Tomsbooks@10: Beyond the Singular ‘They’

 

 

 

Ten years ago today, on January 22, 2012, a time when I barely understood what a blog was, tomsbooks vaulted into cyberspace with a review of John McWhorter’s Doing Our Own Thing: The Degradation of Language and Music and Why We Should, Like, Care.

McWhorter has since become a regular columnist on language-related issues for the New York Times, and I chuckle that I had the temerity in that first review to take him to task for using what has come to be known as the “singular they,” as in: “if a person is writing a blog, they need to know what they’re talking about.”  I counted some 19 of these constructions in McWhorter’s book, any one of which would have earned him an “F” from my 9^th grade English teacher.

2012 was before the issue of gender sensitivity had risen to the fore, at least for me, and I didn’t have a clue then as to what a non-binary person might be or where that person – see, I didn’t have to use “they” — stands in a gendered world.  I just thought the singular “they” was wrong as a matter of basic English grammar.  Ten years later, as I have gradually come to understand a little about being non-binary, I still think the singular “they” is wrong.  Just plain wrong.  Period.

Without giving an inch on my view of the “singular they” since that initial January 2012 posting, tomsbooks has moved intrepidly on, with most reviews concentrated in the core subject areas of modern history, politics and political theory.  Over the course of ten years, the overriding objective of tomsbooks has remained the same: to bring to the attention of non-specialist readers recent works in these core areas that are unlikely to make the best seller lists yet may be worthy of their precious reading time.  If my ten-year count is accurate, I have now reviewed 193 books, in 178 separate postings on this blog (chronological and subject matter lists available on request).

The subject matter of some but not all of the books reviewed here falls within these core areas.  Over the past five years, I have veered occasionally into the world of literature, with reviews of several books on literary works and their authors, among them:  James Joyce, Albert Camus, Victor Hugo, Joseph Conrad, Franz Kafka, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

In 2021, moreover, I began a partnership with Tocqueville 21, a blog affiliated with the American University of Paris and its Center for Critical Democracy Studies.  Tocqueville 21 seeks to encourage in-depth thinking about democratic theory and practice, with particular but by no means exclusive emphasis on the United States and France.  I have now posted 12 reviews on the Tocqueville 21 blog, all of which also appeared here.  I am confident that this fruitful partnership will continue in 2022, as tomsbooks begins its 11^th year.

My association with Tocqueville 21 has re-enforced a conclusion I reached five years ago, writing in late 2016 on the occasion of tomsbooks’ forthcoming 5^th anniversary, that most of the books reviewed, including those with a literary bent, explore some aspect of modern liberal democracy, more often indirectly, occasionally directly.  I defined liberal democracy as the system of government that “seeks to maximize both individual liberty and equality among citizens, through free and fair elections, the rule of law, free but regulated markets, and respect for human rights.”  Liberal democracy is also decidedly pluralist, “seeking to provide a channel for as many voices as possible to compete for influence in a free and orderly, if at times cacophonous, process.”  Those of us lucky enough to have been born or raised in the United States, Great Britain or Western Europe in the post World War II era grew up with imperfect yet functioning versions of liberal democracy, to the point where it became  all too easy to take its multiple benefits for granted.

I went on to note that many of the books reviewed on tomsbooks addressed instances where liberal democracy has “gone off the rails,” most notably in Nazi Germany and Bolshevik Russia, two subjects that remain of great interest (and, for those who believe that reading is an uplifting pastime that can make us better moral beings, I can’t help but point out that both Hitler and Stalin were voracious readers).

 

While writing in late 2016, I was also bracing for the incoming Trump administration and seeing disquieting signs for liberal democracy.  The man the United States had just elected as its next President seemed to be “at best indifferent to the ideals of liberal democracy, often hostile.”  Earlier that year, Great Britain in the “Brexit” campaign tinged with no small doses of anti-immigrant sentiment, notoriously elected to pull out of the European Union, probably the most ambitious multi-national liberal democracy project of the post-World War II era.  I also noted how anti-democratic, authoritarian governments appeared to be on the rise elsewhere, including Hungary, Poland, Turkey, and Russia (with Hungary’s Viktor Orbán usually given credit for coining the term “illiberal democracy”).  I concluded in late 2016 that the world’s global civilization appeared to be “heading into the darkest and most difficult period for liberal democracy since the 1930s. We can only hope that a catastrophe analogous to the world war that erupted at the end of that decade can be averted.”

Much has happened in the five years since I wrote that passage.  Thankfully, no open conflict similar to a far-ranging war has broken out in the interim, although the current pandemic has often been compared to a worldwide war and there are plenty of reasons to be nervous about the possibility of widespread violence, starting on the Russian-Ukraine border, but also in locations as divergent as Iran, Taiwan and the India-China and India-Pakistan borders.

But if “concern” best described my feelings about the future of liberal democracy in late 2016, “terrified” better captures those feelings now, especially as applied to my home country, the United States of America.  As I write this, an authoritarian assault on American democratic norms, values, and institutions — what some writers have termed a

“slow moving coup” — appears to be taking place before our eyes.  In a narrow sense, the assault arises out of the notion that somehow the 2020 presidential election was “stolen” from Donald Trump and that Joe Biden, despite winning more than 7 million votes more than Trump and a decisive majority in the Electoral College, is somehow an illegitimate president – a view supported by no empirically verifiable evidence yet shared by an astonishingly high percentage of my compatriots.

The counter-factual notion of a stolen election, of course, precipitated the assault on the US Capitol in January of last year, an event that would have seemed to me like the stuff of third-rate fiction back in late 2016.  But largely out of public sight, state legislative majorities of the Republican Party – the party of Lincoln, the party that once stood for full civil rights and empowerment of formerly-enslaved persons while the Democratic Party unabashedly supported racial segregation and second class citizenship for African Americans — are making voting more difficult in several states, with the obvious intention of dampening the turnout of traditional Democratic voters, particularly African Americans.  Even more stealthily, Republican majority legislatures are passing laws that would allow those legislatures to override the votes of their citizens in the anachronistic Electoral College process utilized for presidential elections.

At his address at the US Capitol earlier this month to commemorate the January 6^th uprising at the US Capitol, President Biden castigated the movement to make voting more difficult.  In state after state, the President observed, “new laws are being written — not to protect the vote, but to deny it; not only to suppress the vote, but to subvert it; not to strengthen or protect our democracy, but because the former president lost . . . It’s wrong.  It’s undemocratic.  And frankly, it’s un-American.”

 

 

Two books reviewed here in March of 2021 — also the first two which I reviewed for Tocqueville 21 — reached similar conclusions by different paths: James Miller, Can Democracy Work: A Short History of a Radical Idea, From Ancient Athens to Our World and William Davies, Nervous States: Democracy and the Decline of Reason.  Miller demonstrated that expansion of the right to vote — who gets to participate in the representative process of selecting leaders – was at the heart of democracy’s march forward in the 19^th century, a march  accompanied by many steps backward.

Miller’s historical overview shows how, in the United States, Great Britain and on the European continent, the requirements of property ownership for male voting were gradually loosened and then disappeared; and, in the United States, the vote was extended to formerly enslaved persons (albeit often more in theory than in practice).  Women would have to wait until the 20^th century to gain voting rights.  But by the mid-20^th century, the universal right of all citizens to vote had become commonly accepted among all functioning democracies around the world.  It was and is the glue that holds together the other institutions and values we consider essential to democracy.

To this historical perspective, Davies added that a functioning democracy depends upon a widespread acceptance of a common core of empirically verifiable facts — “some commonly agreed starting point, that all are willing to recognize.”  How then, the review asked in conclusion, can a democracy work when there is “widespread disagreement with an incontrovertible fact, especially one that goes to democracy’s very heart, in this case the result of the vote and the peaceful transfer of power after an orderly election?”

That question is still with us a year later.  It will at a minimum lurk in the background as tomsbooks enters its second decade.  At times, the second decade may look much like the first, a continuation of reviews of books that raise issues pertinent to liberal democracy, yet often in ways that are not directly obvious.  But I suspect readers will also see more books under review here in the months and years ahead that address head-on the existential question of how democracy, especially but not exclusively in the United States, can be preserved or – I shudder to think – how American democracy might be restored.  I hope you will continue to read, including perhaps some of the books reviewed here, and that you will continue to think about the critical issues which these books raise — issues to be confronted as citizens as well as readers.  And, of course, I hope you will refrain from the temptation to use the singular “they.”

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

January 22, 2022

 

 

 

Father and Son and Nazi Art

 

Mary Lane, Hitler’s Last Hostages:

Looted Art and the Soul of the Third Reich

(PublicAffairs)

In November 2013, Mary Lane, chief European art correspondent for the Wall Street Journal and all of 26 years old, was in New York to attend an art auction at Christie’s when her editor called and asked her to fly to Berlin immediately to cover a breaking story: a German magazine, Focus, had just revealed that nearly a year earlier a trove of approximately 1,200 artworks ostensibly stolen by Adolph Hitler’s Nazi regime, including works by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Pablo Picasso, Edgar Degas, and Henri Matisse, had been discovered by German authorities in the Munich apartment of Cornelius Gurlitt, a reclusive octogenarian, in the course of a tax investigation.  If authentic, the works were clearly worth several million dollars.

Lane got her story out that November, then spent the next several years looking into the story behind the story.  The result is Hitler’s Last Hostages: Looted Art and the Soul of the Third Reich, which lays out how Cornelius’ father, Hildebrand Gurlitt, had amassed these and other paintings (along with some sculptures, woodcuts and etchings) while working on the  Adolph Hitler’s obsessional dream of the Führermuseum, a museum to be built near his birthplace in Linz, Austria, to showcase the art which the Nazis had stolen from museums, galleries, and private collections across Europe.  The Gurlitt case is intriguing, as Lane amply demonstrates, but hardly singular.  The Nazis stole a staggering amount of artwork during their murderous twelve years in power.

What Lane terms the “largest art heist in history” (p.122) includes approximately 600,000 paintings stolen from Jews alone, at least 100,000 of which are still missing, according to Stuart Eizenstat, United States  State Department expert advisor for Holocaust issues.  Eizenstat characterized the looting as “not only designed to enrich the Third Reich, but also an integral part of the Nazi goal of eliminating all vestiges of Jewish identity and culture.”  Eizenstat was the primary negotiator of the “Washington Principles,” a set of terms agreed upon in December 1998 by 44 countries, including Germany, Switzerland and Austria, to facilitate the return of Nazi-confiscated artworks to their lawful owners or compensate them.  The principles were more moral commitments than legal constraints, to be implemented within each country’s legal framework.   Since the principles were adopted, efforts to restore confiscated artworks to their rightful owners or their families have intensified.  Yet one of Lane’s most startling discoveries was that in the Gurlitt case Germany demonstrated a surprisingly tepid commitment to the Washington Principles.

Lane seeks to place the father-and-son Gurlitt case within the broader context of how art figured into the racist ideology of the Nazi regime.  She provides much biographical information on Hitler’s youth and especially his artistic pretensions prior to World War I — her first full chapter for example, is entitled “Portrait of the Dictator as a Young Man.”   Hitler was “genuinely obsessed with art” (p.7), she observes at the outset, considering himself an artist first and a politician second.

In elaborating upon how integral art was to the overall Nazi project, Lane emphasizes the role that Hitler’s sycophantic propagandist Joseph Goebbels played in prioritizing Hitler’s vision of what he termed “Aryan art” and ridding Europe of its opposite, “degenerate art.”  These terms were never satisfactorily defined, but in the Nazis’ binary world, Aryan art tended toward romantic landscapes, classical nudes and depictions of the heroic endeavors of the German people, whereas “degenerate art” usually referred to contemporary works, works that contained unpatriotic or overtly sexual themes, or were produced by Jewish artists – and often a mixture of these factors.   Lane adds specificity to her story by tracing the fate of two confiscated paintings that were discovered in Cornelius’ possession in 2012 and the effort thereafter to return them to their rightful owners: German Jewish impressionist Max Liebermann’s 1921 Two Riders on the Beach, inspired by the equestrian paintings of Edgar Degas; and Henri Matisse’s Woman With a Fan, a 1901 portrait of a “creamy-skinned brunette with a flowered blouse waving a fan to ward off the summer heat “ (p.159).

Lane also takes an unusually long look at George Grosz, a contemporary of Hitler who like the future Führer served in World War I and gained prominence – or notoriety – through his brutal depictions of the war’s realities.  After the war, Grosz was identified with the Dada art movement, which portrayed the follies of war in satirical and often non-nonsensical images.  He further burnished his reputation with his graphic sexual representations.  Grosz  became an outspoken and highly visible opponent of Hitler and his party.  To the Nazis, he represented degenerate art at its most degenerate.  After Grosz fled to the United States in 1933, some of his paintings wound up in the Gurlitt trove.

At times, Grosz seems to be the main protagonist of Lane’s story.  She devotes extensive portions of her book to him presumptively to demonstrate what principled artistic opposition to Hitler entailed.  But the Grosz sections are not an easy fit with the rest of her narrative.  The Gurlitt case, only about one half of this volume, is easily the most compelling half.

* * *

Hildebrand Gurlitt was born in 1895 in Dresden, and grew up in an artistic milieu. His father was a respected art historian whose tastes favored contemporary artists rather than old masters.  Hildebrand’s  maternal grandmother was Jewish, making him vulnerable when the Nazis came to power in 1933.  In the 1920s, Gurlitt became the director of a small-town museum where he promoted contemporary art and numerous Jewish artists, while engaging simultaneously in the ethically dubious practice of brokering sales.  He then moved to head the Hamburg Art Association, but was fired from the position shortly after the Nazis came to power, both because his preference for avant-garde art clashed with the Nazis’ artistic tastes and because he refused to fly the Nazi flag outside the Association’s building.

As the Nazis’ virulent anti-Semitism increased, Gurlitt realized that as a one quarter Jew who was no fan of the Nazis, he had to “leave the country, join the resistance, retreat into obscurity, or collaborate with the Nazis” (p.127).  Gurlitt chose the last option, becoming in 1938 one of four officially designated art dealers authorized to help liquidate confiscated Nazi artworks to support the Führermuseum project.  Hitler and Goebbels envisioned financing the project by seizing paintings and other artworks from galleries and museums across the country — and, later, in countries they planned to conquer — and destroying most “degenerate” pieces but selectively selling others across the continent to increase their foreign currency reserves to finance their war efforts.

Gurlitt used his extensive international connections to put together deals for the acquisition of works for the Führermuseum, many of which took place in France and the Netherlands after the Nazis occupied those countries.  Gurlitt generally returned to the government much of what he realized from his sales, but was allowed to keep a commission.   He also retained a portion of the works on the side for his personal “collection.”  With few exceptions, Gurlitt destroyed the paperwork.  As the Nazis faltered on the battlefield after their defeat at Stalingrad in early 1943, Hitler remained obsessed with the Führermuseum and Gurlitt forged ahead with acquisitions for the museum – and for himself.

Toward the end of 1943 or in early 1944, Gurlitt personally retained several stunning paintings by respected old masters, including a luminous work from the 1630s by Jan Brueghel the Younger of Dutch villagers welcoming home sailors.  He also consummated a huge art deal in Paris just before it was liberated in August 1944, acquiring works by many of the most significant names in modern French art, among them Degas, Manet, Pissaro, Renoir, and Courbet.  The deal included paintings and sculptures, but also woodcuts, lithographs and etchings.  The latter were easier to transport and “particularly difficult to trace as artists usually produced them in limited editions” (p.167).

If Gurlitt paid something for these and other artworks, it was a fraction of their  true value, and the money probably did not reach the genuine owners.  Overall, Gurlitt acquired approximately 3,800 pieces for the Fühermuseum project, making a small fortune in commissions for himself in the process, all the while acquiring works for his own collection.  It is “inconceivable,” Lane observes, that “on his salary Gurlitt could have acquired the more than 1,000 artworks he obtained during the war were it not for the dirty money he took in exchange for working as a high-ranking member of Hitler’s Führermuseum Project” (p.163).

