Category Archives: Russian History

Extended European Civil War

 

Robert Gerwarth, The Vanquished:

Why the First World War Failed to End, 1917-1923 

            On November 11th this autumn, the yearly celebrations and remembrances associated with Veteran’s Day (sometimes called Armistice Day) will carry particular weight – that day will mark 100 years to the day when war-weary German generals signed the ceasefire agreement in a French railroad car that ended the four-year conflict still sometimes termed the “Great War.” There will be many ceremonies and much speechifying about valor, sacrifice, and the high cost of preserving peace.  But if Robert Gerwarth, a German-born professor of modern history at University College, Dublin, were to speak at any such ceremony, he might be considered a party crasher.  He would likely ask his listeners not to think of that November day in 1918 as a moment when the killing and carnage stopped across Europe.

               Gerwarth could explain, as he does in The Vanquished: Why the First World War Failed to End, 1917-1923, how the November 1918 armistice did not bring peace to much of Europe.  Although the Western Allies, Great Britain and France, found relative peace and stability in the aftermath of the armistice (Britain still had to cope with an unruly Ireland), that was anything but the case in central and eastern Europe.  There, ethnic strife and political violence continued well past November 1918, to the point where, Gerwarth contends, we should think of the post-war period, up to 1923, as one of an “extended European civil war” (p.8; Gerwarth’s book might thus be considered a counterpart to Keith Lowe’s Savage Continent: Europe in the Aftermath of World War II, reviewed here in July 2013, recounting the ethnic violence and fighting that continued well after the official end to World War II hostilities in 1945).  Not since the Thirty Years War of the seventeenth century had a “series of interconnected wars and civil wars in Europe been as inchoate and deadly as in the years after 1917-18” (p.7).

            As his title indicates, Gerwarth’s focus is on World War I’s losers, the “vanquished,” better known as the Central Powers, whose defeat on the battlefield deprived them of justification for their immense sacrifices during the war.  In addition to Germany, the vanquished included the dual monarchy of Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Turkey and Bulgaria, all of whom had signed ceasefire agreements with the Allies prior to Germany’s capitulation on November 11, 1918.  But the first vanquished power for Gerwarth is Russia. The most populous of all combatant states, Russia “became the first to descend into the chaos of revolution and military defeat” (p.15).  It sued Germany for peace in late 1917, the same year Romanov Tsar Nicholas II had abdicated, and only shortly after Vladimir Lenin and his Bolshevik party had seized power.

          Gerwarth’s starting point is thus an extensive treatment of the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia and the so-called “Russian Civil War” that followed (his initial chapter is entitled “A Train Journey in Spring,” reminiscent of Catherine Merridale’s Lenin on the Train, reviewed here in December 2017).  He then moves to central and eastern Europe after the November 1918 Armistice, a period when both left and right-wing violence plagued the territories once controlled by the Central Powers.  Gerwarth delves into the specific situations in Germany and just about every other country in central and eastern Europe, including many that came into existence after the war, among them Czechoslovakia, Poland and Yugoslavia. His survey also includes Italy, which switched sides during the war and saw Europe’s first fascist government come to power in 1922 under Benito Mussolini.

            But Gerwarth uses this extensive country-specific detail to create a broader picture. Europe’s post-war upheaval, he argues, has hitherto been looked at almost exclusively from the perspective of individual countries, e.g., what was going on in Russia and Germany, “as if the revolutionary events that shook Europe between 1917 and the early 1920s were completely unconnected” (p.14). There is no study in any language, he asserts, that “investigates the experiences of all the vanquished states within the confines of one book” (p.14).  Gerwarth seeks to fill this void.

                To this end, The Vanquished emphasizes how the extended post-World War I civil war coincided with the dismantlement of the highly-diverse Hapsburg and Ottoman land empires of central and eastern Europe, replaced by fledgling nation states (Germany too under the Kaiser was considered a European land empire; Romanov Russia, Europe’s other great land empire, ended with the Tsar’s 1917 abdication, the Bolshevik Revolution and Russian capitulation to Germany).  Dismantlement of Europe’s land empires was not an initial war aim of the Western Allies, and only became so within the last year of the war. By late 1923, when Europe’s extended civil war had largely ended, Fascist and Bolshevik governments were entrenched in key European states, and the idea that a true nation state required ethnic and religious homogeneity had gained an ominous toehold.

                Gerwarth connects the dots for his macro-portrait in large measure through the peace treaties that purported to settle the conflicts of the World War I era and restructure Europe’s geo-political order. The treaties were not the only cause of the extended political turmoil of the post-war years, but they plainly exacerbated that turmoil.  The first, the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, between Russia and Germany, was signed eight months prior to the November armistice, on March 3, 1918.  In the middle chronologically – and in the middle of Gerwarth’s narrative – are the accords that arose out of the 1919 Paris Peace Conference: the Versailles peace treaty, which prescribed terms for Germany; the Treaty of San-Germaine-en-Laye for Austria; Trianon for Hungary; Sèvres for Ottoman Turkey; and Neuilly for Bulgaria.  The end point is the July 1923 Lausanne Treaty, which resolved the extended post-war conflict between Greece and a young, post-Ottoman Turkish Republic. Between Brest-Litovsk and Lausanne, Gerwarth ranges widely yet probes deeply, methodically presenting account after account of the inter-state and civil wars, political revolutions and counter-revolutionary reaction, that ravaged central and eastern Europe in the half-decade following the November 1918 armistice.

* * *

            The March 1918 Treaty of Brest- Litovsk between Russia and Germany stripped the former Romanov Empire of almost all the western, non-Russian portions of its territory, approximately 1.6 million square kilometers, containing almost one-third of its pre-war population and much of its natural resources.  The treaty was a “moment of extraordinary triumph” (p.39) for Germany, bringing it closer to its initial war aim of becoming the dominant power in Central and Eastern Europe. The territorial concessions exacted from Russia as the price for peace, Gerwarth contends, made those imposed upon Germany in the Versailles treaty the following year “seem benign by comparison” (p.39).

            The Russian Civil War that followed n the aftermath of Brest-Litovsk involved counter-revolutionary opponents, peasant insurgencies and the attempts by several regions on the western border of the former Russian Empire to break away from Bolshevik rule.  Allied intervention, initially intended to prevent the Central Powers from taking control of strategic resources, “soon included military aid for the loose confederation of anti-communist forces known as the ‘Whites’ in their struggle against the ‘Red’ Bolsheviks” (p.77).  The eventual Red triumph came at a “staggeringly high price for the country. After two revolutions and seven uninterrupted years of armed conflict, Russia in 1921 lay in ruins” (p.93).

            Two days after the November 1918 armistice, the Russian Red Army sought to recapture western territories lost as a result of Brest-Litovsk.  By early 1919, Bolshevism appeared to be on the march westward, with Germany a cauldron of left and right wing fervor.  Left wing radicals, led by revolutionaries Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxembourg, challenged the post-war government in Berlin in the “Spartacus Uprising.” Bavaria sought to become an independent socialist republic.  Former German soldiers, friekorps, set themselves up as a bulwark against the spread of Bolshevism, aided by a huge contingent of émigrés from the Russian civil war.  Liebknecht and Luxembourg were assassinated in January 1919.  Friekorps paramilitary forces were on the front line in the 1920 “Kapp putsch,” an unsuccessful right-wing attack on the German government in 1920.  Bavaria witnessed another unsuccessful right-wing putsch in 1923this one led by a World War I veteran from Austria and members of his infant National Socialist party.

                With Vienna and Budapest experiencing similar upheaval, the Paris Peace Conference convened in mid-January 1919 to decide the future of the vanquished powers. The vanquished themselves were excluded from the negotiations, to be summoned only when the peace treaties had been finalized.  Russia, immersed in civil war, was similarly missing from the negotiations. The treaties were thus a product of compromise, “not between the victors and the vanquished, but between the key actors among the victorious Allies” (p.174; the deliberations and machinations of the Paris Peace Conference are captured brilliantly in Margaret MacMillan’s 2003 work, Paris 1919: Six Months that Changed the World).

               The Treaty of Versailles, signed on June 28, 1919, is best known for its Article 231, ascribing sole responsibility for the war to Germany, and its unrealistic war reparation requirements.  Germany was also forced into substantial territorial concessions, with its overseas colonies redistributed among the victorious states.  In Germany, the terms of the treaty, considered a diktat, were greeted with disbelief, uniting an otherwise seriously polarized country in a shared sense of “fundamental betrayal and resentment” (p.203).

