facilities had been decimated in the war, and pigs that did survive the Axis invasion had been evacuated East with human populations. Instead, the early presence of tushonka in the pig-scarce postwar Soviet Union had everything to do with Harry Truman’s unexpected September 1945 decision to end all “economically useful” Lend-Lease shipments to the Soviet Union (Martel). By the end of September, canned meat was practically the only product still being shipped as part of Lend-Lease (NARA RG 59). Although the United Nations was supposed to distribute these supplies to needy civilians free of cost, travelers to the Soviet Union in 1946 spotted cans of American tushonka for sale in state shops (Skeoch 231). After American tushonka “donations” disappeared from store shelves, the Soviet Union’s meat syndicates decided to continue producing the product. Between its first appearance during the war in 1943, and the 1957 announcement by Nikita Khrushchev that Soviet policy would restructure all state animal farms to support the mass production of one or several processed meat products, tushonka helped to drive the evolution of the Soviet Union’s meat packing industry. Its popularity with both planners and the public gave it the power to reach into food commodity chains. It is this backward reach and the longer-term impacts of these policies that make tushonka an unusual byproduct of the Cold War era. State planners loved tushonka: it was cheap to make, the logistics of preparing it were not complicated, it was easy to transport, and most importantly, it served as tangible evidence that the state was accomplishing a long-standing goal to get more meat to its citizenry and improving the diet of the average Soviet worker. Tushonka became a highly visible product in the Soviet Union’s much vaunted push to establish a modern food regime intended to rival that of the United States. Because it was shelf-stable, wartime tushonka had served as a practical food for soldiers, but after the war tushonka became an ideal food for workers who had neither the time nor the space to prepare a home-cooked meal with fresh meat. The Soviet state started to produce its own tushonka because it was such an excellent fit for the needs and abilities of the Soviet state—consumer demand was rarely considered by planners in this era. Not only did tushonka fit the look and taste of a modern processed meat product (that is, it was standard in texture and flavor from can to can, and was an obviously industrially processed product), it was also an excellent way to make the most of the predominant kind of meat the Soviet Union had the in the 1950s: small scraps low-grade pork and beef, trimmings leftover from butchering practices that focused on harvesting as much animal fat, rather than muscle, from the carcass in question. Just like tushonka, pork sausages and frozen pelmeny, a meat-filled pasta dumpling, also became winning postwar foods thanks to a happy synergy of increased animal production, better butchering and new food processing machines. As postwar pigs recovered their populations, the Soviet processed meat industry followed suit. One official source listed twenty-six different kinds of meat products being issued in 1964, although not all of these were pork (Danilov). An instructional manual distributed by the meat and milk syndicate demonstrated how meat shops should wrap and display sausages, and listed 24 different kinds of sausages that all needed a special style of tying up. Because of packaging shortages, the string that bound the sausage was wrapped in a different way for every type of sausage, and shop assistants were expected to be able to identify sausages based on the pattern of their binding. Pelmeny were produced at every meat factory that processed pork. These were “made from start to finish in a special, automated machine, human hands do not touch them. Which makes them a higher quality and better (prevoskhodnogo) product” (Book of Healthy and Delicious Food). These were foods that became possible to produce economically because of a co-occurring increase in pigs, the new standardized practice of equipping meatpacking plants with large-capacity grinders, and freezers or coolers and the enforcement of a system of grading meat. As the state began to rebuild Soviet agriculture from its near-collapse during the war, the Soviet Union looked to the United States for inspiration. Surprisingly, Soviet planners found some of the United States’ more outdated techniques to be quite valuable for new Soviet hog operations. The most striking of these was the adoption of competing phenotypes in the Soviet hog industry. Most major swine varieties had been developed and described in the 19th century in Germany and Great Britain. Breeds had a tendency to split into two phenotypically distinct groups, and in early 20th Century American pig farms, there was strong disagreement as to which style of pig was better suited to industrial conditions of production. Some pigs were “hot-blooded” (in other words, fast