The German term "Fuehrerkult" means what it sounds like: the cult of the leader. It refers more precisely to the cult created by, for and about one German leader in particular, and you can probably guess who.

The cult of Adolf Hitler that dominated and devoured the Third Reich until the Nazis were defeated — and in some quarters even afterwards — took hold in various ways, orchestrated by the fascist dictator and those who served him. There was, of course, the Nazi salute "Heil Hitler," or "Hail Hitler," which was the mandated greeting. There were the portraits of Hitler installed not only in government buildings but in schools, offices and private homes.

And as has been the case since time immemorial with autocrats, emperors and dictators for whom self-glorification was their principal raison d'etre, there was the demolition of structures that symbolized earlier times and the erection of new ones bearing Hitler's name, or referring to him reverentially, or summoning the German people to obey him, to enshrine him as their savior.

There was Hitler's mountain residence in Berchtesgaden, expanded into an extensive compound, complete with the famous Eagle's Nest. There was the "Fuehrer Bau," literally "the Fuehrer's Building", the Nazi Party headquarters in Munich. There was the Nuremberg Grandstand.

The descent into Fuehrer cult often happens gradually, just the way the frog in the boiling pot gets boiled. First people speak of it in shock, then ironically, and then as though it is normal. Germany, after all, was a sophisticated, culturally rich and intellectually robust country before it descended.

Germany came inevitably to mind last week during the Republican Party's midterm convention, an homage to President Donald Trump mandated by President Donald Trump in the presence of fawning Republican politicians who, ever since 2016, have resembled the sniveling casino manager played by Peter Lorre in "Casablanca." They dispensed with any pretense that the gathering was about anything other than deifying Trump, who literally demanded that the crowd pledge allegiance to him. Or, to Him.

"Raise your right hand," the president instructed the crowd, which raised their right hands.

"I pledge," he started.

"I pledge," they repeated.

"To the greatest president in the history of the United States," he continued

"To the greatest president in the history of the United States," they repeated.

This was as loathsome an example of Trump's self-conception as Ruler of the Universe as we have seen, and since we have seen plenty, with fresh examples every week, that is saying something. He has publicly proclaimed himself the greatest president ever on more than one occasion, a fitting complement to his pronouncements that he has "the right to do whatever I want as president" and that his "authority is total." For its part, the U.S. Supreme Court, dominated by justices who had to demonstrate their fealty to him to be appointed, has emboldened him, ruling in 2024 that he could commit whatever crimes he wanted with whatever criminal intent and still be immune from prosecution, reserving the theoretical question of whether such immunity would extend to a scenario in which he detoured to a 7-11 and shoplifted a Slushy.

Fuehrer cult has taken root in America more depressingly than we'd like to acknowledge, and in the same ways it has happened elsewhere. At Trump's direction, the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts created by Congress was renamed the Donald J. Trump and John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts before a federal court intervened. After Trump's minions seized control of the U.S. Institute for Peace, it was renamed the Donald J. Trump Institute for Peace. Trump has reportedly called for New York's Pennsylvania Station and Washington's Dulles Airport to be renamed for him.

Earlier this year a banner with Trump's portrait was hung on the U.S. Department of Justice, as well as on the buildings housing the Departments of Labor and Agriculture. The abrupt demolition of the White House's historic East Wing, to be replaced with a glitzy ballroom that he will tout as his concrete legacy, is part of it.

This isn't complicated, and it isn't nuanced. America's slide into Fuehrer cult is a kind of sickness. And the sickness isn't only his. It's ours as well.

Jeff Robbins' latest book, "Notes From the Brink: A Collection of Columns about Policy at Home and Abroad," is available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books and Google Play. Robbins, a former assistant United States Attorney and United States delegate to the United Nations Human Rights Council in Geneva, was chief counsel for the minority of the United States Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations. An attorney specializing in the First Amendment and a longtime columnist, he writes on politics, national security, human rights and the Middle East.

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