            Yet Germany “actually fared better in Paris than all of the other Central Powers” (p.204), Gerwarth contends. The treaty of St. Germaine-en-Laye, signed in September 1919, allotted huge swaths of the former Hapsburg Empire to Italy, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and the future state of Yugoslavia, reducing Austria to a “tiny and impoverished Republic in the Alps” (p.5).  The treaty imposed heavy reparations upon both Austria and Hungary and stipulated that the two countries would have to carry most of the old empire’s war debt.  It further proscribed Anschluss, the voluntary union of Austria with the German Reich, an aspiration strongly supported by the political left in both Austria and Germany which seemed consistent with American President Woodrow Wilson’s lofty principle of “national self determination.”  The newly independent state of Hungary was similarly forced to cede large segments of Hungarian-speaking territory and did not sign the Treaty of Trianon until June 1920, and then  under protest.

            Bulgaria’s territorial loses in the Treaty of Neuilly were less extensive than those of Austria and Hungary but, proportionate to its size and GDP, it faced the highest reparations bill of all the Central Powers.  The Treaty of Sèvres, the last of the Paris Peace Conference, signed in August 1920, forced Ottoman Turkey to cede huge amounts of territory to Greeks, Armenians and Kurds, while allowing onerous foreign spheres of influence and domination in much of the remainder.  The treaty also imposed substantial reparations. “No other defeated Central Power had to subject itself to such a compromise of its sovereignty,” Gerwarth writes. For Turkish nationalists, the treaty’s draconian terms continued “in an even more extreme form the humiliating European interference  in Ottoman affairs [that occurred] during the nineteenth century” (p.236).

             But the focus on Versailles’ war guilt clause and the issue of war reparations for all of the Central Powers obscures what Gerwarth considers the most significant outcome of the Paris Peace accords: the “transformation of an entire continent previously dominated by land empires into one composed of ‘nation states’” (p.174).  Neither Great Britain nor France had gone to war in 1914 with the aim of creating a “Europe of nations,” and it was “only from early 1918 onwards that the destruction of the land empires became an explicit war aim” (p.173).  The Paris accords also led to a series of “Minority treaties,” agreements signed by the new nation states, particularly Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Yugoslavia, as a precondition for their international recognition, in which the new states guaranteed rights to ethnic and religious minorities living within their boundaries.

            In his post-Paris Peace Conference section, Gerwarth dedicates a full chapter to Italy and its quest for control over the Adriatic port of Fiume, a city also claimed by the emerging state of Yugoslavia.  Fiume was at the top of the list of territories Italy thought it had been promised when it came over to the Allied side in 1915 in the Great War, but failed to gain in Paris, giving rise to the notion of a “mutilated” Italian victory.  For a while, the flamboyant poet Gabriel D’Annunzio occupied Fiume before being driven out by the Italian central government in Rome.

                Fiume became one of the causes that propelled Benito Mussolini to power in 1922 as Europe’s first overtly fascist leader.  Gerwarth observes how Mussolini utilized lessons he drew from Lenin, notably that “parliamentary majorities were far less important than the ability and determination to instill fear in opponents and to act ruthlessly when an opportunity presented itself” (p.163). Mussolini’s appointment as Italian Prime Minister in 1922 was an instance much like Lenin’s coup d’état in 1917 where power was “handed over to the head of a militia party which had imposed its authority by means of violence” (p.163).

            Gerwarth finishes with the 1919-1922 war between Greece and Turkey.  Greece had joined the Allied side in the war in 1915 out of ambition for territory in the Ottoman Empire.  Encouraged by Britain, in May 1919 it launched an invasion at the Aegean city of Smyrna (now Izmir), and for a short time controlled substantial portions of the Turkish mainland, Anatolia.  But Turkish nationalists, led by Mustafa Kemel, soon to be known as Attäturk, checked Greece forces, recaptured Smyrma and drove the Greeks from Anatolia. The Turkish nationalists negotiated a new treaty at Lausanne which completely overturned the Treaty of Sèvres. The Treaty of Lausanne recognized the independence of the Republic of Turkey and its sovereignty over what was sometimes termed Asia Minor, modern Turkey, along with its largest city, Constantinople (now Istanbul), and Eastern Thrace, now the Turkish portion of the European continent bordering Bulgaria.  By virtue of Lausanne, Greece became the “last of the vanquished states of the ‘post-war’ period” (p.246).

              But the Lausanne Treaty had ominous implications for Europe as a whole. Drawn up to prevent mass violence between different religious groups, the treaty sanctioned the forced exchange of 1.2 million Orthodox Christians, living in Anatolia, who were sent to Greece, and nearly 400,000 Muslims resettled the other way.  Lausanne:

effectively established the legal right of state governments to expel large parts of their citizens on the grounds of ‘otherness.’ It fatally undermined cultural, ethnic and religious plurality as an ideal to which to aspire . . . [T]he future now seemed to belong to ethnic homogeneity as a pre-condition for nation states to live in peace (p.246).

Lausanne thus all but reversed the commitment of the Paris Peace Conference’s Minority treaties to the defense of vulnerable ethnic minorities. It confirmed what was then becoming an “increasingly popular idea” that a “‘true’ nation state could only be founded on the principle of ethnic or religious homogeneity, and that this had to be achieved at almost any human price” (p.243-44).

             Yet, central and eastern Europe entered into a relatively stable period after Lausanne.  Gerwarth sees a “new spirit of rapprochement” (p.248) from late 1923 onward that lasted throughout the remainder of the 1920s, embodied in such instruments as the Dawes plan, which strove to make German reparations payments more manageable; the Locarno Treaty of 1925, by which Germany acknowledged its post-Versailles western borders; and the 1928 Kellogg-Briand Pact, whose high-minded purpose was to ban war as an instrument of foreign policy, except for self-defense.  But the stock market crash of 1929 and the ensuing Great Depression reversed much of the progress toward a lasting peace made in the latter portion of the 1920s.  As the decade ended, Fascism and Bolshevism (now referred to more frequently as “Communism”) remained entrenched in Italy and the former Romanov state.  As to Germany, while the fringe National Socialist party was attracting attention for its rabble-rousing attacks on the Versailles treaty, few Germans gave the party any serious chance of achieving power.

* * *

             It is an open question whether Gerwarth offers new detail of Europe’s turbulent period 1917-1923.  The book’s extensive country-specific accounts of these years, especially those pertaining to Russia and Germany, have been the subject matter of numerous other works.   But the virtue of Gerwarth’s work lies in its use of the country-specific histories of Russia, Germany and just about every other European country from Italy eastward to create a comprehensive, thought-provoking portrait of a half-continent awash in ethnic strife and political violence in the aftermath of the November 1918 armistice.  Gerwarth’s  work also seems likely to be at odds with what you might read or hear this coming November 11th.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

June 22, 2018

 

 

 

 

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Filed under European History, German History, History, Italian History, Russian History

Pledging Allegiance to Stalin and the Soviet Union

Kati Marton, True Believer: Stalin’s Last American Spy 

 Andrew Lownie, Stalin’s Englishman: Guy Burgess, the Cold War, and The Cambridge Spy Ring 

          Spying has frequently been described as the world’s second oldest profession, and it may outrank rank the first as a subject matter that sells books. A substantial portion of the lucrative market for spy literature belongs to imaginative novelists churning out best-selling thrillers whose pages seem to turn themselves – think John Le Carré. Fortunately, there are also intrepid non-fiction writers who sift through evidence and dig deeply into the historical record to produce accounts of the realities of the second oldest profession and its practitioners, as two recently published biographies attest: Kati Marton’s True Believer: Stalin’s Last American Spy, and Andrew Lownie’s Stalin’s Englishman: Guy Burgess, the Cold War, and The Cambridge Spy Ring.

        Bearing similar titles, these works detail the lives of two men who in the tumultuous 1930s chose to spy for the Soviet Union of Joseph Stalin: American Noel Field (1904-1970) and Englishman Guy Burgess (1911-1963). Burgess, the better known of the two, was one of the infamous “Cambridge Five,” five upper class lads who, while studying at Cambridge in the 1930s, became Soviet spies. Field, less likely to be known to general readers, was a graduate of another elite institution, Harvard University. Seven years older than Burgess, he was recruited to spy for the Soviet Union at about the same time, in the mid-1930s.

