A Memorial to All Deserters

Today, more than a dozen monuments to (unknown) deserters stand in various German cities. This is an exceptional number, as few comparable memorials exist elsewhere, the rare exceptions being the Shot at Dawn Memorial in England and the monuments to deserters in Austria. Individual anti-fascist memorials also existed in the former GDR. But as a rule, nation-states do not usually concern themselves with conscientious objectors or deserters, let alone honor them.

The emergence of these memorials to deserters in Germany is linked to several historical processes and events, most notably the mass peace movement of the 1980s in the FRG, the end of the Cold War and subsequent unification of Germany, and the 2002 rehabilitation of Wehrmacht deserters. This last event spurred an official revision of the history of desertion, though grassroots efforts had begun earlier — through the first activist-led monuments, scholarly publications, and, most importantly, self-organized groups and independent initiatives advocating for deserters and their recognition.

Unveiled in 2015, The Memorial for Deserters and Other Victims of the Nazi Military Judiciary was made possible by the efforts of activists from the Alliance for a Deserter Monument in Hamburg, founded in 2010. Historians of the city, along with one of the most well-known Wehrmacht deserters and anti-war activists, Ludwig Baumann (1921–2018), played a key role in its creation. The city of Hamburg announced a design competition, and out of 11 submissions, the jury selected a proposal by Hamburg sculptor Volker Lang.

— Could you introduce yourself and share a bit about your artistic journey?

— I’m a visual artist with a background in fine arts. I’ve lived in Hamburg for most of my life, with a two-year period in Naples. Now I’m back in Hamburg, though I’ll be relocating to Brussels soon. I’m also a musician — I play the cello. My work is primarily three-dimensional. I used to do large-scale projects, but these days I focus more on sculpture and smaller formats. Some of my best-known works in Hamburg include The Memorial for Deserters [and Other Victims of the Nazi Military Judiciary], the Monument for the 60th Anniversary of the Hamburg Firestorm in the neighborhood of Rothenburgsort, and the Memorial for the Jewish Deportees from Steubenweg 36 (now Grotiusweg 36) in the Blankenese neighborhood.

— What role does architecture play in your work? Your published portfolio features images of “houses,” wooden structures that visitors can step inside. What do they represent?

— During and after my studies, I extensively researched architectural history and the question of proportion. My early wooden structures emerged from this research. Over time, I moved away from building structures and toward creating actual spaces. These “houses” contained hidden texts — I would first find a text and then construct a house to hold it. Both the text and the structure became deeply intertwined with the surrounding landscape. This approach ultimately shaped the design of The Memorial for Deserters. My goal was to inscribe historical events, like the destruction of Rothenburgsort in the Hamburg Firestorm, into physical space.

— What role do nature, landscape, and the surrounding environment play in the design of your “houses”?

— In memorials located in the city center, the immediate surroundings don’t always play a defining role. But in the case of the memorial pavilion in Blankenese, the landscape was integral to the design. The pavilion is meant to direct the visitor’s gaze toward the house that the Nazis used as a detention site for Jews before their deportation. I connected the monument’s shape to the forest that stood there at the time — a silent witness to the crime. Standing inside, you get the sensation that the forest is seeping into the structure. This interplay between interior and exterior is always crucial in my work.

For The Memorial for Deserters, I took a different approach. I wanted to create a space that wasn’t a solid, immovable block like the other two memorials at Dammtor [Railway] Station, but something porous and permeable. This decision repeatedly put me at odds with the Alliance for the Memorial for Deserters in Hamburg.

— The site where The Memorial for Deserters stands hosts numerous “commemorative events.” There’s also a monument to the 76th Infantry Regiment, which I’ve heard is nicknamed the Kriegsklotz (“War Block”). 

— Yes, the Kriegsklotz refers to the monument honoring the 76th Infantry Regiment “Hamburg,” which existed from 1867 to 1919. During the Weimar Republic, its veterans pushed revisionist narratives and campaigned for a heroic monument to commemorate their service. As the memory of Germany’s defeat in World War I grew more distant, their demands grew louder. Initially, the proposal was rejected — there was already a memorial by Ernst Barlach at Rathausmarkt that mourned all those who died in that war. But after the Nazis came to power, the monument, designed by Richard Kuöhl, was finally built in 1936.

— And what makes this monument so problematic?

