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The Un-Christmassy Origin of Gingerbread Houses

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H/T The Smithsonian.

A look at the history of the gingerbread house.

This tradition dates back to the story of Hansel and Gretel.

 

The tradition of decorative gingerbread dates back to the Middle Ages. (Flickr)

Like most Christmas traditions, gingerbread houses are big business: Wilton, a popular confectionery-making company, reports that it created over two million gingerbread house kits in 2011. For those who are more DIY-inclined, domestic gurus from Martha Stewart on down offer recipes and plans for making your own sugary domicile. But in spite of gingerbread house-decorating’s cozy holiday connotations, the roots of this tradition may lie in the folktale Hansel and Gretel.

Now, gingerbread houses didn’t start with the Brothers Grimm. They date back to the 1600s, a few centuries after the emergence of gingerbread itself, writes food historian Tori Avey. The tale of Hansel and Gretel may be even older than that, some historians say, perhaps dating to a 14th century famine in which parents turned children out to fend for themselves.

By the time folklorists Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm composed and published a version of the tale in the early 19th century, gingerbread houses were a long-standing tradition. Somewhere along the way, possibly because of historical connections between gingerbread and religious ceremonies or guilds, gingerbread—and gingerbread houses—had become associated with Christmas. The Grimms’s widely read stories helped to popularize gingerbread houses, leaving many with the belief that gingerbread houses started with the Grimms’s version of the tale.

Given its link with the gruesome fairytale, which involves two children almost getting cooked and eaten by a witch who lives in a gingerbread house before they turn the tables and cook her, it might seem surprising that the gingerbread house is still connected to Christmas. But today’s family-friendly holiday has numerous roots in the grimmer festivities of earlier times.

“Early German settlers brought this lebkuchenhaeusle–gingerbread house–tradition to the Americas,” writes Barbara Rolek for The Spruce. Today, gingerbread house-building competitions are an annual holiday tradition both nationally and in different parts of the country, and landmarks like the Washington Monument have been recreated using the spicy dough.

The gingerbread house-building contests in the United States today do bear some resemblance to the “gingerbread fairs” that were hosted by some cities in England and France during the Middle Ages and later, writes Amanda Fiegl for Smithsonian.com. Although the origin of these fairs was simply that gingerbread was a tasty and ubiquitous medieval treat, it did offer an opportunity to get together and enjoy a delicious treat–and what could be more Christmassy than that?

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The Riveting Story of an American Icon

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H/T The Smithsonian.

Here is as Paul Harvey used say “The Rest Of The Story.”

Rosie has a surprising history.

You may know the woman depicted here as Rosie the Riveter, but she wasn’t originally called that. (Smithsonian Institution)
By Kat Eschner

Rosie the Riveter is one of the most iconic symbols of the United States’s homefront experience during World War II. But the story of how she got famous isn’t what you’d expect. Here are three surprising facts about the We Can Do It! poster.

We Can Do It! was never intended for wide distribution, and only a few people saw it during the war

This now-iconic poster was displayed only for a few weeks during the war, and only at one Midwestern factory of the Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing Company, writes Flavia Di Consiglio for the BBC. The company “commissioned the graphic artist J Howard Miller to produce a series of posters, each intended to be displayed for a limited amount of time,” she writes. We Can Do It! was displayed for a few weeks in February 1943. “It was not commissioned by the US Government and was not even intended for general public view. Only a relatively small number of people saw it back then.”

Given that the poster series also included such images as this one, which reads “Any questions about your work? …Ask your supervisor,” it’s fairly clear that this image was part of a run-of-the-mill corporate exercise, not a symbol of female empowerment. But the poster–which Di Consiglio writes was likely intended to encourage acceptance of women in a traditionally male-dominated workplace–went on to gain greater meaning.

The original ‘We Can Do It!’ poster in full. (Smithsonian Institution)

The poster only got famous in the late 1970s

Scholar Jim Aulich told Di Consiglio that the image of a woman in the poster only became popular with the public in the late 70s.

“The poster is simple, populist and without pretension and because of that this image of a strong, self-possessed woman easily gained currency with those who wished to identify with women’s rights and equality,” he said. “The image is certainly striking and appropriates the familiar image of Popeye the Sailor Man as he is about to set off to rescue damsels in distress by means of his superhuman strength,” adds Aulich.