           While the 1930s and the war that followed were formative periods for both young men, their stories became noteworthy in the Cold War era that followed World War II. Field spent five years in solitary confinement in post-war Budapest, from 1949 to 1954, imprisoned as a traitor to the communist cause after being used by Stalin and Hungarian authorities in a major show trial designed to root out unreliable elements among Hungary’s communist leadership and consolidate Stalin’s power over the country. His imprisonment led to the imprisonment of his wife, brother and informally adopted daughter. Burgess came to international attention in 1951 when he mysteriously fled Britain for Moscow with Donald Maclean, another of the Cambridge Five.  Burgess and Maclean’s whereabouts remained unknown and the source of much speculation until they resurfaced five years later, in 1956.

            Both men came from comfortable but not super-rich backgrounds.  Each lost his father early in life, which unmoored both. After graduating from Harvard and Cambridge with elite diplomas in hand, they even followed similar career paths. Field served in the United States State Department and was recruited during World War II by future CIA Director Allen Dulles to work for the CIA’s predecessor agency, the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), all the while providing information to the Soviet Union. Burgess served in critical periods in the British equivalents, Britain’s Foreign Office and its premier intelligence agencies, M15 and M16, while he too reported to the Soviet Union.  Field worked with refugees during the Spanish Civil War and World War II. Burgess had a critical stint during the war at the BBC.  Both men ended their lives in exile, Field in Budapest, Burgess in Moscow.

          But the two men could not have been more different in personality.  Field was an earnest American with a Quaker background, outwardly projecting rectitude and seriousness, a “sensitive, self-absorbed idealist and dreamer” (M.3), as Marton puts it. Lownie describes Burgess as “outrageous, loud, talkative, indiscreet, irreverent, overtly rebellious” (L.30), a “magnificent manipulator of people and trader in gossip” (L.324).   Burgess was also openly gay and notoriously promiscuous at a time when homosexual conduct carried serious risks.  Field, Marton argues, was never one of Stalin’s master spies. “He lacked both the steel and the polished performance skills of Kim Philby or Alger Hiss” (M.3).  Lownie claims nearly the opposite for Burgess: that he was the “most important of the Cambridge Spies” (L.x).

          Marton’s biography of Field is likely to be the more appealing of the two for general readers. It is more focused, more selective in its use of evidence and substantively tells a more compelling story, raising questions still worth pondering today. Why did Field’s quest for a life of meaning and high-minded service to mankind lead him to become an apologist for one of the 20th century’s most murderous regimes? How could his faith in that regime remain unshaken even after it imprisoned him for five years, along with his wife, brother and informally adopted daughter? There are no easy answers to these questions, but Marton raises them in a way that leads her readers to consider their implications. “True Believer” seems the perfect title for her biography, a study of the psychology of pledging and maintaining allegiance to Stalin’s Soviet Union.

         “Stalin’s Englishman,” by contrast, struck me as an overstatement for Lownie’s work. Most of the book up to Burgess’ defection to Moscow in 1951— which comes at about the book’s three-quarter mark — details his interactions in Britain with a vast array of individuals: Soviet handlers and contacts, British work colleagues, lovers, friends, and acquaintances.  Only in a final chapter does Lownie present his argument that Burgess had an enduring impact in the international espionage game and deserves to be considered the most important of the Cambridge Five.  Lownie’s biography suffers from what young people today term TMI – too much information.  He has uncovered a wealth of written documentation on Burgess and seems bent on using all of it, giving his work a gossipy flavor.  At its core, Lownie’s work is probably best understood as a study of how a flamboyant life style proved compatible with taking the pledge to Stalin and the Soviet Union.

* * *

          As a high school youth, Noel Field said he had two overriding goals in life: “to work for international peace, and to help improve the social conditions of my fellow human beings” (M.14). The introspective young Field initially saw communism and the Soviet Union as his means to implement these high-minded, humanitarian goals. But in a “quest for a life of meaning that went horribly wrong” (M.9), Field evolved into a hard-core Stalinist.  Marton frames her book’s central question as: how does an apparently good man, “who started out with noble intentions” end up sacrificing “his own and his family’s freedom, a promising career, and his country, all for a fatal myth. His is the story of the sometimes terrible consequences of blind faith” (M.1).

         Field was raised in Switzerland, where his father, a well-known, Harvard-educated biologist and outspoken New England pacifist, established a research institute. In secondary school in Zurich, Field was far more introspective and emotionally sensitive than his classmates. He had only one close friend, Herta Vieser, the “plump, blond daughter of a German civil servant” (M.12), whom he subsequently married in 1926.  Field’s father died suddenly of a heart attack at age 53, when Field was 17, shattering the peaceful, well-ordered family life the young man had known up to that time.

         Field failed to find any bearings a year later when he entered Harvard, his father’s alma mater. He knew nothing of America except what he had heard from his father, and at Harvard he was again an outsider among his privileged, callow classmates. But he graduated with full honors after only two years. In his mid-twenties, Marton writes, Field was still a “romantic, idealistic young man” who“put almost total faith in books. He had lived a sheltered, family-centered life” (M.30).

         From Harvard, Field entered the Foreign Service but worked in Washington, at the State Department’s West European Desk, where he performed brilliantly but again did not feel at home, “still in search of deeper fulfillment than any bureaucracy could offer” (M.26). In 1929, he attended an event in New York City sponsored by the Daily Worker, the newspaper of the American Communist Party.  It was a turning point for him.  The “warm, spontaneous fellowship” at the meeting made him think he had realized his childhood dream of “being part of the ‘brotherhood of man’” (M.41). Soviet agents formally recruited Field sometime in 1935, assisted by the persuasive efforts of State Department colleague and friend Alger Hiss.

          For Field, Marton writes, communism was a substitute for his Quaker faith. Like the Quakers, communists “encouraged self-sacrifice on behalf of others.” But the austere Quakers were “no match for the siren song of the Soviet myth: man and society leveled, the promise of a new day for humanity” (M.39-40).  Communism offered a tantalizing dream: “join us to build a new society, a pure, egalitarian utopia to replace the disintegrating capitalist system, a comradely embrace to replace cutthroat competition.”  In embracing communism, Field felt he could “deliver on his long-ago promise to this father to work for world peace” (M.39).

            In 1936, Field left the State Department to take a position in Geneva to work for the League of Nations’ Disarmament Section — and assist the Soviet Union. The following year, he reached another turning point when he participated in the assassination in Switzerland of a “traitor,“ Ignaz Reiss, a battle tested Eastern European Jewish Communist who envisioned exporting the revolution beyond Russia.  Reiss was appalled by the Soviet show trials and executions of 1936-38 and expressed his dismay far too openly for Stalin, making him a marked man. Others may have hatched the plot against Reiss, and still others pulled the trigger, Marton writes, “but Field was prepared to help” (M.246). He had “shown his willingness to do Moscow’s bidding – even as an accessory in a comrade’s murder. He had demonstrated his absolute loyalty to Stalin” (M.68).

            Deeply moved by the Spanish Civil War, Field became involved in efforts to assist victims and opponents of the Franco insurgency.  During the conflict, Field and his wife met a refined German doctor, Wilhelm Glaser, his wife and 17-year old daughter Erica.  A precocious, feisty teenager, Erica was the only member of her high school class who had refused to join her school’s Hitler Youth Group.  She had contracted typhoid fever when her parents met the Fields. With her parents desperate for medical attention for their daughter, the Fields volunteered to take her with them to Switzerland. In what became an informal adoption, Erica lived with Noel and Herta for the next seven years, with the rest of her life intertwined with that of Fields.  After Erica’s initial appearance in the book at about the one-third point, she becomes a central and inspiring character in Marton’s otherwise dispiriting narrative – someone who merits her own biography.

            When France fell to the Nazis in 1940, Field landed a job in Marseilles, France, with the Unitarian Service Committee (USC), a Boston-based humanitarian organization then charged with assisting the thousands of French Jews fleeing the Nazis, along with as many as 30,000 refugees from Spain, Germany, and Nazi-occupied territories of Eastern Europe.  Field’s practice was to prioritize communist refugees for assistance, including many hard-core Stalinists rejected by other relief organizations, hoping to repatriate as many as possible to their own countries “to seed the ground for an eventual postwar Communist takeover” (M.106).  It took a while for the USC to pick up on how Field had transformed it from a humanitarian relief organization into what Marton terms a “Red Aid organization” (M.131).