In 1945, the year of the Nazi capitulation, Gurlitt moved most of his works to a private collection outside Dresden, his home city, and later to a manor 250 miles away in southwest Germany.  From there, he began a five year cat-and-mouse game with the “Monuments Men,” a group of about 400 art experts from Allied nations, formed in 1943 to protect art and other culturally significant artifacts in the event of an Allied victory.  In the post-war period, the Monuments Men were charged with finding and recovering artworks stolen by the Nazis (part of what was officially known as the “Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Program,” the Monuments Men were celebrated in an eponymous 2014 film that starred George Clooney and Matt Damon).   Coming from many countries, the Monuments Men often did not speak a common language and never had the resources needed to accomplish their objectives.  Gurlitt bet his future and his art trove on telling them “calculated lies” for which they would have “insufficient resources to fact-check or rebut” (p.183).

Gurlitt won the bet.  The Monuments Men focused more on Gurlitt’s boss on the Führermuseum project, Hermann Voss, but eventually turned to him.  They questioned him seriously enough that he ended up giving up approximately 7% of his stock, falsely claiming that it represented his entire collection.  In late 1950, the Monuments Men returned the 7% to Gurlitt, which included Liebermann’s Two Riders on the Beach.   At some point in the post-war period, Gurliit also acquired Matisse’s Woman With a Fan, which the Nazis had looted from the renowned Parisian gallery of Paul Rosenberg, a personal friend of Pablo Picasso.   After Rosenberg fled Paris for the United States in 1940, the Nazis turned the gallery into the “Institute for the Study of Jewish Questions.”

* * *

Hildebrand Gurlitt died in an automobile crash on the Autobahn in November 1956, the point at which Lane’s focus turns to son Cornelius, 24 at the time of his father’s death.   Hildebrand’s estate provided Cornelius  with a comfortable inheritance, and from that point onward he determined that he would not work.  But he discretly sold  some of the works his father had retained on the grey market, dealing most frequently with Galerie Kornfeld in Bern, Switzerland.  In 1960, Cornelius moved into a huge house in Salzburg, and took with him 250 of his father’s most precious items, including works by Picasso, Munch, and Kandinsky.  His mother died in 1968 and he and his younger sister Betina had a falling out, after which  the increasingly isolated Cornelius began to manifest symptoms of severe paranoia.

By September 2011, German tax authorities suspected that Cornelius had been selling art without meeting reporting requirements.  In February 2012, the authorities obtained a warrant to enter Cornelius’s Munich apartment and ended up seizing all that he had hoarded there, approximately 1,2000 artworks.  German authorities did not disclose the confiscation to the international community, as the Washington Principles prescribed.  The German Government did commission a task force to evaluate the works, but only for tax purposes, not whether they might constitute confiscated art.  Chancellor Angela Merkel refused to make any public statement on the matter, not even an acknowledgement of the need for Germany to increase its efforts to restitute Nazi-confiscated art.  To Lane, it looked like the German government simply wanted to hide this discovery from world attention.

Cornelius, for his part, remained defiant. He gave an interview to Der Spiegel in which he defended his father, denying that he had been complicit in the crimes of the Nazi regime, and further denying that either he or his father had dealt in confiscated  art.  His father had been a hero for saving art from destruction, Cornelius contended.   Protected by a statute of limitations that had run in 1970, he went on to say that even if clear proof of prior ownership were presented, he had no intention of returning the works.  With the war 70 years in the past, it was time for families with claims to such works to “simply move on” (p.226).   And he chastised the government for invading his property and privacy, without charging him of a crime.

When German art experts suggested that he donate the works to a museum, Cornelius, then gravely ill, came up with a more cunning idea.  While hospitalized in January 2014, he signed a secret will that bequeathed his entire collection to the Kunstmuseum Bern in the Swiss capital.  But later that year, as he literally lay dying, he had a change of heart, in Lane’s view the result of contemplating the adverse effect which publicity about his case had had on his family name.  Cornelius signed an agreement in which the government dropped its tax investigation and stipulated to a one-year research period during which the state would have access to all paintings in his collection.  Shortly thereafter, in May 2014, Cornelius died at age 82.

After Cornelius’s death, his lawyers, the Kunstmuseum Bern and the German government formalized a deal his whereby the government would conduct research into the provenance of each work and return any looted pieces to the rightful heirs, if they could be located.  The remainder would belong exclusively to the museum. The families of the original owners of Max Liebermann’s Two Riders on the Beach and Matisse’s Woman with a Fan, were easily identified.  Both families were by then Jewish-American, living in New York City, and each presented unimpeachable documentation of lawful ownership.

Marianne Rosenberg, the granddaughter of Paul Rosenberg, had actively pursued the Matisse painting with her father, Paul’s son Alexandre, who died in 1987.  The Rosenbergs elected to keep the painting, one of the most valuable in the Gurlitt trove.  Liebermann’s Two Riders on the Beach belonged to the family of Holocaust survivor David Toren, then approaching age 90.  Less wealthy than the Rosenberg family, the Torens sold Liebermann’s work on auction.  Their long pursuit of the painting was by then well-publicized, and the family was more than surprised that the final price came to nearly five times its conservative initial estimate.  Recovery of the painting for the Toren family constituted a “further step in the long process of coping with the pain that Hitler had inflicted on millions of people,” Lane writes, and provided the family with a “certain sense of emotional closure regarding their fraught past” (p.256).   Lane does not indicate whether any additional works in the Gurlitt trove were returned to rightful owners.

* * *

In an Epilogue, Lane discusses an October 2018 exhibition in Berlin that featured 200 works from the Gurlitt trove, most by artists whom Hitler had labeled degenerate, including several Grosz street scenes.  German Culture Minister Monika Grütters made the opening remarks at the exhibition, noting how Germany had made progress in establishing institutions to deal with looted Nazi art.  But she never acknowledged that Germany had made any errors in how it had handled the Gurlitt case.  Nor did Minister Grütters address why the German government, by hiding the existence of the trove for more than a year, had “obstructed the very investigation into the art works that she now claimed to advocate” (p. 61).

By that time, moreover, Lane goes on to note, no high level German official had publicly backed the enactment of legislation, such as amending the statute of limitations, that would prevent a “future Gurlitt” from admitting to hiding Nazi-looted artworks while flaunting how the law protected him over the victims from whom the works had been stolen.  Lane’s answer to the question whether Germany had learned enough in the case she so  thoroughly investigated to prevent future Gurlitts  is a “resounding ‘no’” (p.266).

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

November 5, 2020

 

Pursuit of the Heroic

 

 

Elisha Waldman, This Narrow Space:

A Pediatric Oncologist, His Jewish, Muslim and Christian Patients,

and a Hospital in Jerusalem

(Schocken, $25.95)

 Pietro Bartolo and Lidia Tilotta, Tears of Salt:

A Doctor’s Story (Norton, $25.95)

                           The practice of medicine at its best – preventing and curing diseases, relieving pain and easing human suffering, helping families manage grief – is almost by definition noble, with a built-in potential for heroism that few other professions enjoy (comparisons to the practice of law come uneasily to mind).  Of course, not all medical practitioners realize their potential for heroism.  But the pursuit of the heroic is at the heart of two doctors’ recent memoirs: This Narrow Space: A Pediatric Oncologist, His Jewish, Muslim and Christian Patients, and a Hospital in Jerusalem, by Dr. Elisha Waldman; and Tears of Salt: A Doctor’s Story, by Dr. Pietro Bartolo and Lidia Tilotta.

Dr. Waldman, an American-born physician, worked for seven years as a pediatric oncologist in Israel at Jerusalem’s Hassadah Hospital, where he treated young cancer patients amidst the complexities of Israeli society, rigidly divided between Jews and Arabs.   During the migrant crises of the 21^st century’s second decade, Dr. Bartolo served as first medical responder for the waves of refugees from Africa and the Middle East arriving on the remote Mediterranean island of Lampedusa, a part of Italy but closer to Tunisia than to Sicily and the Italian mainland.  Bartolo was featured in the award-winning 2016 documentary film Fire at Sea, Fuoccoammare in Italian.

Of the two memoirs, Dr. Waldman’s is the more layered.  Treating young cancer patients in Jerusalem is part of a larger story of Waldman’s move from the United States to Israel, termed aliyah in Hebrew, a kind of religious and spiritual homecoming.   His memoir involves both his spiritual quest to know and better understand his Jewish religious faith and his more pragmatic efforts to fit into Israeli society, which he found bewilderingly in its complexity.  At its core, Dr. Waldman’s memoir entails his search for himself and the place where he thinks he belongs.

Dr. Bartolo, by contrast, maintains few doubts or second thoughts about who he is or where he belongs.   He grew up on Lampedusa and, after studying medicine in Sicily, returned as a young doctor to practice medicine on his home island, at a time before it became a focal point in the migrant crises of the 2010s.  His story, as told by himself and co-author Lidia Tilotta (and ably translated from the Italian by Chenxin Jiang), consists of one incident after another of unflinching work in the face of constant emergency conditions, as he tries to save the lives and ease the pain of migrants to Europe seeking to escape turmoil elsewhere in the world.

* * *

                         Elisha Waldman, the son of a Conservative rabbi, grew up in Connecticut.  As an undergraduate at Yale, he majored in religious studies.   Zionism was a crucial part of his upbringing.  He traveled often to Israel as a youth, and spent four years in medical school in Tel Aviv.  He explains his decision in 2007 to return to Israel to practice medicine: “Where better to explore my faith and identity than in the country that I had been raised to think of as my other home?” (W, p.24).

Upon arriving in Israel, Waldman went to work immediately at Hadassah, one of Jerusalem’s leading hospitals.  His accounts of his efforts to provide care and comfort to children afflicted with cancer are touching.  We meet many of his patients.  They come from both Jewish and Arab families.  Only a few are cured.   Most die.  Waldman could speak to his Jewish patients and their parents in his rapidly improving Hebrew, if not in English, but had to work through a translator with most Arab patients and their families.

Whatever the language, finding the right formula for communication with his young patients and their typically distraught parents proved consistently elusive.  The art of effective communication, Waldman notes, is not part of a doctor’s formal training, yet success as a pediatric oncologist depends on it.  “And it is there that we so often fail,” he writes.  In Israel, the additional factors of “multiple cultural and religious traditions, the incendiary politics of the area, and language differences can make effective communication seem almost impossible” (W, p.70).   Waldman wondered whether his Palestinian patients saw him as “another occupier, a foreign transplant who has come to take their land” (W, p.65).   With his attempts to show empathy to his Palestinian patients and their families, he hoped to represent to them a “more compassionate, more liberal side of the Zionist enterprise” (W, p.65).

One graphic example of the rigid the divide between Arabs and Jews in Israel occurred when Waldman had his initial meeting with an American-born Orthodox Jewish father of a child cancer patient.   Waldman’s trusted female assistant, Fatma, an Arab for whom he had great respect and an excellent professional rapport, was also part of thediscussion.   Afterward, the father took Waldman aside and told him that he was “a little uncomfortable with an Arab being in charge of my son’s care” (W, p.87).  The astounded Waldman wanted to tell the father that this insult to a cherished colleague and friend was the “opposite of everything I came to Israel for, everything I believe the state should be” (W, p.87).  But because the man’s son was to be his patient, Waldman had to tread lightly. “This is what the Zionist dream has become,” he writes despondently.  Two American Jews “sitting in Jerusalem, taking positions on the merits and trustworthiness of an Arab woman with roots in this city that go back centuries” (W, p.88).

The heart-breaking cases Waldman must deal with also raise the omnipresent question that he returns to throughout his memoir: how can the God Waldman wants to believe in allow these young people to be afflicted by this frequently fatal disease? Why must these innocent children suffer this cruel and unwarranted fate?  His initial reaction at being exposed to so much suffering was to give up on God.  “Why not simply abandon the idea of God, when so much evidence would seem to point to the impossibility of His existence?” (W, p.129).   But he fell back on the notion of “process theology,” a notion he had studied as an undergraduate which posits that God is good but limited: “Although He has a will in this world and wishes only for good, there are certain things He cannot accomplish because they are beyond His control” (W, p.130).

Process theology conforms in an odd way with how Waldman looks at his role as a doctor: “I want only the best for my patient, I do my best for them, but sometimes it’s just not possible to achieve the miracle they are hoping for” (W, p.130).  Waldman’s experiences with his young cancer-afflicted patients led him to sense that there is “some force, whether it’s an omnipotent divine being or the irrepressible human sprit, that gives life meaning . . .  And despite the sometimes harrowing things I see, my faith may wobble but it doesn’t ever fail completely” (W, p.126-27).

Largely unsuccessful in answering the overriding theological question of why “terrible things happen to good and innocent people,” (W, p.126), Waldman realized a more immediate and tangible success in establishing Israel’s first palliative care unit at Hadassah.  The concept of palliative care, he explains, has generally been understood too narrowly, consisting strictly of measures to provide end-of-life dignity and comfort.   But there is a more holistic approach to palliative care that focuses upon providing a “broad spectrum of support for children and their families, regardless of the patient’s prognosis” (W, p.186).  A palliative care team might be called to “help think about particularly challenging symptoms, such as complex pain management or sleep issues.  Sometimes we are called to help patents and their families with difficult decision-making regarding treatments or interventions” (p.168).

In 2008, the medical profession in the United States recognized the holistic approach to palliative care as a separate medical subspecialty, with its own training programs and board certification. But the approach was largely unknown in Israel.  When Waldman pitched the idea to Israeli colleagues, the initial reaction of many was skeptical.   “So you basically just talk? . . . That’s so American” (W, p.186), one told him.  Others, especially within the oncology department at Hadassah, were intrigued.  Waldman took a leave of absence from Hadassah to take training in Boston in holistic palliative care.  He returned to Israel eager to advance what he had learned in Boston, and went on to become the country’s leading proponent.  He also engaged in fund raising in the United States to create facilities at Hadassah and elsewhere in Israel for the holistic approach to palliative care.

But Waldman’s efforts to institutionalize holistic palliative care in Israel ran up against several realities of Israeli life, among them a series of draconian cuts to Hadassah’s operating budget and an ensuing staff strike at the hospital.  Waldman became concerned that the funds he had raised for palliative care were being used for general hospital expenses, and was never able to get a clarifying answer from hospital administrators.  His efforts also coincided with a major civil conflict in Gaza and Jerusalem, after three Jewish teenagers had disappeared near the Gaza village of Hebron.  Three Israeli teenaged boys thereafter captured, tortured and killed a Palestinian boy in East Jerusalem, seemingly an act of revenge, and right wing Jewish thugs took to the street, beating up anyone who looked Palestinian or Arab.

By this time, Waldman had also found the woman of his life, a fellow American living in Israel. When he received an offer to set up and run a palliative care unit at a highly respected New York teaching hospital, with the job security he didn’t have in Israel, it turned out to be an offer he couldn’t refuse.  In 2014, Waldman and his future wife returned to the United States, leaving this reader feeling let down after being immersed in the heart-rending particulars of his interactions with his young cancer-afflicted patients in Jerusalem.  Today Dr. Waldman is chief of the division of pediatric palliative care at the Ann and Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago.

* * *

                         Pietro Bartolo is the son of a fisherman, one of seven children.  As a boy, he learned from his father the skills needed to survive and succeed in this challenging line of work.  He begins his memoir with an incident at sea in which he nearly drowned, when the future doctor was 16 years old.  The trauma never left him.  He didn’t know it at the time, but his subsequent life would be “scarred by a capricious sea that spits out living or dead bodies at will” (B, p.14-15).  His memoir is a series of short anecdotes, not arranged in chronological or any other discernible order, in which his interactions with migrants arriving on Lampedusa are interspersed with accounts of his youth and personal background.  “Tears of salt,” the book’s title, refers to how saltwater winds and breezes mix with one’s own tears.  Such tears flow frequently when Bartolo proves unable to save a life, or mitigate an injury or pain of refugees, typically fleeing terrorism,  civil war and political unrest.

Libya is the common departure point for most of the migrants arriving on Lampedusa, with a hellish desert crossing preceding a hellish journey across the sea.  The migrants’ ordeals are difficult to understand unless one has made the trip, Bartolo explains:

The heat is stifling. You are crammed onto a pickup truck, and if you so much as sit in the wrong place, you will be thrown out and left to die. When the water runs out, you are reduced to drinking your own urine. Finally you arrive in Libya and think the nightmare is over, but it has only just begun: ill treatment, prison, torture. Only if you manage to survive all of this do you finally make it onto a boat. Only then, if you do not die on the open sea, will you arrive at your destination and begin to hope that your life can start all over again (B, p.23).