The Rosie you know isn’t the character actually known as ‘Rosie the Riveter’

We Can Do It! isn’t the only image with a claim to this name produced in 1943. In that year, the Saturday Evening Post’s Norman Rockwell produced not one, but two covers featuring his character “Rosie the Riveter.” In the first one, titled Rosie the Riveter, she’s a large woman perched on a pylon, eating a ham sandwich while holding a large riveting machine. Unlike the We Can Do It! Rosie, she’s also covered in grease from her job.

Norman Rockwell’s rendition of Rosie

Norman Rockwell’s rendition of Rosie (Wikimedia Commons)

In September of that year, Rockwell introduced the American public to another Rosie. Rosie to the Rescue was wearing an Uncle Sam jumpsuit and was burdened down by symbols from many different homefront jobs: police, nurses, janitors, farmers, milkmen and gardeners are just a few. But neither of Rockwell’s Rosies were the first to bear that name: Rosie is at least as old as 1942, when songwriters Redd Evans and John Jacob Loeb published a song called “Rosie the Riveter.” The Rosie in their song had a boyfriend named Charlie, a Marine, and “Rosie is protecting Charlie, workin’ overtime on the riveting machine.”

The character to appear on the We Can Do It! poster was never directly associated with the name Rosie the Riveter, Consiglio writes. (And in fact the factory where the poster was originally displayed made helmet liners; nobody riveted anything there, according to a Westinghouse historian cited in a book about labor posters.) But maybe that doesn’t really matter: After all, Rosie was a female folk hero on the front lines of World War II, not one single image, idea or woman.

However, the “womanpower campaign” that the United States government introduced in 1943, and that helped fuel the Rosie myth, “was far from empowering” by today’s standards, writes Stephanie Buck for  Timeline. “Sure, during the war, women were being encouraged to join the workforce, but with the understanding that they would abdicate their posts as soon as the soldiers returned. It was their duty.”


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Why the Ku Klux Klan Flourished Under Prohibition

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H/T The Smithsonian.

This is something about the Klan and prohibition I was not aware of.

The Ku Klux Klan’s resurgence in the 1920s is linked to the passage of the Volstead Act in 1920.

 

Orange County Sheriff’s Department disposing of illegal alcohol, circa 1932. (Wikimedia Commons/Orange County Archives)

On this day in 1933, the Twenty-first Amendment to the United States Constitution was passed, repealing Prohibition. People around the country celebrated Repeal Day, up to and including president Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who received a case of Budweiser carried by the company’s famous draft horses. But one group had little reason to celebrate: the Ku Klux Klan, which had allied itself with Prohibition campaigners intent on “purifying” the country–and prospered as a result.

Speaking to Slate’s Rebecca Onion, historian Lisa McGirr said that the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan in the 1920s was related to the passage of the Volstead Act, which imposed Prohibition, in 1920. When she looked at how the hate group gathered members, she said, “it was often around the issue of the lack of observance of Prohibition, the issue of bootlegging, of cleaning up communities.” However, these concerns masked other ones, she explained. “This issue was used instrumentally as a mandate to target those groups they already saw as enemies of white Protestant nationalism: immigrants, Catholics and African Americans.”

The Ku Klux Klan’s support of Prohibition gave the organization a way to promote its views and a way to perpetrate state-sanctioned violence against people of color, Catholics and Jews. “The war on alcohol united Progressives and Protestants, federal agents and Klansmen,” writes Kelefa Sanneh for The New Yorker.

The American government created an entire Prohibition Bureau intended to enforce alcohol-free living. However, this bureau selectively targeted groups that were perceived as inherently corrupt, like poor people, immigrants, and African Americans. Remember, the Jazz Age unfolded during Prohibition–plenty of people were drinking plenty of liquor.

The collaboration didn’t end there. The underresourced Prohibition Bureau’s agents “sometimes increased their ranks by deputizing volunteers, including members of the Ku Klux Klan, who found the battle to enforce Prohibition consistent with their broader mission to purify the nation,” writes Sanneh. “In 1923, in Williamson County, Illinois, hundreds of enforcers, many of them Klansmen, began a series of violent raids on distilleries, bars, and private homes, in which several hundred people were arrested and more than a dozen were killed.”