         After the Germans occupied the rest of France in November 1942, the Fields escaped from Marseilles to Geneva, where they continued to assist refugees and provide special attention to communists whom Noel considered potential leaders in Eastern Europe after the war.  While in Geneva, Field attracted the attention of Allen Dulles, an old family friend from Zurich in the World War I era who had also crossed paths with Field at the State Department in Washington.  Dulles, then head of OSS, wanted Field to use his extensive communist connections to infiltrate Nazi-occupied countries of Eastern Europe. With Field acting as a go-between, the OSS provided communists from Field’s network with financial and logistical support both during and after the war.

        But Field failed to understand that his network was composed largely of communists who had fallen into Stalin’s disfavor. Stalin considered them unreliable, with allegiances that might prioritize their home countries – Poland, East Germany, Hungary or Czechoslovakia – rather than the Soviet Union.  Although Stalin tightened the Soviet grip on these countries in the early Cold War years, he failed to bring Yugoslavia’s independent-minded leader, Marshal Josip Tito, into line.  To make sure that no other communist leaders entertained ideas of independence from the Soviet Union, Stalin targeted a host of Eastern European communists as “Titoists,” which became the highest crime in Stalin’s world — much like being a “Trotskyite” in the 1930s.   Stalin chose Budapest as the place for new round of show trials, analogous to those of 1936-38.

            Back in the United States, in Congressional testimony in 1948, Whittaker Chambers named Field’s long-time friend Alger Hiss as a member of an underground communist cell based in Washington. Hiss categorically denied the allegation and mounted an aggressive counterattack, including a libel suit against Chambers. In the course of defending the suit, Chambers named Field as another communist who had worked at a high level in the State Department.  Field’s double life ended in the aftermath of Chambers’ revelations. He could no longer return to the United States.

            Field’s outing occurred when he was in Prague, seeking a university position after his relief work had ended. From Prague, he was kidnapped and taken to Budapest, where he was interrogated and tortured over his association with Allen Dulles and the CIA.  Like so many loyal communists in the 1930s show trials, Field “confessed” that his rescue of communists during the war was a cover for recruiting for Dulles and the arch-traitor, Tito.   He provided his interrogators with a list of 562 communists he had helped return to Poland, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary.  All, Marton writes, “paid with their lives, their freedom, or – the lucky ones — merely their livelihood, for the crime of being ‘Fieldists’” (M.157).  At one point, authorities confronted Field with a man he had never met, a Hungarian national who had previously been a leader within Hungarian communist circles, and ordered Field to accuse the man of being his agent.  Field did so, and the man was later sentenced to death and hanged.

          Hungarian authorities used Field’s “confession” as the centerpiece in a massive 1949 show trial of seven Hungarian communists, including Laslo Rajk, a lifelong communist and top party theoretician who had been Hungary’s Interior Minister and later its Foreign Minister.  All were accused of being “Fieldists,” who had attempted to overthrow the “peoples’ democracy” on behalf of Allen Dulles, the CIA, and Tito.  Field was not tried, nor did he appear as a witness in the trials.  All defendants admitted that Field had spurred them on; all were subsequently executed. By coincidence, Marton’s parents, themselves dissident Hungarian journalists, covered the trial.

           Field was kept in solitary confinement until released in 1954, the year after Stalin’s death. Marton excoriates Field for a public statement he made after his release. “We are not among those,” he declared, “who blame an entire people, a system or a government for the misdeeds of a handful of the overzealous and the misguided,’’ adding her own emphasis to Field’s statement. Field, she writes, thereby exonerated “one of history’s most cruel human experiments, blaming the jailing and slaughter of hundreds of thousands of innocents on a few excessively fervent bad apples” (M.194).

         Field’s wife Herta traveled to Czechoslovakia in the hope of getting information from Czech authorities on her missing husband’s whereabouts. Those authorities handed her over to their Hungarian counterparts, who placed her in solitary confinement in the same jail as her husband, although neither was aware of the other’s presence during her nearly five years of confinement.   When Field’s younger brother Hermann went looking for Field, he was arrested in Warsaw, where he had worked just prior to the outbreak of the war, assisting endangered refugees to immigrate to Great Britain. Herta and Hermann were also released in 1954. Hermann returned to the United States and published a short work about the experience, Trapped in the Cold War: The Ordeal of an American Family.

           Erica Glaser, Field’s unofficially adopted daughter, like Herta and Hermann, went searching for Noel and she too ended up in jail as a result.  Erica had moved to the American zone of occupied Germany after the war, working for the OSS. But she left that job to work for the Communist Party in the Hesse Regional Parliament. There, she met and fell in love with U.S. Army Captain Robert Wallach.  When her party superiors objected to the relationship, Erica broke her connections with the party and the couple moved to Paris. They married in 1948.

          In 1950, Erica decided to search for both Noel and Herta. Using her own Communist Party contacts, Erica was lured to East Berlin, where she was arrested. She was condemned to death by a Soviet military court in Berlin and sent to Moscow’s infamous Lubyanka prison for execution. After Stalin’s death, her death sentence was commuted, but she was shipped to Siberia, where she endured further imprisonment in a Soviet gulag (Marton’s description of Erica’s time in the Gulag reads like Caroline Moorhead’s account of several courageous French women who survived Nazi prison camps in World War II, A Train in Winter, one of the first books reviewed here in 2012).

       Erica was released in October 1955 under an amnesty declared by Nikita Khrushchev, but was unable to join her husband in the United States because of State Department concern over her previous Communist Party affiliations.  Allen Dulles intervened on her behalf to reunite her with her family in 1957.  She finally reached the United States, where she lived with her husband and their children in Virginia’s horse country, an ironic landing point for the fiery former communist.  Erica wrote a book based on her experiences in Europe, Light at Midnight, published in 1967, a clever inversion of Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon.  She lived happily and comfortably in Virginia up to her death in 1993.

            Field spent his remaining years in Hungary after his release in 1954.  He fully supported the Soviet Union’s intervention in the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He stopped paying dues to the Hungarian Communist Party after the Soviets put an end to the “Prague Spring” in 1968, but Marton indicates that there is no evidence that the two events were related.  Field “never criticized the system he served, never showed regret for his role in abetting a murderous dictatorship,” Marton concludes. “At the end, Noel Field was still a willing prisoner of an ideology that had captured him when his youthful ardor ran highest” (M.249).  Field died in Budapest in 1970. His wife Herta died ten years later, in 1980.

* * *

            Much like Noel Field, Guy Burgess, “never felt he belonged. He was an outsider” (L.332), Lownie writes.  But Burgess’ motivation for entry into the world’s second oldest profession was far removed from that of the high-minded Field: “Espionage was simply another instrument in his social revolt, another gesture of self-assertion . . . Guy Burgess sought power and realizing he was unable to achieve that overtly, he chose to do so covertly. He enjoyed intrigue and secrets for they were his currency in exerting power and controlling people” (L.332).

         Burgess’ father and grandfather were military men. His father, an officer in the Royal Navy, was frequently away during Burgess’s earliest years, and the boy depended upon his mother for emotional support and guidance. His father died suddenly of a heart attack when Guy was 13, bringing him still closer to his mother.  Burgess attended Eton College, Britain’s most prestigious “public school,” i.e., upper class boarding school, and from there earned a scholarship to study history at Trinity College, Cambridge. When Burgess arrived in 1930, left-wing radicalism dominated Cambridge.

         Burgess entered Cambridge considering himself a socialist and it was an easy step from there to communism, which appeared to many undergraduates as “attractive and simple, a combination of the best of Christianity and liberal politics” (L.41). Fellow undergraduates Kim Philby and Donald Maclean, whom Burgess met early in his tenure at Cambridge, helped move him toward communism.  Both were recruited to work as agents for the Soviet Union while at Cambridge, and Burgess followed suit in late 1934.  Burgess’ contacts within Britain’s homosexual circles made him an attractive recruit for Soviet intelligence services.

        Before defecting to Moscow, Burgess worked  first as a producer and publicist at the BBC (for a while, alongside fellow Etonian George Orwell), followed by stints as an intelligence officer within both M15 and M16.  He joined the Foreign Office in 1944.  While with the Foreign Office, he was posted to the British Embassy in Washington, where he worked for about nine months.  Philby was his immediate boss in Washington and Burgess lived for a while with Philby’s family. In these positions, Burgess drew attention for his eccentric habits, e.g., constantly chewing garlic; for his slovenly appearance, especially dirty fingernails; and for incessant drinking and smoking — at one point, he was smoking a mind-boggling 60 cigarettes per day.  A Foreign Office colleague’s description was typical: Burgess was a “disagreeable character,” who “presented an unkempt, distinctly unclear appearance . . . his fingernails were always black with dirt. His conversation was no less grimy, laced with obscene jokes and profane language” (L.183). Burgess’ virtues were that he was witty and erudite, often a charming conversationalist, but with a tendency to name-drop and overstate his proximity to powerful government figures.

