Category Archives: Soviet Union

A Particular Sort of Friendship

Philby.1

Philby.2

Ben Macintyre, A Spy Among Friends: 

Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal 

     In the long history of espionage – sometimes described as the world’s second oldest profession – few chapters are as bizarre and as intriguing as that of the infamous “Cambridge Five”: Kim Philby, Donald Maclean, Guy Burgess, Anthony Blunt and John Cairncross, five well-bred upper class lads who studied at Cambridge University in the 1930s, then left the university to spy for the Soviet Union.  Among them, Philby might qualify as the most infamous. Even by the standards of spies, Philby’s duplicity and mendacity were breathtaking. The historical consensus is that, during his long career as a British-Soviet double agent, Philby provided more damaging information to the Soviets than any of his peers: details on British counterintelligence activities, the identities of British agents and operatives, the structure of Britain’s intelligence services, even information on his father and wife Aileen.  These betrayals led directly to the deaths of countless persons.

     But the betrayals that form the core of Ben Macintyre’s account of Philby and his milieu, A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal, involve Philby’s friendship with his protégé within the British intelligence service, Nicolas Elliot; and, to a lesser extent, with his American counterpart James Jesus Angleton. By focusing on Philby’s relationships with Elliot and Angleton, Macintyre seeks to capture what he describes as a “particular sort of friendship that played an important role in history.” His book, unlike others on Philby, is “less about politics, ideology, and accountability than personality [and] character” (p.xv). Macintyre, a writer-at-large for The Times of London, also casts much light on the insularity of upper class Britain’s ruling elite in the mid-20th century, a “family” where “mutual trust was so absolute and unquestioned that there was no need for elaborate security precautions” (p.88). Although not quite a “real-life-spy-thriller,” Macintyre’s compact and measured account is in its own way as riveting as the spy fiction of Ian Fleming, who appears briefly here as a Naval Intelligence Officer and confidante of Elliot; or of John Le Carré, the author of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, based in part on Philby’s story, who has written a short “Afterword” to Macintyre’s book.

* * *

     Harold Adrian Russell Philby — nicknamed “Kim” after the boy in Rudyard Kipling’s novel Kim — was born in India in 1912, the son of a well-known author and explorer who became a civil servant in India and later converted to Islam. Philby was educated in elite British private schools (paradoxically termed “public schools”) and at Cambridge’s prestigious Trinity College, where he also began espionage work for the Soviet Union. He launched his career with British intelligence during World War II. He served for a while as head of Britain’s primary counterintelligence unit, Section V of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, the M16, coordinating Britain’s anti-Soviet clandestine activity while simultaneously providing information to the Soviets. He led his double life in London and in foreign assignments in Istanbul, Washington, and Beirut. From Beirut, he defected to Moscow in 1963.

     The word most consistently used to describe Philby was “charm,” Macintyre writes, that “intoxicating, beguiling, and occasionally lethal English quality.”  Philby could “inspire and convey affection with such ease that few ever noticed they were being charmed. Male and female, old and young, rich and poor, Kim enveloped them all” (p.19). Like many intelligent and idealistic young men coming of age in the 1930s, Philby became a believer in the great Soviet experiment.  His beliefs were “radical but simple”: the rich had “exploited the poor for too long; the only bulwark against fascism was Soviet communism . . . capitalism was doomed and crumbling; the British establishment was poisoned by Nazi leanings” (p.37-38). There is no evidence that Philby “ever questioned the ideology he had discovered at Cambridge, changed his opinions, or seriously acknowledged the iniquities of practical communism,” Macintyre argues. Moreover, Philby “never shared or discussed his views, either with friend or foe. Instead, he retained and sustained his faith, without the need for priests or fellow believers, in perfect isolation.  Philby regarded himself as an ideologue and a loyalist; in truth, he was a dogmatist, valuing only one opinion, his own” (p.215).

     But Macintyre’s story revolves around Nicholas Elliot almost as much as Philby.  Born five years after Philby in 1917, Elliot was the son of the Headmaster at Eton, one of Britain’s most prestigious public schools.  Elliot and Philby were “two men of almost identical tastes and upbringing” (p.2), as close as “two heterosexual, upper-class midcentury Englishmen could be” (p.249). The two men:

learned the spy trade together during the Second World War. When that war was over, they rose together through the ranks of British intelligence, sharing every secret. The belonged to the same clubs, drank in the same bars, wore the same well-tailored clothes, and married women of their own tribe. But all that time, Philby had one secret he never shared: he was covertly working for Moscow, taking everything he was told by Elliot and passing it on to his Soviet spymasters (p.1).

     During World War II, the American James Jesus Angleton built a strong working relationship with both Elliot and Philby, working in the counterintelligence section of the Office of Strategic Services that was the direct counterpart to M16’s Section V.  Angleton was a Yale graduate who enjoyed the bonhomie of time spent with Elliot and Philby, trading information in exchanges often fueled by substantial amounts of alcohol. After World War II, Angleton became head of counterintelligence at the CIA. No two spies symbolized the close rapport between British and American intelligence services during the early Cold War than Phllby and Angleton, Macintyre contends.

     The dichotomy and tension between M15, Britain’s Security Service, and M16, its Secret Intelligence Service, runs throughout Macintyre’s story.  Americans can appreciate the differences between the two units, as Macintyre compares M15 to the FBI and M16 to to the CIA. The two services were “fundamentally dissimilar in outlook. M15 tended to recruit former policemen and soldiers, men who sometimes spoke with regional accents and frequently did not know, or care about, the right order to use the cutlery at a formal dinner. They enforced the law and defended the realm, caught spies and prosecuted them” (p.162). M16 by contrast was a prototype upper class Establishment institution, “more public school and Oxbridge; its accent more refined, its tailoring better. Its agents and officers frequently broke the laws of other countries in pursuit of secrets and did so with a certain swagger” (p.162).  But along with this swagger came a tendency in the old boy network that was the M16 not to ask questions about one of their own and to assume that all members of the elite club were what they seemed.

     The extent to which alcohol drove Philby and fueled his exchanges with Elliot, Angleton and other counterparts is astounding. “Even by the heavy-drinking standards of wartime, the spies were spectacular boozers” (p.25), McIntyre notes. In his “Afterword,” Le Carré describes alcohol as “so much a part of the culture of M16” that a non-drinker “could look like a subversive or worse” (p.298).  Indeed, it is difficult to imagine how these spies could have maintained their guard with so much alcohol in their systems.   And, as Macintyre further notes, no one “served (or consumed) alcohol with quite the same joie de vivre and determination as Kim Philby” (p.26).  Alcohol helped Philby “maintain the double life, for an alcoholic has already become divorced from his or her real self, hooked on an artificial reality” (p.215).

       During World War II, Philby provided the Soviet Union with the names of several thousand members of the Nazi resistance movement in Germany, Germans worling with Britain in the hope that a genuine democracy might be established in their country after the war.  Many were rounded up and presumed shot by the Soviets after the Russian conquest of what became East Germany.  After the war, Philby was posted to Istanbul, where he served as head of British intelligence, under the cover of First Secretary at the British Consulate. He served in a similar position in Washington, D.C. From these positions, he furnished the Soviets with a steady stream of invaluable information. As Macintyre emphasizes, Philby not only told his Soviet handlers what Britain’s spymasters were doing; he was also able to “tell Moscow what London was thinking” (p.104). Philby undermined British counter-revolutionary operations in Georgia, Armenia and Albania, with many of the operatives dying in uneven combat.  These were “ill-conceived, badly planned” operations that “might well have failed anyway; but Philby could not have killed [the operatives] more certainly if he had executed them himself.” (p.118).  Their ensuing deaths did not trouble him, then or later.

     There was what Macintyre describes as a “peculiar paradox” to Philby’s double dealing: “if all his anti-Soviet operations failed, he would soon be out of a job; but if they succeeded too well, he risked inflicting real damage on his adopted cause” (p.95).  Philby thus maintained a “pattern of duality” in which he “consistently undermined his own work but never aroused suspicion. He made elaborate plans to combat Soviet intelligence and then immediately betrayed them to Soviet intelligence; he urged ever greater efforts to combat the communist threat and personified that threat; his own section worked smoothly, yet nothing quite succeeded” (p.103).  

     In May 1951, fellow double agents Burgess and Maclean suddenly disappeared, fleeing to Moscow.  Maclean had come under suspicion as a Soviet mole within British intelligence and Philby sent Burgess, who lived with Philby and his wife in Washington, to alert Maclean that he was about to be arrested. Philby had not intended that Burgess himself flee. When he did — which Philby considered an act of betrayal – Philby himself came under suspicion as the “third man,” still another Soviet mole within British intelligence, and was forced to resign from M16.

     Over the course of the next several years, Philby was investigated by both M15 and M16, with M15 taking the position that Philby was a Soviet spy, but without the evidence to prove its case, while M16 remained equally certain of his innocence, but without evidence to exonerate him. Similarly, in Washington, J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI were convinced that Philby was a Soviet agent, whereas Angleton’s CIA defended him. Philby’s case thus remained in limbo for “months and then years,” a “bubbling unsolved mystery, still entirely unknown to the public but the source of poisonous discord between the intelligence services” (p.173).

     In 1955, Foreign Secretary Harold Macmillan agreed with an M16 report that with no hard evidence despite four years of investigation, it would be “entirely contrary to the English tradition for a man to have to prove his innocence. . . in a case where the prosecution has nothing but suspicion to go upon” (p.186). Based upon the report and a subsequent softball M16 interview of Philby – in which, Macintyre speculates, Elliot was likely one of the two interviewers — Macmillan officially exonerated Philby.

     No longer in limbo, Philby resumed work for M16, going to Beirut in 1956 under cover as Middle East correspondent for The Observer and The Economist.  Philby’s nearly seamless return to British intelligence, Macintyre observes, “displayed the old boys’ network running at its smoothest: a word in an ear, a nod, a drink with one of the chaps at the club, and the machinery kicked in” (p.208).  Journalism can be the perfect cover for a spy and double agent, allowing the journalist to ask “direct, unsubtle, and impertinent questions about the most sensitive subjects without arousing suspicion” (p.211). But Philby’s work as a journalist proved to be his undoing.

      What British authorities took as iron clad proof of Philby’s double agency came from Flora Solomon, a prominent Jewish-Russian émigré to Britain who had known Philby since the 1930s (Solomon’s son Peter founded Amnesty International in 1961). Solomon’s main passion by the 1960s was the State of Israel, which she “defended and supported in word, deed, and funds at every opportunity” (p.244).  Solomon became increasingly irritated by what she perceived as anti-Israel and hence pro-Soviet bias to Philby’s Middle East reporting. Almost casually, she reported to another pillar of the Anglo-Jewish community, Lord Victor Rothschild, then Chairman of Marks & Spencer’s who had worked in M15 during the war, that Philby had clumsily tried to recruit her to spy for the Soviet Union in the 1930s.  Rothschild, in turn, reported Solomon’s information to M15.  Solomon’s revelation was the ammunition that M15 had lacked and the evidence of guilt that Philby’s M16 supporters had always demanded.

     Although still not convinced that it had enough evidence to successfully prosecute Philby, M16 sent Elliot to Beirut in January 1963 to extract a confession. M16’s ostensible strategy was to offer Philby immunity from prosecution in return for a full confession.  In a series of tense meetings between the long-time friends, which Macintyre ably recounts based upon secret recordings, Philby became increasingly open about his years of activity as a Soviet agent, even providing the names of Blunt and Carncross as the fourth and fifth Cambridge spies.  Signed confession in hand, Elliot left Beirut.

     Shortly thereafter, Philby failed to appear at an Embassy dinner party, fleeing to Moscow on a Soviet freighter. Elliot, Macintyre writes, “could not have made it easier for Philby to flee, whether intentionally or otherwise. In defiance of every rule of intelligence, he left Beirut without making any provision for monitoring a man who had just confessed to being a double agent: Philby was not followed or watched; his flat was not placed under surveillance; his phone was not tapped; and M16’s allies in the Lebanese security service were not alerted. . . Elliot simply walked away from Beirut and left the door to Moscow wide open” (p.267).

     Elliot later claimed that the possibility that Philby might defect to Moscow had never occurred to him or to anyone else, a claim which “defies belief” (p.266).  But Macintyre suggests that M16 may have deliberately allowed Philby to escape to Moscow. “Nobody wanted him in London” (p.266). Although Elliot had made clear to Philby that if he failed to cooperate fully, the “immunity deal was off and the confession he had signed would be used against him,” the prospect of prosecuting Philby in Britain was “anathema to the intelligence services. . . politically damaging and profoundly embarrassing” (p.266-67).  M16 may have therefore concluded that allowing Philby to join Burgess and Maclean in Moscow was the “tidiest solution all a round” (p.267).

     From the moment he finally understood and accepted Philby’s betrayal, “Elliott’s world changed utterly: inside he was crushed, humiliated, enraged, and saddened.” For the rest of his life, Elliot never ceased to “wonder how a man to whom he had felt so close, and who was so similar in every way, had been, underneath, a fraud” (p.250). Elliot also began to ask himself:

how many people he, James Angleton, and others had unwittingly condemned to death. Some of the victims had names . . . Many casualties remained nameless . . . Elliott would never be able to calculate the precise death tally, for who can remember every conversation, every confidence exchanged with a friend stretching back three decades? . . . Elliott had given away almost every secret he had to Philby; but Philby had never given away his own ( p.249).

Although discredited within British intelligence after Philby’s defection, Elliot remained in the service until 1968.  In the 1980s, he became an unofficial advisor on intelligence matters to Prime Minister Thatcher.  He died in 1994.

     As to Angleton, after Philby’s defection, a “profound and poisonous paranoia” seemed to seize him. In Angleton’s warped logic, “If Philby had fooled him, then there must be many other KGB spies in positions of influence in the West. . . Convinced that the CIA was riddled with Soviet spies, Angleton set about rooting them out, detecting layer after layer of deception surrounding him. He suspected that a host of world leaders were all under KGB control” (p.285-86).  Angleton was forced out of the CIA in 1974, when the “extent of his illegal mole hunting was revealed” (p.287). He died in 1987.

     Philby lived his remaining years, a quarter of a century, in the Soviet Union. The Soviets provided Philby with accommodations and allowed him to live a relatively undisturbed life. But they hardly welcomed him. He was of little use to them by then. In Moscow, Macintyre writes, Philby at times “sounded like a retired civil servant put out to pasture (which, in a way, he was), harrumphing at the vulgarity of modern life, protesting against change . . . He demanded not only admiration for this ideological consistency, for having ‘stayed the course,’ but sympathy for what it had cost him” (p.284). In his last years, he was awarded the Order of Lenin, which he compared to a knighthood.

* * *

     With no apparent remorse and few if any second thoughts about the path he chose to travel during his life’s journey, Philby died in the Soviet Union in 1988.  He was buried in Moscow’s Kuntsevo cemetery, a long distance from Cambridge.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

June 24, 2016

 

 

 

 

5 Comments

Filed under British History, European History, History, Soviet Union

The 22-Month Criminal Partnership That Turned the World On Its Head

Hitlernstalin.1

Hitlernstalin.2

Roger Moorhouse, The Devils’ Alliance:
Hitler’s Pact With Stalin, 1939-41 

     On August 23, 1939, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union stunned the world by executing a non-aggression pact, sometimes referred to as the “Ribbentrop-Molotov” accord after the foreign ministers of the two countries.  The pact, executed in Moscow, seemed to come out of nowhere and was inexplicable to large portions of the world’s population, not least to German and Soviet citizens. Throughout most of the 1930s, Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia had vilified the other as its archenemy.  Hitler came to power in Nazi Germany in no small measure because he offered the country and especially its privileged elites protection from the Bolshevik menace emanating from the Soviet Union. Stalin’s Russia viewed the forces of Fascism and Nazism as dark and virulent manifestations of Western imperialism and global capitalism that threatened the Soviet Union.

     In his fascinating and highly readable account of the pact, The Devils’ Alliance: Hitler’s Pact With Stalin, 1939-41, Roger Moorhouse, an independent British historian, writes that the “bitter enmity between the Nazis and the Soviets had been considered as a given, one of the fixed points of political life.  Now, overnight, it had apparently been consigned to history. The signature of the pact, then, was one of those rare moments in history where the world – with all its norms and assumptions – appeared to have been turned on its head” (p.142). Or, as one commentator quipped at the time, the pact turned “all our –isms into –wasisms” (p.2).