The first wave of migrants began to arrive on Lampedusa in the first quarter of 2011, at the height of the Arab Spring.  Arrivals continued throughout the decade and surged a second time in 2015, in part as fallout from the civil war in Syria.  Two horrific shipwrecks took place near Lampedusa within days of one another in October 2013.  The first, with refugees from Eritrea, Somalia, and Ghana, caused nearly 400 deaths. The second, involving Syrians and Palestinians, resulted in 34 deaths.

One of the survivors of the latter shipwreck explained to Bartolo that when their boat capsized, he was carrying his nine-month-old daughter in his arms and trying to keep his three-year-old son and wife afloat.  With no help arriving, the man was faced with an irrevocable choice: if he kept treading water, all four of them would drown.  In the end, he opened his right hand, and let go of his son. He watched his son “disappear forever under the waves” (B, p.48-49).  Although a doctor is “not supposed to let his patients see that he is overwhelmed,” Bartolo could not help weeping with the man. “I did not have it in me to hold myself together” (B, p.49),  he writes.

Equally horrific is the story of a boat that arrived on Lampedusa in 2011.   Although the passengers seemed distraught, they also did not appear to have abnormal physical symptoms.  But in a freezer normally used for storing fish, Bartolo inadvertently stepped upon several corpses, mostly young people.  The young bodies were “naked, piled on top of each other, some with limbs intertwined. It was Dantesque” (B, p.144).  The victims had clearly been beaten and the traffickers had threatened and intimidated the survivors into silence.  For days afterward, Bartolo writes, “I could think of nothing else . . .When I thought about the brutes that did this, I saw red” (B, p.146).

As a witness to this level of inhumanity, Bartolo, although religious, is impatient with the type of ruminations on faith that run through Waldman’s memoir.  His response to the question how and why a loving God can allow large-scale human suffering is blunt:

God? God has nothing to do with this. It is human beings who are to blame, not God. Greedy, ruthless human beings who put their trust in money and power . . . those who are willing to let half the world live in poverty, who sanction conflict and even finance it. The problem is human beings, not God (B, p.120).

The 2016 documentary film Fire at Sea, the work of distinguished film director Gianfranco Rosi, turned out to be a proverbial godsend for Bartolo, who had been looking for a way to tell the world more about the migrant crisis on Lampedusa than what was contained in quickly forgotten news clips.  The film sets the dangerous sea crossing against everyday life on Lampedusa.  Bartolo saw the film for the first time in Berlin, where it was a finalist in the Golden and Silver Bears competition.  It was precisely what he had been seeking: a “raw, unequivocally clear message that would shatter all the lies and prejudice surrounding this issue, awaken the public conscience, and open people’s eyes” (B, p.143).  The film was “not just a documentary: it was a complicated narrative told at a measured pace and in hushed tones, but with captivating power and subtlety” (B, p.142).

In the memoir’s personal background anecdotes, Bartolo recounts how he grew up in the post World War II era, a time in Italy when the sons – and, to a lesser extent, daughters — of fishermen, farmers and factory workers could for the first time realistically aspire to be doctors, lawyers, engineers or teachers.  Bartolo’s father, adamant that his son should not follow in his footsteps as a fisherman, sent him to boarding school in Sicily because Lampedusa lacked a quality secondary school.  While in boarding school, he met his future wife Rita.  Returning to Lampedusa after Bartolo completed his medical studies  in Sicily was a difficult move for Rita.  The couple had three children, two girls, Grazia and Rosanna, followed by a boy, Giacomo, and Bartolo provides his readers with glimpses of each.

Looming inescapably in the background of Dr. Bartolo’s personal and professional stories is the island of Lampedusa, “[b]reathtakingly beautiful and breathtakingly remote” (B, p.18).  Lampedusa is not an easy place to live, Bartolo acknowledges, a “small piece of the earth’s crust that broke off from Africa and drifted toward Europe.  As such, it is something of a symbolic gateway between the two continents” (B, p.186).   The island was arguably the most welcoming spot on earth for incoming refugees during the last decade’s recurrent refugee crises.  Although there is no hard proof that it was so welcoming in large measure because of Dr. Bartolo’s efforts, readers instinctively feel that this is the case.  In 2019, Dr. Bartolo was elected to the European Parliament as a member of the center-left Democracy party and now may be found as frequently in Brussels and Strasbourg as on Lampedusa.

* * *

                             The migrant crises of the last decade may have fueled ugly xenophobia, hyper-nationalism and racism among large swaths of Europeans.  But they brought out the heroism in Dr. Bartolo, which seems to jump off every page of his brutally forthright memoir.   Dr. Waldman’s efforts to bridge the seemingly intractable divides of modern Israel in caring for cancer-afflicted children are also heroic, but commingled in his memoir with his quest to find his inner self.   In different ways, each memoir constitutes a reminder of the nobility of which the medical profession is capable.

Thomas H. Peebles

Prospect, Kentucky USA

February 10, 2020

More Than Just an Abundance of Good Music

Danny Goldberg, In Search of the Lost Chord:

1967 and the Hippie Idea (Akashic Books, $25.95)

 Stuart Cosgrove, Detroit 67:

The Year That Changed Soul Music (Polygon, £9.99)

                With good reason, there is a profusion of literature on 1968, one of those years that seemed to change everything and in which everything seemed to change.  Across the globe, student-led protests challenged the post World War II status quo. In May 1968, students and workers nearly toppled the government in France, while the student-inspired “Prague Spring” in Czechoslovakia ended in a Soviet invasion in August.  In the United States, 1968 is remembered less for student protests, although there were plenty of those, and more for two devastating assassinations sixty days apart, Martin Luther King, Jr. in April and Robert Kennedy in June.  1968 was also the year of an infamous police riot at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago that summer, followed by a closely contested Presidential election in the fall that resulted in the election of future Watergate unindicted co-conspirator Richard Nixon.  By comparison, the previous year, 1967, has rarely been singled out for book-length treatment.

If that’s an oversight, it has been rectified with two recent books addressing the year that set the stage for 1968: Danny Goldberg’s In Search of the Lost Chord: 1967 and the Hippie Idea, and Stuart Cosgrove’s Detroit 67: The Year That Changed Soul Music.  As the titles indicate, the two works focus on different aspects of 1967.  In what he terms a “subjective and highly selective history” (G., p.17), Goldberg, today a prominent music industry executive, describes the “hippie idea,” an elusive notion sometimes referred to as the “counterculture.” Cosgrove, a British journalist, examines with much stylistic flair the city of Detroit and its Motown Record Company during a particularly fraught year: in July 1967, Detroit suffered a devastating civil disorder that accelerated a downward spiral in the city’s fortunes that has yet to be fully reversed (three other reviews on this blog address Detroit’s spiral downward, here, here, and here).

Goldberg’s hippie idea was the loose sum of a variety of different tendencies and groups — Goldberg calls them “tribes” — as often as not at odds with one another.  It was “like a galloping horse in the wild,” no one ever controlled it (G., 15), he writes.  Yet, somehow, “dozens of separate, sometimes contradictory ‘notes’ from an assortment of political, spiritual, chemical, demographic, historical, and media influences” collectively created a “unique energy” (G., p.16-17).  The hippie idea peaked in 1967 with what came to be popularly known as “the Summer of Love,” when the author was 16.  But by the end of 1967, the counterculture and Goldberg’s hippie idea had entered a new and darker phase, with the summer of love never fully recaptured.

Detroit’s phenomenally successful Motown Records by 1967 was a mind-boggling collection of talent that included Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Mary Wells, Martha and the Vandellas, and Stevie Wonder, all under the tutelage of one Barry Gordy. Cosgrove’s lead character, Gordy was to Motown what Steve Jobs was to Apple: the founding father, driving force and marketing genius who put together a company that revolutionized an industry, popular music.  Motown lived through no summer of love in 1967 and, like Detroit itself, was on a downward spiral as the year ended.  Much of Cosgrove’s emphasis is upon how Detroit’s fall and that of Motown Records were intertwined.

1967’s popular music provides one key link between what otherwise appear to be two disparate works headed in different directions.  Motown had risen to prominence by making African-American popular music – initially called “Rhythm and Blues” or more simply “r & b” but by 1967 more frequently termed “soul” music – palatable to “mainstream” audiences, young and mostly white.  The world famous Motown sound “softened the rough edges of rhythm and blues, [and] draped the music in the familiar cadences of teenage love,” to the point that it was sometimes derided as “bubblegum soul” (C., p.5), Cosgrove writes.  But in 1967, young, white audiences were often looking elsewhere for their music, especially to the sound most closely identified with the counterculture and Goldberg’s hippie idea, perhaps best known as psychedelic rock, with Motown struggling to compete.

While young America was listening to an abundance of music in 1967, two overriding issues were tearing American society apart: the Vietnam War and the movement for full equality for African-Americans.  In different ways, these two weighty matters undermined both the counterculture and Motown Records, and constitute the indispensable backdrop to both authors’ narratives.  Richard Nixon’s narrow electoral victory the following year capitalized upon a general reaction in mainstream America to the counterculture and its excesses, which many equated with opposition to the Vietnam War; and upon reaction to the violence and urban disorders throughout the country, for which Detroit had become the prime symbol, which white America often conflated with the cause of African-American advancement.  As much as the music of 1967, the Vietnam War and racial unrest link these two works.

* * *

               One of the more enduring if anodyne songs from 1967 was Scott McKenzie’s “San Francisco,” whose official title included a parenthetical sub-title “Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair.”  Among the song’s key lines: “There’s a whole generation/With a new explanation.” Goldberg’s work seems to strive to articulate that “explanation,” his hippie idea; it makes clear that San Francisco was indeed the place to experience that explanation in 1967.  The city where Tony Bennett had left his heart a few years previously was undoubtedly the epicenter of Goldberg’s hippie idea, especially its Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, in 1967 the “biggest counterculture magnet in the Western world” (G., p.30; nine summers hence, in 1976, I lived in the Haight neighborhood, a time when the summer of love was but a faded memory).

Although centered in San Francisco, Goldberg’s account also emphasizes what was going on in New York during 1967 – the Lower East Side was the Haight’s “psychic cousin” (G., p. 56) in 1967, he writes — with occasional looks elsewhere, including London.  Conspicuously absent is any discussion of the continent of Europe in the  year prior to  the earthshaking events in 1968 in France, Czechoslovakia, and elsewhere.  This is a work first and foremost about the United States.  At times the work reads like a college undergraduate textbook account of what  was going on in 1967 in and around the US counterculture, as if Goldberg were trying to enlighten those not yet born in 1967 on all that  their hippie parents and grandparents were up to and concerned about more than a half century ago, when they were the same age or younger.

Goldberg considers what was called a “Be In,” a musical event that took place in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park in January 1967, to be the unofficial start marking the year as unlike its predecessors.  Organized in large part by poet Allen Ginsburg, one of the leading 1950s “beatnik” literary lights who was fully at home with the much younger hippies, the event attracted some 30,000 people.  Janis Joplin, Jerry Garcia, and Gracie Slick performed; all lived nearby in the Haight neighborhood, not far from one another.  Radical activist Jerry Rubin pontificated about politics and it was a turn-off, not well received by the energetic young crowd. The event also marked LSD advocate Timothy Leary’s first West Coast public appearance, in which he repeated what would become his signature phrase “Turn on, tune in, drop out.”  But the main point of the event, Goldberg contends, was simply “for members of the crowd to experience one another” (G., p.53).

Goldberg was not present for the Be In, but he was in San Francisco for a good portion of the summer, and his experiences there and elsewhere that year are very much part of his story.  He candidly reveals how he used LSD and other mind expanding drugs,  as well as how the music of 1967 seemed to feed off the drugs.  As the years have past, he reflects, the music has proven to be the “most resilient trigger of authentic memories,” even as much of it has been “gradually drained of meaning by repetitive use in TV shows, movies, and commercials, all trying to leverage nostalgia” (G., p.27).

1967 was the year of the Monterey International Pop Festival, which introduced Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, Ravi Shankar, and Janis Joplin to large audiences (Redding’s participation in that event was part of my review of his biography here in February 2018).   By 1967, Bob Dylan had already achieved mythic status.  “There is no way to overstate Dylan’s influence on other artists or on my generation” (p.167), Goldberg writes.  The Beatles in 1967 were in the “throes of a level of productivity that future artists would marvel at” (G., p.177).   Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant came out in 1967.  Judy Collins made a splash by introducing Leonard Cohen songs.  Joan Baez had some popular songs, but in 1967 was more political activist than singer.  Haight-Asbury hippies considered McKenzie’s “San Francisco” a “simplistic exploitation of their scene” (G., p.150).

The counterculture appreciated but did not prioritize the soul music of the type that Motown was churning out.  Along with the Beatles, the Rolling Stones were staples of counterculture musical fare in 1967, but there were numerous additional British artists and groups vying for American audiences and American dollars that year.  Among them, the Scottish singer Donavon Phillips Leitch, known better as “Donavon” and known best for his 1967 hit “Sunshine Superman,” probably resonated most deeply with the counterculture.

Goldberg manages to lift his work beyond popular musical nostalgia and provide it with heft through his assessment of how the 1967 counterculture interacted with African-Americans’ struggles and the anti-war movement.  He also takes shorter looks at other weighty matters of the day, including the rise of women’s rights, environmentalism, and what we would today call gay rights.  Although strong support in the abstract for full equality for African-Americans was a non-negotiable common denominator of the counterculture, Goldberg rightly stresses the often-strained relations between the African-American community and the psychedelic world of the mostly white, frequently affluent hippies.

Goldberg confesses that he is perplexed and even ashamed today that Martin Luther King was not a more revered figure in the counterculture in 1967.  But in his last full year,King was the object of criticism from all sides.  His decision that year to oppose the war in Vietnam “permanently shattered his relationship with many in the liberal and moderate worlds” (G., p.202).  A fiery generation of younger black activists also challenged King in 1967, including Stokely Carmichael and the Black Panthers, a group based in Oakland, California, across the bay from San Francisco.  The younger activists rejected King’s traditional civil rights vision of integration with the white mainstream, to be achieved through non-violence.  “Black Power” was their slogan, with black control of black communities their most immediate objective. They were loath to renounce violence as a means to obtain their objective.

Opposition to the war in Vietnam was less abstract for 1967’s hippies, given that males over the age of 18 were subject to the draft. For the hippies, Muhammad Ali was a more revered than King because of his resistance to the draft.  1967 was the year Ali refused to be inducted into the military, was tried and found guilty of Selective Service violations, and stripped of his boxing title.  But Ali, a recent convert to the Nation of Islam, was a curious figure for reverence.  His creed of no smoking, drinking or drugs, and his disapproval of interracial dating, was wholly at odds with the counterculture ethos.

Just as the African-American community and the era’s hippies were frequently not in sync, opposition to the war brought out tensions between the most dedicated anti-war activists and much of the hippie community, with the former considering the latter frivolous and unserious. Goldberg attributes much significance to a major October antiwar march in Washington, the March on the Pentagon,  “arguably the last time that liberals, political radicals, and countercultural hippies effectively combined energies” (G., p.284).  Already, the various tribes had started to go their separate ways and that parting accelerated as 1967 drew to a close:

Hippies often felt that the antiwar “leaders” were boring and/or too angry.  Radicals and liberals accused hippies of being self-indulgent.  The old left claimed that the new left had no discipline.  Young radicals were not all that impressed with what the old left had accomplished.   Within each of these broad categories there were numerous sects, which were frequently at odds with each other.  At the same time, the American government and establishment increasingly harassed the civil rights and antiwar movements (G. p.268).

Goldberg doesn’t hide a dark underside to the 1967 counterculture.  A few “violent, delusional members of the peace movement discredited the movement in its entirety,” he writes. “An earnest spiritual movement became obscured by stoned, pontificating buffoons” (G., p.27).  There were, he writes elsewhere, “a lot of wolves in sheep’s clothing” who “tried to take advantage of psychologically damaged kids who had been attracted to the hippie culture” (G., p.261).  In 1967 Haight-Ashbury, the “open sexuality in hippie culture was exploited by a predictable number of macho jerks” (G., p.303).

Stating what now seems all too obvious, Goldberg finds it was very naïve in 1967 to think that there could be “instant world peace” (G., p.335).  The hippie idea of prioritizing peace and love, he cautions, wasn’t a “gateway into a new age, just a flash to indicate that something different was possible” (G., p.337).