maturing and prolific reproducers) while others were a slower “big type” pig (a self-explanatory descriptor). Breeds rarely excelled at both traits and it was a matter of opinion whether speed or size was the most desirable trait to augment. The over-emphasis of either set of qualities damaged survival rates. At their largest, big type pigs resembled small hippopotamuses, and sows were so corpulent they unwittingly crushed their tiny piglets. But the sleeker hot-blooded pigs had a similarly lethal relationship with their young. Sows often produced litters of upwards of a dozen piglets and the stress of tending such a large brood led overwhelmed sows to devour their own offspring (Long). American pig breeders had been forced to navigate between these two undesirable extremes, but by the 1930s, big type pigs were fading in popularity mainly because butter and newly developed plant oils were replacing lard as the cooking fat of preference in American kitchens. The remarkable propensity of the big type to pack on pounds of extra fat was more of a liability than a benefit in this period, as the price that lard and salt pork plummeted in this decade. By the time U.S. meat packers were shipping cans of tushonka to their Soviet allies across the seas, US hog operations had already developed a strong preference for hot-blooded breeds and research had shifted to building and maintaining lean muscle on these swiftly maturing animals. When Soviet industrial planners hoping to learn how to make more tushonka entered the scene however, their interpretation of american efficiency was hardly predictable: scientifically nourished big type pigs may have been advantageous to the United States at midcentury, but the Soviet Union’s farms and hungry citizens had a very different list of needs and wants. At midcentury, Soviet pigs were still handicapped by old-fashioned variables such as cold weather, long winters, poor farm organisation and impoverished feed regimens. The look of the average Soviet hog operation was hardly industrial. In 1955 the typical Soviet pig was petite, shaggy, and slow to reproduce. In the absence of robust dairy or vegetable oil industries, Soviet pigs had always been valued for their fat rather than their meat, and tushonka had been a byproduct of an industry focused mainly on supplying the country with fat and lard. Until the mid 1950s, the most valuable pig on many Soviet state and collective farms was the nondescript but very rotund “lard and bacon” pig, an inefficient eater that could take upwards of two years to reach full maturity. In searching for a way to serve up more tushonka, Soviet planners became aware that their entire industry needed to be revamped. When the Soviet Union looked to the United States, planners were inspired by the earlier competition between hot-blooded and big type pigs, which Soviet planners thought, ambitiously, they could combine into one splendid pig. The Soviet Union imported new pigs from Poland, Lithuania, East Germany and Denmark, trying valiantly to create hybrid pigs that would exhibit both hot blood and big type. Soviet planners were especially interested in inspiring the Poland-China, an especially rotund specimen, to speed up its life cycle during them mid 1950s. Hybrdizing and cross breeding a Soviet super-pig, no matter how closely laid out on paper, was probably always a socialist pipe dream. However, when the Soviets decided to try to outbreed American hog breeders, they created an infrastructure for pigs and pig breeding that had a dramatic positive impact of hog populations across the country, and the 1950s were marked by a large increase in the number of pigs in the Soviet union, as well as dramatic increases in the numbers of purebred and scientific hybrids the country developed, all in the name of tushonka. It was not just the genetic stock that received a makeover in the postwar drive to can more tushonka; a revolution in the barnyard also took place and in less than 10 years, pigs were living in new housing stock and eating new feed sources. The most obvious postwar change was in farm layout and the use of building space. In the early 1950s, many collective farms had been consolidated. In 1940 there were a quarter of a million kolkhozii, by 1951 fewer than half that many remained (NARA RG166). Farm consolidation movements most often combined two, three or four collective farms into one economic unit, thus scaling up the average size and productivity of each collective farm and simplifying their administration. While there were originally ambitious plans to re-center farms around new “agro-city” bases with new, modern farm buildings, these projects were ultimately abandoned. Instead, existing buildings were repurposed and the several clusters of farm buildings that had once been the heart of separate villages acquired different uses. For animals this meant new barns and new daily routines. Barns were redesigned and compartmentalized around ideas of gender and age segregation—weaned baby pigs in one