     According to Hitler’s architect Albert Speer, when the Fûhrer learned at his mountain retreat that Stalin had accepted the broad outlines of the proposal Ribbentrop carried to Moscow, Hitler “stared into space for a moment, flushed deeply, then banged on the table so hard that the glasses rattled, and exclaimed in a voice breaking with excitement, ‘I have them! I have them!’” (p.35). But Moorhouse quotes Stalin a few pages later telling his adjutants, “Of course, it’s all a game to see who can fool whom. I know what Hitler’s up to. He thinks he’s outsmarted me but actually it’s I who has tricked him” (p.44).

    Which devil got the better of the other is an open and perhaps unanswerable question. For Germany, the pact allowed Hitler to attack Poland a little over a week later without having to worry about Soviet retaliation and, once Poland was eliminated, to pursue his aims elsewhere in Europe without a two-front war reminiscent of Germany’s situation in World War I up to Russia’s surrender after the Bolshevik revolution.  The conventional view is that for the Soviet Union, which had always looked upon war with Nazi Germany as inevitable, the pact at a minimum bought time to continue to modernize and mobilize its military forces.

     But, Moorhouse argues, Stalin was interested in far more than simply buying time. He also sought to “exploit Nazi aggression to his own ends, to speed up the fall of the West and the long awaited collapse of the West” (p.2). The non-aggression agreement with Nazi Germany provided the Soviet Union with an opportunity to expand its influence westward and recapture territory lost to Russia after World War I.  The pact ended almost exactly 22 months after its execution, on June 22, 1941, when Hitler launched Operation Barbarossa, the code name given to the German invasion of the Soviet Union. But during the pact’s 22-month existence, both Hitler and Stalin extended their authority over wide swaths of Europe.  By June 1941, the two dictators — the two devils — between them controlled nearly half of the continent.

* * *

     As late as mid-August 1939, Soviet diplomats were pursuing an anti-Nazi collective defense agreement with Britain and France. But Stalin and his diplomats suspected that the British and the French “would be happy to cut a deal with Hitler at their expense” (p.24).  Sometime that month, Stalin concluded that no meaningful collective defense agreement with the Western powers was feasible. Through the non-aggression pact with Nazi Germany, therefore, Stalin preempted the British and French at what he considered their own duplicitous game. Three days prior to the signing of the non-aggression pact, on August 20, 1939, Berlin and Moscow executed a commercial agreement that provided for formalized exchanges of raw materials from the Soviet Union and industrial goods from Germany. This agreement had been in the works for months and, unlike the non-non-agression pact, had been followed closely in capitals across the globe.

     The non-aggression pact that followed on August 23rd was a short and in general non-descript document, in which each party guaranteed non-belligerence to the other and pledged in somewhat oblique terms that it would neither ally itself nor aid an enemy of the other party.  But a highly secret protocol accompanied the pact  — so secret that, on the Soviet side, historians suspect, “only Stalin and Molotov knew of its existence” (p.39); so secret that the Soviet Union did not officially acknowledge its existence until the Gorbachev era, three years after Molotov had gone to his grave denying the existence of any such instrument.  The protocol divided Poland into Nazi and Soviet “spheres of interest” to apply in the event of a “territorial and political rearrangement of the area belonging to the Polish state” (p.306).

     The accompanying protocol contained similar terms for Finland, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, anticipating future “territorial and political rearrangements” of these countries. The protocol also acknowledged Moscow’s “interest in” Bessarabia, the eastern portion of today’s Moldova, then part of Romania, for which Germany declared its “complete disinterest” (p.306). For Stalin, the pact and its secret protocol marked what Moorhouse terms an “astounding success,” in which he reacquired a claim to “almost all of the lands lost by the Russian Empire in the maelstrom of the First World War” (p.37). Moorhouse’s chapters on how the Soviets capitalized on the pact and accompanying secret protocol support the view that the Soviet and Nazi regimes, although based on opposing ideologies, were similar at least in one particular sense: both were ruthless dictatorships with no scruples inhibiting territorial expansion at the expense of less powerful neighbors.

* * *

       After Nazi Germany invaded Poland from the west on September 1, 1939 (eight days almost to the hour after execution of the pact), the Soviet Union followed suit by invading Poland from the east on September 17th. The Nazi and Soviet occupiers embarked upon a “simultaneous cleansing of Polish society,” with the Nazis motivated “primarily by concerns of race and the Soviets mainly by class-political criteria” (p.57).  Moorhouse recounts in detail the most chilling example of Soviet class cleansing, the infamous Katyn Forest massacre, where the Soviets methodically executed approximately 21,000 Polish prisoners of war – high-ranking Army officers, aristocrats, Catholic priests, lawyers, and others, all deemed “class enemies.” Stalin attributed the massacre to the Nazis, and official acknowledgement of Soviet responsibility did not come until 1990, one year prior to the Soviet Union’s dissolution.

     The Soviet Union browbeat Estonia into a “mutual assistance” treaty that, nominally, obligated both parties to respect the other’s independence. Yet, by allowing for the establishment of Soviet military bases on Estonian soil, the treaty “fatally undermined Estonian sovereignty. Estonia was effectively at Stalin’s mercy” (p.77). Similar tactics were employed in Lithuania and Latvia. By mid-October 1939, barely six weeks after signing the pact, Stalin had “moved to exercise control of most of the territory that he had been promised by Hitler” in the secret protocol, “securing the stationing of around 70,000 Red Army troops in the three Baltic states, a larger force than the combined standing armies of the three countries” (p.78). By August 1940, each Baltic state had become a Soviet constituent republic.

     The Soviet Union also invaded Finland in November 1939 and fought what proved to be a costly winter war against the brave Finns, who resisted heroically. The war demonstrated to the world – and, significantly, to Nazi Germany itself – the weaknesses of the Red Army.  It ended in a standstill in March 1940, with Moscow annexing small pieces of Finnish territory, but with no Soviet occupation or puppet government. The Soviet Union also wiped out Bessarabia. Although the secret protocol had explicitly recognized Soviet interest in Bessarabia, Hitler saw the Soviet move as a “symbol of Stalin’s undiminished territorial ambition.” Though he said nothing in public, Moorhouse writes, “Hitler complained to his adjutants that the Soviet annexation of Bessarabia signified the ‘first Russian attack on Western Europe’” (p.107).

      In the same timeframe, Hitler extended Nazi domination over Norway, Denmark, Holland, Luxembourg and Northern France, as well as much of Poland, some 800,000 square kilometers.  Hitler and Stalin thus divided up Europe in 1940, with Nazi Germany becoming the preeminent power on the continent. Stalin “did less well territorially, with only around half of Hitler’s haul at 422, 000 square kilometers, but was arguably better placed to actually absorb his gains, given that all of them were long standing Russian irredentia, with some tradition of rule from Moscow and all were neatly contiguous to the western frontier of the USSR” (p.106).

    Hitler’s concerns about the extent of Soviet territorial ambitions in Europe after its annexation of Bessarabia were magnified when the Soviets also demanded nearby northern Burkovina, a small parcel of land under Romanian control, nestled between Bessarabia and Ukraine. Northern Burkovina was Stalin’s first demand for territory beyond what the secret protocol had slated for Moscow. By late summer of 1940, therefore, the German-Soviet relationship was in trouble. The “mood of collaboration of late 1939 shifted increasingly to one of confrontation, with growing suspicions on both sides that the other was acting in bad faith” (p.197).

    In November 1940, Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov was summoned to Berlin to try to breathe new life into the pact. Hitler and Ribbentrop made a concerted effort to head off westward Soviet expansion with the suggestion that the Soviet Union join the Tripartite Pact between Germany, Italy and Japan and focus its territorial ambitions to the south, especially on India, where it could participate in the “great liquidation of the British Empire” (p.215).  Ribbentrop’s contention that Britain was on the verge of collapse was called into question when certain meetings with Molotov had to be moved to a bunker because of British bombings of the German capital.

    Molotov left Berlin thinking that he had attended the initial round in what were likely to be lengthy additional territorial negotiations between the two parties.  In fact, the November conference marked the end of any meaningful give-and-take between them. In its formal response back to Germany, which Molotov delivered to the German Ambassador in Moscow, the Soviet Union made clear that it had no intention of abandoning its ambitions for westward expansion into Europe in exchange for membership in the Tripartite Pact. No formal German response was forthcoming to  Soviet demands for additional European territory. Rather, the often-vacillating Hitler had by this time made what turned out to be an irrevocable decision to invade the Soviet Union, with the objective of turning Russia into “our India” (p.295).

* * *

    In the period leading up to the invasion in June 1941, Stalin refused to react to a steady stream of intelligence from as many as 47 different sources concerning a German build up near the Western edges of the new Soviet empire.  Stalin was obsessed with not provoking Germany into military action, “convinced that the military build up and the rumor-mongering were little more than a Nazi negotiating tool: an attempt to exert psychological pressure as a prelude to the resumption of talks” (p.229). Stalin seemed to believe that “while Hitler was engaged in the west against the British, he would have to be mad to attack the USSR” (p.230).

    But ominous intelligence reports continued to pour into Moscow. One in April 1941 concluded that Germany had “as many as one hundred divisions massed on the USSR’s western frontier” (p.238). In addition, over the previous three weeks, there had been eighty recorded German violations of Soviet airspace. “Such raw data was added to the various human intelligence reports to come in from Soviet agents . . . all of which pointed to a growing German threat” (p.238).  Still, Stalin “did not believe that war was coming, and he was growing increasingly impatient with those who tried to persuade him of anything different” (p.239).

    In the early phases of Operation Barbarossa, German troops met with little serious resistance and were able to penetrate far into Soviet territory.  In many of the areas that the Soviets had grabbed for themselves after execution of the pact, including portions of the Baltic States, the Germans were welcomed as liberators. The Soviet Union incurred staggering loses in the immediate aftermath of the invasion, losing much of the territory it had acquired as a result of the pact.

     Minsk, Bessarabia’s largest city, fell into German hands on June 28, 1941.  Its fall, Moorhouse writes, “symbolized the wider disaster not only for the USSR, but for Stalin personally.” It was the “moment at which his misjudgment was thrown into sharp relief. Only a dictator of his brutal determination – and one with the absolute power that he had arrogated for himself – could have survived it” (p. 273).  Moorhouse’s narrative ends with the Germans, anticipating an easy victory, not far from Moscow as 1941 entered its final months and the unforgiving Russian winter approached.

* * *

      Moorhouse contends that the 1939 Nazi-Soviet non-non-aggresson pact has largely been glossed over in Western accounts of World War II, which focus on the fall of France and Britain’s lonely battle against the seemingly invincible Nazi military juggernaut during the  22-month period when the Soviet Union appeared to be aligned with Germany against the West.   To the degree that there is a knowledge gap in the West concerning the pact and its ramifications, Moorhouse’s work aptly and ably fills that gap.

Thomas H. Peebles
La Châtaigneraie, France
May 13, 2016

5 Comments

Filed under Eastern Europe, European History, German History, History, Soviet Union

Chronicle of a Totalitarian Nightmare

Lina.cover

Simon Morrison, Lina and Serge:
The Love and Wars of Lina Prokofiev 

      Rather than being a dual biography, as its title might suggest, Simon Morrison’s Lina and Serge: The Love and Wars of Lina Prokofiev is primarily a biography of Lina Prokofiev, wife of renowned Russian composer, pianist and conductor Serge Prokofiev. There are two distinct parts to Lina’s story, each approximately one half of the book. The first is a hardly unusual story of a rocky marriage involving a classical music “rock star,” of general interest primarily because of Prokofiev’s musical significance and because the couple were integral parts of Russian émigré musical circles in places like New York and Paris in the aftermath of the 1917 Bolshevik revolution and World War I. Russia’s Bolshevik experiment looms ominously in the background throughout the book’s first half, then comes frighteningly to the fore in the second after Soviet officials lured Serge back to his native land in the 1930s.

       Not long after the couple relocated to the Soviet Union, Serge left Lina for a younger woman. On her own with the couple’s two sons during World War II, Lina suffered severe deprivation in Moscow while Serge was evacuated from the Soviet capital and survived the war in relative comfort. Lina was then swept into a post-war round of purges, accused and convicted of treasonous conduct for her contact with foreigners. She spent eight hellish years in a Soviet gulag.  Lina’s experiences in the Soviet Union, Morrison contends, were representative of the fate of countless others under the regime led by Joseph Stalin, a “Georgian Bolshevik fighter who specialized in kidnappings and robberies” (p.122).  Stalin’s regime was little more than a “tangled network of criminals . . . [and] immoral leaders who secured power through coercion and violence” (p.8). Morrison, a professor of music at Princeton University, aptly characterizes the second part of Lina’s story as a chronicle of a “totalitarian nightmare” (p.8).

* * *

     Lina Codina was born in Madrid in 1897 of peripatetic parents who worked as musicians. Her mother was from Ukraine and her father was Spanish. Lina lived in New York, Paris, and Geneva growing up, as well as in Cuba. She spoke fluent Spanish, English, French, Italian and Russian.  Morrison suggests that her talent for languages should have led her to become a translator. But Lina was instead an aspiring soprano singer, with mid-level talent, thoroughly capable but not a musical superstar. At age 21, she met such a superstar in 27 year old Serge Prokofiev, whom Morrison describes as a “child prodigy comparable to Mozart” (p.31) and “[a]rguably the greatest musical genius of the twentieth century” (p.244), the creator of operas, symphonies, ballets, sonatas and concertos. Lina was smitten by Prokofiev’s exceptional charm and dashing good looks, as well as by his musical genius — his “rhythmic control” and “blistering technique at the keyboard” (p.39), as Morrison puts it.

      The couple married in 1923 in Germany, when Lina was several months pregnant. They had two sons together, and a troubled married life almost from the beginning. Not the least of the couple’s many problems was that Serge was quite simply far more talented than Lina. He was in demand seemingly everywhere. Lina was not. Hence, there was an imbalance from the beginning in their professional standing that had an effect upon their married life together. “No matter what she achieved as a singer, nothing could compare to Serge’s gifts as a composer and pianist” (p.53), Morrison writes. Serge was in many ways married more to his music than to Lina. “Self-obsessed and blessed with phenomenal powers of concentration” (p.32), Serge always gave priority to his musical pursuits, with “everything (and everyone) else falling far behind” (p.70). His career demands pulled him away from Lina for long periods of time, prompting her to feel rejected and isolated.

      But Serge also had what is euphemistically termed a “wandering eye.”  Between his workaholic dedication to his music and the distractions of his wandering eye, Lina’s continual battle for Serge’s attention was a “frustrating contest” (p.55). She “succumbed to his [Serge’s] magnetism and had the wiles to maintain his affection, so she braved the broad range of other women in his life without protest. His indifference to her needs was, and would always be, the greater affront to her pride” (p.55). Yet, Serge retained a residue of affection for Lina and traditional family life, and the marriage held together, however imperfectly.

       Serge pursued his career in the West with the permission of Russia’s new Bolshevik government. Anatoliy Lunacharsky, head of cultural affairs under Vladimir Lenin, sanctioned his journeys abroad with the “understanding that Serge would serve as a kind of cultural diplomat. The Bolsheviks were destroyers, Lunacharsky admitted, whereas Serge was a creator. The regime needed him” (p.32-33). The couple and their children lived in New York and Paris in the aftermath of World War I, and were prominent members of the Russian emigrant community in both.

      While abroad, Serge tried to speak positively of the Russian revolution. He “fretted that he had forsaken his country at a crucial – if brutal — period of transition and feared that he would be punished for seeking success abroad” (p.33). Serge described his relationship to his homeland to a French journal in 1927: “Foreign air does not suit my inspiration, because I’m Russian, and that is to say the least suited of men to be an exile, to remain myself in a psychological climate that isn’t that of my race. My compatriots and I carry our country about with us . . . I’ve got to go back.” (p.121). As Morrison notes, Prokofiev “spoke sentimentally of Russia, but he was not a sentimental person. In essence, he returned to Russia because he had never left” (p.121).