* * *

               Unlike Goldberg, Cosgrove arranges his book chronologically, in 12 monthly chapters, with Gordy a presence in each.  More than any other individual of his time, Gordy grasped how to bring African-American popular music into mainstream — that is white — America.  But by 1967, Gordy was losing his grasp on what white America wanted in its music.  He was “uneasy with strident political opinion and saw the counterculture, especially drug inspired lyrics, as a dangerous distraction” (C., p.390).  Although he initially resisted efforts to allude to drugs, racial discontent and protest over the Vietnam War in Motown music, he relented toward the end of the year with Marvin Gaye’s iconic “What’s Going On,” which addressed all three.

Gordy moreover always considered Motown personnel to be one big, happy family and appeared flummoxed by growing disaccord that seemed to be on the rise among his stars throughout 1967.  His most visible internal problem was the in fighting within the Supremes, three photogenic young women with soaring voices, the main subject of Cosgrove’s early chapters.  A group whose origins were in the “the raw ghetto sounds of Detroit R & B,” the Supremes had been “magically transformed into the greatest girl group ever.”  Their songs “seemed to be blindly unaware of radical social change and looked backward with nostalgia . . . For some it was an audacious achievement and a triumph over racism; for other, it was a shimmering compromise” (C., p.329).

What many people listening to the Supremes in 1967 probably didn’t realize is that the group by then had become almost totally dysfunctional, due primarily to the breakdown in the relationship between two of its three members, lead singer Diana Ross and Florence Ballard.  By the spring of 1967, the two rarely spoke; they frequently took separate transportation to their engagements.  The third Supreme, Mary Wilson, was caught in the middle, unable to bridge the chasms and diminish the enmity that existed between her two partners.

Ballard had more than her share of personal and psychological problems; by 1967, she had become was a full-fledged alcoholic. Her erratic behavior prompted Gordy to line up a replacement for her when she was unable or unwilling to perform.  Ballard retaliated by filing suit against Motown, embroiling the company in litigation that lasted years.  She died of a heart attack in 1976, at age thirty-two.  Her early death “attached itself like a stigma to Motown, and for the remainder of his career it pursued Berry Gordy like a dark phantom” (C., p.421).

To complicate matters further for Gordy, Martha and the Vandellas, the number two girls’ group in the Motown pecking order, ended the year in a similar state of disaccord.  Martha Reeves, the group’s lead singer, had somehow managed to alienate her supporting Vandellas, Betty Kelly and Rosalline Ashford.  There is “no simple way to describe the layers of vitriol that surrounded the Vandellas,” Cosgrove writes, “fuelled by drug abuse, backstage jealousies and hurtful arguments” (C.,p.295-96).   As luck would have it, the Vandellas’ last high profile concert together took place at the Fox Theatre downtown on the weekend when the July civil disorder broke out a couple of short miles away.

Cosgrove’s July chapter is consumed by the disorder, an altogether too familiar story for Detroiters of a certain age – how it occurred on an early Sunday morning some 52 years ago, as police broke up what was known in Detroit lingo as a “blind pig,” an after-hours drinking establishment where most of the patrons had gathered that Sunday morning to celebrate a young man’s safe return from Vietnam; how it somehow spun quickly out of control; and how it devastated huge swaths of the city.  There’s nothing new or novel in Cosgrove’s account but, as always, it makes for painful reading for Detroiters who saw their city implode before their eyes.

Although Motown survived the July disorder “largely unscathed,” it marked the end of the “musical gold rush that had made Detroit the most creative black-music city ever” (C., p.268).   In the final months of 1967, Gordy began to contemplate what had previously been unimaginable, that Motown’s future might lie elsewhere than in Detroit: “The city that had given Motown its global identity and had been home to the greatest black-owned company in musical history was increasingly associated in the minds of the American public with urban decay, violent crime and social unrest,” Cosgrove writes. “Berry Gordy had begun to lose patience with one of his greatest romances: he had fallen out of love with Detroit” (C.p.297-98).  Gordy opened an office in Los Angeles in 1967 and moved all the company’s operations from Motown to Tinseltown in the early 1970s.

Playing in the background, so to speak, throughout Cosgrove’s month-by-month account is the kind of music Goldberg was listening to, the psychedelic rock that reflected the changing taste of the white middle class.  One Detroit group, the MC5 –“MC” standing for Motor City — achieved national prominence for a form which Cosgrove terms “insurrectionary garage rock” (C., p.12), far removed from the soft Motown sound (Goldberg mentions the MC5 briefly).  In the last months of 1967, Gordy moved lightly into the music of the counterculture with a hybrid form later known as “psychedelic soul,” reflected in the Temptations’ album Cloud Nine.

The unlikely spokesman for the local psychedelic hard rock sound was John Sinclair, who appears periodically throughout Cosgrove’s account, as if a foil to the straight laced Gordy.  Sinclair was an omnipresent promoter of many forms of music – he loved jazz way more the psychedelic hard rock – and also a promoter of mind altering drugs. He aggressively advocated the use of marijuana and much else, making him a target for law enforcement.  Sinclair spent time in jail for his promotion of the drugs and mind-altering substances of the type that Goldberg and his friends were indulging in and were at the heart of the counterculture.

* * *

               In an “Afterword” to the most recent paperback edition of Goldberg’s book, entitled “The Hippie Idea in the Age of Trump,” Goldberg valiantly strives to explain how a dormant form of the summer of love lives on in an era dominated by the current White House occupant.   Goldberg doesn’t try to draw a direct line from Nixon to Trump, but notes that the counterculture precipitated a “reaction of the right that we did not predict that is still reverberating today” (G., p.335).  Although immigration was not the issue in 1968 that it became in 2016, Trump’s narrow electoral victory capitalized on racial and cultural divisions similar to those that had helped pave Nixon’s path to the White House.

President Trump was a mere lad of 21 during the Summer of Love, but an improbable participant  – might the bone spurs that kept him out of the draft have also prevented him from traveling to San Francisco that summer?  The President seems unlikely to have fit into any of the disparate groups that make up Goldberg’s hippie idea; and it seems further unlikely that the man gets into his presidential groove today by listening to a collection of Greatest Motown Hits.  But wherever and whatever the President may have been fifty-two years ago, Goldberg and Cosgrove remind us not only how good the music was back then but also how much else was going on in 1967.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

August 26, 2019

Public Intellectual Within the Portals of Power

 

 

 

Richard Aldous, Schlesinger:

The Imperial Historian (W Norton & Co.)

                Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. (1917-2007) is best known today for serving as a presidential advisor to President John F. Kennedy and, after Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963, writing what amounted to a quasi-official history of the short Kennedy presidency, A Thousand Days: John F. Kennedy in the White House.  Schlesinger entered the White House in 1961 as one of America’s most accomplished 20^th century historians, with highly regarded works on the presidencies of Andrew Jackson and Franklin Roosevelt already to his credit; and as a political activist who had helped define post-World War II anti-communist liberalism and advised the unsuccessful 1952 and 1956 presidential campaigns of Illinois Governor Adlai Stevenson.  Schlesinger thus personified what we might today term a “public intellectual,” a top-notch historian who also engaged in politics throughout his adult life.

                Schlesinger’s A Thousand Days received favorable reviews, became an immediate best seller, and won the 1966 Pulitzer Prize for biography.   But the book has not aged well, and today is often dismissed as hagiography.  It helped cement Schlesinger’s reputation, deservedly or not, as an acolyte of the Kennedys, their pit bull defender in the court of public opinion.  A Thousand Days and Schlesinger’s post-White House years raise the question whether historians can enter the public arena as political actors, yet remain true to their calling when they seek to write about their real-world experiences.  Richard Aldous, author of an incisive analysis of the relationship between President Ronald Reagan and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, reviewed  here in June 2013, wrestles with this intriguing question in his biography, Schlesinger: The Imperial Historian. 

                Aldous suggests that Schlesinger might fairly be considered the last of the “progressive” historians, a group that included Frederick Jackson Turner, Charles Beard and his father, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Sr., himself an eminent professor of American history at Harvard University.  The younger Schlesinger  “believed in the uses of history and in useful history” (p.191), Aldous writes.  But was he a “great and important historian, a model of how academics and public service can mix?” he asks.  Or “was he a popularizer and court historian held captive to the Establishment that nurtured his career?”  (p.2-3).  No clear-cut answer to this question emerges from Aldous’ study, but he explores its implications adeptly in this crisply written and thoroughly researched biography, arranged chronologically (assiduous readers of this blog will recall Schlesinger’s collection of letters, reviewed here in December 2015).

                Along the way, Aldous traces the several paths that Schlesinger traveled to become one of America’s most prominent public intellectuals of the post-World War II era.  He provides good if not necessarily fresh insights into the personalities of Stevenson and Kennedy, the two stars to whom Schlesinger hitched his political wagon, coupled with one more  tour of the Kennedy White House (another such tour is Robert Dallek’s Camelot’s Court: Inside the Kennedy White House, also reviewed here in December 2015).   The post-White House years in Aldous’ account were less kind to Schlesinger, who found his unabashed liberalism yielding to other approaches to politics and the writing of history.

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                  Readers may be surprised to learn that Schlesinger was not born a “junior.”  As a teenager, he determined to change his name from Arthur Bancroft Schlesinger to Arthur Meier Schlesinger, Jr.  It was an odd change, since Bancroft was not merely his mother’s maiden name.  She was descended from one of America’s greatest 19^th century historians, George Bancroft, a man whom Schlesinger later came to revere as a prime example of an “historian-participant.”  But the name change symbolized the extent to which Schlesinger was beholden to his father, who never lost his grip on his son.

                 Young Arthur was a gifted student who skipped grades and thus was two years younger and significantly smaller than his classmates in secondary school.  He performed brilliantly but was socially awkward due to the age difference.  When it came time to go to university, there was no real choice.  He went to Harvard, where he took many of his father’s courses and was, as Aldous puts it, a “homing bird, happy living in his father’s intellectual coop,” (p.28).  Schlesinger and John Kennedy, born the same year, were contemporaries at Harvard but had little interaction.  Schlesinger was a serious student, Kennedy significantly less so. 

                 Schlesinger graduated summa cum laude from Harvard in 1938, and even then had been spotted as an upcoming historian slated for distinction in the field.   His father had steered him to a senior thesis on an obscure 19^th intellectual, Orestes Brownson, which led to a book on Brownson published in 1939, the first of many for the budding scholar.  His father pulled the appropriate strings for its publication (which Aldous’ compares to Joseph Kennedy’s efforts on behalf of his son John’s senior thesis on the 1938 Munich crisis, published as Why England Slept).  In his work on Brownson, Schlesinger sought to demonstrate how venal and anti-democratic business interests worked against the interests of common people, a youthful perspective that would be reflected in his subsequent studies of Andrew Jackson and Franklin Roosevelt.

                As war loomed in Europe, Schlesinger spent the academic year 1938-39 on a fellowship at Peterhouse College, Cambridge, after graduation from Harvard.  He returned to Harvard for graduate studies, where his seminal work on Jackson began to take form.   American entry into World War II in 1941 precluded him from putting the final touches to his work, and bad eyesight prevented him from enlisting in the armed forces until nearly the end of the war.   But Schlesinger had a series of desk jobs during the war years, in Washington, D.C., and London.

                Among them was a stint at the Research and Analysis section of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the predecessor to the CIA.   There,  he analyzed Nazi propaganda, which he considered a waste of time.  Aldous recounts how a disagreement with Maurice Halperin, head of the OSS Latin America desk, over how to characterize a change of governments in Bolivia resulted in an altercation between the two that may have involved physical blows and led to a less-than-favorable performance evaluation for Schlesinger, who was chided for his lack of “cooperativeness” (p.82).  Halperin was subsequently exposed as a Soviet spy, reinforcing Schlesinger’s conviction that there could be no accommodation between American liberalism and Communism.

                After the war, Schlesinger returned to Harvard, where he finished The Age of Jackson.  The work challenged the then widely held notion of Jacksonian democracy as a regional phenomenon confined primarily to the western frontier.  For Schlesinger, Jacksonian democracy was national in scope, characterized by a vigorous federal government countering entrenched business interests on behalf of urban workers and small farmers across the country, including in the Northeast.  Schlesinger won a Pulitzer Prize for The Age of Jackson at the impossibly young age of 29, aided in part by his father’s lobbying on his behalf.  While not determinative, the senior Schlesinger’s efforts marked another instance, Aldous writes, of Arthur Jr. “living on the inside track, a placement that had served him well throughput his rise to national prominence, so often giving him a head start in an always-competitive race” (p.102).  The Age of Jackson was criticized in subsequent years for ignoring issues of Indian removal, race and gender, criticism that its author admitted was valid.  But Schlesinger’s study remains, Aldous indicates, the point of reference against which other studies of the Jacksonian era continue to be measured.   

                Schlesinger’s first volume of The Age of Roosevelt,  The Crisis of the Old Order, appeared in 1957, with The Coming of the New Deal appearing in 1959 and The Politics of Upheaval in 1960.  Schlesinger never completed the last two volumes in what he had envisioned as a five-volume series.

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                No ivory tower recluse, Schlesinger in 1948 joined famed theologian Reinhold Niebuhr and a group of other prominent Americans, including John Kenneth Galbraith, Hubert Humphrey and Walter Reuther, to form the Americans for Democratic Action (ADA), a group that sought to mobilize support for what became mainstream American liberalism of the 1950s.  The ADA championed a strong federal government to regulate capitalism, assist those working within the capitalist economy, promote civil rights, and advance the national interest, while respecting civil liberties yet taking a vigorous stand against Communism at home and abroad.  

                The following year saw the appearance of Schlesinger’s The Vital Center: The Politics of Freedom, his first overtly political tract, in which he made the argument for liberal democracy as the only viable option for the post World War II era between the totalitarian temptations of Communism on the left and Fascism on the right.  The Vital Center turned out to be among Schlesinger’s “most enduring works” (p.139).   It was also a product of Schlesinger’s friendship with Niebuhr, another well-placed mentor for the rising academic star as he sought to influence the contemporary political debate.  Niebuhr gave Schlesinger “both the confidence and the intellectual underpinning” for The Vital Center, “which in turn would do more than perhaps any other book to popularize the theologian’s ideas” (p.137).

                Schlesinger moved even more directly into the political arena during the presidential campaigns of 1952 and 1956, supporting the candidacy of Adlai Stevenson.  Stevenson ran twice for president against American war hero Dwight Eisenhower, and lost by substantial margins each time. Schlesinger thought Stevenson had a chance to win the 1956 election because of Eisenhower’s heart attack the previous year, with lingering questions about his health and physical stamina giving the Democratic nominee a glimmer of hope.  Schlesinger entered into the Kennedy world during the 1960 presidential primary campaign as an intermediary between Stevenson, again a candidate, and Kennedy.

* * *

                Although Kennedy and Schlesinger hit it off well almost from the beginning, many within the Kennedy clan looked at him suspiciously, as a Stevenson infiltrator within their camp.  Schlesinger’s primary contribution to the 1960 general election between Kennedy and then Vice-President Richard Nixon was a book, Kennedy or Nixon: Does It Make any Difference, cobbled together quickly to dispel the notion that there was no substantive difference between the two candidates.   Schlesinger’s work, effusive in its praise for Kennedy, ’showed him “writing at his most brilliant and polemical best” (p.214), Aldous observes.

                 After Kennedy defeated Nixon by a narrow margin in the 1960 presidential election, Schlesinger eagerly accepted an offer to work at the White House.  Kennedy and Schlesinger reached what Aldous suggests was an implicit understanding that Schlesinger would at some point use his White House experience to write The Age of Kennedy, preserving – and perhaps defining – Kennedy’s legacy.  His official title at the White House was “Special Advisor to the President,” but it was a position that lacked both clearly defined duties and a place in the White House hierarchy, a formula that guaranteed confusion and friction with other White House officials.  Schlesinger and Theodore Sorenson, Kennedy’s long-term assistant, bumped heads frequently over speechwriting responsibilities as they both sought the president’s attention and favor.  Unlike Sorenson and most of the other officials with whom he was competing for presidential attention, Schlesinger had no staff at the White House.  It was therefore more difficult for him to stay in the loop on the key issues that were reverberating through the administration. 

                 Schlesinger often worried that Kennedy was “no liberal” (p.224) and, throughout his White House years, came to feel that he was an “embattled liberal minority in the White House, constantly forced to fight [for] his corner as the administration settled into an essentially conservative character” (p.266).  Still, Schlesinger wrote memos to the President – lots of them, long ones, and on a wide range of subjects.  Even Kennedy, who appreciated Schlesinger’s sharp intellect in a way that many of his subordinates did not, “seemed to tire of Schlesinger’s barrage of ideas and proposals” (p.302).  In the run-up to the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba in 1961, however, in the early months of the Kennedy presidency, Schlesinger wrote what in retrospect appears as a remarkably prescient memorandum. 