area, farrowing sows in another—as well as maximising growth and health. Pigs spent less outside time and more time at the trough. Pigs that were wanted for different purposes (breeding, meat and lard) were kept in different areas, isolated from each other to minimize the spread of disease as well as improve the efficiency of production. Much like postwar housing for humans, the new and improved pig barn was a crowded and often chaotic place where the electricity, heat and water functioned only sporadically. New barns were supposed to be mechanised. In some places, mechanisation had helped speed things along, but as one American official viewing a new mechanised pig farm in 1955 noted, “it did not appear to be a highly efficient organisation. The mechanised or automated operations, such as the preparation of hog feed, were eclipsed by the amount of hand labor which both preceded and followed the mechanised portion” (NARA RG166 1961). The American official estimated that by mechanizing, Soviet farms had actually increased the amount of human labor needed for farming operations. The other major environmental change took place away from the barnyard, in new crops the Soviet Union began to grow for fodder. The heart and soul of this project was establishing field corn as a major new fodder crop. Originally intended as a feed for cows that would replace hay, corn quickly became the feed of choice for raising pigs. After a visit by a United States delegation to Iowa and other U.S. farms over the summer of 1955, corn became the centerpiece of Khrushchev’s efforts to raise meat and milk productivity. These efforts were what earned Khrushchev his nickname of kukuruznik, or “corn fanatic.” Since so little of the Soviet Union looks or feels much like the plains and hills of Iowa, adopting corn might seem quixotic, but raising corn was a potentially practical move for a cold country. Unlike the other major fodder crops of turnips and potatoes, corn could be harvested early, while still green but already possessing a high level of protein. Corn provided a “gap month” of green feed during July and August, when grazing animals had eaten the first spring green growth but these same plants had not recovered their biomass. What corn remained in the fields in late summer was harvested and made into silage, and corn made the best silage that had been historically available in the Soviet Union. The high protein content of even silage made from green mass and unripe corn ears prevented them from losing weight in the winter. Thus the desire to put more meat on Soviet tables—a desire first prompted by American food donations of surplus pork from Iowa farmers adapting to agro-industrial reordering in their own country—pushed back into the commodity supply network of the Soviet Union. World War II rations that were well adapted to the uncertainty and poor infrastructure not just of war but also of peacetime were a source of inspiration for Soviet planners striving to improve the diets of citizens. To do this, they purchased and bred more and better animals, inventing breeds and paying attention, for the first time, to the efficiency and speed with which these animals were ready to become meat. Reinventing Soviet pigs pushed even back farther, and inspired agricultural economists and state planners to embrace new farm organizational structures. Pigs meant for the tushonka can spent more time inside eating, and led their lives in a rigid compartmentalization that mimicked emerging trends in human urban society. Beyond the barnyard, a new concern with feed-to weight conversions led agriculturalists to seek new crops; crops like corn that were costly to grow but were a perfect food for a pig destined for a tushonka tin. Thus in Soviet industrialization, pigs evolved. No longer simply recyclers of human waste, socialist pigs were consumers in their own right, their newly crafted genetic compositions demanded ever more technical feed sources in order to maximize their own productivity. Food is transformative, and in this case study the prosaic substance of canned meat proved to be unusually transformative for the history of the Soviet Union. In its early history it kept soldiers alive long enough to win an important war, later the requirements for its manufacture re-prioritized muscle tissue over fat tissue in the disassembly of carcasses. This transformative influence reached backwards into the supply lines and farms of the Soviet Union, revolutionizing the scale and goals of farming and meat packing for the Soviet food industry, as well as the relationship between the pig and the consumer. References Bentley, Amy. Eating for Victory: Food Rationing and the Politics of Domesticity. Where: University of Illinois Press, 1998. The Book of Healthy and Delicious Food, Kniga O Vkusnoi I Zdorovoi Pishche. Moscow: AMN Izd., 1952. 161. Danilov, M. M. Tovaravedenie Prodovol’stvennykh Tovarov: Miaso I Miasnye Tovarye. Moscow: Iz. Ekonomika, 1964. Khrushchev, Nikita. Khrushchev Remembers. New York: Little, Brown & Company, 1970. 