            Working at the highest levels within Britain’s media, intelligence and foreign policy communities, Burgess frequently seemed on the edge of being dismissed for unprofessional conduct, well before suspicions of his loyalty began to surface.  How Burgess could have remained in these high level positions despite his eccentricities remains somewhat of a mystery.  One answer is that his untethered, indiscreet life-style served as a sort of cover: no one living like that could possibly be a double agent. As one colleague remarked, if he was really working for the Soviets, “surely he wouldn’t act the part of a parlor communist so obviously – with all that communist talk and those filthy clothes and filthy fingernails” (L.167).   Another answer is that he was a member of Britain’s old boy network, at the very top of the English class system, where there was an ingrained tendency not to be too probing or overly judgmental of one’s social peers.  Ben McIntyre emphasizes this point throughout his biography on Philby, reviewed here in June 2016, and Lownie alludes to it in explaining Burgess.

          The book’s real drama starts with Burgess’ sudden defection from Britain to the Soviet Union in 1951 with Donald Maclean, at a time when British authorities had finally caught onto Maclean — but before official doubts about Burgess had crystallized.  Burgess’s Soviet handler told Burgess, who had recently been sent home from the Embassy in Washington after he threatened a Virginia State Trooper who had stopped him for a speeding violation, that he needed to “exfiltrate” Maclean – get him out of Britain.  By leaving himself, Burgess surprised and angered his former boss Philby, who was charged with the British investigation into Maclean’s activities.  Burgess’ defection turned the focus on Philby, who defected himself a decade later.

          The route out of Britain that Maclean and Burgess took remains unclear, as are Burgess’s reasons for accompanying Maclean to the Soviet Union.   The official line was that the departure was nothing more than a “drunken spree by two low-level diplomats,” but the popular press saw the disappearance of the two as a “useful tool to beat the government” (L.264), while of course increasing circulation.  Sometime after his defection, British authorities awoke to the realization that the eccentric Burgess may have been more than just a smooth-talking, chain-smoking drunk.  But they were never able to assemble a solid case against him and did not believe that there would be sufficient evidence to prosecute him should he return to Britain.  In fact, he never did and the issue never had to be faced.

         The two men’s whereabouts remained an international mystery until 1956, when the Soviets staged an outing for a Sunday Times correspondent at a Moscow hotel.  Burgess and Mclean issued a written statement for the correspondent indicating that they had come to Moscow to work for better understanding between the Soviet Union and the West, convinced as they were that neither Britain nor the United States was seriously interested in better relations.   Burgess spent his remaining years in Moscow, where he was lonely and isolated.

        Burgess read voraciously, listened to music, and pursued his promiscuous lifestyle in Moscow, a place where homosexuality was a criminal offense less likely to be overlooked than in Britain.  Burgess clearly missed his former circle of friends in England.  During this period, he took to saying that although he remained a loyal communist, he would prefer to live among British communists. “I don’t like the Russian communists . . . I’m a foreigner here. They don’t understand me on so many matters” (L.315).  Stalin’s Englishman outlasted Stalin by a decade.  Burgess died in Moscow in 1963, at age 52, an adult lifetime of unhealthy living finally catching up with him. He was buried in a Moscow cemetery, the first of the Cambridge Five to go to the grave.

             Throughout the book’s main chapters, Burgess’ impact as a spy gets lost among the descriptions of his excessive smoking, drinking and homosexual trysts.  Burgess passed many documents to the Soviets, Lownie indicates.  Most revealed official British thinking at key points in British-Soviet relations, among them, documents involving the 1938 crisis with Hitler over Czechoslovakia; 1943-45 negotiations with the Soviets over the future of Poland; the Berlin blockade of 1948; and the outbreak of war on the Korean peninsula in 1950.  But there does not seem to be anything comparable to Philby’s cold-blooded revelations of anti-Soviet operations and operatives, leading directly to many deaths; or, for that matter, comparable to Field’s complicity in the Reiss assassination or his denunciation of Hungarian communists.

          In a final chapter, entitled “Summing Up” – which might have been better titled “Why Burgess Matters” – Lownie acknowledges that it is unclear how valuable were the many documents were which Burgess passed to the Soviets:

[E]ven when we know what documentation was taken, we don’t know who saw it, when, and what they did with the material. The irony is that the more explosive the material, the less likely it was to be trusted, as Stalin ad his cohorts couldn’t believe that it wasn’t a plant. Also if it didn’t fit in with Soviet assumptions, then it was ignored (L. 323-24).

          One of Burgess’ most damaging legacies, Lownie argues, was the defection itself, which “undermined Anglo-American intelligence co-operation at least until 1955, and public respect for the institutions of government, including Parliament and the Foreign Office. It also bequeathed a culture of suspicion and mistrust within the Security Services that was still being played out half a century after the 1951 flight” (p.325-26).  Burgess may have been the “most important of the Cambridge spies,” as Lownie claims at the outset, but I was not convinced that the claim was proven in his book.

* * *

            Noel Field and Guy Burgess, highly intelligent and well educated men, were entirely different in character and motivation.  That both chose to live duplicitous lives as practitioners of the world’s second oldest profession is a telling indication of the mesmerizing power which Joseph Stalin and his murderous ideology exerted over the best and brightest of the generation which came of age in the 1930s.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

December 25, 2017

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Filed under British History, Eastern Europe, European History, German History, History, Russian History, Soviet Union, United States History

Revolutionary Train Ride

Catherine Merridale, Lenin on the Train 

            On April 9, 1917, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Vladimir Lenin, secretively boarded a train in Zurich, Switzerland, that was headed for Petrograd (today’s St. Petersburg), then the capital of Russia.  The train left Zurich on its journey just days after the United States had entered World War I on the side of Russia and its allies, Great Britain and France.  Over the course of 8 days, Lenin and a group of 32 fellow Bolsheviks and their families traveled 2,200 miles (3,500 kilometers). They passed through Germany, then Russia’s battlefield enemy, crossed the Baltic Sea by ferry to neutral Sweden and on to Finland (at the time part of the Russian empire), before arriving at Petrograd’s famous Finland Station on April 16, 1917.  Barely six months later, in November 1917, 100 years ago last month, Lenin and his Bolshevik cohorts had seized control of the reins of power in Russia and declared a new revolutionary government in the world’s largest nation-state, with Lenin at its head.

           Lenin’s trip from Zurich to Petrograd via train is the centerpiece of Catherine Merridale’s incisive, often-riveting Lenin on the Train, in which she recounts in detail what she aptly terms a “journey that changed the world” (p.5).  Merridale, author of several other books on Russia and the Soviet Union, also provides a close look at the world Lenin inhabited in the immediate weeks and months before and after his train trip, while stopping short of the events of the 1917 November Revolution (often termed the “October Revolution,” due to the 13-day difference between the Julian calendar employed in Russia at that time and that utilized in most of the rest of the world).  She has done extensive digging into the archives and historical records of Russia, Germany, France and Britain to produce a nuanced picture of these crucial months in 1917. Her account benefits from detailed portraits of the numerous people who surrounded and interacted with Lenin in Switzerland, Germany, and Russia, and of course during the notorious train ride.

            Lenin’s ride back to his home country in April 1917 was precipitated by Russian Tsar Nicolas II’s stunning abdication a few weeks previously, abruptly ending the nearly 300-year Romanov dynasty.  Russia at the time of the Tsar’s abdication was a country seething with anger and falling into chaos. Workers were striking over food shortages and civil unrest was spreading from Petrograd across the country, all at a time when Russia’s war with Germany and Austria-Hungary was going poorly, with alarming desertion levels among its demoralized troops.  The State Duma, a parliamentary body dating from Russia’s 1905 Revolution that had shared power with the Tsar, conferred authority upon what came to be known as the Provisional Government, a caretaker institution charged with maintaining order and continuity until more permanent institutions could be established. Many Russian reformers and revolutionaries saw the Provisional Government as a step toward liberal, Western-style democracy.