                Schlesinger’s memorandum tried to convince the president not to go forward with the operation, arguing that insufficient attention had been afforded to the operation’s long-term political implications.  At one point, he thought he had convinced the president, only to be told subsequently by brother Robert Kennedy that he should keep his doubts to himself.  The operation turned into a spectacular failure, a serious blot on the young presidency, and Schlesinger came to regret that he had too dutifully followed Robert’s directive to fall into line.  

                Schlesinger had no role during the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962.  He attended none of the major meetings, which were so secret he “did not even know that they were taking place”  (p.289).   Moreover, he showed little interest in Vietnam during his time in the White House, although he became a passionate opponent of the war during the Johnson years.  The major substantive area where he arguably had the greatest impact was on Berlin.  After Kennedy’s disastrous confrontation with Soviet Party Secretary and Premier Nikita Khrushchev in June 1961, Schlesinger pleaded with the President to reject the views of several hawks in the administration pushing for military solutions to the Berlin crisis (Kennedy’s meeting with Khrushchev is the subject of Frederick Kempe’s Berlin 1961: Kennedy, Khrushchev and the Most Dangerous Place on Earth, reviewed here in February 2013).  When the Soviets erected the infamous Berlin Wall in August of that year, Kennedy’s restrained response reflected the views Schlesinger had expressed a few weeks earlier.

                Kennedy’s assassination in November 1963 provided urgency to Schlesinger’s long-planned project to write The Age of Kennedy as a complement to his works on Jackson and Roosevelt.  Schlesinger’s “entire life had prepared him for this moment” (p.2), Aldous writes.  If he had been somewhat of an outlier in the Kennedy White House, he moved front and center in the Kennedy circle in the aftermath of the assassination.  The “legacy project mattered for everyone: for [Kennedy’s wife] Jackie in reinforcing the Camelot myth; and for [brother Robert], who had to position himself in relation to the dead president, not just the living one.  At stake was the political agenda for the ‘60s” (p.317).   Although Schlesinger stayed briefly into the Johnson administration, he left in the winter of 1964 to concentrate on the book. 

                 A Thousand Days, appearing in 1965, became the vehicle by which Schlesinger worked through his shock, depression and grief in the aftermath of the assassination.  Schlesinger termed his work a memoir rather than comprehensive history, “only a partial view” (p.319) which emphasized what he had seen first hand.  The book placed Kennedy squarely within the progressive tradition of Jackson and Franklin Roosevelt, rendering him arguably more liberal than he actually was.  Like Jackson and Roosevelt, the Kennedy in A Thousand Days, was “tough-minded” and “pragmatic” (p.326), ready to take on the moneyed elite for the benefit of the many.

                Eminent historian James MacGregor Burns, writing in the New York Times Book Review a month after delivering a withering review of a similar work by Theodore Sorenson, found that A Thousand Days had captured the “sweep and the ferment of the thousand days,” placing the Kennedy presidency in the “widest historical and intellectual frame.”  A “great president,” Burns concluded, had “found – perhaps he deliberately chose – a great historian” (p.331).  But by the end of the 20^th century, views on A Thousand Days had changed.  Typical were the 1998 observations of acerbic critic Christopher Hitchens, who termed the book a “court history” which served as the “founding breviary of the cult of JFK” (p.320).  Yet, to Aldous A Thousand Days still constitutes a “foundational text on the Kennedy administration.  Not only did Schlesinger establish the ‘first draft’ of history on the Kennedy years, but he offered an invaluable personal account of life on the inside. . . [T]he book remains a must for any historian working on Kennedy” (p.387). 

                 Much to his father’s dismay, Schlesinger had resigned from the Harvard faculty in 1962 to stay at the White House after taking the maximum allotted leaves of absence from the university.  He thus had no home to return to in 1965 when he finished A Thousand Days.  Just weeks prior to the book’s publication, moreover, the senior Schlesinger died suddenly of a heart attack, a devastating loss for Arthur Jr.  Later in 1965, the younger Schlesinger moved to New York to take a teaching position at City University of New York (CUNY).  In the same period, Schlesinger’s marriage of 25 years to wife Marian came unraveled.  Aldous does not dwell on Schlesinger’s personal life, but makes clear that his marriage was at times turbulent, enjoying more downs than ups.

                 Schlesinger had by this time become a vehement critic of Lyndon Johnson and the Vietnam War.  In 1967, he published a critique of the war, The Bitter Heritage, an “undisguised attack on the Johnson administration” and its “heedless military escalation” in Vietnam (p.342).  He supported Robert Kennedy’s short-lived presidential campaign in 1968, and was again gripped by depression and grief when he too was assassinated in June of that year.  The death of the second Kennedy, along with that two months earlier of Martin Luther King, Jr., represented the “destruction of a broader idea,” bringing to an “ugly, violent end the optimism that framed much of Schlesinger’s life” (p.349).  For Schlesinger, the 1960s had become the “decade of the murder of hope” (p.351). 

* * *

                 Schlesinger continued to write while teaching at CUNY, but never finished The Age of Roosevelt, and never published anything approaching The Age of Jackson in stature.  In 1973, in the midst of the Watergate crisis, he produced The Imperial Presidency, a work that upbraided Johnson and Nixon’s presidential usurpations, while largely absolving Kennedy of any such transgressions (the book’s title appears to have yielded Aldous’ strained subtitle, which seems off point as applied to Schlesinger the historian).  In 1978, Robert Kennedy and His Times appeared, a biography Schlesinger had reluctantly agreed to write in the aftermath of the younger Kennedy’s assassination a decade earlier.  The work was greeted with mostly lukewarm reviews.

                Schlesinger supported George McGovern’s 1972 bid for the presidency, which he lost in a landslide to Richard Nixon.  He had to strain to generate enthusiasm for the last two Democratic presidents of his lifetime, Southerners Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton  (Clinton, Aldous reports, searched in vain for his own Schlesinger to “take care of the history,” p.387).  Neither espoused the pragmatic federal activism that Schlesinger had championed since the late 1940s.  Schlesinger further worried that the Democratic Party’s emphasis upon what we would today call “identity politics” – highlighting the interests of minorities, women, gays – risked undermining its capacity to unite working and middle class voters across racial and ethnic lines.  And he similarly worried that the emphasis on race, gender and sexual orientation in the writing of history had superseded his more traditional approach.

* * *

                 Schlesinger died in 2007, just short of his 90^th birthday.  Although “perhaps the most famous historian of his time,” unlike most of  his fellow historians, Schlesinger was, Aldous writes, “never quite sure whether his loyalties lay mostly with his profession or with the people whose lives he chronicled” (p.2-3).

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

June 10, 2019

Not Unfathomable

Peter Hayes, Why: Explaining the Holocaust 

            In thinking about the Holocaust, Nazi Germany’s project to exterminate Europe’s Jewish population, words like “incomprehensible” or “unfathomable” often come to mind as the only adequate descriptors.  How could Germany, that cultured land of Beethoven and Bach, Hegel and Kant, become the country of mass murderers Hitler and Himmler? How could so many “ordinary Germans,” to borrow a phrase from the Holocaust debate, buy into, support, and participate in crimes of this enormity?  Rational, evidence-based responses to such questions frequently seem inadequate.  Might the Holocaust be a subject for which the conventional tools of historical explanation are insufficient?  Not at all, Peter Hayes argues in Why: Explaining the Holocaust, where he applies the conventional tools to identify and answer the most critical questions about the Holocaust.

      Characterizing the Holocaust as “incomprehensible” or “unfathomable,” Hayes writes, leads us to “despair, to give up, to admit to being too lazy to make the long effort, and, worst of all, to duck the challenge to our most cherished illusions about ourselves and each other that looking into the abyss of this subject entails” (p.326; disclosure: I have used the word “unfathomable” to describe the Holocaust on several occasions on this blog; e.g. here, 4^th paragraph; here, final paragraph).  Hayes, professor emeritus at Northwestern University, Chair of the Academic Committee of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, and the author of numerous works on Nazi Germany and the Holocaust, recognizes that a “coherent explanation of why such ghastly carnage erupted from the heart of civilized Europe in the twentieth century seems still to elude people” (p.xiii).  But he asks that we approach the Holocaust “neither in awe nor in anger,” viewing it as a “set of historical events, to be recovered, studied and comprehended by the usual historical means,” that is, “‘carefully and soberly,’ with a mix of precision and feeling, and without engaging in sentimentality or sanctification” (p.325).  The alternative to trying to understand how and why the Holocaust happened is to “capitulate to a belief in fate, divine purpose, or sheer randomness in human events” (p.326).

            Hayes begins this highly analytical yet eminently readable work with an introduction asking the ever-pertinent question, “Why Another Book on the Holocaust?” — an introduction which he might well have titled “Why Would Anyone Want to Study the Holocaust?”  He then moves to seven substantive “why” questions he considers essential in understanding the Holocaust, each a separate chapter:

• Targets: Why the Jews?
• Attackers: Why the Germans?
• Escalation: Why Murder?
• Annihilation: Why This Swift and Sweeping?
• Victims: Why Didn’t More Jews Fight Back More Often?
• Homelands: Why Did Survival Rates Diverge? And
• Onlookers: Why Such Limited Help from the Outside?

For each question, Hayes provides his assessment and summation of the state of current scholarship and research on that aspect of the Holocaust.  In his final chapter, “Aftermath,” he asks: “What Legacies, What Lessons?”  Given the proliferation of specialized research on the Holocaust, Hayes offers his readers what he terms a “comprehensive stocktaking directed squarely at answering the most central and enduring questions about why and how the massacre of European Jewry unfolded” (p.xvi).  His book thus serves as a compact primer on the scholarship involving the Holocaust, rendering it a valuable device to see a dense and intimidating forest through its many trees.

* * *

          Hayes’ evidence-based answers to the book’s seven questions build a narrative of a “perfect storm,” in which centuries of antipathy toward Jews culminated in the enormous crimes of the Holocaust, fueled by Adolph Hitler’s murderous ideology that posited Jews as Germany’s implacable enemy.   The initial chapter, “Targets: Why the Jews,” contains an overview of this antipathy, “deeply rooted in religious rivalry and superstition” (p.35).  Underlying Christian Europe’s historic hostility toward Jews is the notion that Jews had “common repellent and/or ruinous qualities that set them apart from non-Jews.  Descent is determinative; individuality is illusory” (p. 3).

         The latter half of the 19^th century gave rise to what we might term “modern anti-Semitism.”  In 1879, the word “anti-Semitism” itself entered into popular usage — an inapt, artificial word, Hayes points out, targeting speakers of Semitic languages, whose syntax and grammatical structure is different from standard European languages, yet largely exempting speakers of Arabic, also a Semitic language (Hayes also prefers the Hebrew word “Shoah,” meaning destruction, to “Holocaust,” derived from the ancient Greek term for an “offering totally consumed by fire,” i.e. a religious sacrifice).  In the same time frame, pseudo-scientific racial theories based on eugenics came into vogue to justify discrimination against Jews.  By the late 19^th century, Hayes notes, overt hostility toward Jews correlated closely with the economy, becoming more severe during economic downturns.  It was generally harshest in Russia and Eastern Europe, Germany and the Austrian portions of the Hapsburg Empire.

            “Attackers: Why the Germans” explores the particularities of anti-Semitism in German speaking lands from the 19^th century through the rise of Adolph Hitler’s Nazi party during the Great Depression of the late 1920s, but prior to Hitler’s appointment as Weimar Germany’s Chancellor in January 1933.   Even before Germany became a unified state in 1871, 19^th century nationalism in German-speaking lands tended to be less inclusive and more tribal than that in Britain or France.  Having developed in reaction to and rejection of the French conquest and occupation under Napoleon, German nationalism “crystallized around the only idea that could unite so much difference, the notion that all the tribes were related and parts of a common people, or Volk” (p.38), a notion that left little room for outsiders, especially Jews.  Before World War I, however, anti-Semitism in Germany was “loud, quotable, recurrent, but it had little political traction or legislative success” (p.44).

            Germany’s defeat in World War I provided the basis for political traction.  The myth of the “stab in the back” quickly arose in the aftermath of the defeat: the German army had been on the cusp of victory in the field, only to be undermined on the home front by an insidious coalition of Jews and leftists.  By this time, German anti-Semitism had been further linked to Bolshevism in the Soviet Union and the specter of violent revolution throughout Germany and Europe.  In this environment, Hitler’s toxic brand of anti-Semitism thrived, a “witches’ brew of self-pity, entitlement, and aggression, but simultaneously a “form of magical thinking that promised to end all of Germans’ postwar sufferings, the products of defeat and deceit, by banishing their supposed ultimate cause, the Jews and their agents” (p.65).

            Hayes describes Hitler’s ideology as a “bastardized Marxism that substituted race for class” (p.61), in which history is the struggle among races to control space or territory and the Jews are Germany’s most implacable enemy.  The Nazis’ relentless effort to portray the persecution of Jews as acts of self-defense is critical to understanding the subsequent Holocaust, Hayes emphasizes, “so essential as a justification for what the Nazis wanted to do that it repeatedly appears in new forms: They threaten us, so we must strike to protect ourselves” (p.60-61).  But the immediate force behind Hitler’s rise to power was the widespread economic crisis of the Great Depression.

          Contrary to widely held popular belief, Hayes stresses that anti-Semitism did not play a decisive or primary role in bringing the Nazis to power.  Most Germans who voted for the Nazi party did so in spite of its anti-Semitism, not because of it.  Germany’s dire economic situation increased receptivity to the Nazi message and reduced anti-Semitism as a disqualifier for office.  At a time when no political party appeared to have a plan to deal with the economy, the Nazis seemed more dynamic to many Germans than the other major parties: they were authoritarian, unalterably opposed to the faltering Weimer democracy, and able to get things done.  The promise of Nazism was to “restore all that was best in Germany’s traditions yet also to revolutionize the country” (p.68).  But without the collusion of conservative leaders, who expected to use Hitler for their purposes during the economic crisis, the Nazis would not have come to power.

            In his middle chapters, Hayes explains how the project to exterminate Germany’s Jewish population came about in increments once the Nazis gained power in 1933.  Despite what Hitler had said in Mein Kampf, it was in no sense inevitable or preordained that extermination would become the Nazi end game. Nazi policy at the outset concentrated on harassment, intimidation, isolation and dispossession, but stopped short of killing, even though killing metaphors were part of everyday Nazi rhetoric.  At the core of the Nazi vision was an “unwavering dream of a Jew-free environment, since that was a precondition of German strength and happiness” (p.65).

          During the Nazis’ early years in power, Germans divided generally into three groups: “people who endorsed the persecution of the Jews, people who merely accepted it, and people who disliked it but saw little point in protesting, even though they frequently expressed reservations or felt embarrassed about specific actions” (p.98).   Prior to the savage riots of November 1938 known as Kristallnacht, German public opinion generally accepted anti-Semitic policies “except when they threatened the self-interest of non-Jews” (p.99). Violence and viciousness toward Jews “increased steadily during the 1930s in Nazi Germany and in full public view . . . yet the pattern gave rise to too little rejection or revulsion to make the Nazi regime change course” (p.99-100).

       The point at which persecution gave way to mass killing most likely occurred sometime in the second half of 1941, the outgrowth of a series of meetings between Hitler and Himmler after Germany had invaded the Soviet Union in June of that year.  In October 1941, Himmler issued an instruction that forbade further emigration of Jews from the European continent. This document “clearly signaled the end to the policy of driving Jews away . . . and suggested that the Nazis had found a new approach to the Jewish problem” (p.123).  Nazi leaders by then knew they had the means to kill people en masse in gas chambers and began constructing sites to do so. “The Final Solution, the annihilation of the Jews of Europe, was in motion” (p.125).

          But why did so many Germans enthusiastically embrace and participate in state-sponsored killing?  Hayes confronts this question in his chapter, “Annihilation: Why This Swift and Sweeping?” and throughout much of the rest of the book.  This question probably gives rise to more differences and less consensus among historians than any of the book’s other questions.   Here, Hayes surveys the scholarly literature on the subject, in particular Daniel Goldhagen’s Hitler’s Willing Executioners (1996), and Christopher Browning’s Ordinary Men (1992).  Goldhagen, in a work which “the public loved and most historians panned” argued that Germans killed Jews “because they wanted to; they wanted to because they universally hated Jews; and they hated Jews because Germans always had – their nation’s culture had been thoroughly and pervasively anti-Semitic for hundreds of years” (p.137-38; curiously, Goldhagen’s provocative work found a particularly receptive audience in the reunited Germany of the 1990s).  Browning’s more nuanced study “maintains that anti-Semitic convictions had little to do with the readiness of Germans to commit murder; rather, they acted out of loyalty to one another” (p.138).