178. Long, James. The Book of the Pig. London: Upcott Gill, 1886. 102. Lush, Jay & A.L. Anderson, “A Genetic History of Poland-China Swine: I—Early Breed History: The ‘Hot Blood’ versus the ‘Big Type’” Journal of Heredity 30.4 (1939): 149-56. Martel, Leon. Lend-Lease, Loans, and the Coming of the Cold War: A Study of the Implementation of Foreign Policy. Boulder: Westview Press, 1979. 35. National Archive and Records Administration (NARA). RG 59, General Records of the Department of State. Office of Soviet Union affairs, Box 6. “Records relating to Lend Lease with the USSR 1941-1952”. National Archive and Records Administration (NARA). RG166, Records of the Foreign Agricultural Service. Narrative reports 1940-1954. USSR Cotton-USSR Foreign trade. Box 64, Folder “farm management”. Report written by David V Kelly, 6 Apr. 1951. National Archive and Records Administration (NARA). RG 166, Records of the Foreign Agricultural Service. Narrative Reports 1955-1961. Folder: “Agriculture” “Visits to Soviet agricultural installations,” 15 Nov. 1961. Skeoch, L.A. Food Prices and Ration Scale in the Ukraine, 1946 The Review of Economics and Statistics 35.3 (Aug. 1953), 229-35. State Archive of the Russian Federation (GARF). Fond R-7021. The Report of Extraordinary Special State Commission on Wartime Losses Resulting from the German-Fascist Occupation cites the following losses in the German takeover. 1948. Stettinus, Edward R. Jr. Lend-Lease: Weapon for Victory. Penguin Books, 1944.

The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. — Sun TzuWorld War II saw a proliferation of maps. From command posts to the pages of National Geographic to the pages of daily newspapers, they were everywhere (Schulten). The era also saw substantive developments in cartography, especially with respect to the topographical maps that feature in our selected films. This essay offers a preliminary examination of the battle-map as depicted in two films about the Second World War: Franklin J. Shaffner’s biopic Patton (1970) and Jack Smight’s epic Midway (1976). In these films, maps, charts, or tableaux (the three-dimensional models upon which are plotted the movements of battalions, fleets, and so on) emerge as an expression of both martial and cinematic strategy. As a rear-view representation of the relative movements of personnel and materiel in particular battle arenas, the map and its accessories (pins, tape, markers, and so forth) trace the broad military dispositions of Patton’s 2nd Corp (Africa), Seventh Army (Italy) and Third Army (Western Europe) and the relative position of American and Japanese fleets in the Pacific. In both Patton and Midway, the map also emerges as a simple mode of narrative plotting: as the various encounters in the two texts play out, the battle-map more or less contemporaneously traces the progress of forces. It also serves as a foreshadowing device, not just narratively, but cinematically: that which is plotted in advance comes to pass (even if as preliminary movements before catastrophe), but the audience is also cued for the cinematic chaos and disjuncture that almost inevitably ensues in the battle scenes proper.On one hand, then, this essay proposes that at the fundamental level of fabula (seen through either the lens of historical hindsight or through the eyes of the novice who knows nothing of World War II), the annotated map is engaged both strategically and cinematically: as a stage upon which commanders attempt to act out (either in anticipation, or retrospectively) the intricate, but grotesque, ballet of warfare — and as a reflection of the broad, sequential, sweeps of conflict. While, in War and Cinema, Paul Virilio offers the phrase ‘the logistics of perception’ (1), in this this essay we, on the other hand, consider that, for those in command, the battle-map is a representation of the perception of logistics: the big picture of war finds rough indexical representation on a map, but (as Clausewitz tells us) chance, the creative agency of individual commanders, and the fog of battle make it far less probable (than is the case in more specific mappings, such as, say, the wedding rehearsal) that what is planned will play out with any degree of close correspondence (On War 19, 21, 77-81). Such mapping is, of course, further problematised by the processes of abstraction themselves: indexicality is necessarily a reduction; a de-realisation or déterritorialisation. ‘For the military commander,’ writes Virilio, ‘every dimension is unstable and presents itself in isolation from its original context’ (War and Cinema 32). Yet rehearsal (on maps, charts, or tableaux) is a keying activity that seeks to presage particular real world patterns (Goffman 45). As suggested above, far from being a rhizomatic activity, the heavily plotted (as opposed to thematic) business of mapping is always out of joint: either a practice of imperfect anticipation or an equally imperfect (pared back and behind-the-times) rendition of activity in the field. As is argued by