            Not Lenin.  A fiery but uncommonly focused revolutionary from a decidedly bourgeois family, Lenin led the Bolsheviks, the most militant of the many revolutionary and reform groups that had pressed for changes in the Tsarist regime in Russia’s 1905 Revolution (“Bolshevik” was Lenin’s term, “majority men,” coined prior to the 1905 Revolution and intended to contrast with the other anti-Tsarist forces, the “Mensheviks,” literally “minority men” but by 1917 far more numerous than the Bolsheviks).  Lenin had spent much of his life since 1905 in exile, out of reach of the Tsars and their heavy-handed methods.  At the time of the Nicholas II’s abdication, he was in Zurich, where he was spending his daytime hours in the city’s library, reading and writing, theorizing and fantasizing about the coming world revolution that would bring down capitalism and imperialism. Lenin at this stage in his life was, as a contemporary put it, the “only man for whom revolution is the preoccupation twenty-four hours a day, who has no thoughts but of revolution, and even in his sleep dreams of nothing but revolution” (p.78).

            Once he learned that the Tsar had abdicated, Lenin was naturally more than eager to get back to Petrograd and put his revolutionary stamp on the emerging post-Tsarist regime.  In crossing Germany to return home, Lenin’s party benefitted from the unexpected cooperation of the German High Command.  But the extent of that cooperation remains unresolved to this day.  Was Lenin a German spy or agent? Did Germany acquiesce in the trip across its territory with the expectation that Lenin’s return to Russia would lead to its withdrawal from the war, thereby freeing Germany to fight on a single front against it British and French enemies?  Merridale does not shy away from addressing these still open questions.

          Throughout, Merridale provides a close up look at Lenin during his most pivotal period, emphasizing the forcefulness of his convictions while treading lightly over the ruthlessness of his character.  The Lenin who arrived in Petrograd on April 16, 1917, really believed that the world was on the edge of a worldwide proletarian revolution; that the revolution had already started in Russia but would not be restricted to her  boundaries (more conventional Marxist wisdom held that the revolution would start in Germany; Russia was considered too backward and insufficiently industrialized); and that with this revolution, the capitalist and imperialist world of 19th and early 20the century Europe would vanish. Lenin foresaw, as Merridale puts it, a “series of coordinated, pitiless and violent campaigns that would annihilate the twin oppressions of capitalism and empire forever. The bourgeoisie would have to die, the big country estates would burn, and everywhere slave-owners would face enslavement themselves” (p.77).

           When Lenin arrived at the Finland Station armed with this apocalyptic vision, the many anti-Tsarist forces in Russia were in almost complete disarray.  In the weeks that followed, Lenin provided clarity and focus to his Bolshevik followers on two key points which helped propel them to seizure of power a half year later: there would be no compromise between the Bolsheviks and  other anti-Tsarist forces; and there would be no further support for the war among the capitalist and imperialist powers that was ravaging Russia.

* * *

          Lenin and his party traveled in a single wooden train car, painted green, with three second-class and five third class compartments, plus two toilets and a baggage area.  The puritanical Lenin instituted strict rules aboard the train.  Disturbed by the bent of some of his group to sing well into the night, he instituted official times for sleeping. Smoking was allowed only in the toilets, with a system of tickets for their use. Those who wished to use the toilet to smoke were given “second-class” tickets, and had to accord priority to those with “first class” tickets who needed to use the toilet for more basic purposes.

       Before the train left, Lenin had wrenched numerous concessions from the German High Command, the most critical of which was that the car transporting his group was to be treated as an extra-territorial entity, “sealed off from the surrounding world and therefore innocent of any contact with the enemy population” (p.7).  A chalk line drawn on the floor of the car served to demarcate a “border” between “Russia” and “Germany,” with the Russian travelers confined to one side of the line, the German soldiers assigned to guard them on the other. A designated neutral, befittingly a Swiss national, acted as the contact between the passengers and the German soldiers.  Lenin needed to stay in the Russian portion of the car so that he could later say he never set foot in “Germany.”  The High Command also agreed that no passenger could be ordered to leave the train, and that there would be no passport controls and no discrimination against potential passengers on account of their political views.

          The trip took place at a time when Germany yearned to be relieved of its two-front war so that it might concentrate its resources on the Western Front against its British and French enemies, before reinforcements from America could have a significant effect upon the stalemate in the trenches.  If Russia could be persuaded to withdraw from the war, Germany could then “focus all its troops along a single front, crushing the French and British like so many gnats” (p.39-40).   Britain and France, of course, were committed to keeping Russia in the war at almost any cost for precisely this reason.

          By 1917, the inconclusive nature of trench warfare had led all belligerents to search for ways of gaining advantages off the battlefield.  In Germany, foreign ministry officials had come to support using insurgents to destabilize their enemies. They sponsored French military mutineers and Irish nationalists, and even looked at possibilities for sparking rebellion in distant India.  They were thus “quick to grasp [Lenin’s] potential for disrupting Russia’s war effort” and indisputably provided some financial backing to Lenin, what has come to be known as “German gold” (p.7).

          Lenin’s critics and rivals for power seized on the notion of “German gold” to label him a traitor, an agent operating on behalf of the enemy that was slaughtering Russian soldiers.  These charges never receded, and they continue to intrigue contemporary historians.  Merridale evaluates some of the more elaborately documented theories that Lenin was in fact a German agent, and finds them unproven.  In one instance she recounts, in the 1950s renowned diplomat and Russia expert George Kennan examined extensive documentation purporting to show an agency relationship between Lenin and the German government and concluded that the documents were forgeries.

          Lenin himself added to the speculation and conspiracy theories by denying that he had accepted any German assistance. Merridale suggests that, rather than lying about his acceptance of German gold, Lenin could have utilized his acceptance to forge a powerful argument on his own behalf.  A braver Lenin, she contends, might have “boasted of that German cash,” as a means to “help the German proletariat defeat the Kaiser. . . If taking German money was one kind of crime,” Lenin could have argued that “trampling on the people’s dreams, making them fight against their will and even starving them were surely worse. . . [Lenin] might have pointed to the poetry of taking money from the robbers of the poor, whatever country they were from” (p.262).

          Merridale submits that Germany most likely gambled that Lenin’s Bolsheviks were unlikely to achieve power on a long-term basis but could stir up useful “inconclusive civil chaos” (p.56) in the short term to further destabilize and weaken Russia. The Germans seemed to recognize that fomenting revolution was a dangerous idea, given that Germany had its own socialist revolutionaries at home. Lenin in any event arrived in Petrograd amidst the rumors of treachery and treason.

          Most socialists and many revolutionaries at that time, including some members of Lenin’s own Bolshevik party, regarded cooperation with the Provisional Government and bourgeois forces as necessary, at least on an interim basis. Lenin, however, never wavered in his categorical rejection of any compromise, coalition, or cooperation with the Provisional Government or any of the reform elements in Russia. Waiting for the bourgeoisie to turn into a revolutionary force was in Lenin’s view pointless.  The bourgeoisie was inalterably “bent on the defense of property, profit, and caste” (p.227).   Collusion with the Provisional Government would be the “death of socialism” (p.223).

            Scorning the Provisional Government, Lenin saw the key to revolution and subsequent governance of the country in a network of workers’ councils, known as “soviets,” led by the Petrograd Soviet. He rejected the conventional view that the Petrograd Soviet and its counterparts in provincial cities were simply workers’ educational councils designed not to compete with the Provisional Government for power. The soviet system which Lenin envisioned would not be a parliamentary republic, Lenin told his supporters, but rather a “Republic of Soviets of Workers’, Agricultural Laborers’ and Peasants’ Deputies throughout the country, from top to bottom” (p.228). To defend against counter-revolutionary insurgencies, the new revolutionary state would need to be governed by what Lenin termed, in perhaps his most enduring phrase, a “dictatorship of the proletariat” (p.195).

       Lenin further distinguished himself from other revolutionaries and reformers with his uncompromising stance on Russia’s unpopular war. By the time of his return to Petrograd, Russia had sustained nearly 5 million causalities, killed, missing or wounded, a far higher rate than any other belligerent. By some estimates, an additional 1.5 million soldiers had deserted. Arguments about the war had foiled all attempts at unity among the many anti-Tsarist factions. From the war’s outbreak in 1914, a major Russian objective had been to wrestle Constantinople, today’s Istanbul, away from the dying Ottoman Empire, which was allied with Germany and Austria-Hungary. The aspiration for control of Constantinople’s shipping lanes along the Bosporus and Dardanelles survived the Tsar’s abdication.

        Many in the Provisional Government saw the quest for Constantinople as reason enough to remain in the war. Others on the left believed that a more modern, democratic Russia could deliver a quick deathblow to the Kaiser and German imperialism, especially with the United States now fighting alongside Russia and its Western allies.  Russia could then join with revolutionary elements in Germany in establishing a socialism that transcended national boundaries, a position sometimes termed “revolutionary defencism.”