* * *

     In 1936, at about the book’s halfway point, the couple moved back to the Soviet Union. Lina acquiesced in the move. She felt she had “no choice but to agree to the move; if she refused, Serge would blame her for compromising his career” (p.169). Lina’s fondest hope was that the new environment in the Soviet Union might bring Serge back closer to her and the couple’s two sons.

     This hope proved to be catastrophically misplaced. The couple’s relocation to the Soviet Union coincided with what came to be known as the “Great Terror,” involving arrests, blacklistings, deportations and executions of Soviet citizens from all walks of life. Although neither Lina nor Serge was directly affected by the Terror during their initial years in the Soviet Union, they were “aware of the plague in the land,” a product of Stalin’s “psychopathic megalomania” (p.170).

      Having moved to Moscow together, Lina and Serge “soon started moving farther and farther apart, each suffering the peculiar stresses of life in the Soviet Union” (p.191). Serge’s wandering eye settled upon a younger woman, 23-year-old Mira Mendelson, less than half Serge’s age at 47. Discovering Serge’s affair with Mira, Lina “felt she deserved better from her husband than neglect, and now, betrayal” (p.198). Serge eventually moved in with Mira and any semblance of a normal family life for Lina vanished. By the time Germany invaded the Soviet Union in 1941, Lina’s marriage to Serge was effectively over. Serge and Mira were evacuated from Moscow and lived in relative comfort during most of the war years in Alma-Ata, Kazakhstan. Lina remained in Moscow with the couple’s two sons, where the three barely survived.

        Throughout her separation from Serge, Lina sought out numerous friends and tried desperately to leave the Soviet Union. She “continued to imagine a future for herself and her family outside the Soviet Union – to plan a life back in the West. After the end of the war, she pursued it actively” (p.223). Lina felt shielded enough by her association with Serge to fraternize with the staff at the embassies of the Soviet Union’s wartime allies, “even though such contact with foreigners was disallowed by the state as treasonous. Such socializing had its real purpose, though – to escape” (p.232). Immediately after World War II, Soviet authorities began to investigate Lina for her foreign contacts.

      In 1947, Serge obtained a “nonsensical” (p.245) divorce from Lina, in which the court declared their original marriage null and void ab initio because it had taken place outside the Soviet Union and had not been registered with Soviet officials. Morrison terms the ruling a “farce,” even by Soviet legal standards, and a “circumvention of jurisprudence that became infamous in post-Stalinist classrooms” (p.245). Serge then married Mira. But, unbeknownst to Lina, Serge suffered a series of strokes, rendering him incapable of composing for more than an hour or two a day and “bringing his life to a bathetically premature end” (p.265).

       Shortly after the couple’s sham divorce became official, Lina was “summoned to pick up a package outside her apartment, dragged into a car, and taken to the Lubyanka prison for interrogation.” (p.245). The four men who interrogated Lina there were “semi-educated thugs who knew nothing of the world beyond the Soviet Union and who lived in squalid quarters on small salaries supplemented by bribes and extortion. . . [They] specialized in torturing people for the purpose of extracting confessions” (p.250). Of the four charges Lina faced, by far the most serious concerned her “persistent efforts to leave the Soviet Union with the aid of foreign embassy workers” (p.253). After a 15-minute trial with a pre-ordained outcome, Lina was sentenced to a 20-year prison term.

      Morrison delves in vivid detail into Lina’s imprisonment, describing her life in Soviet gulag camps. Lina was one of about 3,000 women at a camp known as Yavas, where she spent “long days in factories and mills, followed by farm work with cows and pigs or tending crops.  Idlers were subject to beatings, forced marching drills, and sleep deprivation” (p.274). Morrison attributes Lina’s survival in the camp to the “material support she received from her sons, her gender (death rates among men were higher than among women), the less taxing work assigned to older prisoners, good fortune, her own wit, and her relationship to an eminent Soviet composer” (p.257-58). Some passages in this portion of the book will remind readers of Caroline Moorehead’s A Train in Winter, a study of French women’s solidarity in Nazi prison camps, reviewed here in February 2012.

      Lina’s situation in the post-World War II Soviet Union was also similar to that of Olga Ivinskya, the mistress of Boris Pasternak who was twice investigated and prosecuted by Soviet authorities, as set forth in Peter Finn and Petra Couvée’s The Zhivago Affair: The Kremlin, the CIA, and the Battle Over a Forbidden Book, reviewed here in October 2015.  Much like Pasternak, Serge had also fallen into disfavor with the Soviet authorities at the time of Lina’s trial for his purported failure to follow ideological guidelines for the arts. But the authorities hesitated to repress him directly, for roughly the same reasons they did not wish to repress Pasternak: their sensitivity to the implications of persecution of an internationally renowned artist.

      Lina’s release from Soviet Gulag camps in 1956 came about as a result of the political upheaval that followed Stalin’s death on March 5, 1953 – the same day that Serge died of a stroke. Lina’s son Svyatoslav recounted that on Lina’s release, “despite swollen eyes caused by sleep deprivation, his mother looked much the same as he remembered her in 1948, though mentally she had dulled, slowed” (p.275).  Svyatoslav emphasized that his mother “suffered the breakup with Papa more than the imprisonment that was its main consequence” (p.275). A year later, a Moscow judicial oversight committee reversed the decision of the previous decade invalidating her marriage. “Eventually, but unhappily to all concerned, both marriages were recognized. Prokofiev was deemed to have two widows and his estate was distributed among his two wives and his two sons” (p.283). Lina was not allowed to leave the Soviet Union until 1974. She lived modestly in London and Paris up to her death in 1989, at age 91.

* * *

      Morrison concludes that it is “obvious” that Lina was a “tragic victim of Serge’s genius and the self-delusion that he shared with his nation” (p.291). The words “tragic victim” seem slightly off the mark as applied to Lina’s difficult and disappointing marriage, the first half of this two-part story. After being starstruck and thinking that she could advance her career through the musical giant Serge Prokofiev, Lina found herself bound to a man who proved entirely unfit for marital conventions.  But she was hardly the first woman to discover that she had made a bad marriage choice.  By contrast, “tragic victim” seems an entirely apt description of Lina during the second half of her story, after she followed Prokofiev to his homeland and consequently found herself trapped inside the totalitarian nightmare that was the Soviet Union under Stalin and his successors.

.
Thomas H. Peebles
Paris, France
January 30, 2016

3 Comments

Filed under History, Soviet Union

Nobel Crime

Dr

BorisP

Peter Finn and Petra Couvée, The Zhivago Affair:

The Kremlin, the CIA, and the Battle Over a Forbidden Book  

       Boris Pasternak, although one of Russia’s greatest 20th century poets, is best known for his only novel, Doctor Zhivago, initially published in Italian in 1957. One year later, after becoming an international best seller which was banned in the Soviet Union, Doctor Zhivago was nominated for the Nobel Prize for literature. Under pressure from Soviet authorities, Pasternak renounced the prize, “triggering one of the great cultural storms of the Cold War” (p.13), Peter Finn and Petra Couvée write in The Zhivago Affair: The Kremlin, the CIA, and the Battle Over a Forbidden Book. Finn is national security editor for the Washington Post. Couvée is an affiliated researcher at Leiden University in the Netherlands who also teaches at Saint Petersburg University in Russia.

        In a work that reads at times like a novel itself, Finn and Couvée address the Cold War machinations surrounding the publication of Doctor Zhivago.  The authors notably lay out for the first time the role which the CIA played in the novel’s publication. Rumors implicating the CIA existed almost from the time Doctor Zhivago first appeared, although many surmised that the agency had been only marginally involved. To the contrary, the authors demonstrate, the CIA was “in fact deeply involved” (p.17) in the publication of Pasternak’s novel. But its involvement is less central to the authors’ story than its prominent place in their sub-tittle indicates.

       Finn and Couvée create a vivid if bleak picture of the literary environment in post-World War II Soviet Union and they delve deeply into Pasternak, his enigmatic character and his tumultuous personal life. During the period in which he was writing Doctor Zhivago, Pasternak split his time between his wife Zinaida and his mistress Olga Ivinskya. Ivinskya became Pasternak’s literary alter ego and was imprisoned twice by Soviet authorities as a result of her association with Pasternak, the second time after Pasternak’s death in 1960.

       The other lead character in the drama is Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, an Italian Communist yet a man of means from a leading Milan industrial family. Feltrinelli arranged for the final manuscript of Pasternak’s novel to be smuggled out of the USSR in a suitcase in 1956 and published in Milan in 1957. Although Feltrinelli and Pasternak never met, they forged what the authors term “one of the greatest partnerships in the history of publishing.” Their secret correspondence, carried in and out of the Soviet Union by appointed messengers, serves today as a “manifesto on artistic freedom” (p.13).

* * *

       The authors describe Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago as “[b]oth epic and autobiographical” (p.10), recounting the life, loves and losses of a fictional  Russian physician Yuri Zhivago during the turmoil and chaos which the 1917 Russian Revolution wrought (“zhivago” means “the living” in Russian). Serving in a field hospital during World War I, the married Zhivago met and fell in love with nurse Lara Antipova. The two witnessed first hand the atrocities of the Russian Civil War that followed the revolution, committed both by the Bolsheviks and the anti-Bolshevik forces known as the White Russians. With the consolidation of Bolshevik power, Yuri and Lara parted, never to see one another again. When Zhivago returned to Moscow after the revolution, he found a city “wracked by chaos,” with his familiar world of art, leisure and intellectual contemplation “erased” (p.11).

        The power of Pasternak’s novel, the authors contend, lies in in its “individual spirit, Pasternak’s wish to find some communion with the earth, some truth in life, some love. Like Dostoevsky, he wanted to settle with the past and express this period of Russia’s history through ‘fidelity to poetic truth’” (p.16). Zhivago, they write, was like Pasternak himself, “from a lost past” of the Moscow intelligentsia, a “world to be disdained” (p.10) in the new Soviet order. Millions who never read the novel became familiar with the story from the 1965 David Lean film, in which Omar Sharif played Zhivago and Julie Christie was Lara.

        Pasternak disavowed any anti-Bolshevik agenda in his book but, with pages of disdain for the “deadening and merciless” Bolshevik ideology (p. 16), it is difficult to read Doctor Zhivago as anything but a harsh indictment of the revolutionary changes that the Bolsheviks sought to effectuate throughout Russian society. Doctor Zhivago appeared after Soviet leader Joseph Stalin died in 1953, a time when the Soviet Union sought to distance itself from the harshest manifestations of Stalinist rule and defuse tensions with the West, while staying loyal to core Bolshevik principles. Yet Stalin’s ghost most assuredly haunted Communist Party General Secretary Nikita Khrushchev and the Kremlin authorities under him as they tried to figure out how to handle the potentially subversive novel.

 

* * *

       Pasternak was born in 1895, and was thus 22 years old when the Russian Revolution broke out in 1917, 62 when Doctor Zhivago was first published in 1957. His father was a renowned artist and illustrator whose father, Pasternak’s grandfather, was a Jewish innkeeper in the Black Sea town of Odessa. Pasternak’s mother was an accomplished musician. The authors describe the Pasternaks at the time of the Revolution as a “prominent family within Moscow’s intelligentsia, who looked to the West, and were disposed to support the political reform of an autocratic, sclerotic system” (p.22).

       In the land of Dostoevsky, Turgenev and Tolstoy, writers in pre-revolutionary Russia enjoyed revered status. The post-World War II Soviet Union was still a society where novels, poems and plays were not only “hugely significant forms of communication and entertainment” but also the “subjects of fierce ideological disputes” (p.14). Because of his accomplishments as a poet, Pasternak was entitled to live in Peredelkino, an exclusive “writer’s colony” outside Moscow, with perks unimaginable for average Soviet citizens.  Within the Soviet literary establishment, however, recognition of Pasternak’s talent was tempered by “doubts about his political commitment, and for long periods original work by the poet was not published” (p.5). In 1946, Pasternak was removed from the Board of Union of Soviet Writers, which considered Pasternak “lacking in ideology and remote from Soviet reality” (p.56). By 1949, when at work at Dr. Zhivago, Pasternak had been “banished to the edges of literary life in Moscow” (p.66). Throughout the post-war period, he earned a living as a translator of foreign literature, becoming one of the premier Russian interpreters of Shakespeare’s’ plays and Goethe’s Faust.

       Pasternak wrote Dr. Zhivago in fits and starts after the termination of World War II hostilities. As was customary in Russia, Pasternak shared early drafts of Dr. Zhivago with fellow writers. While working on these drafts, Pasternak met Olga Ivinskaya, 20 years his junior, twice married – her first husband committed suicide, her second died during the war — and an editor of the literary magazine Novy Mir, then the official organ of the powerful Union of Soviet Writers. “Pretty, voluptuous and sexually self-confident despite the prudish mores of Soviet society” (p.62), Ivinskya was commonly thought to be the model for Lara Antipova in Pasternak’s novel. Although Pasternak never left his wife Zinaida, his extramarital relationship with Ivinskaya lasted up to his death in 1960.

       Within the Russian literary world, Ivinskya’s affair with Pasternak set off “chattering about the deliciously scandalous liaison” (p.65). But the affair also attracted the attention of Soviet authorities who, on Stalin’s orders, had begun to crackdown on ideologically suspect writers. As a means of building a case against Pasternak, authorities interrogated Ivinskaya. Suspected of spying for Western powers and planning to escape the USSR, Ivinskaya was charged with having “close contact with persons suspected of espionage” (p.73) and, in July 1950, sentenced to five months imprisonment. She was released shortly after Stalin’s death in 1953.

       Although Pasternak had submitted his work to local publishers, he realized that Dr. Zhivago could not be published in the Soviet Union because it failed to conform to what he termed the Soviet Union’s “official cultural guidelines” (p.7). Pasternak knew also that he assumed a huge risk if he sought to have his novel published outside the Soviet Union. Hovering over all Soviet writers was the fate of Boris Polnyak, who was shot on Stalin’s orders in 1937 after being accused of seeking foreign publication for a novel. But Pasternak was willing to assume this risk. He was determined that his “final happiness and madness” (p.10), as he termed Dr. Zhivago, see the light of day.

       In 1956, Feltrinelli, the “unlikely Communist” (p.85), arranged through an emissary for the manuscript to be smuggled out of the Soviet Union. This was the period of Khrushchev’s not-so-secret February 1956 speech to the 20th Congress of the Soviet Union, in which he denounced Stalin’s crimes as a perversion of Bolshevik ideals. The thaw that followed the speech was “short lived; it would die with the Soviet invasion of Hungary” in October 1956 (p.89). But during this brief clearing when Feltrinelli received Doctor Zhivago, “[c]ooperation with Soviet writers and publishers seemed particularly opportune now that reform was gusting through the Kremlin” (p.89). Feltrenelli, who did not read Russian, sent the work to an Italian specialist in Russian literature.   Having read the manuscript in Russian, the specialist concluded that failure to publish the novel would constitute a “crime against culture” (p.89).

       Ivinskaya, already imprisoned because of her association with Pasternak, feared for her own safety if Dr. Zhivago was published abroad. Pasternak’s wife also firmly opposed Pasternak’s foreign publication plans and numerous Western friends urged him not to have the novel published abroad. But Pasternak held firm, signing a secret contract with Feltrinelli’s firm, sent to him by courier. Despite desperate efforts by the Soviet Union to prevent publication, the first edition of Doctor Zhivago, translated into Italian, was printed in Milan on November 15, 1957. A second run of three thousand copies followed five days later. The book was an immediate international best seller, but was officially banned within the Soviet Union.

        The editorial board of the official Soviet literary magazine Novy Mir scolded Pasternak for his “non-acceptance of the socialist revolution. The general tenor of your novel is that the October Revolution, the Civil War and the social transformation involved did not give the people anything but suffering, and destroyed the Russian intelligentsia, either physically or morally” (p.99) — a conclusion which many historians today would characterize as accurate. But one of Pasternak’s biographers noted that the Novy Mir board missed the novel’s “most heretical insinuation: by artistically conflating the Stalinist period with early revolutionary history,” Pasternak implied that the “tyranny of the last twenty-five year was a direct outcome of Bolshevism” (p.100). For Pasternak, Stalinism and the purges were not, as Khrushchev was then contending, a terrible aberration but rather a “natural outgrowth of the system created by Lenin” (p.100).