Tolstoj in War and Peace, the map then presents to the responder a series of tensions and ironies often lost on the masters of conflict themselves. War, as Tostoj proposes, is a stochastic phenomenon while the map is a relatively static, and naive, attempt to impose order upon it. Tolstoj, then, pillories Phull (in the novel, Pfuhl), the aptly-named Prussian general whose lock-stepped obedience to the science of war (of which the map is part) results in the abject humiliation of 1806:Pfuhl was one of those theoreticians who are so fond of their theory that they lose sight of the object of that theory - its application in practice. (Vol. 2, Part 1, Ch. 10, 53)In both Patton and Midway, then, the map unfolds not only as an epistemological tool (read, ‘battle plan’) or reflection (read, the near contemporaneous plotting of real world affray) of the war narrative, but as a device of foreshadowing and as an allegory of command and its profound limitations. So, in Deleuzian terms, while emerging as an image of both time and perception, for commanders and filmgoers alike, the map is also something of a seduction: a ‘crystal-image’ situated in the interstices between the virtual and the actual (Deleuze 95). To put it another way, in our films the map emerges as an isomorphism: a studied plotting in which inheres a counter-text (Goffman 26). As a simple device of narrative, and in the conventional terms of latitude and longitude, in both Patton and Midway, the map, chart, or tableau facilitate the plotting of the resources of war in relation to relief (including island land masses), roads, railways, settlements, rivers, and seas. On this syntagmatic plane, in Greimasian terms, the map is likewise received as a canonical sign of command: where there are maps, there are, after all, commanders (Culler 13). On the other hand, as suggested above, the battle-map (hereafter, we use the term to signify the conventional paper map, the maritime chart, or tableau) materialises as a sanitised image of the unknown and the grotesque: as apodictic object that reduces complexity and that incidentally banishes horror and affect. Thus, the map evolves, in the viewer’s perception, as an ironic sign of all that may not be commanded. This is because, as an emblem of the rational order, in Patton and Midway the map belies the ubiquity of battle’s friction: that defined by Clausewitz as ‘the only concept which...distinguishes real war from war on paper’ (73). ‘Friction’ writes Clausewitz, ‘makes that which appears easy in War difficult in reality’ (81).Our work here cannot ignore or side-step the work of others in identifying the core cycles, characteristics of the war film genre. Jeanine Basinger, for instance, offers nothing less than an annotated checklist of sixteen key characteristics for the World War II combat film. Beyond this taxonomy, though, Basinger identifies the crucial role this sub-type of film plays in the corpus of war cinema more broadly. The World War II combat film’s ‘position in the evolutionary process is established, as well as its overall relationship to history and reality. It demonstrates how a primary set of concepts solidifies into a story – and how they can be interpreted for a changing ideology’ (78). Stuart Bender builds on Basinger’s taxonomy and discussion of narrative tropes with a substantial quantitative analysis of the very building blocks of battle sequences. This is due to Bender’s contention that ‘when a critic’s focus [is] on the narrative or ideological components of a combat film [this may] lead them to make assumptions about the style which are untenable’ (8). We seek with this research to add to a rich and detailed body of knowledge by redressing a surprising omission therein: a conscious and focussed analysis of the use of battle-maps in war cinema. In Patton and in Midway — as in War and Peace — the map emerges as an emblem of an intergeneric dialogue: as a simple storytelling device and as a paradigmatic engine of understanding. To put it another way, as viewer-responders with a synoptic perspective we perceive what might be considered a ‘double exposure’: in the map we see what is obviously before us (the collision of represented forces), but an Archimedean positioning facilitates the production of far more revelatory textual isotopies along what Roman Jakobson calls the ‘axis of combination’ (Linguistics and Poetics 358). Here, otherwise unconnected signs (in our case various manifestations and configurations of the battle-map) are brought together in relation to particular settings, situations, and figures. Through this palimpsest of perspective, a crucial binary emerges: via the battle-map we see ‘command’ and the sequence of engagement — and, through Greimasian processes of axiological combination (belonging more to syuzhet than fabula), elucidated for us are the wrenching ironies of warfare (Culler 228). Thus, through the profound and bound motif of the map (Tomashevsky 69), are we empowered to pass judgement on the map bearers who, in both