In the end, Prohibition didn’t “purify” the nation by stopping drinking. What it did do was foster a nationwide climate of turmoil, and this was great for organizations that benefited from people’s fears and anxieties–like the Klan. McGirr argues that the politics of Prohibition paved the way for today’s far-right nationalist movements–just one example of its long reach.


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During World War II, Thousands of Women Chased Their Own California Dream

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H/T The Smithsonian.

The women are the real life Rosie The Riveters.

For some who moved west for work, this dream was temporary. For others, it lasted a lifetime

Women shipfitters working on board the USS Nereus at the U.S. Navy Yard in Mare Island, circa 1943. (Department of Defense)

For many American families, the Great Depression and Dust Bowl struck like swift punches to the gut. New Deal work relief programs like the Works Progress Administration tossed lifelines into the crushing economic waves, but many young people soon started looking farther west for more stable opportunities.

A powerful vision of the California dream took hold in the late 1930s and early 1940s, featuring steady work, nice housing, sometimes love – all bathed in abundant warm sunshine.

Perhaps most important were the jobs. They attracted people to the Pacific Coast’s new airplane factories and shipyards. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941 led to an intensified war effort, and more Americans sought ways to demonstrate patriotism while also taking advantage of new employment opportunities. People from economically downtrodden regions began flooding into California en masse – where nearly 10 percent of all federal government expenditures during the war were spent.

Following wartime opportunities west, “Rosie the Riveters” found more than just jobs, though, when they reached the Golden State. And at the war’s conclusion, each had to decide whether her own version of the California dream had been temporary or something more durable.

Moving on to another life

Moving to find work looms large in the historical memory surrounding the Great Depression, and migration continued in the ensuing years. The Second World War led to the largest mass migration within the United States in the nation’s history.

Posters aimed to recruit women to jobs left vacant by drafted men during the war.
Posters aimed to recruit women to jobs left vacant by drafted men during the war. (Office of War Information)

People in rural parts of the country learned about new jobs in different ways. Word of mouth was crucial, as people often chose to travel with a friend or relatives to new jobs in growing cities along the West Coast. Henry Kaiser, whose production company would open seven major shipyards during the war, sent buses around the country recruiting people with the promise of good housing, health care and steady, well-paying work.

Railroad companies, airplane manufacturers and dozens if not hundreds of smaller companies supporting major corporations like Boeing, Douglas and Kaiser all offered similar work opportunities. Eventually the federal government even helped out with child care. Considered against the economic hardships of the Great Depression, the promises often sounded like sweet music.

During an oral history I recorded in 2013 for the Rosie the Riveter/World War II Home Front Oral History project, Oklahoman Doris Whitt remembered seeing an advertising poster for jobs, which sparked her interest in moving to California.

“[T]he way I got in with Douglas Aircraft was I went to the post office, and I saw these posters all over the walls. They were asking people to serve in these different projects that were opening up because the war had started.”

For a kid from the Great Plains, the notion of going to California to help build airplanes seemed like moving to another world. Whitt grew up on a farm without a telephone. Even catching a glimpse of an airplane in the sky was unusual.

Whitt applied and was hired for training almost immediately. She became a “Rosie the Riveter”: one of the estimated seven million American women who joined the labor force during the war. Even the pay Whitt began earning while training in Oklahoma City was more than she had ever made in her life to that point. When she transferred to the West Coast and arrived in Los Angeles, Whitt felt she was living the California dream.

“Oh, it was great. I remember coming through Arizona and seeing all the palm trees, and those were the first I had ever seen. They were way up in the air, and all I could do was look…. Then we got down into Los Angeles, and I was just amazed at the difference…. I just thought, ‘Oh, boy, we’re in Glory Land.’”

image: https://public-media.smithsonianmag.com/filer/2f/68/2f68858b-1608-4952-bda9-1bf94b3874b3/file-20171121-6039-ka6e48.jpg

Workers install fixtures

Workers install fixtures and assemblies to a B-17 tail fuselage at the Douglas Aircraft Company plant in Long Beach. (Alfred T. Palmer, Office of War Information)

Whitt began walking to work every day, to a job at an airplane factory disguised as a canning company. She helped assemble P-38 Lighting aircraft by riveting the fuselage together on the day shift. She later moved to Northern California, working as a welder at a shipyard. When I met her more than 70 years later, she still resided in California.

