Chapter three

Living communities

In the history of all imperial systems one colonised area invariably figures more prominently than others and leaves its mark on policy. For Britain, India was central to the myths of empire—with all the attractions and burdens this brought with it. In Germany’s case the Baltic region exerted a particular attraction, not only for the rulers of the German Empire and its military leaders, but also for the popular and intellectual imaginations ever since the arrival in the twelfth century of the Teutonic Crusading Order. It was then that German influence in the Baltic provinces of Estonia, Livonia and Courland was first established. Even when other powerful foreign conquerors later took over the region, culminating with Peter the Great’s Russia, the Baltic German élites were allowed to continue governing the Baltic provinces autonomously on behalf of those rulers. Small wonder that Hitler’s take on Germany’s history also inclined him to view the Baltic, with its ‘thin upper crust of Germanhood’, as part of the foundation for a German ‘ascendancy over all the european nations.’1 In reality not all of those who had actually carried out the historic colonisation of the Baltic region fitted so comfortably into Hitler’s scheme. Indeed, even the Führer, like many Germans, including Bismarck, disparaged the social arrogance of the Baltic German landed ruling élites. Nor did these for the most part have any great desire before 1914 to be absorbed by the Reich. Secure on their vast landed estates, sustained at the expense of the Estonian and Latvian peoples, the Baltic Germans held sway administratively as well as culturally. Apart from the control exercised through the four knightly orders (Ritterschaften) of Courland, Estonia, Livonia and Oesel, German burghers dominated urban government and commerce. Baltic German service to the Russian Empire for long gave the Tsar no cause to interfere with their tradition of regional autonomy.2 Baltic German cultural hegemony was underpinned by the development of German education and schooling and, of course, through the alma mater of most prominent Baltic Germans, the University of Dorpat (Tartu).3 To the Baltic there came from the mid-18th century pastors, intellectuals and teachers from the Reich—the so-called Literaten. No less a figure than Johann Gottfried Herder taught for some years in the school attached to the great German cathedral, the Domschule. Beneath the nobility and Literaten there existed no real German peasant class; the invading knights brought no Germanic serfs with them, relying on the native Baltic peoples to service their estates. As to the German bourgeoisie that developed through the trading networks criss-crossing the Baltic sea and converging on the Baltic provinces from the mighty Russian Empire, these for long had little real social contact with Estonians and Latvians. What intermarriage there was 36 John Hiden and Martyn Housden invariably led to Germanisation of the Latvian or Estonian partner, although this of course contributed to the evolution of an identity that could be seen in important respects as regional. Moreover, some Literaten actively encouraged an Estonian and Latvian cultural renaissance. Ultimately this would be an important component in the so-called national awakening of those peoples in the second half of the 19th century. Willy Brandt, later Chancellor of West Germany, described Europe as ‘a living community of peoples and states.’ His remarks came from a very different era but they aptly conjure up the vibrancy of societies such as those along the shores of the Baltic. Admittedly conditions in that part of the world were not fully replicated among other German groups living in Central and Eastern Europe. Volga Germans, Germans living near the Crimea or in more sensitive areas of the Russian Empire, like those in the Polish borderlands, all had their respective traditions as communities and maintained their German culture. None of them, however, combined it with a central role in the political governance of a major foreign power. That eventually gave the Baltic German community a significance out of all proportion to its size. Yet this very reality made Baltic Germans vulnerable to any significant change in the relationship between their cultural motherland and their political masters, that is to say between Germany and Russia. Russification in the last quarter of the nineteenth century slowly began to erode the trust between the Ritterschaften and St Petersburg.4 Russification attacked not only Baltic German schooling but also the treasured University of Dorpat. Meanwhile Russian officials displaced Baltic Germans in the administration and judiciary, as well as in the municipal authorities.5 The process inevitably motivated the Baltic German community to forge better links with the new Germany created in 1871. Within two decades of the German Empire being proclaimed, a number of eminent Baltic German intellectuals had opted to move to the Reich. Among them was the well-known historian of Russia, Theodor Schiemann, who ultimately gained the Kaiser’s ear and thereafter systematically preached an anti-Russian cause.6 Educational ties also intensified as the beleaguered Baltic German leaders set up for the first time province-wide school associations (Schulvereine) and sought Reich subsidies more systematically. In addition, many Baltic German children and students were packed off to Germany by their parents for the sort of education that even liberal Baltic Germans believed could not be provided by Russian teachers. Conversely, a handful of Baltic German estate holders opened up opportunities for Reich Germans to settle on land allocated from their holdings—settlers later stigmatised by an independent Latvian government as ‘colonists.’ All of these varied contacts helped at last to heighten the mutual awareness of Baltic Germans and Reich Germans. The fact remains that most of the German élites in the Baltic provinces entertained no serious expectation of abandoning the Tsar and his Empire in