           Hayes attempts to summarize and synthesize these and similar works with several salient points.  Above all, he argues, the Nazi regime “succeeded in creating a closed mental world, an ideological echo chamber in which leaders constantly harped on the threat the Jews supposedly constituted and the need for Germans to defend themselves against it” (p.144).  Rank and file Nazi perpetrators engaged in self-delusion, developing a “capacity to distract themselves from what they were doing by calling it something else. Perpetrators never owned up to torturing and slaughtering; they always professed to be serving a sanctified purpose that immunized them from the charge of immorality” (p.154).   Many embraced anti-Semitism as a “conveniently available form of legitimizing what they had been ordered to do. . . . [T]hey did not kill because they hated their victims, but they decided to hate them because they thought they had to kill them” (p.139).

          Hayes dismisses the question of his chapter on victims, “Why Didn’t More Jews Fight Back More Often,” as one posed by succeeding generations “from the comfort of living in liberal and law-observing societies” (p.176).  There was more Jewish resistance than is commonly realized.   Overall, however, the Jewish response to the Nazi onslaught was to “comply with German demands and orders in hopes of preventing them from getting worse” (p.177).   Jews took arms only when they knew the alternative was near-certain death.  The  odds were “stacked against them, because they could not see or could not bear to see what was going to happen to them, because the slimmest chance that some might survive tempted them to avoid committing suicide by fighting back, and because they clung to life as best they could in ever more adverse circumstances” (p.196-97).

         Hayes thus rejects the provocative charge of Raul Hilberg and Hannah Arendt, two early leaders in the study of the Holocaust who contended in the 1960s that the destruction of European Jewry can be explained primarily through the lack of Jewish resistance and complicity in the killing itself.  Their “harsh accusations have not stood up to historical analysis over the past forty years “ (p.178).  Hayes nonetheless recognizes that in the ghettos established in Poland and elsewhere in Eastern Europe, usually as a prelude to deportation to death camps, the Nazis frequently delegated responsibility for carrying out German instructions to Jewish Councils, a “diabolically effective” means of minimizing the resources they needed to police the Jews and making them “complicit in their own persecution.  In effect, the Nazis applied the tried-and-true colonial practice of indirect rule through favored natives who got privileges or exemptions for punishments in exchange for helping to control everyone else” (p.180).

            The system of divide and conquer functioned in the camps “to the same diabolical effect that it operated in the ghettos. . . The Germans exploited internal divisions and individuals’ will to live right up until the dissolution of the camps” (p.217).   It is, Hayes concludes, both “unfair and inaccurate to hold the Jewish victims responsible for what happened to them.” Whether they lived or died “depended on two things alone: the actions of the Nazi regime and the progress of the Allied armies” (p.195-197).

          As to why help from the outside was so limited, the subject of the penultimate chapter, “Onlookers,” Hayes examines the individual policies of the countries best situated to help Jewish victims: France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Great Britain and the United States.  Overall, a “combination of anti-Semitism and economic and political interests worked to restrict the admission of Jews to other countries throughout the Holocaust and to inhibit other action on their behalf. Sooner or later, every nation that might have helped decided that it had higher priorities than aiding or defending the Jews” (p. 259-60).   The same could be said of the major non-governmental organizations, such as the International Committee of the Red Cross, and almost every transnational religious institution, especially the Catholic Church.  The fate of the Jews of Europe was “always a matter of secondary importance to everyone but themselves and the regime that wished to kill them” (p.296).

* * *

          In his conclusion, “Aftermath: What Legacies, What Lessons,” Hayes returns to those of us still grappling to comprehend the Holocaust. What transpired during the fateful years 1933-45 was “not mysterious and inscrutable,” he writes.  It was “the work of humans acting on familiar human weaknesses and motives: wounded pride, fear, self-righteousness, prejudice, and personal ambition being among the most obvious” (p.342) — qualities hardly in short supply in today’s public sphere.  Among my own take away lessons in the aftermath of reading Hayes’ thoughtful work: the word “unfathomable” is unlikely to be used again in these pages to describe the Holocaust.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

August 14, 2018

 

 

Inside the Mind and Time of Victor Hugo

 

 

 

David Bellos, The Novel of the Century:

The Extraordinary Adventure of Les Misérables 

            When first published on April 4, 1862, Victor Hugo’s novel Les Misérables was an immediate best seller – in today’s parlance, a “blockbuster” but also, at 1,900 pages in the original French, a “doorstopper” (the English translation was a mere 1,500 pages).  Hugo in 1862 was among France’s most revered writers, but was then living in exile on the Channel Island of Guernsey, having fled several years earlier from what he considered the dictatorial regime of Louis-Napoléon, better known as Napoléon III.  Hugo intended Les Misérables, his epic tale of reconciliation and redemption, with its searing portraits of the poor and those at society’s margins, to be the culmination of his already illustrious career as a novelist, poet and playwright.  It didn’t take long after Les Misérables’ initial publication for Hugo to conclude that his novel would easily meet his lofty aspirations.

             Over a century and half later, Hugo’s Les Misérables remains in the forefront of literary classics, still read in the original French and in countless translations in all the world’s major languages.  Within weeks of its publication, moreover, Les Misérables was turned into a play, and in the 20^th century became the subject of more adaptations for radio, stage and screen than any just about any other literary work.  But David Bellos, professor of French and comparative literature at Princeton University, worries that Les Misérables’ extraordinary staying power and its enduring mass market appeal has led too many to dismiss the novel as a work that falls below the level of great art.

            In The Novel of the Century: The Extraordinary Adventure of Les Misérables, Bellos seeks to dispel such notions by getting inside Victor Hugo’s mind and his time as he pieced together Les Misérables.   Much like Alice Kaplan’s Looking For “The Stranger: Albert Camus and the Life of a Literary Classic, reviewed here in April, Bellos’ work could be considered a “biography of a book.”  In an introductory chapter, “The Journey of Les Misérables,” Bellos provides an overview to the novel, its setting and its multiple twists and improbable turns, all highly useful for readers who have not read the novel for several years if at all.

       Here he introduces the novel’s principal characters: Jean Valjean, famously sentenced to hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread, whose twenty-year quest to rehabilitate himself constitutes the novel’s “narrative backbone” (p.xviii); Fantine, an abandoned single mother who loses her job, falls into prostitution and meets an early death; her illegitimate daughter Cosette, entrusted to Valjean’s care after her mother’s death; Javert, the policeman who pursues Valjean relentlessly throughout the novel; the inn-keeping couple the Thénardiers, and their urchin children, Éponine and Gavroche; and Marius, a student and budding political activist who falls in love with Cosette.

              Les Misérables consists of five parts, with 48 “books” (Bellos too has divided his work into five parts, surely not coincidentally).  Hugo’s Part I is entitled “Fantine;” Part II, “Cosette,” in which the young girl is saved by Valjean from cruel foster parents after her mother’s death; Part III, “Marius,” focusing on the student’s life on the barricades in his fight to overcome the monarchy; Part IV, “The Idyll of Rue Plumer and the Epic of Rue Saint Denis,” two Parisian streets, the first where the love affair of Cosette and Marius blossomed, the second where Marius fought in a political barricade; and Part V, simply “Jean Valjean.”  Each of the 48 books has chapters, 365 in all.  With many of the chapters quite short, Bellos suggests a chapter per day over the course of a year for those who want to read or reread the novel.

               The individuals who surrounded Hugo as he wrote Les Misérables loom as large in Bellos’ work as the characters in the novel itself.   Hugo and his wife Adèle Foucher had five children, the first of whom died in infancy.  Their oldest daughter Léopoldine died in a boating accident at age 19, the “gravest emotional wound in Hugo’s life “ (p.98). Their last child, daughter Adèle, kept a diary from an early age that provides a major portion of the record about the evolution of Les Misérables,.  Adèle was in the forefront of an innovative campaign to market the novel across Europe (her unrequited love for a British military officer was the subject of the 1975 François Trauffaut film, The Story of Adèle H).  Hugo’s older son Charles also played a major role in arranging for publication of Les Misérables, while younger son François-Victor became a literary heavyweight in his own right through his translations into French of the major works of Shakespeare.

           An additional presence throughout Bellos’ account is Hugo’s long-term  mistress, Juliette Drout, an aspiring actress who followed Hugo into exile.  While living in quarters separate from the Hugo family, Juliette became Hugo’s regular traveling companion and served informally as his secretary and confidante (Juliette was traveling with Hugo when he learned of daughter Léopoldine’s death).  But Bellos adds that Hugo was a “serial philanderer” (p.30), with ample supplements to his on-going extra-marital liaison with Juliette and his legal attachment to wife Adèle.

          Les Misérables begins in 1815 and extends to 1835.  Hugo wrote the novel in fits and starts between 1845 and 1862.  The period between 1815 and 1862 encompasses some of the most dramatic upheavals of France’s turbulent and often violent 19^th century.  The final defeat of Napoléon Bonaparte at the Battle of Waterloo and the “Bourbon restoration” of Louis XVIII as a constitutional monarch took place in the fateful year 1815.  By 1862, France was in the midst of the “Second Empire” of Louis-Napoléon (Napoléon III), the nephew of Napoléon Bonaparte, who in a coup d’etat in 1851 had ended France’s Second Republic, the event that sent Hugo into exile.  In addition to the 1851 coup, the first half of the century witnessed periodic uprisings against the government, among them: the 1830 “July Revolution,” which ousted Louis XVIII’s successor Charles X in favor of Louis-Philippe d’Orleans; a mini-1832 rebellion which unsuccessfully sought to reverse the 1830 July Revolution, an uprising critical to Hugo’s novel but less so to French history; and the February 1848 revolution in which Louis-Napoléon deposed Louis-Philippe and established the Second French Republic, an uprising in which Hugo was directly involved.

            Bellos’ account shines in its illumination of how these events and the broader currents of 19^th century French history affected both Hugo himself and the novel he was working on.  To enhance our understanding of the novel and its seventeen year gestation period, Bellos includes what he terms “interludes,” short digressions on diverse but pragmatic subjects, such as regional and class differences in language in Hugo’s time; money and credit in 19^th century France; intellectual property protection and the technical process involved in publishing books in the mid-19^th century; and transportation in the time of Les Misérables (people walked a lot more then than they do today).  Bellos also delves into how Hugo’s political and religious views entered into his novel.

            Although Les Misérables is a “progressive” work which “surely expresses moral outrage at the plight of the poor,” (p.219), Bellos cautions that it should not be considered a tract for the emerging views of the European left.  Subtly, however, the novel traced out a “limited if still ambitious program of social action” (p.202-03): more humane criminal justice, with easier entry back into society for offenders, more education, and more jobs for the uneducated.  Hugo, who had never been baptized and did not subscribe to any established religion or cult, considered Les Misérables to be a religious but not Catholic work.  Hugo’s novel argues for “natural religion” capable of bridging the conflicts between Catholics and non-Catholics, and between believers and non-believers, conflicts which in Hugo’s view exacerbated the disparities between rich and poor.  Les Misérables is thus, as Bellos puts it, a “work of reconciliation — between the classes, but also between the conflicting currents that turn our own lives into storms. It is not a reassuring tale of the triumph of good over evil, but a demonstration of how hard it is to be good” (p.xxiv).

* * *

             Bellos notes that Les Misérables was already an “historical” novel when it first appeared in 1862.  With its story set in a past that had ended over a quarter of a century earlier, the novel could immediately be read as an “exercise in nostalgia for a vanished world . . . [and as] an unintended guide to the way things used to be” (p.54).  To dig into the novel’s 1815-to-1835 period is thus to dig into Hugo’s own adolescence and his formative early adult years.  The son of a soldier who fought in Napoleon Bonaparte’s wars, Hugo turned 13 in 1815.

               A precocious literary youth, by 1815 Hugo had already demonstrated a flair for poetry.  By 1832, the year he turned 30, Hugo was among France’s best-known poets who had published a handful of novels, among them the immensely popular Notre Dame de Paris (known in English as The Hunchback of Notre Dame). 1832 marked the death of Germany’s Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the “undisputed eminence of European literature for the preceding half-century.”  Bellos notes that Hugo considered himself the logical candidate to step into Goethe’s shoes as “European genius-in-chief” (p.4). 1832 was also the year of the unsuccessful two-day revolt against the July monarchy, a minor episode in France’s 19^th century which Hugo elevated to the center of Les Misérables through Marius’ participation in its events.

               The first draft of Hugo’s novel, whose title was initially Les Misères, was written in Paris between November 1845 and February 1848. Although this draft no longer exists, scholars have concluded that its plot corresponds closely to that of the final version.  1845 was also the year when Hugo was appointed a peer in France’s upper legislative chamber.  He was working on Marius’ involvement in the 1832 upheaval at the time of the 1848 uprising against the regime of King Louis-Philippe, and found himself, improbably, on the front lines defending the regime – an “experience like no other Hugo had ever had, and not easy to square with his views, his feelings, and his position” (p.47-48).  Hugo’s role in in the suppression of the popular revolt of 1848 was, Bellos argues, “what he had to come to terms with to carry on with his book, and what he [had] to come terns with in his book if it [was] to be the ‘social and moral panorama’ that he intended it to be” (p.113-14).

              Hugo’s position as an establishment figure ended definitively when he became one of the most outspoken and relentless critics of Napoleon III’s 1851 coup d’état.  Forced into exile, he fled initially to Brussels and from there to the Channel Islands, outposts of the British crown off the coast of France. After living first on the Channel Island of Jersey, Hugo and his entourage landed in Guernsey in 1855, with his draft novel gathering dust in a trunk.  He established residence for his family at an elaborate mansion known as Hauteville House, overlooking the sea.  Juliette was assigned to a smaller house nearby.  In 1859, Napoleon III issued an amnesty to those who had opposed his seizure of power in 1851.  Many of the exiles on Channel Islands chose to return to France, but Hugo elected to stay.  But it was not until April 25, 1860, that Hugo went back to the trunk that had followed him from Jersey and pulled out the musty pages of the work he had spent little time on since 1848.

            From that date onward, Bellos’ narrative gathers momentum as he traces the frenetic period that followed.   By this time, Hugo had changed the name of his work from Les Misères to Les Misérables, his innovative term that shifted the meaning from the “poor,” “pitiable” or “despicable” to something more inclusive that suggests solidarity among the less fortunate: a “moral and social identity that had no name before” (p.103).  Hugo finally settled on the names of most of his characters in early 1861. These names have become so familiar, Bellos observes, that it “takes an effort to realize that they all had to be invented, for none of them was taken from the existing stock of French first and family names” (p.115).  Hugo did not finalize Jean Valjean’s name until March 1861.  Previously he had been Jean Tréjan, Jacques Sou and Jean Vlajean.

            Hugo’s work was technically covered by the same contract that had paid him in the 1830s for Notre Dame de Paris.  Because of concerns that the novel might be subject to censorship or litigation if published in France, Hugo shifted to Albert Lacroix and his Brussels-based, politically liberal micro-publishing firm.  Hugo needed a buy out of his original contract and overall wanted more for Les Misérables than had ever been paid to an author for any book. He largely got it, nearly 3 million British pounds in today’s currency, with about 40% of that amount being paid to him up-front, in cash, prior to publication.  Hugo’s deal with Lacroix, worked out in a single day when Lacroix visited Hugo at Hauteville House without having read the draft of the novel, was thus the “contract of the century,” to use the title of one of Bellos’ chapters.

            Hugo got his cash payment on time, in December 1860, because Oppenheim Bank of Brussels agreed to lend money to Lacroix to pay for the book.  For Hugo, debt and crime were two sides of the same coin, and Bellos notes the irony of a novel “so firmly opposed to debt being launched on the back of a major loan – probably the first loan ever made by a merchant bank to finance a book,” thereby placing Les Misérables “at the vanguard of . . . the use of venture capital to fund the arts” (p.143).