Did California remain a living dream?

Ultimately, the wartime version of the California dream proved real for some people. The state boomed in the war years. Wartime jobs in the defense industries paid well, profoundly so for those coming from rural poverty. African-Americans, especially those working in extremely poor conditions like sharecropping farmers in the South, moved in large numbers to better their lives.

image: https://public-media.smithsonianmag.com/filer/b8/42/b84206f2-c648-48cf-b350-637992549605/file-20171121-6044-1ff2dwn.jpg

Worker at Vega Aircraft Corporation in Burbank checks electrical assemblies.

Worker at Vega Aircraft Corporation in Burbank checks electrical assemblies. (U.S. Office of War Information)

The Golden State didn’t always deliver on the promise it offered to those who moved there during World War II, though.

Many migrants found housing hard to find. Around shipyards, some people even shared “hot beds.” Workers slept in shifts: When one roommate returned home, another would head in to work, leaving behind a still-warm bed. Unauthorized, or “wildcat,” strikes happened across California in spite of wartime rules intended to prevent such labor actions, suggestive of ongoing labor unrest bubbling over in a new wave of strikes happening after the war.

While many women moving to California stayed in relationships, some marriages came to an end as the divorce rate spiked. Whitt and her husband separated not long after her move to California.

And despite wartime factories’ outstanding productivity with women working in traditionally male jobs, women were mostly pushed out of their jobs at war’s end.

Some Rosies returned to their home states. But many others did stay in California, transitioning from wartime work in defense industries to other occupations. After all, the state still offered more progressive social conditions and a wider range of opportunities for women than could be found in many other parts of the country during the post-war era.

Doris Whitt stayed in California and found a job at a meatpacking company, working there for 14 years. She moved to a small town near the ocean where she lived for decades. The California dream never completely disappeared for people like Whitt, but nothing is quite as magical as those few moments when one first discovers it. In her oral history, she remembered seeing San Francisco for the first time:

“Oh, it was fantastic. Fantastic. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. It was just like going to a whole new country, you know? And the ocean… Oh it was just fantastic.”

The California dream continued to evolve in the postwar era, with each passing generation and each new group of migrants making it into something new.

This article was originally published on The Conversation.

image: https://counter.theconversation.com/content/79823/count.gif

The Conversation
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How WWII Created the Care Package

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H/T The Smithsonian.

How many people use the term Care Package without knowing how the term can to be?

As a history buff I knew how the term Care Package came to be.

Technically, the innovation was originally trademarked.

A CARE package intended for West Germany in 1948. (Wikimedia Commons)

 

They arrive when you go off to college. You send one to a loved one who’s having a hard time. You can even buy a premade “care package” to send. But although the term has become a relatively ubiquitous part of American life, what’s less well-known today is that the term was originally trademarked.

The very first CARE packages were sent to Europe in the aftermath of World War II by a relief organization first called the Cooperative for American Remittances to Europe. That non-governmental organization, founded on this day in 1945, was originally intended to provide temporary assistance to wartorn European nations. Since 1953, however, CARE has changed its name to Cooperative for Assistance and Relief Everywhere, and continues humanitarian relief and development support work around the world.

According to the introduction to the CARE archives held at the New York Public Library, the original intent of CARE was to create infrastructure for Americans to “send emergency packages of food to friends and relatives in post-war Europe.” Its board of directors was made up of representatives from a wide variety of American aid agencies, and by mid-1946, packages were being sent to France marked with CARE’s acronym. The finding aid reads:

The earliest CARE packages were surplus U.S. Army “Ten-in-One” food parcels, originally intended as G. I. rations, which had the advantage of being pre-boxed and ready for shipment. In 1946, with the help of nutritionists, CARE started to design food packages aimed at families, eliminating such items as cigarettes, to replace the Ten-in-One parcels when that supply was exhausted. The more specialized packages substituted tea for coffee in parcels sent to Britain, added spaghetti to Italian packages, and included kosher packages. Within its first two years of operations, CARE was able to offer its donors a selection of more than a dozen different packages.