 

* * *

        Frustrated by its inability to “roll back” communism in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union, the CIA realized that Doctor Zhivago presented an opportunity to embarrass the Soviet government by placing the spotlight on Soviet suppression of a work of great literature in the tradition of Turgenev, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. CIA involvement in the publication of Doctor Zhivago was one of the agency’s first efforts to leverage books as “instruments of political warfare” (p. 264), part of a broader agency effort to fund cultural activities and publications across Europe which would “manifest diversity and difference of view” between Soviet and American approaches (p.118), and thereby slowly undermine Soviet authority.

       President Eisenhower thus authorized a secret operation to publish Doctor Zhivago in Russian, with exclusive CIA control over the novel’s exploitation. Instead of having the State Department or the United States Information Agency trumpet the novel publicly, secrecy was employed, the agency contended, to prevent the “possibility of personal reprisal against Pasternak or his family” (p.116-117). The agency’s director, Allen Dulles, whose role in many far more nefarious plots is the subject of Stephen Kinzer’s book, The Brothers, reviewed here in October 2014, oversaw the operation. In some senses, the authors contend, the CIA was perfect for the Doctor Zhivago operation. Its budget was itself a secret and the agency “believed with genuine fervor that the Cold War was also cultural” (p.118).

       The 1958 Brussels World’s Fair, an event which a large number of Soviet citizens and Eastern European nationals were slated to attend, was the CIA’s target for distribution of the Russian version. The agency decided to use a New York publisher to prepare a Russian-language edition in the United States, but take the proofs to Europe for printing so no American paper stock would be used. If the Europeans printers obtained the copyrights from Feltrinelli “all the better.” If not the CIA decided, “we’ll do it black’’ (p.130). In the first week of September 1958, the Russian language edition of Doctor Zhivago rolled off the printing presses, bound in a blue-linen cover. The title page acknowledged the copyright of Feltrinelli, but botched the translation of his name in the Cyrillic alphabet. The copyright acknowledgment was a last minute addition “after a small number off early copies were printed without any acknowledgement of the Italian publisher”   (p.138). The book was handed out to Soviet and Eastern European visitors to the Brussels World’s Fair at the Vatican Pavilion.

 

* * *

            The Soviet Union’s widely reported hostility to Doctor Zhivago “ensured that a novel that might otherwise have had a small elite readership became an international best seller” and made Pasternak an “almost inevitable choice” for the Swedish Academy’s 1958 Nobel Prize in Literature (p.13-14). Pasternak had previously been under consideration for a Nobel Prize and yearned for the recognition that such an honor would bring.  In the aftermath of the decision to award Pasternak the Nobel prize, however, the Soviet Union “orchestrated a relentless internal campaign to vilify the writer as a traitor” (p.14).  Pasternak was frequently described as a “Judas” who had betrayed his homeland for “thirty pieces of silver” (p.166).   At Khrushchev’s urging, a speech to the Komosol, the youth wing of the Soviet Communist Party, referred to Pasternak as the “mangy sheep” of Soviet society who as a writer had “fouled the spot where he ate and cast filth on those by whose labor he lives and breathes” (p.180).

     Most ominously for Pasternak, Soviet authorities threatened him with expulsion from the Soviet Union. Ivinskya drafted a letter to Khrushchev, which Pasternak signed, pleading not to expel him from the Soviet Union. “I am tied to Russia by birth, by life and by work,” the letter read. “I cannot conceive of my destiny separate from Russia, or outside it” (p.182). In a telegram to Nobel authorities in Sweden, Pasternak renounced the prize, to the great disappointment of his fellow artists, both in the Soviet Union and worldwide, many of whom regarded his renunciation as an act of betrayal. A then- obscure schoolteacher named Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn “writhed with shame” that Pasternak would “demean himself by pleading with the government” (p.201).

       Editorialists around the world weighed in on the “startling virulence of the assault on a solitary writer” (p.186). A French newspaper described the Pasternak affair and its effect upon Soviet global standing as Khrushchev’s “intellectual Budapest” (p.186). American political cartoonist Bill Maudlin won a 1958 Pulitzer prize for his depiction of a scruffy Pasternak in a Soviet prison camp wearing a ball and chain and chopping wood in the snow with a fellow prisoner. The caption read: “I won the Nobel Prize for Literature. What was your crime?” (p.186).

Maudlin

* * *

       Amidst the worldwide controversy, the ever-enigmatic Pasternak died of lung cancer in May 1960. The Soviet Union did not report Pasternak’s death, although it was front-page news around the world. But the Pasternak controversy continued after his death, with Ivinskaya again paying a heavy price for her association with Pasternak. She was arrested for the second time, accused of being Pasternak’s link with Western publishers in dealing in hard currency for Doctor Zhivago. In the West, prosecution of Ivinskaya was seen as a “continuation of the Nobel campaign against Pasternak” (p.251). Ivinskaya was not released until 1964.  Feltrinelli drifted out of publishing and into the Italian anarchist left of the late 1960s and early 1970s. He was killed in 1972, when a bomb he and co-conspirators planned to use to cut off electrical power in a Milan suburb went off prematurely.

       Khrushchev, for his part, was driven from office in 1964. In forced retirement, he had time, finally, to read Doctor Zhivago. The former Communist Party General Secretary concluded that he should not have banned the novel. “I should have read it myself. There’s nothing anti-Soviet in it” (p.256), he reportedly told his son.   Khrushchev made the point explicitly in his own secret memoirs, dictated when he was a “virtual prisoner in his own home” (p.265). In an “irony that would surely have brought a small smile to Pasternak’s face,” Khrushchev allowed the tapes containing his memoirs to be “spirited out of the Soviet Union and published in the West’ (p.265).

 

 * * *

 

        The idea that a novel could change people’s minds and make a difference in the Cold War confrontations between the Soviet Union and their Western adversaries seems today quixotic, “almost quaint” (p.263), as the authors put it. Yet that was the idea that motivated the CIA to put its resources, human and financial, behind its efforts to shine a spotlight on Doctor Zhivago.  Uncovering the full extent of the agency’s disguised role in the dissemination of Pasternak’s novel constitutes a scoop for Finn and Couvée.  But that role is a secondary theme in their book,  overshadowed by  the authors’ detailed and engrossing depictions of Pasternak himself and the post-Stalin 1950s Soviet literary world in which he operated, and by their always-timely account of the world-wide debate over intellectual and artistic freedom which the publication of Dr. Zhivago precipitated.

 

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

September 12, 2015

4 Comments

Filed under American Politics, European History, Intellectual History, Literature, Politics, Soviet Union, United States History

Never At Home

LHO

Peter Savodnik, The Interloper:
Lee Harvey Oswald Inside the Soviet Union

            More than fifty years after Lee Harvey Oswald killed President John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, on November 22, 1963, writers are still trying to make sense out of an assassination which has proven also to be something of a national obsession. In The Interloper: Lee Harvey Oswald Inside the Soviet Union, Peter Savodnik seeks to deepen our understanding of Oswald himself through an exploration of his time in the Soviet Union, where he lived from 1959 to 1962, primarily in the provincial Belarusian city of Minsk at the height of the Cold War. Savodnik’s book is unlikely to have much appeal to conspiracy theorists. Savodnik posits early in the book that Oswald acted alone in killing the president, and that the “lone gun” theory is the only plausible account of the assassination. The question we should be asking, Savodnik contends, is not who killed President Kennedy, but why did Oswald kill him.

            In many senses, Oswald fit the all-too-familiar pattern of the American assassin, a lonely, disturbed, undistinguished young man whose notorious act – at least for those who accept the lone gunman theory – seems nearly senseless. But Oswald’s time in the Soviet Union during the Cold War sets him apart from other American assassins. Exploration of Oswald’s experiences in a country that was the “arch enemy of his own” (p.27) thus adds a dimension to Oswald’s life which, Savodnik indicates, has not previously been examined in depth.

           As the word “interloper” in his title indicates, Savodnik’s overriding theme is that Oswald was never at home anywhere. He was always an outsider, an interloper. His failure to settle anywhere made him more aware of his status as an outsider or interloper. “And with this awareness came anger building to a fury” (p.xv). Oswald actually spent more time in Minsk than any other location in his short life and, Savodnik stresses, he came closest in Minsk to shedding his interloper status and achieving a “sense of place” (p.xiv). Savodnik finds a very American quality to Oswald’s rootlessness. Oswald’s “fury, naïveté, narcissism, and even indifference to whatever place he had parachuted into” for Savodnik reflects an “uncontainable rage that felt and sounded American,” expressing a “classically American individuality, a desire to be free of external forces and to achieve a wholly separate self that had not been shaped by other people, clans, or institutions” (p.210).

         Savodnik’s book is arranged in three general sections, “Before Minsk,” “Minsk,” and “After Minsk” addressing, respectively the first twenty years of Oswald’s life; the 32 months in Minsk, from October 1959 to June 1962; and Oswald’s final 17 months back in the United States after leaving Minsk and the Soviet Union, from June 1962 to November 1963. Oswald’s tortured relationship to the United States is a constant theme throughout the three sections. A final section, “Epilogue: A Conjecture,” seeks to use Oswald and Kennedy’s intertwined lives to explain the United States in the early 1960s.

* * *

          Born in 1939 in New Orleans, Oswald had a tumultuous youth and was adrift from his earliest days. His father, a descendant of Confederate Civil War General Robert E. Lee (the reason for Oswald’s first name) was an insurance premium collector who died of a heart attack in August 1939, two months before his son was born. His father’s death and absence from Oswald’s life “might be regarded as the defining trauma of Oswald’s entire life, setting in motion a youth of chaos and frenzy” (p.3), Savodnik argues. He describes Oswald’s mother Marguerite as “perennially unstable” (p.xiv), “unreliable, frantic, harried, hectoring, needy, and prone to irrational outbursts” (p.4), hardly capable of playing the role of one parent, let alone two. Marguerite and her two sons, Lee and older brother Robert, moved from New Orleans to Dallas to Fort Worth to New York City, then back to New Orleans. In a previous marriage, Marguerite had another son, John Pic, Oswald’s half brother, with whom he had intermittent contact. Marguerite’s “inability to provide any semblance of stability and normalcy for her youngest son” is “clearly reflected in Lee’s constant moving” (p.4). Oswald attended 12 different schools and by one count had resided in 17 different locations before dropping out of high school at age 16. Oswald’s peripatetic and essentially homeless youth “cannot be stressed enough,” Savodnik contends, in understanding the “unstable man Lee Harvey Oswald was to become” (p.4).

       Savodnik asks his readers to view Oswald’s embrace of Marxism through the lens of Oswald’s childhood and adolescence. There was “little, if anything, in Lee’s childhood that suggested he might one day embrace radical politics” (p.9), Savodnik notes. But by the time Oswald reached early adolescence, there was an “obvious emptiness in his life, a desire for something real and deeply felt to compensate for the home that was sorely missing” (p.9). At age 15, Oswald began to teach himself about Marxist theory. By then, the “gulf separating Oswald from his mother was probably unbridgeable, he had very little extended family to speak of, and he had no friends or place that he thought of as home” (p.9). Marxism offered the young Oswald “discipline and purpose” and was “shot through with a vocabulary and mood that comported with Lee’s mounting rage” (p.9). But here, and throughout his life, what Oswald believed to be strongly-held ideological convictions were nothing more than what Savodnik characterizes as “very personal feelings – about his home, his family, his sense of rootlessness – that had hardened into political viewpoints but, at root, had nothing to do with anything explicitly political” (p.171).

       After dropping out of high school, Oswald joined the Marines at age 17 in October 1956. He spent nearly three years in the Marines, but left on a hardship discharge at age 20, claiming that his mother needed care. In October 1959, almost immediately after leaving the Marines, Oswald traveled to Moscow on an overnight train from Finland, where he arrived with a one week visa. In his short time in Moscow, he applied for Soviet citizenship. The request was denied and Oswald was told that he had to leave the Soviet Union immediately. There then followed an ostensible suicide attempt. Oswald stayed in Moscow under psychiatric care, until the end of October 1959, when he went to the United States Embassy in Moscow in a failed attempt to renounce his citizenship.

       Hinting to Soviet authorities that he might have valuable information to pass along based upon his time in the Marines, the Soviets allowed Oswald to stay in the country. The KGB, suspicious that he might be an American “sleeper agent” (p.83), found Oswald “difficult and irascible and, at times, histrionic, self-pitying, and reckless. He could hardly have been counted on to do or finish anything” (p.33). He was sent to Minsk, a city that was “proudly Soviet and conservative” (p.119) and an unusual destination for defecting Americans – most at that time were sent to Ukraine.

* * *

        Although the city of Minsk had existed since the 11th century, Old Minsk had been largely flattened by the Nazis. Even prior to the Nazi invasion, the population of Minsk had been depleted by Stalinist collectivism, mass deportations and the purges of the 1930s, destroying “most everyone who might have helped cultivate a national identity separate from the Soviet super state” (p.72). Consequently, New Minsk was a “model communist city . . . broad, orderly and boring . . . an unequivocal statement of the totalitarian impulse” (p.70). It lacked “its own commercial practices, its own mores and rituals” as well as any deep traditions of “artistic and intellectual inheritance” (p.73). Nothing in Minsk connected its citizens, termed Menchani, with previous generations. Rather, the Menchani were “above all Soviet. They may also have been Belorussian, Polish, or Russian, but their primary identity was their ideology” (p.72). They were thus quite unlike residents of the Baltic states or Ukraine, who had “retained a national heritage and were in a permanent state of semi-war with the Soviet regime” (p.72).

        In Minsk in the early 1960s, World War II continued to be the overriding force that shaped the mindset of all adults. The experience of the war had been “so intense, so acrid, bitter, and all-consuming, that it had changed everyone permanently. It was hard to understand people who had not been changed in the same way” (p.81). Not having lived through that war experience, “Oswald could never really grasp the shape and scope of the lives of everyone he spent most of his time with – and it meant that they had a very difficult time making sense of Oswald” (p.76).

        Under Stalin, who had died six years earlier, in 1953, “any right-thinking Soviet citizen would have avoided Oswald, an American, for fear of being branded a traitor or counterrevolutionary” (p.54). But by the time Oswald arrived in Minsk in 1959, Communist Party First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev had not only denounced Stalinist crimes but was also seeking to loosen controls over artistic endeavors and lessen tensions with the West. Average Menchani in 1959 “weren’t sure whether they should stay away or give in to their curiosity” and talk to Oswald (p.54). Those whom Oswald met were “mostly courteous and temperate. They listened to whatever he had to say. They were pleasant, if at times a little brusque” (p.55).

        Thanks to considerable assistance from the KGB, Oswald had a relatively easy life in Minsk, with a comparatively spacious apartment and a prestigious job for the time, as a lathe operator in a factory that manufactured radios and televisions. He found a few friends in Minsk, but most of his co-workers resented his relative privilege. Oswald was too clean, had no real grime under his fingernails, and didn’t like to drink Vodka. Moreover, notwithstanding the loosening of norms in the Khrushchev era, his follow workers were driven by the unspoken fear that “being too close, or perceived as too close to the American would make other people, and especially the security organs, question one’s loyalty” (p.91). Yet, for a fleeting moment in Minsk, Oswald “looked as if he was ready, at long last, to leave behind his adolescence and his many angers and frustrations” (p.106).

        Oswald developed a deep crush on a woman who turned down his marriage proposal, Ella German, whom he described as a “silky, black haired Jewish beauty” (p.101). Savodnik suggests that Oswald’s decision to leave the Soviet Union and the start of his precipitous final descent that ended in Dallas in November 1963 may be linked to German’s rejection of his marriage offer. A few months thereafter, Oswald married Marina Prusakova after a strikingly short courtship. Oswald’s marriage to Mariana may have been intended to spite German, Savodnik surmises. Marina’s background bore some similarity to that of Oswald: she had never known her father and had moved around constantly as a youth. Marina bore Oswald a child in the Soviet Union, June, born in February 1962; and another, Rachel, born in October 1963 when the couple returned to the United States.