— It’s a provocation, first and foremost towards Wehrmacht deserters, but not only towards them. After World War II, during the remilitarization of West Germany, the Großer Zapfenstreich ceremony (1) was held at this site. On top of that, a memorial plaque was added for the 76th Panzer-Grenadier Regiment, which was reestablished in 1937 and was responsible for particularly brutal acts of violence (2).

This regiment had a long history of brutal campaigns. In particular, it took part in executing the Schlieffen Plan during World War I. This involved attacking France’s northeastern flank through the neutral country of Belgium. When Belgium resisted, German forces, including the 76th Regiment, committed war crimes against civilians.

I find it deeply troubling that, after the Holocaust and the war of annihilation, this kind of military cult was encouraged. It’s hard to comprehend why this monument wasn’t torn down long ago. Today few would dare to remove it. In the 1980s, though, there was a determined campaign against it.

— The inscription above the marching soldiers on the monument reads, “Germany must live, even if we must die.” The phrase comes from Heinrich Lersch’s 1914 poem “A Soldier’s Farewell” and later became a Nazi propaganda slogan, particularly during the Battle of Stalingrad. After the war, there were discussions about removing the inscription while keeping the monument itself — but in the end, nothing was done.

— This slogan expresses the obsession with death [Totenkult] inherent not only to National Socialism but also to militarism in general. At least, that is what Klaus Heinrich claimed in his lectures at the Free University (3). The Nazis’ obsession with death also manifested in the stage productions, parades, and torchlight processions at their party congresses and events (organized by Albert Speer, their chief stage designer), where darkness would alternate with the light of searchlights. Although it was written during the First World War, the quote from Lerch’s poem would fit right in there.

— After numerous campaigns and harsh criticism of the memorial, it was decided in the 1980s to erect another one in the same place. Alfred Hrdlicka won the competition, but his project was only partially realized. The costs kept ballooning.

—  Yes, only two sculptures from Hrdlicka’s planned series were made: Firestorm, depicting a skeleton leaning against a wall [editor’s note: in reference to the Allied firebombing of Hamburg], and the wreck of the passenger liner Cap Arcona, which together with the freighter Thielbeck was sunk during a British air raid shortly before the end of the war. Both ships were misidentified by the Royal Air Force as transport ships, which may have been what the Nazis were hoping for. 7,000 concentration camp inmates were on board. [Translator’s note: only about 450 of them survived.] In order to cover up the crimes of the Nazi regime, Himmler had ordered the Neuengamme concentration camp to be evacuated, so its prisoners were sent to the Bay of Lübeck and loaded onto these ships. Hrdlicka depicted two tragedies, but ones that are easier to blame on the Allies than the National Socialists.

— How did the memorial for deserters come about? I know about the campaign led by the Alliance for the Memorial for Deserters in Hamburg. Ludwig Baumann, himself a Wehrmacht deserter, was a central figure in the movement. A documentary about him was recently released. Were you in contact with him, or what led you to participate in the competition for the monument?

— After a preliminary selection, about sixteen artists were invited to participate. The competition guidelines included a brochure detailing the histories and fates of Wehrmacht deserters, highlighting Ludwig Baumann’s influence and the activism surrounding him. When I got to know him better, I was deeply moved. The entire alliance struck me as strong and courageous — they were not only fighting for the rehabilitation of deserters but also demanding that World War II be publicly recognized as a war of aggression and annihilation.

— The Russian-speaking community in Hamburg also held an anti-war rally in front of The Memorial for Deserters. In 2023, the non-governmental organization Connection e.V., which supports deserters from various countries, called for actions in solidarity with deserters on Human Rights Day. We decided to participate from a Russian anti-war perspective. Through our action at the memorial, we were able to symbolically reclaim and reinterpret its meaning. While the monument primarily commemorates Wehrmacht deserters, we saw it as a tribute to all deserters across the world and throughout history.

— I share that perspective. However, both the city of Hamburg, which commissioned the competition, and the state as a whole firmly deny that this is a memorial to all deserters. As Ludwig Baumann points out in the documentary, conscientious objection and desertion remain sore subjects for any state with an army — they challenge the very logic of military defense. But as an artist, I have the freedom to interpret and speak about my work in my own way.

— The memorial is designed to be entered. Inside, visitors hear a sound installation featuring short biographies of executed deserters and other victims of the Nazi judicial system. Can you explain the aesthetic concept behind your piece?