CARE packages showed up around Europe, including in Berlin during the historic Berlin Airlift, a two-year period when the USSR blocked Allied ground access to West Berlin, writes Carolyn Hughes Crowley for Smithsonian.com. According to the National Museum of American History, which has a 1962 CARE package in its collection, post-1947 CARE packages were sent “typically containing several tinned meats, eight ounces of powdered eggs, a pound each of lard, apricot preserves, honey and raisins, and two pounds each of margarine, sugar, powdered milk and coffee.”

To order a CARE package for someone, you mailed a $15 check or money order to CARE. Packages were then shipped from Philadelphia and delivered by any locally appropriate means—over time, that transportation included “reindeer in Finland, camels in Pakistan and elephants in Sri Lanka, as well as more orthodox vehicles,” writes Crowley. The CARE package program also expanded to include medical instruments, tools and sewing machines. By 1966, the famous package program was on its way out, writes Crowley.

But the term wasn’t forgotten. Although the term CARE package is a trademark of CARE, it’s also entered the cultural lexicon, and “care packages” are sent for more prosaic reasons than recovery from war or famine all the time.


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American Myths: Benjamin Franklin’s Turkey and the Presidential Seal

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H/T The Smithsonian.

How the New Yorker and the West Wing botched the history of the icon.

 

The Forgotten Women Scientists Who Fled the Holocaust for the United States

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H/T The Smithsonian.

Some more forgotten women from our history.

A new project from Northeastern University traces the journeys of 80 women who attempted to escape Europe and find new lives in America during World War II.

A 1939 photo of German Jewish refugees aboard the German liner Saint Louis. (AP)
By Lorraine Boissoneault

Nedda Friberti was an Italian mathematician and physicist reduced to refugee status in World War II. Fanny Shapiro came from Latvia, where she studied bacteriology until the war disrupted her research. French microbiologist Marguerite Lwoff worked with her husband, André Lwoff, though she didn’t receive the Nobel Prize along with him. Elizabeth Rona was born in Hungary and became a famed nuclear chemist, but was forced to flee the country in 1940.

All four women earned Ph.Ds in their respective fields, at a time when being a female scholar was incredibly challenging. They also faced the additional hurdle of being targeted by anti-Semitic laws that came about across Europe in the 1930s and 40s. And all four women applied for—and were denied—assistance from the American Emergency Committee in Aid of Displaced Foreign Scholars.

These are but four stories illuminated by the Rediscovering the Refugee Scholars project. Created by researchers at Northeastern University in the fields of journalism, Jewish studies, history and computer science, the project seeks to illuminate the fraught journeys of scholars who fled persecution in Europe and hoped to come to the United States with assistance from the Emergency Committee. The committee, initially headed by journalist Edward R. Murrow, acted as an intermediary between American universities and European scholars looking for work outside their countries of origin. It was funded by the Rockefeller and Carnegie foundations, and received applications from nearly 6,000 scholars. Of those, only 330 received aid. As for the 80 women scientists and mathematicians identified by the Northeastern team—only four were supported by the committee (though many more made their way to the U.S. and other safe havens).

The project came about in part because of the unanswered questions journalist and professor Laurel Leff had following research for her book, Buried by the Times: The Holocaust and America’s Most Important Newspaper. One of those questions was how Jewish refugees made their way to the United States, and the archival material from the Emergency Committee was the perfect resource to dig into for answers.

With colleagues and students armed with camera phones, a team of eight researchers poured through the reams of documents now stored at the New York Public Library, taking photos of the papers, then attempting to manipulate the information in a digital-friendly format. To make the Herculean task more manageable, the researchers limited themselves to just 80 women scholars in science and math, and came up with a few clever workarounds (including using longitude and latitude for geographic points to make their online maps, as both the cities and sometimes the countries had changed names since the World War II era).

“There’s this literature that is both very extensive and also very laudatory, that says the United States played this incredibly important role in saving Western civilization by bringing all these people here,” Leff says. “While certainly a lot of people escaped and were able to transform American culture [think Albert Einstein and Hannah Arendt], it wasn’t everybody. It’s a self-satisfied version of our history.”