       Despite good living and working conditions in Minsk by the standards of the era, Oswald gradually discovered, with “unhappiness, dejection and fear” that he was “not a Menchan and never would be” (p.80). Oswald’s experience in Minsk was one of “gradually coming to the conclusion that he was all alone. . . [and] that the Soviet Union was not the home he had hoped it would be” (p.74). Nearly three years after his arrival in Russia, Oswald was “not only angry but also self-pitying, lost, spent, humiliated. In Russia . . . he’d been told, obliquely, that he was not really a worker, a Menchan, that he would never be admitted to the proletarian family that he had disparately craved. His ideology had been sapped . . . and, finally, he’d come to the awful conclusion that there was nothing else to do, so he left” (p.186).

* * *

       In late June 1962, Oswald found himself back in the United States with Marina and their baby daughter. Oswald’s 17 months in the United States after Minsk were “more chaotic, frenzied, hapless, and desperate than any other time he had known,” a period of “continuous unraveling” (p.194). “Unhappiness, fury, a permanent and deepening sense of alienation” were Oswald’s’ “new default position” as he confronted a life of “inescapable rootlessness” (p.189). He and Marina relocated to the Dallas area, but separated shortly after arrival there, with Marina moving in with an acquaintance she had met. During his 17 months back in the United States, Oswald lived at nine different addresses for an average of two months each, plus some shorter stays and trips. He was “unable, as always, to build a life anywhere—to hold onto a job, pay his rent or bills, make friends, or tend to the chores and duties of daily life” (p.190).

        During this time, Oswald began to cobble together a small arsenal. In April 1963, Oswald attempted to assassinate Major General Edwin Walker, a leading right-wing figure. This attempt had plain ideological overtones: Oswald compared it to killing Hitler. The Walker assassination attempt, Savodnik notes, marked the first time since his suicide attempt in Moscow that Oswald had “sought to resolve his mounting furies with a powerful and culminating violence” (p.196). Oswald took up the issue of Cuba, becoming active in an organization known as Fair Play for Cuba. Oswald then landed a job at the Dallas School Book Depository, from which the fatal shots were fired on November 22, 1963. Ironically, Savodnik notes that Oswald’s position at the School Book Depository provided a modicum of stability to his tormented life. Savodnik considers the assassination a form of suicide, “anticipated many years before by an awful childhood that could not be corrected for by school or social workers and could not be overcome in the Marines or the Soviet Union” (p.217).

* * *

       In  “Epilogue: A Conjecture,” Savodnik tries to provide his readers with a sense of what the entwined lives of Oswald and President Kennedy tell us about the United States in the early 1960s. Although he acknowledges at one point that there was an “intense hatred” directed at the President from different directions (p.218), for the most part Savodnik’s description of Kennedy and his administration is so rosy as to be almost unrecognizable. For most Americans in the early 1960s, Savodnik argues, Kennedy “seemed to hover between man and god—to be half man, half deity, and a conduit connecting [Americans] with something eternal and deep. Americans had rarely, if ever, experienced this feeling with their presidents” (p.213). During the short Kennedy administration, a “Rubicon of sorts seemed to have been crossed. Suddenly the affection or sympathy that many Americans had at one time or another felt for a president morphed into a kind of love. . . it was Kennedy, more than any of the thirty four who preceded him, who crossed into the magical realm” (p.213). Kennedy had “captured – he was – the national zeitgeist. The country was confident, bold, unwavering; it knew exactly what it was, and that certainty was central not only to America but to Kennedy’s persona (p.201). In killing Kennedy, Oswald “elevated him—he mythologized a president who was already a myth, and not just him but his title, the presidency” (p.218). This strikes me as over-the-top hyperbole, taking too seriously the Camelot myth that arose after Kennedy’s death and adding little to Savodnik’s narrative.

* * *

         Savodnik admits that Oswald’s “psychology and the interior forces that preyed on him remain a secret” (p.219). But through his treatment of Oswald’s Soviet years and his emphasis on Oswald’s continuous moving and searching, Savodnik succeeds at least partially in explaining what made Oswald tick. Savodnik’s portrait of Minsk during the Khrushchev years, moreover, makes his book worthwhile even for those readers not particularly interested in peering into Lee Harvey Oswald’s tormented mind.

Thomas H. Peebles
Herndon, Virginia
June 15, 2015

2 Comments

Filed under American Politics, American Society, History, Soviet Union, Uncategorized, United States History

Lenin’s Century

Pictures.tismaneanu

Vladmir Tismaneanu, The Devil in History:
Communism, Fascism and Some Lessons of the Twentieth Century 

             The sub-title of this book should be a tip off that Valdimir Tismaneanu is wrestling with arguably the most critical question in 20th century European history: how did so much of the continent, where the Enlightenment two centuries previously had provided the blueprint for democratic governance based on religious tolerance and respect for individual rights, stray so far from the Enlightenment’s ideals? In The Devil in History: Communism, Fascism and Some Lessons of the Twentieth Century, Tismaneanu locates the answer in 20th century communism, from its inception quite simply a “criminal system” (p.69), he writes. Tismaneanu’s searing critique hones in on the impact of Bolshevik and Leninist thinking throughout the 20th century, and describes the rethinking that went on in Eastern Europe after the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, when most of the countries of the former Communist bloc committed themselves to democratic governance.

            A professor of political theory at the University of Maryland and Director of the University’s Center for the Study of Post-Communist Societies, Tismaneanu is a native of Romania brought up under the odious regime of Nicolae Ceaușecu, and thus knows more than a thing or two about how totalitarian governments operate. Tismaneanu indicates in his Forward that he was born after World War II to “revolutionary parents who had embraced anti-Fascist Communist values” (p.ix). His father fought with the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s, losing an arm, while his mother served as a nurse in that conflict. At age 14, Tismaneanu started to think about the implications of communism after a chance reading of a clandestine copy of Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon.

            The book’s cover contains an ingenious photo of Stalin and Hitler staring at one another. If you’re talking about the devil in history, you’ve got to start with these two guys, right? Actually, an argument could be made that neither should be on the cover. Despite its sub-title, the book is only secondarily about Fascism and Nazism, emphasizing primarily how, despite ideological differences, they were influenced by the communist model. Moreover, it would have made way more sense to put Vladimir Lenin on the cover rather than Stalin. Stalin in Tismaneanu’s analysis was a ruthless implementer who “carried to an extreme Lenin’s intolerant logic” (p.230). But Lenin was the devil in 20th century European history – “the twentieth century was Lenin’s century” (p.90).

* * *

            Tismaneanu describes Leninism (or Bolshevism; Tismaneanu uses these terms inter-changeably) as a “self-styled synthesis between Marxian revolutionary doctrine and Russian tradition of nihilistic repudiation of the status quo” (p.90). If there had been no Lenin, he goes on to contend, “there would have been no totalitarianism – at least not in its Stalinist version. The October 1917 Bolshevik putsch . . . was “the event that irreversibly changed the course of Western civilization and world history” (p.92). Thanks to Lenin, a “new type of politics emerged in the twentieth century, one based on elitism, fanaticism, [and] unflinching commitment to the sacred cause” (p.90). Leninism was “inherently inimical to political liberties. It is not an accidental deviation from the democratic project but its logical, direct and unequivocal antithesis” (p.120).

            Leninism was rooted in Enlightenment, with its focus on reason and progress. Leninists “knew how to pose as the heir to the Enlightenment, and many were duped by this rationalistic and humanistic pretense” (p.46). But Leninism was equally rooted in Marx’s theories of transformation and the Russian anarchistic revolutionary tradition, with its “utilitarian nihilism and a quasi-religious socialist vision of the transformation of mankind” (p.112), a tradition which Steven Marks described in How Russia Shaped the Modern World: From Art to Anti-Semitism, Ballet to Bolshevism, reviewed here in December. Lenin took Marx’s broad theories and emphasized the “organizational element as fundamental to the success of revolutionary action” (p.97). Leninism was precisely the type of utopianism which Isaiah Berlin abhorred, sanctifying “ultimate ends, and thus the creation of an amoral universe in which the most terrible crimes could be justified in the name of a radiant future” (p.70). More than a revolutionary response to the inequities of the Tsarist state and the injustices of capitalism, Leninism was an “experiment in ideologically driven, unbounded social engineering” (p.30). Never was a political doctrine “so ambitious, never a revolutionary project so much imbued with a sense of prophetic mission and charismatically heroic predestination” than Leninism (p.90), Tismaneanu concludes.

            Lenin’s diabolical influence extended to both Hitler and Mussolini. In times of moral and cultural disarray, Tismaneanu argues, Communism and Fascism can “merge into a baroque synthesis. Communism is not Fascism, and Fascism is not Communism. Each totalitarian experiment had had its own irreducible attributes, but they shared a number of phobias, obsessions, and resentments that could generate toxic alliances, like the Nazi-Soviet Pact of 1939” (p.x). The party played a different role under the two regimes. Under Communism the party leader incarnated the wisdom of the party, whereas under Fascism and Nazism the party was entirely secondary to the leader as the charismatic center of power. Fascism and Nazism also lacked the recurring party purges and show trials of the ruling elite as a “mechanism of mobilization, integration, and scapegoating” that characterized Communist regimes (p.53). Nonetheless, the ideologies of Communism and Fascism held in common a “belief in the plasticity of human nature and the possibility of transforming it in accordance with a utopian blueprint” (p.162). Both “identified with the revolution as an irreversible moment breaking with the past and creating a totally new world” (p.118). The two movements were alike in being “essentially and unflinchingly opposed to democratic values, institutions and practices” (p.21) – the “antithesis of the Western humanist legacy” (p.62).

            By the end of Khrushchev’s rule in the fall of 1964, both in the USSR and Eastern Europe, it was clear that reform within party-defined boundaries had “ceased to be a viable option”( p.136). Tismaneanu sees 1968 as a pivotal year, during which Eastern Europe saw an “explosion of post-revolutionary skepticism,” setting in motion forces that led to the “gradual decomposition of the Communist regimes” (p.142). Futile attempts to find ways of reforming Communism from within were replaced by an emphasis upon human dignity and the inviolability of human rights. The soul of Communism died in Prague in August 1968, Tismaneanu concludes. From that year onward, Communism in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe was a spent force, with stagnation and immobility becoming its main characteristics.

          If the Communist soul died in 1968, its emaciated body survived until 1989. The changes which Europe underwent that year start with Mikhail Gorbachev. Tismaneanu regards Gorbachev as a “genuine Marxist revisionist, who, while paying lip service to Lenin’s iconic figure, moved away from Bolshevism as a political culture based on fanaticism, sectarianism, and volunteerism toward a self-styled version of Marxist revisionism” (p.145-46). Gorbachev tried to offer “antidotes to the rampant pathologies of cynicism, corruption and cronyism,” but was “utterly confused as to how to bring about political pluralism while sustaining state socialism” (p.153). Gorbachev’s version of Marxist revisionism was directly inspired by Eduard Bernstein’s evolutionary socialism, but he was “unable to fully abandon the outworked Leninist model, desperately searching for ‘socialism with a human face,’ torn between nostalgia for old ideals and the tragic awareness of their hollowness” (p.153). Neither a neo-Menshevik nor a Western-style Social Democrat, Gorbachev remains the “last and most influential of those East European Leninist leaders who tried to humanize an inherently inhuman system” (p.153).

            Twenty-five years after the changes of 1989-91, pluralism seems to have settled solidly throughout the former Eastern European Communist bloc, Tismaneanu argues, with democratic practices widely recognized, accepted and practiced. The revolutions of 1989-91 dealt a mortal blow to the “ideological pretense according to which human life can be structured in accordance with scientific designs proposed by a general staff of revolutionary doctrinaires” (p.171). Tismaneanu emphasizes the centrality of civil society to the success of the 1989 transformation, replacing the existing political, social, and economic system with one “founded on the ideals of democratic citizenship and human rights” (p.223). The core value restored, cherished and promoted by the revolutions of 1989 was “common sense. The revolutionaries believed in civility, decency, and humanity, and they succeeded in rehabilitating these values” (p.223). In so doing, they also managed to bring about the “rebirth of citizenship, a category abolished by both Communism and Fascism,” which also involved “re-empowering the truth” (p.221). What we have learned from 1989, Tismaneanu concludes, represents an “unquestionable argument in favor of the values that we consider essential and exemplary for democracy today” (p.221).

             Still, Tismaneanu cautions, a “residual Bolshevism” (p.114) lingers in the formerly Communist world, certainly in Russia and many of the states of the former Soviet Union. In Russia, Vladimir Putin has instituted a regime euphemistically termed “managed democracy,” an “increasingly aggressive version of neo-Stalinist and neo-imperialist restoration” (p.218). But even in Eastern Europe, the “utopian reservoir of humanity has not been completely exhausted: refurbished ideologies have resurfaced, among them populism, chauvinism, and fundamentalism of different shades” (p.164-65). Communism’s demise has given rise to “disenchantment, dispirited political cultures, the rise of new collectivisms, marginalization of former heroes, and the return of former Communists” (p.194). In brief, the “battle for the soul of man after Communism has not ended” (p.205).

* * *

            As perceptive as Tismaneanu’s insights are, as critical as his subject matter is, a few caveats are in order before you rush out and plunk down something like $20 for the paperback edition of his book. Tismaneanu’s prose is often dense, bordering on turgid. It is riddled with sentences such as: “The disintegration of the Stalinist gnosis as a key self-sufficient system of authoritarian norms and quasi-mystical precepts impelled revisionist intellectuals toward the construction of what Kolakowski called an agnostic Marxism, actually a quixotic attempt to salvage the humanistic kernel of the doctrine lest the whole Marxist utopia fall apart” (p.177); and “The theoretical manifestations of these undercurrents provided a new semantic horizon, the coalescence of a new emotional and intellectual infrastructure that was translated into a resurgence of repressed philosophical topics, above all humanism as a privileged metaphysical concern” (p.134).

           To be sure, the nuances of Marxist thinking and applications of Communist theories do not always lend themselves to crackling prose. Further, English is not Tismaneanu’s native language, and he has my full admiration for establishing a distinguished career and earning numerous academic distinctions in an acquired rather than native language. This is by itself a remarkable achievement. But some writers achieve genuine fluency and elegance writing in an acquired language. Valdimir Zubok, whose book Zhivago’s Children I reviewed here in November 2012, is one example. Tismaneanu is not there yet (incidentally, Tismaneanu frequently cites Zubok’s work).

            Further, Tismaneanu over-relies on quotations from other works. For example, the following string of quotations is contained entirely on a single page, page 103:

. . .as A.E. Rees showed. . .To paraphrase Eugen Weber. . .as the Catholic intellectual Adolf Keller wrote. . . as sociologist Michael Mann underlines. . . As Lesek Kolakowski puts it. . .. Paul Berman explains . . .

           There is of course nothing wrong with one author occasionally quoting another’s work – it is way better than using another’s words without quoting the other writer. The over-reliance on quotations is a common characteristic of too many college term papers and university dissertations. An author writing for general readers should be providing primarily his or her own thoughts, not those of other writers.

* * *

            Born and raised in a particularly virulent form of Communism in Romania, Vladimir Tismaneanu has a wealth of insight to offer readers on the implications of that and other repressive systems of government. But this book, while treating an enticing and still-critical subject, is unlikely to gain the affection of most general readers.

Thomas H. Peebles
Cotonou, Benin (West Africa)
February 21, 2015

Leave a comment

Filed under Eastern Europe, European History, Intellectual History, Political Theory, Politics, Soviet Union, Uncategorized

Closing the Sussex Gate

caute

David Caute, Isaac & Isaiah:
The Covert Punishment of a Cold War Heretic 

            In “Issac & Isaiah: The Covert Punishment of a Cold War Heretic,” David Caute seizes upon a seemingly banal episode in university hiring in the 1960s to take his readers on an intellectual tour of post-World War II Britain at the height of the Cold War, roughly from 1945 to 1970, a time when “scarcely any branch of thought and learning . . . remained unaffected by the schism between the ‘Free World’ and the Soviet sphere of influence” (p.37). Caute shows his readers debates and differences within elite British intellectual, academic and political circles over such matters as the Soviet Union and communism, the Anglo-American alliance, Judaism, Zionism, and Israel. The catalyst for this tour was the refusal of Sir Isaiah Berlin, one of the 20th century’s greatest philosophers – or, as he began calling himself in the latter portion of his career, an historian of ideas — to endorse Isaac Deutscher for a position at Sussex University, where Berlin served as an external advisor to the university’s academic board. Berlin’s refusal to endorse Deutscher, a self-proclaimed Marxist and highly respected journalist and author – albeit one without academic degrees — does not appear to have been based on the quality of Deutscher’s scholarship. Deutscher’s study of Joseph Stalin was widely acclaimed, even by stringent academic standards. Nor was it based on Deutscher’s lack of academic credentials.