— My initial design was inspired by Cedric Price’s Snowdon Aviary at the London Zoo. I envisioned a structure spanning the square, with a suspended grid inscribed with words and concepts. However, this approach proved too expensive, so I adapted the idea — the words migrated from the net to the memorial’s grid-like walls. The text itself is a poetic collage by Helmut Heissenbüttel, one of the first writers in postwar Germany to experiment with an anti-war language that fragments and distorts the rhetoric of perpetrators and their accomplices. Heissenbüttel was a key literary figure of the 1960s, and that is why I chose his work as the basis for the memorial’s inscription.

— I’ve been studying the monument for several years now, but I still don’t fully understand why it’s shaped like a triangle. Does it relate to the badges prisoners wore in concentration camps? Or is it influenced by El Lissitzky and Constructivism?

— I chose the triangle to create a visual and conceptual tension with the Kriegsklotz and the Hrdlicka monument. A square, rectangle, or circle would have been too static, too closed. The triangle, by contrast, has an inherent sharpness and instability, which I wanted to emphasize. The monument needed to express a certain aggression. The other two sculptures rely on figurative language, whereas I was looking for a radical reduction, drawing on Constructivism and Minimalist art. In the Kriegsklotz, the figures are disciplined soldiers marching in formation around a block of stone, embodying obedience. Hrdlicka’s sculpture, on the other hand, depicts figures as desecrated and broken, but to me, its dramatization verges on spectacle—it reminds me of a horror attraction at a carnival. Adding yet another figurative image to that space would have been unbearable.

— The Kriegsklotz is a monolithic stone block that speaks of national unity and heroic sacrifice in war. Your work, however, feels light, permeable, open. When viewed through your sculpture, the Kriegsklotz is framed in such a way that one of the marching soldiers appears isolated, as if singled out.

— Yes, that framing was my response to a sketch that Alliance for the Memorial for Deserters in Hamburg used in campaigns. Their photomontage depicted a row of marching soldiers, except one — a deserter — had turned around and was walking away. I wanted to translate that idea into the spatial composition of the sculpture, directing the viewer’s gaze.

The monument can be entered from three sides, through the gaps between the wall elements at each corner. The space has an opening, and no base — the stone floor remains level with the surrounding grass. This is deliberate: a deserter cannot be placed on a pedestal. To withdraw from the ranks, to reject the fighting collective, is to reject the very structure of heroism. Ludwig Baumann spoke of the humiliation he endured, how he was barred from his profession in postwar Germany, how he struggled to rebuild his life. That is not what we typically call “freedom,” is it? And yet, for me, the moment of defection — the wanting, the needing to leave — is an act of freedom. The struggle of Baumann and his comrades to have this monument built is part of that same refusal, that same insisting on a different path. The free decision to step out of the marching ranks and go against what you’ve been taught [Abrichtung] and — that is the essence of my sculpture.

— You use the term Abrichtung, “training.” Could you clarify what you mean by it in this context? Are you referring to military discipline?

— Abrichtung means training people to obey absolutely, to not hesitate, resist, or doubt, just to do. Under National Socialism, this kind of conditioning led to the annihilation of individuality itself. We still have this architecture of subjugation today: institutions, bureaucracies, military structures all function as mechanisms of discipline through which the military spirit seeps into civil society. Subordination creates a readiness to act without reflection, to carry out senseless acts. And when that willingness becomes widespread, society as a whole becomes desensitized.

— The Neuengamme Concentration Camp Memorial has published a brochure listing the names, biographies, and sentences of deserters and other victims of Nazi military justice. So the monument isn’t just about soldiers — it also commemorates those who assisted deserters and members of the resistance who were executed. Are there other places in Hamburg connected to The Memorial for Deserters?

— The competition brief for the monument included a detailed list of death sentences carried out in Hamburg between 1940 and 1945 compiled by historian Lars Skowronski. I turned the list into an audio installation built into the monument. The recording, voiced by actors, recites the names and details of 227 individuals from Germany, France, Poland, the Soviet Union, and Yugoslavia who were executed in Hamburg during this period. The sheer length of the recording — over three hours — conveys the scale of the violence. These names are an essential part of my work. Some consider this approach too understated, but I believe it is precisely in this subtlety that its impact lies. The words do not directly confront the Kriegsklotz, yet they exert their presence in a different way. Some activists find this method too restrained, but that does not concern me.