***

In April 1933, the Nazi party passed its first major legislation to limit the rights of Jewish citizens. The Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service excluded Jews and other non-Aryans from various professions and organizations—including from having roles in universities. New laws also cut down the number of Jewish students and those who could practice medicine or law.

And then there was the issue of how the Nazis defined Jewish-ness. To the government, it wasn’t a question of being an active worshipper. All that mattered was the purity of blood—meaning that having three or four grandparents born into a Jewish religious community was enough for the grandchild to be considered non-Aryan, and be persecuted for it.

While some scholars were able to cling to their positions for a few years after the 1933 law thanks to service in World War I, ultimately all of them were removed from German universities. “In some disciplines and faculties this was a huge number of people, one-third of them Jewish or of Jewish descent,” Leff says. Based on research from the Institute for European Global Studies, the figure came to include around 12,000 educated individuals banned from their work in Germany.

That’s when the Emergency Committee in Aid of Displaced Foreign Scholars jumped into action.

At the time, the United States was operating under the Immigration Act of 1924. The law denied entry to any immigrants from Asia, and placed an annual limit, or “quota” of 150,000 immigrants allowed entry into the U.S. That number was divided between countries based on the population numbers, and had a severe limiting effect on the number of Jewish immigrants coming from Eastern Europe and Russia.

“Many people will ask some version of the question, ‘Why didn’t the Jews just leave?’” says Northwestern University history professor Daniel Greene, who also works as a guest exhibition curator at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. “What projects like this reveal is that this isn’t the right question to be asking. We should ask, ‘Why it was so hard for other nations to admit Jews?’”

But the U.S. law held a particular provision that applied to professors and ministers: if they could find work at institutions in America, they could immigrate without going through the quota system. It was this aspect of the law that the Emergency Committee planned to exploit. With the help of the Rockefeller Foundation, the Emergency Committee began collecting resumes and CVs from European scholars seeking work in the U.S. and tried to place them in American universities.

Yet even with help from the Emergency Committee, scholars were in no way guaranteed to find work. Of the 80 women currently profiled by the Refugee Scholars project, only four received grants.

“To get a job in an American university, it was really helpful not to be Jewish,” Leff says. That didn’t mean quite the same thing as it did in Germany; few institutions were interested in blood ties. But some, like Hamilton College in upstate New York, explicitly told the Emergency Committee they wanted an Aryan applicant. And Dartmouth College offered to take someone of Jewish heritage, but that person “shouldn’t seem too Jewish,” Leff says.

The extra challenge for women was finding a university that would hire them for research. It was easier to find positions at women’s colleges, but sometimes that meant the highly trained scholars wouldn’t have access to the lab technology they were accustomed to. Many of the women scholars came to the United States working as domestics, at which point they would apply to the Emergency Committee for help finding work in academia rather than as cooks or childcare providers.

But for the women attempting to flee Europe, it wasn’t simply a matter of getting a job in their field; the stakes were life and death. Leff cites biologist Leonore Brecher as a particular example. The Romanian researcher developed a career studying butterflies, moving from Romania to Vienna to the United Kingdom and back all in pursuit of her career. But after being forced to live in a Jewish neighborhood, Brecher was later rounded up for deportation.

“It’s just heartbreaking. She’s this dedicated scholar, and she’s slaughtered upon arrival in this relatively unknown extermination center out of Minsk,” Leff says. “Those people deserve to have their stories told, too, not just the great scientists who develop the atomic bomb”—like James Franck, a German physicist who protested the Nazi regime and came to the U.S., where he participated in the Manhattan Project.

Eventually Leff and the team at Northeastern University would like to digitize all the thousands of applications currently stored in physical copies. They hope scholars from a variety of fields will make use of the information, and that casual viewers will visit the project’s website to see the stories of these individuals.

For Greene, who also believes in knowing the details about the individuals in the midst of the masses of data on the Holocaust, another lesson from this research deals with the United States’ attitude towards refugees of the era. “One way to look at the story of American history is to look at American ideals versus realities on the ground,” Greene says. “The 1930s are a moment of crisis. There’s pervasive fear of foreigners, generated as a result of being in a deep depression. Often when you have those conditions in the United States, it makes it more challenging to live out some of our stated ideals about being a nation of immigrants or a land of refuge.”

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