            However, in 1955, Deutscher reviewed unfavorably one of Berlin’s best known works, Historical Inevitability. Caute concludes that “[w]ithout doubt” this review was the “killer event in Berlin’s attitude to Deutscher” (p.64). Berlin wrote subsequently that he suffered “from profound, perhaps exaggerated antipathy to all his [Deutscher’s] writings – I think him specious, dishonest, and in any case possessed of some quality which causes some kind of nausea in me” (p.152). Berlin’s writings are laced with similarly vitriolic references to Deutscher, which Caute has amassed here, all of which post-date Deutscher’s 1955 review of Berlin’s book. Yet, the two men had little personal inter-action, and there is nothing in the written record to suggest that Deutscher reciprocated Berlin’s personal animus or was even aware of that animus. Rather, Deutscher appears to have regarded Berlin as an “ideological opponent whom he scarcely knew . . . not a figure to be despised and loathed” (p.36). After Deutscher died prematurely in 1967, his wife confronted Berlin, asking why he had refused to endorse her husband’s candidacy at Sussex. Berlin’s obsequiously disingenuous response was little more than “I did no such thing.”

            Caute has a personal stake in the effort to shed light upon Berlin’s animosity to Deutscher. As a graduate student at Oxford University in March 1963, Caute had an exchange with Berlin in the commons room of All Souls College, in which Berlin declared that he could never recommend Deutscher for a university position, or any other, for that matter. Berlin told Caute that Deutscher was the “only man whose presence in the same academic community as myself I should find morally intolerable” (p.4). In that conversation, Berlin contended that Deutscher’s adherence to Marxism was not the issue for him. “To be a Marxist is a legitimate stance for an academic,” Berlin told Caute (p.4), adding that he was an admirer and on friendly terms with E.H. Carr, a Marxist and Russian history specialist. But if not Deutscher’s Marxism, what was Berlin’s problem with Deutscher? The conversation danced around that question, without answering it. A half century later, with both Deutscher and Berlin deceased (Berlin died in 1997), Caute tries to find an answer to the question that eluded him in his conversation with Berlin in the All Souls Commons in 1963, a question that only sounds biblical: why did Isaiah so despise Isaac?

* * *

            Caute’s protagonists, Isaac Deutscher and Isaiah Berlin, were:

of the same generation, both refugees, both British by adoption, both multi-lingual, opinionated Jews, one Latvian-Russian, the other Polish. Both came to exercise influence not only in academic circles but among the wider British and American public. Both can be viewed as missionary spirits in contention to convince or convert the ideologically naïve English and American natives (p.36).

In addition, both lost close relatives to the Holocaust — both parents in Deutscher’s case. Early in their careers, each published a biography of a leading communist figure, Berlin on Marx, Deutscher on Stalin, with Deutscher later writing a widely acclaimed three volume biography of Trotsky.

            Berlin was born in Latvia in 1909. His family left Latvia for St. Petersburg in 1916, then left Russia for Britain with his family in 1920, after the Bolshevik Revolution. Although only 11 years old at the time of his family’s departure from St. Petersburg, the deleterious effect of the Revolution on his family shaped Berlin’s thinking and world view for the remainder of his life. In Britain, Berlin became more than just a revered philosopher and historian of ideas. He was also the quintessential academic establishment figure, well-known in the media and a familiar face in the halls of power, in Whitehall, Westminster, and Washington.

            Caute describes his portrait of Berlin as “somewhat revisionist” (p.xiii) and, true to his words, the Berlin who emerges from these pages is an “impeccably conforming British citizen” (p.39) and far from an endearing figure. “[O]utgoing, gregarious and socially ambitious” (p.15), Berlin plainly enjoyed the company of the rich and well-born. Further, Caute observes, the more one digs into Berlin’s writings, the more one finds a “passionate defense of the status quo, an extended plea that the things we enjoy and value should not be taken from us” (p.15). Berlin seemed to regard active political commitment as the “enemy of clear thinking” (p.40), and left little public record of his views on most of the social and political issues that dominated Britain in the quarter-century after World War II, such as capital punishment, homosexual law reform, rules governing divorce, immigration into the United Kingdom, or rising racial tension.

            Deutscher was a near contemporary of Berlin, born in 1907. He fled his native Poland for Britain in 1939, at the time of the Nazi invasion. Seven years earlier, in 1932, the Polish Communist Party expelled Deutscher after he had published The Danger of a New Barbarism in Europe, which called for a common front between communists and socialists in opposition to Nazism and the Pilsudski dictatorship in Poland. Deutscher’s sin was that, as the party’s indictment read, he had “exaggerated the danger of Nazism and was spreading panic in the communist ranks” (p.21). Deutscher did not enjoy Berlin’s fame or insider access in Britain, but nonetheless became a successful journalist for mainstream and elite media outlets, building a “remarkably respectable” image for an avowed Marxist (p.24).

          Deutscher also became a highly-respected scholar whose work drew praise from those who did not share his Marxist world view. His biography of Stalin was greeted on both sides of the Atlantic as a “deeply researched and compellingly written objective study, the first definitive study of the most powerful man in the world” (p.27). As Caute emphasizes, however, there was a scrappy, polemical side to Deutscher. He enjoyed a good intellectual fight and loved to goad those he considered knee-jerk anti-communists and apologists for capitalism, of which Berlin was surely one. In this capacity, Deutscher was a “speaker of spellbinding power and a debater of great argumentative force” (p.33). But the polemicist Deutscher had a “tendency to overlook what he had written as a historian – or to count on his readers overlooking it” (p.175). Was it Deutscher’s Marxism that rendered him insupportable to Berlin?

* * *

            Caute describes the differences between Marxists and anti-Marxist liberals in post-War Britain as an “intimate family quarrel akin to that of Catholics and Protestants at war over Christ’s heritage” (p.38). Both camps were “children of the European Enlightenment. . . [who] subscribed in the abstract to education, justice, freedom” (p.38). Berlin’s childhood experience with the 1917 Russian Revolution led him to an unabated opposition to the Soviet Union and communist ideology throughout his adult life. He reserved special ire for Lenin, whom he found worse than Stalin – worse than Hitler, Caute argues at one point. For Berlin, Lenin was the “great contaminator, the self-confident doctor of poisonous medicine, who had in effect chased the Berlins from their family home, their roots” (p.74). Thus it was only natural that Berlin would become a leading Cold War warrior in the post-war period, very comfortable with the Anglo-American alliance and its firmest anti-communist stands. Throughout the entirety of the Vietnam War, for example, Berlin supported the United States, while most of his academic peers adopted anti-war positions. Berlin’s “heartbeat belonged to the Anglo-American alliance,” (p.199), Caute writes.

            If Berlin was a consistently anti-communist intellectual, Deutscher remained conflicted by the realities of Russia and the Soviet socialist experiment throughout his professional life. For Deutscher, Lenin was the “builder of the Soviet Republic, the originator of the New Economic Policy, the revolutionary turned into a supreme diplomatist” who embodied the “salvation and consummation” of the Russian revolution (p.83). Slowly, and reluctantly, however, Deutscher recognized that Stalin had committed unspeakable crimes. Yet, in Russia after Stalin, which Deutscher wrote shortly after Stalin’s death, he contended that Stalin nonetheless remained the “guardian and the trustee of the revolution. He consolidated its national gains and extended them . . .[E]ven his opponents, while denouncing his autocracy, admitted that most of his economic reforms were essential for socialism” (p.72). Deutscher “insisted that Stalinism rescued subjugated peoples of Eastern Europe from feudalism, ‘savage poverty and darkness’” (p.161). In a high-powered seminar at Harvard in 1959, Deutscher argued that Western students of Soviet affairs, including his critics, had tended to “overrate the totalitarian aspect of the Soviet system and its capacity to resist popular pressures” (p.190).

            Caute notes that Deutscher made many private concessions, for example that most German workers would prefer American capitalism to East German socialism. But he could never bring himself to state these concessions publicly because, as he once wrote, “disclosure would not serve ‘peace’ or ‘socialism’” (p.163). Even as Deutscher modified his apologetics for Stalin, he remained largely enamored of Lenin – Berlin’s bête noire—Trotsky and, later, Mao Zedong who, he contended, stood for the “inevitability of gradualness” (p.189). Throughout the Cold War, Deutscher was a harsh critic of both Great Britain and the United States, “intransigently” rejecting the “entire Western system and its international policies, [and] dismissing the ‘Free World’ as the cosmetics of an expansionist, colonialist monopoly capitalism” (p.37). Deutscher’s perspective on the Cold War was that “an exhausted and depleted Russia had no intention of expanding or attacking anyone. America, by contrast, emerged from the war unscathed, buoyant and spoiling for a global fight” (p.159). Deutscher “never modified his analysis of the Cold War, repeating the same phrases and arguments across twenty years” (p.162).

            Berlin expanded his hostility to Bolshevism into a theoretical opposition to utopian ideologies of all sorts. Berlin’s professional legacy revolves in no small measure around his abhorrence of systems of thought that purported to spell out how a society should be structured or how individuals can attain a moral life. Individual liberty to do what one wants to do, without harming others, and what he called “value pluralism” were at the heart of Berlin’s political philosophy. He argued that society can be structured in any number of different ways, consistent with respect for individual liberty, and individuals can pursue any number of different paths to a moral life. Berlin warned against the “claims of philosophers, social engineers and revolutionaries who professed to understand men’s objectives needs and aspirations better than they did themselves” (p.110). But, as Caute cheekily points out, few have been “more dogmatic about the perils of dogmatism [than Berlin]. No one has more clearly insisted that historical outcomes are inevitably not inevitable” (p.43).

       It was this insistence that Deutscher pounced on in his 1955 review in the Observer of Berlin’s Historical Inevitability.  Under the title “Determinists All,” Deutscher noted much dogmatism in Berlin’s attack on dogmatism and termed his work a “tirade” (p.64). Berlin “protests on almost every page against the generalizations and abstractions of others, but he himself sins in this respect to quite an extraordinary extent,” Deutscher wrote. He “lumps together scores of philosophical ideas and systems, determines in a few sentences of sweeping generalization what is the ‘common denominator,’ and then roundly condemns them all. . . Mr. Berlin does not analyze. He does not even argue his case. He proclaims and declaims [and] . . . is not over-scrupulous or over-precise in his statements” (p.64-65).

           Deutscher’s review of Historical Inevitability is plainly Exhibit A in answering the book’s fundamental question, why Isaiah detested Isaac. But the chapters on communism and the Cold War fail to yield anything close to an Exhibit B. The two men saw Marxism, communism and the Soviet Union in diametrically different terms but, as Berlin says on several occasions in this book, he would never judge another on this ground. In the final chapters of the book, on Judaism, Zionism, and Israel, Caute comes closer to pinpointing an Exhibit B.

* * *

        Caute suggests that the Jewish heritage which the two men shared “exacerbated their antagonism, imparting a fratricidal intimacy to their wider ideological quarrel” (p.235). Neither Berlin nor Deutscher came close to being religious in any conventional sense, but Jewish identity was plainly a significantly stronger force in Berlin’s life and world view that it was for Deutscher. Berlin was a strong Zionist and proponent of Israel in its early years, the only two political issues which he regularly addressed publicly. Deutscher, in contrast, opposed both Zionist tendencies and establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine. Although his opposition to the State of Israel softened in his later years, Deutscher’s view was that after the calamities of World War II, the last thing the post-war world needed was another nation-state fueled by patriotic national fervor. He once described his “intellectual opposition to Judaism” as part of an overall “opposition to all forms of theological thinking” (p.155). On another occasion, however, Deutscher described himself as a Jew “by force of my unconditional solidarity with the persecuted and exterminated” (p.241).

         Berlin maintained a particular aversion to Jewish Marxists who, as Caute phrases it, sought to “escape from their pariah status as Jews by inventing an alternative, more universal allegiance” (p.47). Berlin criticized Marx himself on this ground in his biography. Caute also highlights a snobbishness that Berlin shared with his well-to-do Anglo-Jewish friends, leaders in financial, banking and media circles, who tended to look down on less refined Jews. Berlin acknowledged his aversion to large crowds of Jews and, on one occasion, expressed his disdain for “Jews with colossal noses” (p.237). In 1959, a friend requested that Berlin reply to an article which Deutscher had written on Lenin. Berlin declined with a venomous ad hominem attack on Deutscher. “I hate him [Deutscher] too much,” Berlin wrote. “I cannot be sure that it is only his hateful personality. . . his Communism (which is that mean, dead talmudical ‘parshivy yevrey” type) . . . I am sure I shall find fault with whatever he does” (p.88). The Russian phase “parshivy yevrey,” Caute indicates, means “mangy Jew.”

* * *

        In the last chapter, “The Sussex Papers,” Caute comes full circle to Deutscher’s non-appointment at Sussex University – we’re at Sussexgate! The “smoking gun” was Berlin’s letter to Sussex University’s Vice-Chancellor, written the same month that he had his conversation with Caute in the All Souls Commons. Without mentioning Deutscher by name, Berlin declared that the “candidate of whom you speak is the only man whose presence in the same academic community as myself I should find morally intolerable” (p.279). Berlin’s statement effectively killed the Deutscher appointment. A few weeks later, with no news from Sussex, Deutscher – who had recently turned down an offer for a tenured position at the University of Wisconsin — told the university that he was “disappointed at your being unable to make any offer, especially as I was given to understand that what was under discussion was only the particulars of the offer” (p.281).

           In 1969, two years after Deutscher’s death, a leftist publication, Black Dwarf, published an anonymous article in which it alleged that Berlin was responsible for Deutscher being refused a university post at Sussex. Black Dwarf quoted Berlin as saying “You can’t have a Marxist teaching history” (p.282). Berlin considered a libel suit over Black Dwarf’s allegations. But with these allegations in the public domain, he crafted an argument that he would have preferred to have seen Deutscher appointed to a department where there would be another, more politically correct, colleague to balance him.

           In response to an inquiry from Deutscher’s wife after the Black Dwarf article, Berlin explained to Mrs. Deutscher that her husband’s “remarkable gifts would benefit the [Sussex] University if he were not called on to create a field of studies but to reinvigorate an existing discipline. . . I know nothing of the circumstances; the only point I wish to make is that if the University had wished to appoint Mr. Deutscher to be Professor of Soviet Studies, they could have done so, in the knowledge that no opposition to this would come from me” (p.284-85). Berlin reiterated for Mrs. Deutscher that her late husband’s Marxism was for him an irrelevant consideration, writing that it “would have been a betrayal of every intellectual value in which I believe if I had allowed this to sway my judgment consciously in judging his fitness for an academic post” (p.285).

* * *

            Readers may conclude that Caute provides at best only a partial answer to his initial question. Deutscher’s dogged Marxism was plainly a major contributor to Berlin’s antipathy to Deutscher, notwithstanding his protestations to Mrs. Deutscher, Caute himself, and others. To this, one could add Deutscher’s unfavorable 1955 review of Historical Inevitability and Berlin’s intra-Jewish prejudices. The rest of the explanation seems to lie somewhere in the deeper recesses of Berlin’s psyche and is unlikely to be discovered. But this book is only partially about Sussexgate.

           For those who relish the academic equivalent of “inside baseball” — and I must confess that I include myself in this eccentric group, especially when the academic is someone of Berlin’s stature – Caute’s look at the non-hiring decision at Sussex University half a century ago makes for entertaining reading. Caute also adds good overviews of Berlin’s thinking, as well as a peek at the darker side of Sir Isaiah. How brilliant minds like that of Deutscher could cling stubbornly to Marxism is also fascinating subject matter and Caute’s portrayal of Deutscher convinced me that this lesser-known figure deserves a full length biography. Moreover, as a depiction of the zeitgeist of post-war Britain and the country’s polarization over such matters as the Soviet Union and communism, the Anglo-American alliance, Judaism, Zionism, and Israel, Caute’s book is erudite and engaging, even for readers who may not care why Isaiah so despised Isaac.