There are eight locations in Hamburg where Nazi military justice convicted, imprisoned, tortured, or executed its victims. These sites include former barracks, shooting ranges, courts, and prisons. At each of these places, I have installed plaques marked with a blue triangle, a historical photograph, and explanatory text in both German and English.

In Planten un Blomen Park, a plaque is mounted on the fence of a building that once served as a prison and continues to do so today. Another plaque stands at Sofienterrassen, which was the former headquarters of the Tenth Military District and the command center for its troops. The building has since been converted into a luxury apartment complex. The Frankfurt-based critic Dieter Bartetzko (5), in a book published in the 1980s, described such distortions of historical context as “built-over history.” Other key locations in Hamburg linked to the persecution of deserters include the former Höltigbaum shooting range, where executions were carried out; the barracks on Sedanstraße and Manthoeffelstraße, which housed the military courts; Gerichtsstraße, the site of a prison; Ohlsdorf Cemetery, where executed deserters were buried; and the Hapag-Lloyd building on Ballindamm, where court sessions under the authority of the Admiral of the Navy took place (6).

— Recently, the annual Ludwig Baumann Fest took place at The Memorial for Deserters. During the event, you had a discussion with René Senenko [translator’s note: author and spokesperson of the Alliance for the Memorial for Deserters in Hamburg]. Senenko’s main criticism of your project was that the memorial is positioned between the Hrdlicka Sculpture Ensemble and the Kriegsklotz. There is also a philistine view that your work is more about design and architecture, and, resembling a bus stop, it fails to fulfill the concept of a memorial. René again mentioned in your discussion that the memorial does not explicitly contrast with the Kriegsklotz. What is your response to this?

— Of course, it was my artistic decision to propose a design that could confront a Nazi war memorial. That is the language I use, and it is a proven language. In other words, there is an artistic tradition that maintains restraint when dealing with suffering and destruction, opting instead for “emptiness” [Leerstelle]. This approach has its roots in Minimalism and Constructivism. It reflects the belief that abstract form is more open to personal memory and mourning than the concrete representation of suffering. Today, we are constantly bombarded with images of violence, and if you were to hang a skeleton, the work would immediately become kitsch. From the outset, I sensed the critics’ dissatisfaction with my project, but my artistic vision does not require my work to attack the Kriegsklotz directly. That monument uses a different form of representation — militaristic, authoritarian, and anti-democratic — than the one I employ. When it comes to the expert opinions of historians, doctors, or lawyers, the public readily accepts them, but when it comes to artistic expertise, everyone feels entitled to question it. Creating a work of art involves specific decision-making processes, and not everyone can grasp them. People’s demand to comment on contemporary art often leads to conflict, especially when it comes to public art installations.

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^{The following interview is adapted from a September 16, 2024 Tamizdat Radio broadcast on FSK Hamburg. It has been edited and condensed for clarity.}

Notes by the interviewer:

1. The Großer Zapfenstreich is a military ceremony performed at night, featuring a military band, armed soldiers, and torchbearers. Today, in Germany, the ceremony is conducted by the Bundeswehr in front of the highest-ranking military and civilian officials as a symbol of recognition for their service before they leave their public posts.
2. In 1958–59, two additional stone slabs were placed next to the 76th Regiment monument, commemorating the 225th Infantry Division and the 76th Panzer Grenadier Regiment. Both Wehrmacht military units fought on the Eastern Front and were responsible for war crimes, including the “Holocaust by bullets” — the mass shootings of Jews and the siege of Leningrad.
3. Klaus Heinrich (1927–2020) was a German philosopher and religious scholar known for his Dahlem Lectures. (Dahlem is a district in western Berlin where the Free University is still located.) One of his lectures focuses on the architecture of Karl Friedrich Schinkel and Albert Speer.
4. Dieter Bartetzko (1949–2015) was a German journalist and architectural critic known for his 1986 book Verbaute Geschichte – Stadterneuerung vor der Katastrophe [Built-over History: Urban Renewal Before the Catastrophe].
5. For a complete map and additional details, the brochure Gedenkort für Deserteure und andere Opfer der NS-Militärjustiz zwischen Stephansplatz und Dammtor provides further information in German.

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