          Hugo was still working on the latter portions of the novel when Parts I and II appeared in print on April 4, 1862.  A full two months later, on June 14, 1862, Hugo “corrected the last galley of the last volume of Les Misérables and dispatched it to Brussels.”  Over the course of the previous nine months, he had “turned a single-copy manuscript of a still unfinished work into the greatest publishing sensation of his age” (p.260).

             While Hugo was confined to Hauteville House finalizing his novel, daughter Adèle was in Paris serving as the publicity manager for its launch, working with her brother Charles and Lacroix, both in Brussels. Adèle had to raise the interest and enthusiasm level for the novel to a “pitch so high it would discourage the authorities from banning or seizing the book.  But she also had to let not a scrap of it be seen in advance. The requirement to boost the book while keeping it secret made the publicity manager’s job a work of art” (p.223).   Adèle promoted the book through a billboard campaign.  She also gave advance portions to newspapers, but told them they couldn’t print them until she gave a go ahead.  Thanks to the advance work, the book had been “trumped in all the media then available” in France, a “country that the author refused to enter” (p.228).

            Les Misérables was to go on sale in other major European cities outside France at the same time.  Adèle, Charles and Lacroix thus devised what Bellos labels the “first truly international book launch,” but with an infrastructure that was “barely ready for it: paddle steamers, a rail network that still had more gaps than connections, four-horse diligences and maybe, on the approaches to St. Petersburg, a jingling three-horse sleigh” (p.228).

             From its initial appearances, there was an electricity attached to Hugo’s novel that is difficult for us to fathom more than a century and a half later. The first two parts of Les Misérables sold out in France in two days. The crush for the first copies “verged on a riot” (p.231).  Groups of workers pooled their limited means to buy a copy of the book, passed it around among members of the group, and took turns reading its nearly 2,000 pages to fellow workers who were unable to read.  But the French press did not share readers’ enthusiasm for Les Misérables.  Left wing and socialist critiques were lukewarm; those in the right wing press were stinging.

          Outside France, one recurring criticism of the novel was that it was too rooted in French history, and thus lacked deep meaning for non-French reading audiences. These criticisms were not unfounded, Bellos points out.  Underlying Les Misérables was Hugo’s view that France was the “moral and intellectual powerhouse of the world,” with Les Misérables serving as the “first full formulation of the conventional explanation of the exceptional status of France” (p.235).  One of the larger purposes of Les Misérables, which begins at the end of France’s revolutionary period, was to make the French Revolution the “well-spring of nineteenth-century civilization and so to heal the bleeding wound that it bequeathed to subsequent generations of French men and women” (p.38).

            When the publisher of the first Italian translation of Les Misérables fretted that the legacy of the French Revolution had little relevance to his readers, Hugo responded with a “grandiose reply,” in which he “pulled out all the rhetorical stops” (p.237).  Hugo said that while he did not know whether Les Misérables would be read by all, he had written it for everyone. “I write,” Hugo explained:

with a deep love for my country but without preoccupying myself with France more than any other nation. As I grow older I grow simpler and become increasingly a patriot of humanity.  That is the trend of our times and the law of radiation of the French Revolution. To respond to the growing enlargement of civilization, books must stop being exclusively French, Italian, German, Spanish or English, and become European; more than that, human (p.237).

* * *

          As if to respond himself to the Italian publisher and others in Hugo’s time who considered Les Misérables too Franco-centric, Bellos concludes that the novel’s “moral compass,” extends “far beyond the history, geography, politics and economics of the world in which its story is set. The novel achieves the extraordinary feat of being at the same time an intricately realistic portrait of a specific place and time, a dramatic page-turner with masterful moments of theatrical suspense and surprise, an encyclopedia of facts and ideas and an easily understood demonstration of generous moral principles that we could do far worse than to apply to our lives today” (p.259).  Bellos’ conclusion could also be considered a final riposte to those modern-day skeptics who doubt whether Les Misérables rises to the level of great art.  Few readers of Bellos’ erudite yet easy-to-read account are likely to side with the skeptics.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

July 17, 2018

 

 

Three Jews From the City Now Called Lviv

 

Philippe Sands, East-West Street:

On the Origins of ‘Genocide’ and ‘Crimes Against Humanity’ 

        Philippe Sands is a distinguished, London-based international human rights lawyer who has written prolifically on international law, taught the subject at the university level, and handled human rights cases arising from Chile, Congo, Rwanda, and the ex-Yugoslavia, among others. He is also the grandson of Leon and Rita Buchholz, Jews who fled Vienna in the World War II era. Like many children and grandchildren of Jews who escaped Hitler’s clutches, Sands received little detail from his grandparents — or his parents — as he was growing up about the circumstances leading his grandparents and their infant daughter, Sands’ mother Ruth, out of Austria. Uncovering these details is one of several threads running through this multifaceted work, East-West Street: On the Origins of ‘Genocide’ and ‘Crimes Against Humanity,’ a masterful blend of family memoir, Holocaust remembrance, and legal history.

          As his subtitle suggests, Sands’ work is also about the evolution of the legal concepts of “genocide” and “crimes against humanity,” today two pillars of international human rights law; and about the leading legal scholar behind each, Rafael Lemkin and Hersch Lauterpacht, respectively.  The two scholars were at the forefront in the development of a powerful idea that began to take shape after World War I and assumed greater urgency as World War II unfolded and Nazi atrocities multiplied: that a strengthened international legal order was necessary where nation states and their key actors could be held accountable, thereby ending the notion that state sovereignty allowed a state to pursue any policy it chose toward its citizens.

         But from this common starting point, the solutions Lemkin and Lauterpacht pursued were almost polar opposites.  Lemkin nearly singlehandedly came up with the notion of genocide as a term to describe state policies that single out persons for inhumane treatment because of their membership in a particular group. Lauterpach, rejected group membership as a basis for holding states accountable.  Nation states and their actors, he countered, need to be held accountable for their inhumane treatment of individuals — for what he termed their crimes against humanity.

          Sands’ grandfather Leon Buchholz and the two legal scholars were Jews and roughly contemporaries, with links to the same city, Lviv, today part of Western Ukraine.  Buchholz was born there in 1904.  Lauterpacht, born in nearby Zółkiew in 1897, moved to Lviv with his family in 1911 and studied law there. Lemkin, born in 1900 on a farm at some distance from Lviv, moved to the city in 1921 to study law (East-West Street, Sands’ title, refers to a street in Zółkiew where Lauterpacht and Buchholz’s mother lived for a time, on opposite ends).  Lviv itself plays a major role in Sands’ story.

          Today’s Lviv reflects the upheavals of the 20^th century.   When the three young men were growing up prior to World War I, the city was known as Lemberg. It was the largest city in Galacia, a province within the Austro-Hungarian (or Hapsburg) Empire, and a vibrant melting pot of Poles, Ukrainians, Jews and others.  After World War I, the city became part of a newly independent Polish state and was known as Lwów. The three young men acquired Polish citizenship at that time.  The Soviet Union occupied the city at the outbreak of World War II, in the aftermath of the secret 1939 protocol between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union partitioning Poland (the subject of Roger Moorehouse’s Devils’ Alliance, reviewed here in May 2016).   In 1941, Germany retook the city from the Soviets, who in turn drove the Germans out in 1944.  The city then became part of Ukraine and the Soviet Union and assumed its present name. It became part of an independent Ukraine with the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.

        None of the three men was present in Lviv during World War II, but their war experiences were similar in one grim respect: each lost parents and most other family members left behind during the German occupation.  Those loses can be traced in no small measure to Hans Frank, a genuine villain whom Sands adds to his story of the three Jewish men from Lviv.  Frank, born in Germany in 1900, the same year as Lemkin, was Adolph Hitler’s personal lawyer and a German legal scholar of some stature who fashioned many of the Nazis’ idiosyncratic legal theories – theories that, in opposition to those of Lemkin and Lauterpacht, subordinated the individual to an all-powerful state and emphasized the inviolability of state sovereignty.  Frank became governor of German-controlled Poland after the 1939 Nazi invasion that triggered World War II, and his authority was extended to Lviv in 1941, when the Nazis dislodged the Soviet Union from the city.  As German governor, Frank oversaw the decimation of thriving Jewish communities across Poland, including that of Lviv, and crafted the policies that destroyed the three men’s families.

            With the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945, Lauterpacht, Lemkin and Frank and the legal theories they espoused met head on at the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg.  Frank was one of 24 high level Nazi officials placed on trial for his role in atrocities committed by the Nazi regime. Behind the scenes, Lemkin and Lauterpact competed to define the terms of the prosecution and judgment, with each lobbying to have the tribunal’s judges and prosecutors adopt his legal principle as a basis for prosecution – genocide for Lemkin, crimes against humanity for Lauterpacht — and reject that of the other. But one point was clear from the outset of the proceedings: Frank’s expansive notion of state sovereignty was categorically rejected — states were no longer free to treat their people entirely as they wished; state sovereignty no longer constituted an absolute bar to prosecution for acts of atrocity.

         But Sands starts and finishes with his family portrait, the story of his grandfather Leon, his wife Rita and their young daughter Ruth, Sands’ mother, uncovering details of their lives in those turbulent times which they chose not to reveal to the future human rights lawyer as he grew up in Great Britain.  Throughout, Sands himself is very much part of his story, which jumps between past and present as he explains how he pieced together his narrative’s disparate threads.  Among his sources are several still living individuals related to the central characters in the story, including the sons of Lauterpacht and Frank.  Sands thus packs a lot into just less than 400 pages.

* * *

           Sands explains at the outset that his motivation for writing this book stems from mysteries surrounding the life of his grandfather Leon, a man he clearly loved yet found he hardly knew. For the most part, Sands writes, Leon “locked the first half of his life into a crypt” (p.xxv).  Sands came to know Leon in the 1960s when, as a young boy, he visited the Paris apartment where Leon and his wife Rita lived.  Intuitively, the young Sands, born in 1960, came to realize that Leon and Rita’s time before Paris was not to be talked about.  It’s too complicated and not important, Leon told his grandson. But as he sought to uncover the circumstances that led his grandparents and mother from Vienna to Paris, he pieced together many additional details of their prior life.

            Leon was the youngest of four children. His older brother was killed in World War I just after its outbreak, in September 1914, and his grieving father died shortly thereafter.  Leon had two sisters, Gusta and Laura.  Gusta married in 1913 and moved to Vienna. Leon’s mother Malke took Leon and Laura to Vienna to be with Gusta, where young Leon attended primary and secondary school.  A few years later, Leon and Laura returned with their mother to Lviv.  Leon left the city definitively at age 19, in 1923, after it had become part of Poland, to make his way in Vienna. Gusta, Laura, and Malke all subsequently died in the Holocaust, along with Laura’s daughter.

         In Vienna, Leon worked for a while at the liquor store of his brother-in-law, then set up his own distillery.  He met his future wife, Rita Landes, in Vienna, and they married there in 1937. Their daughter Ruth, Sands’ mother, was born one year later, just prior to the German Anchluss with Austria in 1938.  Growing up, Sands had assumed that his mother’s family had all left Vienna at the same time, but he learned that this was far from the case. Leon was expelled from Vienna in late 1938, in the aftermath of the spasm of anti-Jewish violence known as Kristallnacht, and arrived alone in Paris in January 1939.  Rita stayed behind, ostensibly to care for her ailing mother. She did not leave Austria until November 9, 1941. The very next day “‘the borders of the German Reich were closed for refugees,’ all emigration ended, all departure routes were blocked. Rita got out at the last minute. Her escape was either very fortunate or based on assistance from someone with inside information” (p.39).

          The details of Rita’s departure eluded Sands, but an even greater mystery bedeviled him. The passport of his mother Ruth indicated that she arrived in Paris in July 1939, near her first birthday. How did the one year old get to Paris in July 1939 if Leon had been there since January of that year and Rita stayed in Vienna until 1941? The evidence pointed to a Miss Elsie Tilney, the most remarkable of the many supporting characters in this story. Sands learned that Miss Tilney was an heroic Christian missionary who spent the dark Nazi era escorting Jews, particularly Jewish children, to safer locations, and that Ruth had traveled to Paris with Ms. Tilney.   He further learned that the 11-year old daughter of Leon’s sister Laura was to have traveled to Paris with Miss Tilney and Ruth, but that Laura changed her mind at last minute, because she couldn’t face the separation. Neither mother nor daughter survived the war.

           In the process of uncovering these details about the departures from Vienna, Sands also stumbled across evidence he had not be looking for, suggesting a substantial rift between his grandparents: his grandmother may have had an affair with another man, which may or may not have been part of the reason Leon traveled alone to Paris in 1939.  Sands further came across suggestions that his grandfather too may have been attracted to another man.  Sands’ narrative assumes a spell-binding quality as he weighs the limited evidence available and comes closer to a fuller picture of how his grandparents and their daughter escaped Vienna and survived the war, while most of the rest of the family perished.

          Into this close-to-home family history, Sands adds not just the legal theories but also much personal detail about the lives of legal scholars Lemkin and Lauterpacht.  Like Buchholz, Lauterpacht found his way to Vienna as a young man, in 1919.  After beginning the study of law at the university in Lviv, Lauterpacht continued his legal studies in Vienna, where he reflected upon how the upheavals of the post-World War I era might be avoided in the future.  When a wave of anti-Semitism swept Vienna in 1923, he emigrated to Britain, where he first studied, then taught at the London School of Economics, followed by an appointment to Cambridge University in 1937.

          Lemkin studied law and linguistics at the same university in Lviv a few years after Lauterpacht, where he had the same criminal law instructor who had previously taught Lauterpacht.  Lemkin became a public prosecutor in Warsaw, while publishing extensively on international criminal law. He escaped from Poland after the Germans invaded the country in 1939, ending a circuitous journey at Duke University in North Carolina, where he taught law for many years.

             Against the backdrop of the two men’s personal lives, Sands zeroes in on the evolution of the legal thinking that began to take form for both in Lviv and blossomed in academic settings in the United Kingdom and the United States.  Lemkin and Lauterpacht shared an optimistic belief in the “power of law to do good and protect people,” and the “need to change the law to achieve that objective,” Sands writes. “Both agreed on the value of a single human life and on the importance of being part of the community” (p.385). But their solutions pointed in opposite directions.

            Lemkin “imagined new rules to protect ‘the life of the peoples’: to prevent ‘barbarity’, the destruction of groups, and to prevent ‘vandalism,’ attacks on culture and heritage” (p.157). Although not opposed to individual rights, Lemkin believed that an “excessive focus on individuals was naïve, that it ignored the reality of conflict and violence: individuals were targeted because they were members of a particular group, not because of their individual qualities” (p. 291).  Lemkin advanced his notion of genocide in a 1944 book, Axis Rule in Occupied Europe, which Lauterpacht reviewed in the Cambridge Law Journal in a “detached and lukewarm” (p.107) tone.

           To Lauterpacht, Lemkin’s notion of genocide and its emphasis upon group membership seemed likely to “reinforce latent instincts of tribalism, perhaps enhancing the sense of ‘us’ and ‘them,’ pitting one group against another” (p.281). Lauterpacht sought to diminish the force of inter-group conflict. The emerging international legal order needed to protect each individual, “irrespective of which group he or she happened to belong to, to limit the potent force of tribalism, not reinforce it” (p.291).

         In the contest between competing legal theories at Nuremberg, Lauterpacht was the immediate winner. His ideas on crimes against humanity and the rights of the individual were “firmly entrenched in the proceedings, coloring the entire case” (p.353). The term “genocide” was by contrast barely mentioned.  Both men attended substantial portions of the proceedings, which took place between November 1945 and October 1946, during which both learned that their parents and several family members had not survived the war.  In this time frame, Leon Buchholz also most likely learned that his family members left behind in Lviv had met the same fate.

         Lauterpacht exchanged ideas on how to frame the Nuremberg indictment with American chief prosecutor Robert Jackson. But as the proceedings progressed, he exerted an even more direct influence upon British prosecutor Sir Hartley Shawcross. In his opening argument on December 4, 1945, Shawcross adopted wording Lauterpacht had proposed, “arguing forcefully that the tribunal should sweep aside the tradition that sovereigns could act as they wished, free to kill, main and torture their own people” (p.292).  The core of Shawcross’ argument came straight from Lauterpact: “The state is not an abstract entity. . . Its rights and duties are the rights and duties of men.” Shawcross thus put a radical spin on the idea of individual responsibility by “placing ‘fundamental human rights’ and ‘fundamental human duties’ at the heart of a new international system” (p.292-93).