Thomas H. Peebles
Cotonou, Benin (West Africa)
December 6, 2014

9 Comments

Filed under British History, European History, History, Intellectual History, Soviet Union, Uncategorized

Soul Reaction

marks.good

Steven Marks, How Russia Shaped the Modern World:
From Art to Anti-Semitism, Ballet to Bolshevism 

                   From the autocracy of the Tsars to the totalitarianism of Stalinist communism, and on to the authoritarianism of Vladimir Putin, over the last two centuries, Russia (and the Soviet Union, when it existed), have charted a path politically well removed from that of the democracies of Western Europe and North America. But if Russia has been depressingly resistant to the democratizing currents of the West, I have always assumed and never doubted for a moment that Russia was a indispensable part of European culture, a huge contributor to its every aspect, literature and art, music and dance and more. Steven Marks’ “How Russia Shaped the Modern World: From Art to Anti-Semitism, Ballet to Bolshevism,” which first appeared in 2003, did not dispel that assumption but added a new twist to my understanding of Russia’s contribution to both European and world culture.

               Marks, a Russian history specialist at Clemson University, argues that since the late 19th century, Russians have shaped the modern world by leading the reaction to it. Throughout this period, Russian art and literature, as well as its politics, have had the common characteristic of being in opposition to the liberal, individualistic, capitalist ethos of the West. Marks characterizes these tendencies across diverse areas as “rejectionism,” frequently encapsulating them in an elusive notion termed the “soul of Russia.” There was, he writes, a “perception of tsarist Russian and Soviet thought as Eastern and exotic, which made it especially appealing beyond the empire’s borders. This was the strain of ‘Orientalism’ that was embraced as an antidote to modern civilization” (p.4). This theme runs through his analyses of Russian anarchistic 19th century political thought, literature – especially the giants Dostoevsky and Tolstoy – anti-Semitism, dance, visual arts and music. He finishes with the Leninist Bolshevik project. On each topic, Marks shows Russian influence throughout the world; he does not limit his study to Western Europe and North America.

               Marks writes for the general reader. His scope is breathtakingly broad, with a dizzying series of short portraits of Russian luminaries in each of the areas he treats. Experts may contend that he overstates or oversimplifies the extent and nature of Russian influence in some of these areas. But readers wishing to consider a different perspective on the soul of Russia and the Russian contribution to world thinking and artistic expression should find the book highly engaging.

* * *

                Marks starts with the Russian anarchists of the late 19th century and finishes with those pesky Bolsheviks who took the reins of power in 1917 and set Russia off on a nearly 75-year experiment known as the Soviet Union. The opening chapters on Russian anarchism were for me the book’s most captivating. Anarchism was a branch of socialism that arose in Western Europe in the mid-nineteenth century as a “combined legacy of the Enlightenment belief in the perfectibility of humankind and the Romantic fervor for noble savages and stormy rebelliousness” (p.7), Marks writes.

          By the 1860s, Russia had become the acknowledged international leader of the anarchist movement and its opposition to state power and bourgeois industrialism, the “ills of which were often . . . more apparent than the benefits” (p.7). Anarchism was the “first Russian intellectual movement to have a significant international impact. Its glorious promises for society’s future electrified followers around the world, and the organizational and killing methods developed by Russian revolutionary adherents to fight the tsarist regime marked the birth of modern terrorism” (p.7).

            The most prominent of the anarchists were Mikhail Bakunin and Peter Kropotkin.  Although Bakunin and his followers were atheists, Bakunin “worshipped the peasant masses as the vessels of the Absolute” (p.10). Bakunin thus tapped into the soul of Russia cult, infusing his ideas with “spiritual yearning and secular ideological substitutes for religiosity . . . Religious messianism was transferred to the revolutionary movement, a process Bakunin embodied” (p.8). Freedom for Bakunin was a “mystical notion” derived from Russian Orthodox metaphysics which “required not the preservation of individualism bur rather its total dissolution in a collective form of unity that would free humankind from the suffering brought on by the selfish competitiveness of the capitalist bourgeoisie” (p.11).

                Bakuninst anarchism went on to become an important rejectionist force in Italian politics from the 1870s to the 1920s. Gavrilo Princep and his fellow Serbian ultra-nationalists fed on Russian conspiratorial-revolutionary-anarchist literature. Poles, Armenians, Macedonians and Serbs formed the earliest organized terrorist movements outside Russia to serve the cause of national liberation. Political terrorism came to be known as the “Russian method.” Although anarchism sought to shield the individual from the depredations of state power, Bakunin was a “closet authoritarian who thought a dictatorship was necessary to organize the future communal society” (p.11).

          Although less well known than Bakunin, Kropotkin was more eccentric and offered a far softer version of anarchism. Kropotkin challenged the understanding of Thomas Malthus and Charles Darwin of competitive relations between and among species. For Kropotkin, nature is not a struggle between individuals, but a “struggle between individuals and the environment.” The fittest are not the strongest, but “those who have learned to live cooperatively” (p.41). Kropotkin’s utopian solution relied on the Russian peasant commune as the “prototype of the ideal form for the future organization of humanity” (p.42). Kropotkin’s slogan was “to every man according to his needs,” and he called his program “anarchist communist” because of its emphasis upon cooperative organization.

                  Kropotkin’s communitarian vision gave rise to certain strains of Western urban planning in the 1920s, such as creation of garden cities and back-to-the-land alternatives to city life, and foreshadowed the contemporary ecological movement. Kropotkin’s radical ideas even account “partially” for the “ancestry of certain features of the modern American suburban landscape” (p.48), Marks asserts. When Kropotkin died, his funeral was the occasion for the “last mass demonstration against Bolshevism” (p.53).

         Many leftist intellectuals projected their anarchist, pro-peasant soul-of-Russia views onto the Bolshevik Revolution. Few “understood that Lenin and Trotsky were autocratic. Most believed that the Bolshevik leaders were implementing the decentralizing, anarchist agenda that had long been recognized as the hallmark of Russian radicalism” (p.284). With good reason, then, those on the outside often saw little difference between Russian anarchism and Bolshevism. Marks shows how Lenin used ideas drawn from the anarchists when useful to him. Stalin, for his part, added a “theocratic and Russian chauvinist imprint to Soviet official culture” (p.279).

               Marks treats the familiar and always fascinating theme of the early Western attraction to the Soviet experiment. Carrying forward prerevolutionary stereotypes of “soulful Russia as a repository of Eastern wisdom and collectivism” (p.282), Western intellectuals were surprisingly “prone to messianic delusions,” with an “astonishing capacity for fooling themselves” (p.285-86). Upon reviewing Stalin’s industrialization efforts, John Dewey commented that he felt, “as if for the first time the moving spirit and force of primitive Christianity” (p.285). British socialists Sidney and Beatrice Webb lauded the “entirely ‘new civilization’’ which Stalin was in the process of creating, with a “truly democratic system of representation” (p.285), while George Bernard Shaw insisted that Stalin was “simply secretary of the supreme controlling organ of the hierarchy, subject to dismissal at ten minutes’ notice if he does not give satisfaction” (p.286).

         Marks finishes with a chapter on the influence of Russian Bolshevism outside the Soviet Union, mostly a discussion of the degree to which lesser developed countries adopted the Russian model of socialism. In the years immediately following the Bolshevik revolution, intellectuals from what came to be known as “Third World,” “reacting to their own countries’ trauma in the throes of modernization or imperialism, were similarly attracted to Russian culture and ideology. They, too, perceived Russia, despite a thin European veneer, as being non-Western, and thus close in spirit to their own experiences” (p.4-5).

                The chapter on Russian anti-Semitism is extremely dark. To a surprising degree, Marks argues, 20th century European anti-Semitism was a Russian import. By the end of the 19th century, Russia had the world’s largest Jewish population, and anti-Semitism was stronger in Russia than in the West. Tsarist Russia maintained an apartheid-like regime, buttressed by Jim Crow legislation and recurrently violent anti-Jewish pogroms in the years leading up to the 1917 Revolution. In late 19th century Russia, Jews were perceived as the “quintessentially evil representatives of modernity, whether as financiers, traders or revolutionaries” (p.140). The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the basic text in anti-Semitism, was a Russian product. The Protocols, whose precise origins are still uncertain, were “purportedly the secret resolutions of international Jewish leaders, a game plan for the domination of the world and enslavement of the goyim – Yiddish for Gentiles” (p.149). The Protocols were at the foundation of “all Nazi anti-Semitic belief and rhetoric,” helping to “extinguish lingering good will toward the Jews, and . . . to rationalize their annihilation” (p.170).

             Militantly anti-capitalist and rabidly anti-Semitic Russian organizations came to be known at the Black Hundreds. Marks characterizes the rise of the Black Hundreds as a “transitional phase in the history of the European right between old-fashioned reactionary movements and dynamic modern fascism” (p.148). The Russian extreme right formulated major strains of Nazism and fascism at least a decade before these phenomena appeared in Western Europe, Marks contends, forging an “alliance of old elites and resentful masses” (p.148). Its “radical rejectionism; its reliance on violence as its chief political tool; and its demagogic anti-Semitism all anticipated the future fascist movements of France, Germany and Romania” (p.148).

              Marks’ chapters on Fydor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy provide good comparisons between the two, and demonstrate the enormous influence of each beyond Russia’s borders. Dostoevsky’s focus on the complexity of human psychology and man’s irrationality established him as one of the 19th century’s deepest but darkest thinkers. Dostoevsky’s world view was based on what Marks terms a “holy trinity” of individual freedom, orthodox Christianity, and Russian nationalism. For Dostoevsky, Western rationalism had produced a “cold, unloving kind of devotion to humanity that often concealed an abhorrence of human beings as individuals” (p.62). Freedom for Dostoevsky was an inner, spiritual matter, not a “juridical or constitutional problem,” embracing a “Christ like spirituality that overcomes man’s fractured and wounded personality, through love, brotherhood, and community” (p.65). Dostoevsky transformed the soul-of-Russia sense of uniqueness into a “strident and hostile anti-Western credo — despite his intellectual engagement with European philosophy and literature” (p.65).

             Dostoevsky’s work fit well with the late 19th century European interest in individual psychology and the irrational. He had a huge impact upon Sigmund Freud, whose ancestors had migrated to Austria from Russia. Freud found that Dostoevsky had captured the psyche if not the soul of Russians, who, as Freud saw them, were inclined to “ascetic mysticism, chauvinism, fanaticism, violence, and other ‘compromise[s] with morality’” (p.72). In the first decades of the 20th century, Dostoevsky’s popularity in Europe soared, nowhere more than in Germany, where he gained the dubious distinction of being the Nazis’ favorite non-German writer.

                  Tolstoy, described as “genius and crank” (p.102) by Ivan Turgenev, another 19th century Russian literary giant, sought to simplify Christianity and reduce it to what he considered its core values. He promulgated a version of Christianity that didn’t have much to do with Russian Orthodoxy or any other institutional form of Christianity. Marks characterizes Tolstoy’s religious outlook as “Christian anarchism,” another strain of Russian rejectionism that attracted a global following at the turn of the century. Tolstoy’s entire body of writing “reeks of contempt for Western capitalism, materialism, parliamentary democracy, law and constitutionalism” (p.105), Marks writes. Through his fictional and theological portrayals of the peasant, Tolstoy “contributed to the international image of the Russian soul as the antipode of the rationalizing, industrializing West” (p.109).

             Tolstoy fashioned a lifestyle that foreshadowed 1960s hippies. He became one of the first advocates of vegetarianism. Among those attracted to his views and life style was an obscure Indian lawyer practicing law in Durban, South Africa, Mahatmas Gandhi. Gandhi’s reading of Tolstoy was a critical step in his transformation as liberator of the Indian people. By 1900, Tolstoy was a recognized voice against American racism. He was one of the first international mass-media celebrities, a role he relished, curiously enough, and one that befitted a man who helped usher in the modern world even as he struggled against it.

                   In his chapters on music, dance and painting, Marks shows how in each domain, the major Russian artists were in some sense reacting to Western modernism. Marks starts with Sergei Diaghilev, publisher of The World of Art, a journal which, with its initial appearance in 1898, marked the beginning of the Russian Modernist movement. Diaghilev and his associates fostered a “discriminating love of music, dance, and painting alongside scorn for what they saw as the stagnant Russian art of the day. They yearned for the revival of Russian art as a bulwark against the dominance of western European, bourgeois culture” (p.177). Diaghilev combined ambivalence toward the West with “massive expectations of Russian culture. He was at bottom a Russian nationalist whose purpose was not to Europeanize domestic art but to remedy its effects through exposure to contemporary trends” (p.179).

                Diaghilev created the dance company “Ballets Russes.” Ballet for Diaghilev and his followers was a “non-descriptive and suggestive means of means of expressing pure emotion” (p.180). The essence of Ballets Russes, according to Diaghilev, was its “elemental spontaneity. We wished to find an art through which all the complexity of life, all feelings and passions, could be expressed apart from words and ideas – not rationally but elementally” (p.181). The Ballets Russes “opened the door to the embrace of an array of exotic, lower class and foreign music and dance impulses” (p.200). Ballets Russes never performed in Russia owing to official ostracism of Diaghliev before 1917 and Diaghilev’s hatred of communism afterwards.

                    Meanwhile, Russian artists “ceaselessly pushed the limits of artistic firmament” (p.228). Vasily Kandinsky was Russia’s primary “practitioner and theorist of abstractionism,” which reflected a common view among avant garde Russian artists that painting could replicate the psychological effect of music or poetry and vice-versa. Russian abstractionism shared with Russian antecedents an “anti-modern sense that Western Civilization had gone tragically awry. Humanity required radical aesthetic and political measures to reduce it, namely their brand of abstract painting plus socialism or anarchism” (p.270).

               Marks emphasizes the “global adaptability” of the Russian avant-garde forms of artistic expression. Like Russian anarchists, writers, visionaries and anti-Semites, the Russian avant-garde “appeared as wise men of the East offering access to higher truth” (p.274). Rooted in mysticism, messianism, and anti-Westernism, Russian visual arts, dance and theatre “rejected industrial-bourgeois existence and sought to remake society anew” (p.274). But the obvious irony was that these artists’ legacy was to be found in “realms of mass culture such as Hollywood movies, fascist propaganda, and Western commercial advertising” (p.176), with individualistic and capitalist audiences avidly pursuing their works.

* * *

                 Marks indicates at the outset of his sweeping and exuberantly written work that Russian intellectual and artistic life has always had a “close and symbiotic relationship with the West” (p.6), with the Russian thinkers and artists he discusses influenced in differing degrees by European counterparts as well as influencing them. Nonetheless, his book could be criticized for its “one way street” effect, the sense that there was little cross-fertilization, little positive absorption of Western lines of thought and artistic expression in Russia – only reaction to decadent capitalist and individualistic Western models.  Specialists might also criticize the book for trying to pack too much into the notion of Russian rejectionism and the soul of Russia. The American suburban landscape would likely have taken its present form even had Peter Kropotkin died in early childhood, for example; and Fascism and anti-Semitism hardly needed Russian models to thrive in Germany, France, and Italy. But Marks deserves credit for creative thinking across a wide range, bringing highly diverse subject matters together into an intriguing conceptual framework.

Thomas H. Peebles
Cotonou, Benin (West Africa)
November 22, 2014

2 Comments

Filed under European History, Intellectual History, Soviet Union

Bad Start

Kempe

Frederick Kempe, Berlin 1961:
Kennedy, Khrushchev and the Most Dangerous Place on Earth

          If you think there is already a sufficient body of hagiographic work on John F. Kennedy’s brief presidency, this may be the book for you. In “Berlin 1961: Kennedy, Khrushchev and the Most Dangerous Place on Earth,” Frederick Kempe delivers a withering critique of Kennedy’s first year as President — “one of the worst inaugural-year performances of any modern U.S. president” (p.483), Kempe concludes. As his title indicates, Kempe focuses upon Kennedy’s handling of the crisis in Berlin in 1961 and his dealings with his primary adversary, Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev. Relying upon recently declassified documents from the United States, Germany, and Russia, Kempe has produced a highly readable account of a time when the Cold War was very hot. Kempe divides his book into short “time-and-place” narratives (e.g., “The Kremlin, Moscow, 10:00 am, Saturday, January 21, 1961,” p.73; “Berlin, Sunday Afternoon, June 4, 1961,” p.253; “The White House, Washington D.C., October 18, 1961,” p.430). He intersperses these narratives with human-interest stories, showing the effects which the super powers’ wrangling over Berlin had upon ordinary people, helping to make his book entertaining as well as informative.