films, present as the larger-than-life heroes of old. Figure 1.While we have scope only to deal with the African theatre, Patton opens with a dramatic wide-shot of the American flag: a ‘map’, if you will, of a national history forged in war (Fig. 1). Against this potent sign of American hegemony, as he slowly climbs up to the stage before it, the general appears a diminutive figure -- until, via a series of matched cuts that culminate in extreme close-ups, he manifests as a giant about to play his part in a great American story (Fig. 2).Figure 2.Some nineteen minutes into a film, having surveyed the carnage of Kasserine Pass (in which, in February 1943, the Germans inflicted a humiliating defeat on the Americans) General Omar Bradley is reunited with his old friend and newly-nominated three-star general, George S. Patton Jr.. Against a backdrop of an indistinct topographical map (that nonetheless appears to show the front line) and the American flag that together denote the men’s authority, the two discuss the Kasserine catastrophe. Bradley’s response to Patton’s question ‘What happened at Kasserine?’ clearly illustrates the tension between strategy and real-world engagement. While the battle-plan was solid, the Americans were outgunned, their tanks were outclassed, and (most importantly) their troops were out-disciplined. Patton’s concludes that Rommel can only be beaten if the American soldiers are fearless and fight as a cohesive unit. Now that he is in command of the American 2nd Corp, the tide of American martial fortune is about to turn.The next time Patton appears in relation to the map is around half an hour into the two-and-three-quarter-hour feature. Here, in the American HQ, the map once more appears as a simple, canonical sign of command. Somewhat carelessly, the map of Europe seems to show post-1945 national divisions and so is ostensibly offered as a straightforward prop. In terms of martial specifics, screenplay writer Francis Ford Coppola apparently did not envisage much close scrutiny of the film’s maps. Highlighted, instead, are the tensions between strategy as a general principle and action on the ground. As British General Sir Arthur Coningham waxes lyrical about allied air supremacy, a German bomber drops its payload on the HQ, causing the map of Europe to (emblematically) collapse forward into the room. Following a few passes by the attacking aircraft, the film then cuts to a one second medium shot as a hail of bullets from a Heinkel He 111 strike a North African battle map (Fig. 3). Still prone, Patton remarks: ‘You were discussing air supremacy, Sir Arthur.’ Dramatising a scene that did take place (although Coningham was not present), Schaffner’s intention is to allow Patton to shoot holes in the British strategy (of which he is contemptuous) but a broader objective is the director’s exposé of the more general disjuncture between strategy and action. As the film progresses, and the battle-map’s allegorical significance is increasingly foregrounded, this critique becomes definitively sharper.Figure 3.Immediately following a scene in which an introspective Patton walks through a cemetery in which are interred the remains of those killed at Kasserine, to further the critique of Allied strategy the camera cuts to Berlin’s high command and a high-tech ensemble of tableaux, projected maps, and walls featuring lights, counters, and clocks. Tasked to research the newly appointed Patton, Captain Steiger walks through the bunker HQ with Hitler’s Chief of Staff, General Jodl, to meet with Rommel — who, suffering nasal diphtheria, is away from the African theatre. In a memorable exchange, Steiger reveals that Patton permanently attacks and never retreats. Rommel, who, following his easy victory at Kasserine, is on the verge of total tactical victory, in turn declares that he will ‘attack and annihilate’ Patton — before the poet-warrior does the same to him. As Clausewitz has argued, and as Schaffner is at pains to point out, it seems that, in part, the outcome of warfare has more to do with the individual consciousness of competing warriors than it does with even the most exquisite of battle-plans.Figure 4.So, even this early in the film’s runtime, as viewer-responders we start to reassess various manifestations of the battle-map. To put it as Michelle Langford does in her assessment of Schroeter’s cinema, ‘fragments of the familiar world [in our case, battle-maps] … become radically unfamiliar’ (Allegorical Images 57). Among the revelations is that from the flag (in the context of close battle, all sense of ‘the national’ dissolves), to the wall map, to the most detailed of tableau, the battle-plan is enveloped in the fog of war: thus, the extended deeply-focussed scenes of the Battle of El Guettar take us from strategic overview (Patton’s field glass perspectives over what will soon become a Valley of Death) to what Boris Eichenbaum has called ‘Stendhalian’ scale (The Young Tolstoi 105) in which, (in Patton) through more closely situated perspectives, we almost palpably experience the Germans’ disarray under heavy fire. As the camera pivots between the general and the particular (and between the omniscient and the nescient) the cinematographer highlights the tension between the strategic and the actual. Inasmuch as it works out (and, as Schaffner shows us, it never works out completely as planned) this is the outcome of modern martial strategy: chaos and unimaginable carnage on the ground that no cartographic representation might capture. As Patton observes the destruction unfold in the valley below and before him, he declares: ‘Hell of a waste of fine infantry.’ Figure 5.An important inclusion, then, is that following the protracted El Guettar battle scenes, Schaffner has the (symbolically flag-draped) casket of Patton’s aide, Captain Richard N. “Dick” Jenson, wheeled away on a horse-drawn cart — with the lonely figure of the mourning general marching behind, his ironic interior monologue audible to the audience: ‘I can't see the reason such fine young men get killed. There are so many battles yet to fight.’ Finally, in terms of this brief and partial assessment of the battle-map in Patton, less than an hour in, we may observe that the map is emerging as something far more than a casual prop; as something more than a plotting of battlelines; as something more than an emblem of command. Along a new and unexpected axis of semantic combination, it is now manifesting as a sign of that which cannot be represented nor commanded.Midway presents the lead-up to the eponymous naval battle of 1942. Smight’s work is of interest primarily because the battle itself plays a relatively small role in the film; what is most important is the prolonged strategising that comprises most of the film’s run time. In Midway, battle-tables and fleet markers become key players in the cinematic action, second almost to the commanders themselves. Two key sequences are discussed here: the moment in which Yamamoto outlines his strategy for the attack on Midway (by way of a decoy attack on the Aleutian Islands), and the scene some moments later where Admiral Nimitz and his assembled fleet commanders (Spruance, Blake, and company) survey their own plan to defend the atoll. In Midway, as is represented by the notion of a fleet-in-being, the oceanic battlefield is presented as a speculative plane on which commanders can test ideas. Here, a fleet in a certain position projects a radius of influence that will deter an enemy fleet from attacking: i.e. ‘a fleet which is able and willing to attack an enemy proposing a descent upon territory which that force has it in charge to protect’ (Colomb viii). The fleet-in-being, it is worth noting, is one that never leaves port and, while it is certainly true that the latter half of Midway is concerned with the execution of strategy, the first half is a prolonged cinematic game of chess, with neither player wanting to move lest the other has thought three moves ahead. Virilio opines that the fleet-in-being is ‘a new idea of violence that no longer comes from direct confrontation and bloodshed, but rather from the unequal properties of bodies, evaluation of the number of movements allowed them in a chosen element, permanent verification of their dynamic efficiency’ (Speed and Politics 62). Here, as in Patton, we begin to read the map as a sign of the subjective as well as the objective. This ‘game of chess’ (or, if you prefer, ‘Battleships’) is presented cinematically through the interaction of command teams with their battle-tables and fleet markers. To be sure, this is to show strategy being developed — but it is also to prepare viewers for the defamiliarised representation of the battle itself.The first sequence opens with a close-up of Admiral Yamamoto declaring: ‘This is how I expect the battle to develop.’ The plan to decoy the Americans with an attack on the Aleutians is shown via close-ups of the conveniently-labelled ‘Northern Force’ (Fig. 6). It is then explained that, twenty-four hours later, a second force will break off and strike south, on the Midway atoll. There is a cut from closeups of the pointer on the map to the wider shot of the Japanese commanders around their battle table (Fig. 7). Interestingly, apart from the opening of the film in the Japanese garden, and the later parts of the film in the operations room, the Japanese commanders are only ever shown in this battle-table area. This canonically positions the Japanese as pure strategists, little concerned with the enmeshing of war with political or social considerations. The sequence ends with Commander Yasimasa showing a photograph of Vice Admiral Halsey, who the Japanese mistakenly believe will be leading the carrier fleet. Despite some bickering among the commanders earlier in the film, this sequence shows the absolute confidence of the Japanese strategists in their plan. The shots are suitably languorous — averaging three to four seconds between cuts — and the body language of the commanders shows a calm determination. The battle-map here is