      Lenin would have none of this.  He rejected even the slightest concession to proponents of “revolutionary defencism.” The present conflict, Lenin reminded his followers, “unquestionably remains on Russia’s part a predatory imperialist war” (p.227).  Bourgeois elements, he argued, “could never give up on war because their future was bound to it” (p.224). Lenin was no pacifist, however. Cessation of the capitalist and imperialist war among the great powers must be followed by transnational class warfare against capitalism itself.  Lenin forced these ideas upon his party, and in November 1917 forced them upon the country after he and his Bolshevik cohorts had ousted the Provisional Government in an armed insurgency.

* * *

        Although not detailing the events of the November 1917 insurgency, Merridale argues that Lenin succeeded in that fateful month because he had worn down his opposition by the “force of his conviction.  While others talked and traded exquisite concessions, picking their way along the path of revolution as if they were avoiding mines, Lenin knew where he wanted to go and he knew exactly why.  His energy was prodigious, and he wrote and argued tirelessly, repeating the same themes until his opponents wearied of concocting new rebuttals” (p.230).  Merridale’s book is neither a biography of Lenin nor a comprehensive account of the 1917 Bolshevik revolution; there are plenty of works available on both subjects, including several that have come out during this centennial year of the 1917 Revolution.  But hers is an ideal choice for readers whose goal is to understand what drove Lenin, literally and figuratively, to reorder the course of history.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

December 6, 2017

 

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Filed under European History, German History, History, Russian History

Why Isn’t Russia More Like Us?

Peter Conradi, Who Lost Russia?

How the World Entered a New Cold War 

             In Who Lost Russia? How the World Entered a New Cold War, Peter Conradi, formerly Moscow-based correspondent for Britain’s Sunday Times and presently its foreign editor, looks at Russian history over the past quarter of a century, since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, “through the prism of [Russia’s] relations with the West” (p.x).  Given his somewhat overly dramatic title, there is an odd suspense to this otherwise straightforward, solidly written work, as the reader asks along the way, “Well, who really did ‘lose’ Russia?”  Conradi’s narrative invites readers to proffer their own nominees for the person or entity that “lost” Russia.  Only in the final pages does he inform us of his nominee – and no way will I reveal his selection here.  But the real question is not who “lost” Russia — that’s fine for a catchy title, evoking the Cold War, McCarthyism, and the question of the 1950s, who lost China.

            Rather, the questions at the heart of Conradi’s methodical study are why the once promising relationship between Russia and the West evolved into one best described today as adversarial; and, relatedly, why Russia did not follow the path toward Western-style liberal democracy after what looked like an earnest start in the 1990s. There are no simple or single answers to these questions but, by looking at post-Communist Russia’s relationship with the West during the years 1991-2016, Conradi manages to tease out a host of partial answers.  His book went to press in January 2017, during the earliest days of the Trump administration.  He alludes in an afterthought to the possibility of links between the 2016 Trump presidential campaign and the Russian state.  With much on this subject having come to light since the book first appeared, Conradi’s observations are not a reason to read his book.  But the book does provide much needed context to help understand why Russia’s relationship with the West deteriorated to the point where no one should be surprised that Russia deliberately sought to undermine the 2016 U.S. presidential elections.

          Conradi dedicates a substantial portion of his work to the personal interactions between the leaders of the United States and Russia over the 25-year period: George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton with Boris Yeltsin; George W. Bush and Vladimir Putin; Barack Obama and first Dimitri Medvedev, then Obama and Putin. He further includes speculation toward the end about how the relationship between Trump and Putin might unfold.  Numerous substantive issues bedeviled the leaders of the two countries between 1991 and 2016, but foremost among them were the intertwined questions of eastward expansion of NATO and Russia’s relationship with Ukraine.

      Throughout the quarter century, Russia and the West maintained entirely different perspectives on NATO’s embrace of the former Warsaw Pact countries once under Soviet control, and its potential embrace of several former Soviet Republics, most notably Ukraine. While the West regarded NATO expansion as a benign extension of universal democratic values to newly independent states, Russia construed expansion as a direct threat to its territorial integrity and geopolitical interests. And although the Soviet Union dissolved peaceably, Ukraine’s independence proved particularly vexing for Russia from the earliest post-Soviet days.

         During the presidency of Vladimir Putin, differences between Russia and the West over these and related issues transformed an uneven and sometimes uneasy partnership between Russia and the West into an adversarial one.   Western triumphalism of the early 1990s, when both Western Europe and the United States basked in their Cold War “victory” over the Soviet Union, plainly fueled Russian resentment. The breakdown of the partnership finds its roots, Conradi contends, in the “inability of both sides to agree on what happened in 1991 . . . and, in particular, [in] Russian resentment at being treated as a vanquished foe” (p.341).  The West underestimated how badly the loses that came with the collapse of the Soviet Union “rankled with Moscow, and how much the Kremlin continued to consider the former Soviet republics as part of its sphere of influence” (p.161).

         By the time Putin returned to the presidency in 2012, ending Dimitri Medvedev’s four-year interregnum, Russia had abandoned any pretense of striving for Western style liberal democracy.  It was now, Conradi writes, “positioning itself as a beacon of traditional, conservative values in a decadent, liberal world” (p,235).  The official narrative was that it had been “duped to believe in the promises of democracy . . . [which] did not work for Russia; the nation was corrupted by Western values and [was] under constant attack from those who would seek to dismantle it” (p.236).  Borrowing from the other portion of Conradi’s title, the world in the 21st century’s second decade had thus entered a “new Cold War,” with a level of hostility between Russia and the West “not seen even at the height of Soviet rule” (p.xiii).

* * *

            Conradi ably captures the momentous changes that ensued in Russia after the Soviet Union abruptly dissolved in December 1991.  He describes January 2, 1992, the first day of Russia’s transition to a free market, as a “life-defining moment. The previous six months had a seen a series of political events, each more dramatic than the last, culminating in the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Yet none had such a direct and immediate impact as the Yeltsin government’s decision to end the price controls that had been a feature of Soviet life since the 1920s” (p.20).  The end of price controls was part of a broader process that “challenged everything the Soviets had been brought up to believe in. Buying and selling for a profit had once been denounced as speculation and been punishable with jail. Now it was the foundation of the economy. Money-changing used to be conducted by shady characters on street corners; now it was carried out by financial experts sitting at rows of computer screens in swanky offices” (p.21).

           The early post-Soviet years were a wild and woolly time in Russia, with a mad grab for ownership and control of previously state-owned property. During the 1990s, Russia’s famous oligarchs emerged, some of the richest and, in many cases, most ruthless, businessmen on the planet.  Yet, Conradi notes, the early post-Soviet years also “created more losers than winners, and it took years before living standards drew level even with the last years of the Soviet era. Many people, especially members of the older generations, still felt a sense not so much of liberation but rather of disorientation after so much of what they had been brought up to believe in had been denounced as a lie. There was a feeling of wasted lives, of humiliation and wounded pride” (p.98).

           Conradi nonetheless gives Russia’s first post-Soviet president, Boris Yeltsin — a “charismatic larger-than-life figure whose ruddy cheeks betrayed his weakness for alcohol” (p.3) — high marks for avoiding the type of ethnic and nationalist violence that ravaged the former Yugoslavia during the 1990s. Yeltsin also steered a new constitution through to adoption by referendum, representing a “break with Soviet practice by, among other things, abolishing the leading role of the Communist (or indeed, any other) Party and guaranteeing a pluralistic political system” (p.47).  Although George H.W. Bush was the American president when the Soviet Union dissolved and Yeltsin rose to power, most of the Yeltsin years corresponded to the Clinton years.

          In a chapter entitled “Bill and Ol’ Boris,” Conradi shows how the two leaders struck up what seemed from the outside to have been a productive relationship between the two countries, with the United States providing substantial assistance to Russia in the hope of establishing a framework for a functioning democracy with a market economy.  Ol’ Boris sometimes chaffed at the nature of the American-Russian partnership, with America always the dominant partner and Russia reduced to a supplicant. He saw a special role for Russia as a regional peacekeeper in the other former Soviet republics – what the Russians termed the “near abroad” — an idea that fell flat with Bill.   More than a little uneasy about Ukraine’s drive for independence, Ol’ Bois periodically objected to Bill’s dogged determination to bring the emerging democracies of Eastern Europe under the NATO umbrella.  NATO’s eastward expansion looked to the Russian president like a “brazen attempt by the West to exploit [Russian] weakness to take over countries formerly part of Moscow’s sphere of influence” (p.64).   “Got to get over it, Boris,” seemed to be Bill’s response. “We don’t mean ya’ll no harm.”