          Two central events shape Kempe’s chronicle: Kennedy and Khrushchev’s meeting in Vienna in June 1961, and the construction of the Berlin Wall in August of that year. After Kennedy’s razor-thin victory in the 1960 presidential elections, the consensus in the Kremlin was that the newly-elected president was a “lightweight, a product of American privilege who lacked the experience required for leadership” (p.39).  Kempe details how the young and inexperienced Kennedy, in an effort to appear tough, rebuffed numerous olive branches thrown his way by his older adversary after his election. Had Kennedy accepted these branches, Kempe suggests, much of the tension relating to Berlin could have been defused.

          Preceding the Vienna meeting by about 60 days was the Bay of Pigs debacle in April 1961, a CIA-led invasion of Cuba that had been planned during the Eisenhower administration, which Kennedy neither cancelled nor supported fully, and which failed miserably. To Khrushchev, Kennedy’s handling of the Bay of Pigs operation indicated that the young President was not resolute. “[N]ever in his fondest dreams had he anticipated such incompetence. In this first major test, the new U.S. president had lived down to Khrushchev’s lowest expectations,” demonstrating “weakness under fire” (p.177).

          The meeting in Vienna – what was termed a “summit” — was the first between the two Cold War leaders. Coming off the Bay of Pigs debacle, the young American President entered the “most important week of his presidency as a weary wounded commander in chief who was inadequately prepared and insufficiently fit for what would face him in Vienna. Khrushchev would be scanning for Kennedy’s vulnerabilities after the Bay of Pigs, and there were plenty for the picking” (p.211). The German weekly Die Zeit unkindly compared Kennedy on his way to Vienna to a traveling salesman “whose business had fallen on bad times and who was hoping to improve his prospects by negotiating directly with the competition” (p.197).

          There was no pre-set agenda for the Vienna meeting, but the future of Berlin dominated the discussions. Although Berlin was deep inside Soviet-controlled East Germany (the German Democratic Republic or GDR), the Allies’ agreement at Yalta in February 1945 had guaranteed Western access into and out of the Western sectors of the city. Khrushchev came to Vienna under great pressure from GDR leader Walter Ulbricht — perhaps the most Stalinist of the Eastern bloc leaders — to stem the tide of skilled workers fleeing East Germany through West Berlin. Too many East Germans were voting against Communism with their feet, exiting the socialist enclave for the decadent West. Khrushchev was very much aware that East Germany and the Soviet Union’s other Eastern European satellites had not reached a “level of moral and material development where competition with the West [was] possible” (p.329).

          In Vienna, Khrushchev reiterated an earlier threat he had made to conclude a separate treaty with East Germany and leave the West to negotiate directly with Ulbricht’s government on issues involving access roads and air routes to Berlin. Khrushchev let Kennedy know that he preferred to reach an agreement personally with the American President that would alter Berlin’s status. If that were not possible, however, Khrushchev said he would “act alone and end all postwar commitments made by the Soviets” (p.242). No force in the world, the Communist leader indicated, was capable of stopping Moscow from “moving forward on its peace treaty” (p.245). As Kempe notes dryly, Khrushchev was plainly threatening war.

          Kennedy looked upon Berlin primarily as an inherited inconvenience. During his first year in office, according to Kempe, Kennedy was “not focused on rolling back communism in Europe, but instead was trying to stop its spread to the developing world” (p.486). Although he publicly took a hard line on Western commitments to Berlin, Kennedy’s primary interest was in “preserving West Berlin’s status and access to the city (p.381)” and “avoiding instability and miscalculations that would lead to nuclear war” (p.486). According to recently declassified notes, Kennedy told Khrushchev in the Vienna meeting that “West Europe is vital to our national security and we have supported it in two wars. If we were to leave West Berlin, Europe would be abandoned as well. So when we are talking about West Berlin, we are also talking about West Europe” (p.243).

          With that pronouncement, Kempe contends, Kennedy went further than any previous American president in differentiating “so clearly between his commitment to all of Berlin and to West Berlin” (p.243, Kempe’s emphasis). In Vienna, Kennedy tacitly let the Soviet leader know that he could do “whatever he wished on the territory he controlled as long as he didn’t touch West Berlin or Allied access to the city” (p.488). Vienna thus produced a de facto deal which Kennedy was prepared to strike with Khrushchev: “He would give Khrushchev a free hand to seal Berlin’s border in exchange for a guarantee that the Soviets would not disrupt West Berlin’s continued freedom or Allied access to the city” (p.489).

          During his time with the avuncular Khrushchev, Kempe concludes, the young President:

failed to challenge the Soviet leader where he was most vulnerable. He had not condemned the Soviet use of force in East Germany and Hungary in 1953 and 1956. Worse, he had not posed the most important question of all: Why were there hundreds of thousands of East German refugees fleeing to a better life in the West (p.233).

Kennedy’s Vienna performance confirmed Khrushchev’s growing impression that Kennedy “could be easily outmaneuvered, and from that point forward Khrushchev would act more aggressively in the conviction that there would be little price to pay” (p.259).

          Kennedy returned to the United States badly weakened after his lackluster performance in Vienna. An aide compared the return trip on Air Force One to “riding with the losing baseball team in the World Series. Nobody said much” (p.258). In what Kempe terms “one of the most candid sessions ever between a reporter and a commander in chief,” Kennedy told the journalist James Reston that Khrushchev had “savaged” him (p.257).

          Two months later, early in the morning of August 13 of that year, East Germany commenced construction of a barbed wire wall between the Soviet and Western sectors of Berlin, implementing a plan Ulbricht had devised which Kempe compares to Nazi blueprints for building and operating concentration camps. Though Ulbricht’s project was less murderous, “its execution would be no less cynically exacting” (p.325). Under the 1945 four-power agreements, the American, Soviet, British and French military governments of Germany had agreed that they would ensure unrestricted access throughout Berlin, a point reconfirmed in 1948 by another four-power agreement that ended the Berlin blockade. Thus, when the wall went up, Kennedy would have had “every right to order his military to knock down the barriers put up that morning by East German units that had no right to operate in Berlin” (p.359).

          But Kennedy had already signaled in Vienna and made clear through several other channels that he would “not respond if Khrushchev and the East Germans restricted their actions to their own territory” (p.359). Just a few days prior to construction of the wall, Kennedy had told Walt Rostow, his Deputy National Security Advisor:

Khruschev is losing East Germany. He cannot let that happen. If East Germany goes, so will Poland and all of Eastern Europe. He will have to do something to stop the flow of refugees. Perhaps a wall. And we won’t be able to prevent it. I can hold the Alliance together to defend West Berlin, but I cannot act to keep East Berlin open (p.293).

Then, when the wall went up, Kennedy “could not publicly express his genuine relief that the communists had closed the border, but at the same time he didn’t want to express false outrage too loudly” (p.383-84).

          Kempe pinpoints two “aftershocks” to Kennedy’s mishandling of Berlin in 1961: the long-term “freezing in place of the Cold War division of Europe for more than three decades;” and the more immediate Cuban Missile Crisis in late 1962, with its threat of nuclear war. “The Wall’s construction not only stopped East Germany’s unraveling at a time when the country’s viability was in doubt,” Kempe writes. It also “condemned another generation of tens of millions of East Europeans to authoritarian, Soviet-style rule with its limits on individual and national freedom” (p.485). For 28 additional years, the Berlin Wall “would remain the iconic image of what unfree systems can impose when free leaders fail to resist” (p.502). As to the Cuban missile crisis the following year, although history would celebrate Kennedy’s management of that crisis, “Khrushchev would not have risked putting nuclear weapons in Cuba at all if he had not concluded from Berlin in 1961 that Kennedy was weak and indecisive” (p.485).

Thomas H. Peebles
Rockville, Maryland
January 27, 2013

3 Comments

Filed under German History, Soviet Union, Uncategorized, United States History

Stephen Cohen, Soviet Fates and Lost Alternatives: From Stalinism to the New Cold War

In this series of essays, Stephen Cohen, a well-known scholar of Russia and the Soviet Union, looks at “alternative possibilities” in Russian and Soviet history – possibilities “grounded in realities of the time, represented by leaders, and with enough political support to have had a chance of being realized” (p.xi). Throughout the book’s seven essays, along with an epilogue written early in the Obama administration, Cohen challenges what he terms a “school of inevitability” prevalent in the United States that treats seventy five years of Soviet history as having been “closed to alternatives” (p.xii).

The first essay, “Bukaharin’s Fate,” takes a new look at the enigmatic Nikolai Bukaharin, one of several original Bolsheviks whom Stalin liquidated in the 1930s. Cohen speculates that the Soviet Union would have been a very different country, without the terror of the 1930s and 1940s, had Bukarhin prevailed over Stalin in the struggle for power after Lenin’s death in 1924. The second essay, “The Victims Return,” focuses on the Soviet Gulag and highlights the ambivalence of the Soviet Union and Russia about the crimes that Stalin inflicted on his country.

Although Gulag returnees were “survivors in almost the full sense of victims who had survived the Nazi extermination camps,” (p.34), the Soviet Union never undertook exercises like those that sought to hold Nazis accountable for their war crimes after World War II. The primary reason, of course, was the complicity of post-Stalin Soviet leadership in Stalin’s crimes, including Nikita Khrushchev himself. Even today, a fault line runs through Russia between those who contend that Stalin was a despicable, inhuman tyrant, and those who see him as a wise leader of his country. This is not simply an historical debate, Cohen contends, even though most of the survivors of the Soviet Gulag have now died. 27% of Russians today have ancestral links to the Gulag, according to a 2006 poll. A reckoning remains on Russia’s political agenda, Cohen argues, because “there is no statute of limitations for historical crimes as large as Stalin’s . . .the victims’ return is not over” (p.60).

These two essays are polished and thoughtful, with Cohen indulging in the reasoned speculation that is a prerogative of a senior scholar. The last five essays and the epilogue blend together, and are more polemical and provocative. In these pages, Cohen addresses critical questions involving Russia and the Soviet Union. The titles of three of the five essays are themselves questions: Was the Soviet System Reformable? Why Did It End? Who Lost the Post-Soviet Peace? Here, Cohen takes on the conventional wisdom – conventional at least in the United States and much of Western Europe — that the Soviet Union collapsed of its own weight and internal contradictions; that it was beyond reform; and that Gorbachev’s petrosoika and his goal of “socialism with a human face” were hopelessly naïve in light of the nature of the Soviet state. In response, Cohen argues that the Soviet Union could have been transformed into a functioning democracy; that its current anti-democratic tendencies could have been avoided; and that the United States bears considerable responsibility for setting post-Soviet Russia on its current anti-democratic path.

To Cohen, Gorbachev was a genuine reformer, a “Lincolnesque figure determined to ‘preserve the Union’ – in his case, however, not by force but by negotiating a transformation of the discredited ‘super-centralized unitary state’ into an authentic, voluntary federation” (p.105). At some point in the 1980s, Cohen argues, Gorbachev “crossed the Rubicon from Communist Party liberalizer to authentic democratizer,” evolving from a “proponent of ‘socialist pluralism’ to a proponent simply of ‘pluralism,’ from advocate of ‘socialist democracy’ to advocate of ‘democracy,’ from defender of the Communist Party’s ‘leading role’ to defender of the need for a multi-party system” (p.78-79). During Gorbachev’s last years, “all the basic forms of economic activity in modern Russia were born” — born, that is, “within the Soviet economy and thus were evidence of its reformability” (p.105). Under Gorbachev’s leadership, Russia (then Soviet Russia) came “closer to real democracy than it had ever been in its centuries-long history” (p.141).

Boris Yeltsin, Gorbachev’s successor, was the anti-Gorbachev (p.140), driven by a “pathological, destructive, all-consuming hatred of Gorbachev” (p.132). Yeltsin oversaw the breakup of the Soviet Union, dissolving it in a manner which, according to Cohen, was “neither legitimate nor democratic,” but rather, a “profound departure from Gorbachev’s commitment to gradualism, social consensus, and constitutionalism,” and a “return to the country’s ‘neo-Bolshevik’ and earlier traditions of imposed change. . . ” (p.151). In the privatization of former state-held property, Yeltsin unleashed a “true bacchanalia of redistribution,” sometimes euphemistically called “spontaneous privatization,” which Cohen and others derisively term “grab-it-ization” (p.137). Gorbachev, by contrast, was prepared to “go boldly” toward “destatization” but only on the condition that “property created by whole generations does not fall into the hands of thieves” (p.139). Even today, Cohen finds the political and economic consequences of the manner in which privatization unfolded in the 1990s “both the primary cause of Russia’s de-democratization and the primary obstacle to reversing it” (p.154).

In particular, privatization in Russia has led to endemic corruption throughout the public and private sectors, buttressed by frightening violence:

The shadowy, illicit procedures and contract murders that fostered the birth of the oligarchy spread with the new system. As a result, corruption also now deprives Russia of billions of dollars and the efficiency needed for modernization. Meanwhile most of the frequent assassinations of journalists and related crimes, usually attributed to the Kremlin, are actually commissioned by corrupt “businessmen” and officials against reporters and other investigators who have gotten too close to their commercial secrets (p.205).

Cohen provides a disturbing analysis of the role that the United States has played in Russia’s authoritarian turn over the last two decades. Presidents Reagan and G.H.W. Bush supported Gorbachev and the path toward reform he tried to follow. But the Soviet Union was gone by the time Bill Clinton became President, and US policy toward Russia embarked on a disastrous course during his presidency that has continued to the present. The United States elected to treat post-Communist Russia as a “defeated nation, analogous to Germany and Japan after World War II, which was expected to replicate America’s domestic practices and bow to U.S. international interests” (p.171). The United States thereby squandered the “historic opportunity for an essential partnership in world affairs – the legacy of Gorbachev, Reagan, and George H.W. Bush” (p.181). Cohen labels this approach “triumphalism,” a “bi-partisan” and “unbridled” exaltation that America had “won” the Cold War and therefore Moscow’s direction “at home and abroad should be determined by the US government” (p.181).

What the United States euphemistically termed a “strategic partnership” with Yeltsin’s Russia was unbalanced from the beginning, Cohen argues, a “relentless, winner-take-all exploitation of Russia’s post-1991 weakness” (p.168). Washington’s insistence on expanding NATO eastward was for Russia the “original sin” (p.189), with Washington unwilling to acknowledge legitimate Russian security concerns with such expansion. “As the Western military alliance continued its ‘march to the east,’ taking in former Soviet-bloc countries and republics along the way, it finally convinced Moscow that U.S. policy was not ‘strategic partnership’ but a quest for domination” (p.189). Ukraine’s potential entry into NATO was (and still is) seen in Moscow as “hammering the final nail into the coffin of Russia as a great power” — exactly the motive behind the United States’ support for Ukraine membership, Cohen contends (p.190).

In his epilogue, Cohen seeks to refute the notion that a reset in US-Russia relations occurred when Barack Obama became President. “Reinforced by a cult of conventional ‘tough-minded’ policy-making, which marginalized and invariably ‘proved wrong’ even ‘eloquent skeptics’ like George Kennan, the triumphalist orthodoxy still monopolized the political spectrum, from ‘progressives’ to America’s own ultra-nationalists, in effect unchallenged in the parties, media, policy institutes, and universities” (p.218), Cohen argues.  For a real reset, triumphalism must be replaced “in words and in deeds, as the underlying principle of U.S. policy by the original premise that ended the Cold War in the years from 1988 to 1991 – that there were no losers but instead a historic chance for the two great powers, both with legitimate security interests abroad and full sovereignty at home, to escape the perils and heavy costs of their forty-year confrontation” (p.195).

There is certain crankiness to Cohen’s relentless assault on two decades of Washington policy toward Russia, reminding me of Ron Paul taking on the Federal Reserve. I do not have anywhere near the expertise to reach a conclusion as to whether Cohen has made his case in these essays that US policy toward Russia has been as consistently wrongheaded as he contends. But I can easily conclude that his provocative views will prompt me to look at Russia and US-Russian relations through a different lens going forward.

Thomas H. Peebles
Rockville, Maryland
April 24, 2012

4 Comments

Filed under History, Politics, Soviet Union