presented as an index of perfect command and inevitable victory: each part of the plan is presented with narration suggesting the Japanese expect to encounter little resistance. While Yasimasa and his clique are confident, the other commanders suggest a reconnaissance flight over Pearl Harbor to ascertain the position of the American fleet; the fear of fleet-in-being is shown here firsthand and on the map, where the reconnaissance planes are placed alongside the ship markers. The battle-map is never shown in full: only sections of the naval landscape are presented. We suggest that this is done in order to prepare the audience for the later stages of the film: as in Patton (from time to time) the battle-map here is filmed abstractly, to prime the audience for the abstract montage of the battle itself in the film’s second half.Figure 6.Figure 7.Having established in the intervening running time that Halsey is out of action, his replacement, Rear Admiral Spruance, is introduced to the rest of the command team. As with all the important American command and strategy meetings in the film, this is done in the operations room. A transparent coordinates board is shown in the foreground as Nimitz, Spruance and Rear Admiral Fletcher move through to the battle table. Behind the men, as they lean over the table, is an enormous map of the world (Fig. 8). In this sequence, Nimitz freely admits that while he knows each Japanese battle group’s origin and heading, he is unsure of their target. He asks Spruance for his advice:‘Ray, assuming what you see here isn’t just an elaborate ruse — Washington thinks it is, but assuming they’re wrong — what kind of move do you suggest?’This querying is followed by Spruance glancing to a particular point on the map (Fig. 9), then a cut to a shot of models representing the aircraft carriers Hornet, Enterprise & Yorktown (Fig. 10). This is one of the few model/map shots unaccompanied by dialogue or exposition. In effect, this shot shows Spruance’s thought process before he responds: strategic thought presented via cinematography. Spruance then suggests situating the American carrier group just northeast of Midway, in case the Japanese target is actually the West Coast of the United States. It is, in effect, a hedging of bets. Spruance’s positioning of the carrier group also projects that group’s sphere of influence around Midway atoll and north to essentially cut off Japanese access to the US. The fleet-in-being is presented graphically — on the map — in order to, once again, cue the audience to match the later (edited) images of the battle to these strategic musings.In summary, in Midway, the map is an element of production design that works alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to present the notion of strategic thought to the audience. In addition, and crucially, it functions as an abstraction of strategy that prepares the audience for the cinematic disorientation that will occur through montage as the actual battle rages later in the film. Figure 8.Figure 9.Figure 10.This essay has argued that the battle-map is a simulacrum of the weakest kind: what Baudrillard would call ‘simulacra of simulation, founded on information, the model’ (121). Just as cinema itself offers a distorted view of history (the war film, in particular, tends to hagiography), the battle-map is an over-simplification that fails to capture the physical and psychological realities of conflict. We have also argued that in both Patton and Midway, the map is not a ‘free’ motif (Tomashevsky 69). Rather, it is bound: a central thematic device. In the two films, the battle-map emerges as a crucial isomorphic element. On the one hand, it features as a prop to signify command and to relay otherwise complex strategic plottings. At this syntagmatic level, it functions alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to give audiences a glimpse into how military strategy is formed and tested: a traditional ‘reading’ of the map. But on the flip side of what emerges as a classic structuralist binary, is the map as a device of foreshadowing (especially in Midway) and as a depiction of command’s profound limitations. Here, at a paradigmatic level, along a new axis of combination, a new reading of the map in war cinema is proposed: the battle-map is as much a sign of the subjective as it is the objective.ReferencesBasinger, Jeanine. The World War II Combat Film: Anatomy of a Genre. Middletown, CT: Columbia UP, 1986.Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Ann Arbour: U of Michigan Press, 1994.Bender, Stuart. Film Style and the World War II Combat Genre. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013.Clausewitz, Carl. On War. Vol. 1. London: Kegan Paul, 1908.Colomb, Philip Howard. Naval Warfare: Its Ruling Principles and Practice Historically Treated. 3rd ed. London: W.H. Allen & Co, 1899.Culler, Jonathan. Structuralist Poetics. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975.Deleuze, Gilles. 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