            In his 1999 televised New Year’s address to the Russia people, six months prior to the expiration of his second term, Yeltsin stunned his viewers and the rest of the world by announcing, “in a characteristic piece of theater” (p.106), that he was resigning immediately.  Previously, there had been speculation that he might seek to change the constitution to pursue a third presidential term.  Yeltsin announced that former KGB agent Vladimir Putin, appointed Prime Minister the preceding August, would be his replacement.  Yeltsin was not obligated to anoint a successor. He could have “played the true democrat and not nominated anyone at all, instead creating a level playing field on which rival candidates could compete for votes”(p.322). Conradi suggests that Yeltsin had three candidates in mind; the other two in retrospect seem to have been more likely to continue the country along the road toward liberal democracy.  Yeltsin chose Putin, Conradi argues, because he, Yeltsin,  was “obsessed with securing a guarantee of immunity for himself and the ‘family’ from prosecution for their past misdemeanors” (p.322).

            As a 36 year old KGB agent based in Dresden in 1989, Putin had watched East Germany disintegrate and disappear, demonstrating for him the “frailty of political elites and the ease with which they can be toppled by ‘people power’”(p.110). Prior to his appointment as Prime Minister in August 1999, Putin had served as an assistant city administrator in his native St. Petersburg.   The literature on Putin in English seems to be growing on an almost daily basis, with many works seeking to probe Putin’s psyche to find psychological explanations for why he steered Russia in a direction outwardly different from that of Yeltsin. This is not one of them.  Instead, Conradi systematically shows how more than why the former KGB officer, unlike his predecessor, “pursued policies both at home and abroad that would inevitably challenge the West” (p.322).

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            In the early years of his presidency, Putin, like Yeltsin, said many things that the West wanted to hear about Russia’s quest for democracy and its belief in individual freedom after years of Soviet oppression.  There was even talk about possible Russian membership in the EU and NATO, with Putin recommending that NATO’s focus be shifted to terrorism, piracy and cybercrime.  The initial meetings between Putin and George W. Bush, who had succeeded Clinton in 2001, augured well for the US-Russia partnership. Bush tried to avoid what he considered Clinton’s tendency to hector his Russian counterpart about free markets and attempts to curb freedom of speech.  He famously told reporters after his first meeting with Putin that he had been able to get a sense of the Russian leader’s “soul.”  Having “looked the man in the eye,” Bush said, he found his counterpart to be “straight-forward and trustworthy,” and “deeply committed to his country” (p.137)

            Yet, for all the warm talk, the Bush administration recurrently sent out signals of its “intention to treat Russia as a mid-ranking country rather than a superpower” (p.132-33).  Although Putin was the first world leader to express solidarity with the United States after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the American invasion of Iraq in 2003 did incalculable damage to U.S.-Russia relations. “A really strong, anti-terrorist international coalition was created after September 2001,” Igor Ivanov, former Russian foreign minister, said. “It was destroyed in 2003 when the Americans decided to start their war in Iraq” (p.203). In Putin’s view, Washington had given itself a “license to support regime change wherever it wished,” with countries closest to Russia geographically and economically “at the top of its hit list”(p.174).

           American support for the pro-Western “Rose” demonstrations in Georgia in 2003 and “Orange” in Ukraine in 2004 — the so-called “Color Revolutions”  – aroused Putin’s fury because of the “existential threat” which they appeared to pose to the Kremlin (p.173).  Georgians and Ukrainians had:

provided a compelling model of how ordinary people could mobilize in a post-Soviet society to prevent a discredited regime from clinging to office – with more than a helping hand from the CIA, in Putin’s view. Putin’s concern was that Bush, with his determination to promote democracy around the world, might now try to encourage similar such forces in Russia to challenge Putin’s own hold on power (p.173).

Conradi perceives a “growing assertiveness” to Putin’s governance after the Color Revolutions, in which he “consolidated political and economic power in his hand and marginalized his opponents” (p.177).

            Barred from running for a third consecutive term, Putin stepped aside in 2008 and his Deputy Prime Minister, Dimitri Medvedev, was elected president.  Medvedev, trained as a lawyer and a decade younger than Putin, was more polished and less paranoid.  But he was without an independent power base and thus dependent for support upon Putin, who became Prime Minister.  The Medvedev years, 2008-2012, overlapped with the last year of George W. Bush’s term and Barack Obama’s first term. Obama assumed the presidency with the idea of a “reset” in Russian-American relations. But neither administration in Conradi’s view ever fully figured out who was in control in Moscow during these years, Medvedev or Putin.

            Conradi observes a discernible shift in Putin’s style of governance when he was re-elected president in 2012.  During his first eight years, Putin had governed according to an unwritten pact: “citizens stayed out of the state’s business, and in return it guaranteed them growing prosperity, underwritten by surging oil revenues” (p.234).  After 2012, Putin sought a “new source of legitimacy,” described as “‘patriotic mobilization.’ This new direction was accompanied by tighter control of television and a tougher line against opposition parties and civil society. The move was given greater urgency by the Arab Spring, which provided a salutary reminder of the ease with which regimes could be toppled if popular protests were allowed to get out of hand” (p.234).

            The 2013-14 crises in Ukraine and Crimea marked the end of the last glimmer of hope for a workable general partnership between Russia and the West. When Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych abruptly backed out of an assistance agreement with the European Union in November 2013, massive pro-Western demonstrations erupted in Kiev’s Maidan Square. Yanukovych fled to Russia and sought Russian assistance. Putin followed in March 2014 with the boldest move of his presidency: military invasion and subsequent annexation of Crimea, a largely autonomous region within Ukraine with a large Russian-speaking population and several Russian naval bases. The purported basis of the intervention was to protect beleaguered ethnic Russians.

          Conradi cautions against considering Putin’s seizure of Crimea and intervention in Ukraine as the “first staging in a carefully thought-out plan to reconstitute the Soviet Union” (p.301). His actions appear instead to have been prompted more by fear that Ukraine, a country still considered part of the Russian homeland, was “in danger of drifting into the Western camp.  He was also counting on a warm reception from the locals and gambled, rightly, that the West would do nothing to stop him” (p.303). The 2013-2014 crises “put a definitive end to any further expansion of NATO” and “allowed Putin to reassert his right of veto over any change in the ‘near abroad’” (p.295).

         If Russian governance today might be considered “Putinism,” it is based “neither on Soviet nostalgia nor on integration with the West” (p.235). Its distinctly anti-Western appeals are to an emotive Russian nationalism and ethnicity as the “backbone of the Russian state” (p.234); and to a social conservatism that is blatantly anti-homosexual, reinforced by the Russian Orthodox Church as “arbiter and enforcer of national mores” (p.234).  Oppressed during the Soviet era, the Orthodox Church saw a resurgence after the fall of communism and, as in Tsarist times, is once again “intimately woven into the affairs of state,” wielding “extraordinary power” (p.235).

            Putinism sees foreign policy as a “zero sum game” (p.339), where  plots and conspiracies against Russia abound.  Yet Russia’s role on the world stage, Conradi argues, is that of a “wrecker of the established order rather than as a positive force . . . The attempt to position Russia as a socially conservative rival to the liberal democracies of the West [has] attracted few takers in Europe beyond backers of the fringe parties on the right” (p.295).

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            Conradi alludes to a common understanding of Russian history and culture divided between two camps: “Europhiles,” who look to the West for models; and “Slavophiles,” who look inward, rejecting Western values and celebrating Russian culture and history (a more elaborate discussion may be found in Steven Marks’ How Russia Shaped the Modern World: From Art to Anti-Semitism, Ballet to Bolshevism, reviewed here in December 2014).   The interplay between these competing camps was largely kept below the surface during the Soviet regime. When Putin came to power in the year 2000, he appeared to have a foot in each camp. But at some point in the new century’s first decade, both Putin feet moved firmly into the Slavophile camp.  Setting aside Conradi’s answer to his question who lost Russia — you will have to read the book to find that answer – Conradi’s astute analysis leads to the conclusion that Vladimir Putin “found” or “refound” the traditional Slavophile Russia, a Russia that the West in the 1990s too readily assumed had disappeared altogether.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

September 8, 2017

 

 

 

 

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