Jesse Owens crosses the finish line in Berlin to win the 100-meter sprint August 3 1936
Picture this: Berlin, 1936. The air is thick with tension, not just from the global political climate, but from the very idea of what it means to be human. This isn’t just another Olympics—this is the Nazi regime’s grand stage, a propaganda spectacle meticulously orchestrated to showcase the supposed superiority of the Aryan race. And right in the middle of this, an African American man from Oakville, Alabama, is about to challenge not just athletes but an entire ideology.
Owens didn’t just win once. He dominated, claiming four gold medals—100 meters, 200 meters, long jump, and 4×100 meters relay—each victory a nail in the coffin of Nazi racial ideology. His performance wasn’t just a triumph of athleticism; it was a potent political statement. Here was a man whose very existence, whose very excellence, was a refutation of everything the Nazis stood for. It was as if the track became a battleground, and every stride Owens took was a blow against the absurd notion of racial superiority.
Marshland in front of the Lincoln Memorial, near the Potomac River, in 1917. Work is underway to turn this site into the 2,000-foot-long reflecting pool.
Monopoly board created by POWs held captive in the Philippines by the Japanese during WWII
Arthritis-ridden Renoir painting flowers at his garden, circa 1910’s
Typical grocery store queue in Vilnius (the capital of current Lithuania), 1990, USSR consumer goods shortage
Citizen Kane premiere, 1941
Inside the FBI’s Colossal Fingerprint Factory 1943
Civil War Draft Letter, Providence, RI, 1863
Private box in Ford’s Theater, Washington, where President Lincoln was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth on the night of April 14, 1865
General Dwight D. Eisenhower addresses American paratroopers prior to D-Day. This order was issued by Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower to encourage Allied soldiers taking part in the D-day invasion.
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS
ALLIED EXPEDITIONARY FORCESoldiers, Sailors, and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.
But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!
I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.
B-17 bombardier heading toward Germany, 1940’s
BBC sound effects workers making effects for a program in studio 1927
Boeing B-29 Superfortress Cockpit
The Boeing B-29 Superfortress wasn’t just another bomber; it was a technological marvel that pushed the limits of what was possible in the skies during World War II. Designed for long-range strategic bombing, the B-29 was packed with cutting-edge features that made it unlike anything the world had seen. It boasted pressurized cabins, a remote-controlled gun system, and advanced radar-guided bombing technology, allowing it to fly higher, faster, and farther than its predecessors.
But the real game-changer was its role in the Pacific Theater, where it became the backbone of America’s air campaign against Japan. The B-29’s range allowed it to reach the Japanese mainland from distant bases, dropping incendiary bombs on cities like Tokyo with devastating effect. And then, of course, there were the missions that sealed its place in history: the Enola Gay and Bockscar, the two B-29s that delivered the atomic bombs to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, respectively, bringing the war to a sudden and harrowing close.
The Superfortress wasn’t just a plane; it was a symbol of technological supremacy, a harbinger of a new era of warfare, and a stark reminder of the terrible cost of conflict.
Allied war correspondents examining the couch in Adolf Hitler’s bunker on which he is thought to have shot himself with his wife, Eva Braun, on April 30, 1945. The blood staining the arm of the couch is likely Hitler’s.
Adolf Hitler greets Paul von Hindenburg at the opening of the new Reichstag in Potsdam, Germany, 21 March 1933
Let’s set the stage: Potsdam, Germany, March 21, 1933. This isn’t just a historical footnote; it’s a pivotal moment—a carefully orchestrated spectacle with immense psychological weight. Adolf Hitler, the newly appointed Chancellor of Germany, is about to greet President Paul von Hindenburg at the opening of the new Reichstag. But this isn’t just a meeting of two political figures. This is an encounter steeped in symbolism, a delicate dance of power, perception, and the beginnings of something ominous.
Imagine the scene. Hitler, the young, fervent leader of the National Socialist Party, stands before Hindenburg, the venerable old war hero—a man seen by many as the embodiment of the old Prussian military aristocracy. Hindenburg, with his imposing mustache and stiff demeanor, represents the last vestiges of the old German Empire, the Weimar Republic’s fragile connection to a more stable, albeit imperial, past. But here comes Hitler, a man whose rise was as meteoric as it was unsettling, a man who rode the waves of economic despair and national humiliation to the very precipice of power.
And this meeting in Potsdam was no accident. It was carefully planned by the Nazis to convey a message—a transfer of legitimacy from the old guard to the new. Hitler, dressed in a conservative frock coat rather than his usual military-style uniform, bowed before Hindenburg, almost like a son seeking the approval of a father. It was a masterstroke of political theater, designed to reassure the German public and the conservative elite that the new regime, this Nazi government, would restore the grandeur and stability they longed for. But it was also a sinister charade, a performance masking the violent, radical changes already set in motion.
Think about the optics here. To the outside world—and to many within Germany—this moment seemed like a peaceful transition, a melding of old and new Germany. But in reality, it was something much darker. This handshake, this fleeting moment of apparent unity, was the closing chapter of one Germany and the opening act of another—one that would lead to unimaginable horrors. Hindenburg, too old and perhaps too proud to see the storm gathering on the horizon, played his part, possibly unaware that this simple gesture was helping to legitimize the very forces that would soon dismantle everything he stood for.
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