       The prosecution’s case against Hans Frank at Nuremberg brought German actions in Lviv and Poland to center stage in the proceedings. In drafts that Lauterpacht had provided to Shawcross, Frank was the only defendant Lautherpacht mentioned, and he did so repeatedly — no coincidence, Sands writes, given that Frank was the “man in the dock most closely connected to the murder of his own family” (p.339).  While governor of Poland, Frank had kept a detailed and highly incriminating diary of his daily activities, which had fallen into allied hands as the war ended, giving him little room to maneuver.

         As Frank initially faced the tribunal in March 1946, Sands speculates that his lawyer had no sense what his client might say. When the lawyer asked Frank at the outset whether he had participated in the annihilation of Jews in Poland, the former governor astounded the Nuremberg court and his fellow defendants by responding, “yes,” adding that his conscience did not permit him to throw responsibility for the slaughters upon what he termed “minor people.”  One thousand years will pass, Frank told the court, “and still this guilt of Germany will not have been erased” (p.310).  But Frank’s lawyer appeared to walk back this confession in his closing argument the following July.

       His client’s diaries were the thoughts of the secretaries who transcribed them, Frank’s lawyer contended.  His client had never killed anyone, and he had tried to mitigate some of the most atrocious excesses of the regime. Most likely, the other defendants and their lawyers had in the time since March impressed upon Frank and his lawyer the need for solidarity among the defendants, and convinced them to reverse course. The arguments proved to be of no avail.  Frank was condemned to death by hanging and became the fifth Nazi official to go to the gallows.

        The judgments at Nuremberg “came as a relief to Lauterpacht.” His arguments on crimes against humanity, endorsed by the tribunal, were “now part of international law.  The protection for the individual, and the idea of individual criminal responsibility for the worst crimes, would be part of the new legal order. The sovereignty of the state would no longer provide absolute refuge for crimes on such a scale, in theory at least” (p.372).   But if he felt any satisfaction with the judgment, he never mentioned it to anyone.  Lemkin by contrast was devastated by absence of any mention of genocide in the court’s final judgments. This “Nuremberg nightmare” (p.372) was the worst day of his life, he told an American junior prosecutor, worse even than the day a month earlier when he learned that both his parents had perished in the Holocaust.

          But genocide gained traction as a recognized concept in international law in December 1946, when the United Nations General Assembly adopted a resolution that affirmed that genocide, which denied the “right of existence of entire human groups,” was a crime under international law.  Where the judges at Nuremberg had feared to tread, Sands notes, governments working through the United Nations “legislated into existence a rule to reflect Lemkin’s work” (p.377).  Two years later, in December 1948, the General Assembly adopted the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, the first human rights treaty of the modern era.  One day later, the General Assembly also adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, for which Lauterpacht was a primary inspiration.

        Much of the vibrancy of Sand’s story comes from his resourcefulness in finding living persons to supplement the meager record of writings and photographs with oral recollections of the story’s central characters, especially the sons of Lauterpacht and Frank, Eli and Niklas.  Eli (officially Sir Elihu), born in London in 1928, followed in his father’s footsteps as an academic and lawyer specializing in international law, founding Cambridge’s Lauterpacht Centre for International Law.  Sands first met Eli when he took Eli’s course in international law at Cambridge in the 1980s.  But it was not until several decades later that Sands learned of the Lviv connection between Eli’s father and Leon Buchholz.  Eli told Sands that as he grew up in Britain his father, like Leon, never talked about life in Poland (Eli died in 2017, after Sands’ book went to press).

           Niklas Frank, born in 1939, became a distinguished journalist as a foreign correspondent for Stern Magazine.  The younger Frank came to Sands’ attention for a book he had written in the 1980s called Der Vater (The Father), an “unforgiving, merciless attack on his father, a work that broke a taboo that directed the children of senior Nazis to honor their parents” (p.224).  On one occasion, Niklas told Sands, “My father loved the Führer more than he loved his family” (p.235).  Sands and Niklas visited the Nuremberg tribunal together in 2014.  “My father was a lawyer; he knew what he did” (p.xxiii), Frank told Sands at the time.

* * *

         The major threads of Sands’ book – his family’s exodus out of Vienna in the Nazi era; the clash of ideas between Lauterpacht and Lemkin for a new legal order that played out at Nuremberg; and the vicissitudes of Lviv – illuminate, each in its own way, the travails of Europe’s 20^th century and their on-going consequences.  Each would surely merit treatment in a separate work.  Readers contemplating investing time in Sands’ book may ask themselves whether these disparate threads can be wrapped together coherently into an absorbing narrative.  My answer upon concluding this epic work was that Sands has accomplished precisely that.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

May 20, 2018

Honest Broker

 

 

Michael Doran, Ike’s Gamble:

America’s Rise to Dominance in the Middle East 

 

       On July 26, 1956, Egypt’s President Gamal Abdel Nasser stunned the world by announcing the nationalization of the Suez Canal, a critical conduit through Egypt for the transportation of oil between the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian Ocean. Constructed between 1859 and 1869, the canal was owned by the Anglo-French Suez Canal Company. What followed three months later was the Suez Crisis of 1956: on October 29, Israeli brigades invaded Egypt across its Sinai Peninsula, advancing to within ten miles of the canal.  Britain and France, following a scheme concocted with Israel to retake the canal and oust Nasser, demanded that both Israeli and Egyptian troops withdraw from the occupied territory. Then, on November 5^th, British and French forces invaded Egypt and occupied most of the Canal Zone, the territory along the canal. The United States famously opposed the joint operation and, through the United Nations, forced Britain and France out of Egypt.  Nearly simultaneously, the Soviet Union ruthlessly suppressed an uprising in Hungary.

       The autumn of 1956 was thus a tumultuous time. Across the globe, it was a time when colonies were clamoring for and achieving independence from former colonizers, and the United States and the Soviet Union were competing for the allegiance of emerging states in what was coming to be known as the Third World.  In the volatile and complex Middle East, it was a time of rising nationalism. Nasser, a wildly ambitious general who came to power after a 1952 military coup had deposed the King of Egypt, aspired to become not simply the leader of his country but also of the Arab speaking world, even the entire Muslim world.  By 1956, Nasser had emerged as the region’s most visible nationalist. But he was far from the only voice in the Middle East seeking to speak for Middle East nationalism. Syria, Jordan, Lebanon and Iraq were also imbued with the rising spirit of nationalism and saw Nasser as a rival, not a fraternal comrade-in-arms.

       Michael Doran’s Ike’s Gamble: America’s Rise to Dominance in the Middle East provides background and context for the United States’ decision not to support Britain, France and Israel during the 1956 Suez crisis. As his title suggests, Doran places America’s President, war hero and father figure Dwight D. Eisenhower, known affectionately as Ike, at the middle of the complicated Middle East web (although Nasser probably merited a place in Doran’s title: “Ike’s Gamble on Nasser” would have better captured the spirit of the narrative). Behind the perpetual smile, Eisenhower was a cold-blooded realist who was “unshakably convinced” (p.214) that the best way to advance American interests in the Middle East and hold Soviet ambitions in check was for the United States to play the role of an “honest broker” in the region, sympathetic to the region’s nationalist aspirations and not too closely aligned with its traditional allies Britain and France, or with the young state of Israel.

       But Doran, a senior fellow at the Hudson Institute and former high level official at the National Security Council and Department of Defense in the administration of George W. Bush, goes on to argue that Eisenhower’s vision of the honest broker – and his “bet” on Nasser – were undermined by the United States’ failure to recognize the “deepest drivers of the Arab and Muslim states, namely their rivalries with each other for power and authority” (p.105). Less than two years after taking Nasser’s side in the 1956 Suez Crisis, Eisenhower seemed to reverse himself.  By mid-1958, Doran reveals, Eisenhower had come to regret his bet on Nasser and his refusal to back Britain, France and Israel during the crisis. Eisenhower kept this view largely to himself, however, distorting the historical picture of his Middle East policies.

        Although Doran considers Eisenhower “one of the most sophisticated and experienced practitioners of international politics ever to reside in the White House,” the story of his relationship with Nasser is at bottom a lesson in the “dangers of calibrating the distinction between ally and enemy incorrectly” (p.13).  Or, as he puts it elsewhere, Eisenhower’s “bet” on Nasser’s regime is a “tale of Frankenstein’s monster, with the United States as the mad scientist and the new regime as his uncontrollable creation” (p.10).

* * *

      The “honest broker” approach to the Middle East dominated the Eisenhower administration from its earliest days in 1953. Eisenhower, his Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, and most of their key advisors shared a common picture of the volatile region. Trying to wind down a war in Korea they had inherited from the Truman Administration, they considered the Middle East the next and most critical region of confrontation in the global Cold War between the Soviet Union and the United States.  As they saw it, in the Middle East the United States found itself caught between Arabs and other “indigenous” nationalities on one side, and the British, French, and Israelis on the other. “Each side had hold of one arm of the United States, which they were pulling like a tug rope. The picture was so obvious to almost everyone in the Eisenhower administration that it was understood as an objective description of reality” (p.44). It is impossible, Doran writes, to exaggerate the “impact that the image of America as an honest broker had on Eisenhower’s thought . . . The notion that the top priority of the United States was to co-opt Arab nationalists by helping them extract concessions – within limits – from Britain and Israel was not open to debate. It was a view that shaped all other policy proposals” (p.10).

         Alongside Ike’s “bet” on Nasser, the book’s second major theme is the deterioration of the famous “special relationship” between Britain and the United States during Eisenhower’s first term, due in large measure to differences over Egypt, the Suez Canal, and Nasser (and, to quibble further with the book’s title, “Britain’s Fall from Power in the Middle East” in my view would have captured the spirit of the narrative better than “America’s Rise to Dominance in the Middle East”).  The Eisenhower administration viewed Britain’s once mighty empire as a relic of the past, out of place in the post World War II order. It viewed Britain’s leader, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, in much the same way. Eisenhower entered his presidency convinced that it was time for Churchill, then approaching age 80, to exit the world stage and for Britain to relinquish control of its remaining colonial possessions – in Egypt, its military base and sizeable military presence along the Suez Canal.

      Anthony Eden replaced Churchill as prime minister in 1955.  A leading anti-appeasement ally of Churchill in the 1930s, by the 1950s Eden shared Eisenhower’s view that Churchill had become a “wondrous relic” who was “stubbornly clinging to outmoded ideas” (p.20) about Britain’s empire and its place in the world.  Although interested in aligning Britain’s policies with the realities of the post World War II era, Eden led the British assault on Suez in 1956.  With  “his career destroyed” (p.202), Eden was forced to resign early in 1957.

       If the United States today also has a “special relationship” with Israel, that relationship had yet to emerge during the first Eisenhower term.  Israel’s circumstances were of course entirely different from those of Britain and France, a young country surrounded by Arab-speaking states implacably hostile to its very existence. President Truman had formally recognized Israel less than a decade earlier, in 1948.  But substantial segments of America’s foreign policy establishment in the 1950s continued to believe that such recognition had been in error. Not least among them was John Foster Dulles, Eisenhower’s Secretary of State.  There seemed to be more than a whiff of anti-Semitism in Dulles’ antagonism toward Israel.

        Describing Israel as the “darling of Jewry throughout the world” (p.98), Dulles decried the “potency of international Jewry” (p.98) and warned that the United States should not be seen as a “backer of expansionist Zionism” (p.77).  For the first two years of the Eisenhower administration, Dulles followed a policy designed to “’deflate the Jews’ . . . by refusing to sell arms to Israel, rebuffing Israeli requests for security guarantees, and diminishing the level of financial assistance to the Jewish state” (p.99).   Dulles’ views were far from idiosyncratic. Israel “stirred up deep hostility among the Arabs” and many of America’s foreign policy elites in the 1950s ”saw Israel as a liability” (p.9). Without success, the United States sought Nasser’s agreement to an Arab-Israeli accord which would have required limited territorial concessions from Israel.

       Behind the scenes, however, the United States brokered a 1954 Anglo-Egyptian agreement, by which Britain would withdraw from its military base in the Canal Zone over an 18-month period, with Egypt agreeing that Britain could return to its base in the event of a major war. Doran terms this Eisenhower’s “first bet” on Nasser. Ike “wagered that the evacuation of the British from Egypt would sate Nasser’s nationalist appetite. The Egyptian leader, having learned that the United States was willing and able to act as a strategic partner, would now keep Egypt solidly within the Western security system. It would not take long before Eisenhower would come to realize that Nasser’s appetite only increased with eating” (p.67-68).

        As the United States courted Nasser as a voice of Arab nationalism and a bulwark against Soviet expansion into the region, it also encouraged other Arab voices. In what the United States imprecisely termed the “Northern Tier,” it supported security pacts between Turkey and Iraq and made overtures to Egypt’s neighbors Syria and Jordan. Nasser adamantly opposed these measures, considering them a means of constraining his own regional aspirations and preserving Western influence through the back door.  The “fatal intellectual flaw” of the United States’ honest broker strategy, Doran argues, was that it “imagined the Arabs and Muslims as a unified bloc. It paid no attention whatsoever to all of the bitter rivalries in the Middle East that had no connection to the British and Israeli millstones. Consequently, Nasser’s disputes with his rivals simply did not register in Washington as factors of strategic significance” (p.78).

           In September 1955, Nasser shocked the United States by concluding an agreement to buy arms from the Soviet Union, through Czechoslovakia, one of several indications that he was at best playing the West against the Soviet Union, at worst tilting toward the Soviet side.  Another came in May 1956, when Egypt formally recognized Communist China. In July 1956, partially in reaction to Nasser’s pro-Soviet dalliances, Dulles informed the Egyptian leader that the United States was pulling out of a project to provide funding for a dam across the Nile River at Aswan, Nasser’s “flagship development project . . . [which was] expected to bring under cultivation hundreds of thousands of acres of arid land and to generate millions of watts of electricity” (p.167).

         Days later, Nasser countered by announcing the nationalization of the Suez Canal, predicting that the tolls collected from ships passing through the canal would pay for the dam’s construction within five years. Doran characterizes Nasser’s decision to nationalize the canal as the “single greatest move of his career.” It is impossible to exaggerate, he contends, the “power of the emotions that the canal takeover stirred in ordinary Egyptians. If Europeans claimed that the company was a private concern, Egyptians saw it as an instrument of imperial exploitation – ‘a state within a state’. . . [that was] plundering a national asset for the benefit of France and Britain” (p.171).

            France, otherwise largely missing in Doran’s detailed account, concocted the scheme that led to the October 1956 crisis.  Concerned that Nasser was providing arms to anti-French rebels in Algeria, France proposed to Israel what Doran terms a “stranger than fiction” (p.189) plot by which the Israelis would invade Egypt. Then, in order to protect shipping through the canal, France and Britain would:

issue an ultimatum demanding that the belligerents withdraw to a position of ten miles on either side of the canal, or face severe consequences. The Israelis, by prior arrangement, would comply. Nasser, however, would inevitably reject the ultimatum, because it would leave Israeli forces inside Egypt while simultaneously compelling Egyptian forces to withdraw from their own sovereign territory. An Anglo-French force would then intervene to punish Egypt for noncompliance. It would take over the canal and, in the process, topple Nasser (p.189).

The crisis unfolded more or less according to this script when Israeli brigades invaded Egypt on October 29^th and Britain and France launched their joint invasion on November 5th. Nasser sunk ships in the canal and blocked oil tankers headed through the canal to Europe.

         Convinced that acquiescence in the invasion would drive the entire Arab world to the Soviet side in the global Cold War, the United States issued measured warnings to Britain and France to give up their campaign and withdraw from Egyptian soil. If Nasser was by then a disappointment to the United States, Doran writes, the “smart money was still on an alliance with moderate nationalism, not with dying empires” (p.178). But when Eden telephoned the White House on November 7, 1956, largely to protest the United States’ refusal to sell oil to Britain, Ike went further. In that phone call, Eisenhower as honest broker “decided that Nasser must win the war, and that he must be seen to win” (p.249).  Eisenhower’s hardening toward his traditional allies a week into the crisis, Doran contends, constituted his “most fateful decision of the Suez Crisis: to stand against the British, French, and Israelis in [a] manner that was relentless, ruthless, and uncompromising . . . [Eisenhower] demanded, with single-minded purpose, the total and unconditional British, French, and Israeli evacuation from Egypt. These steps, not the original decision to oppose the war, were the key factors that gave Nasser the triumph of his life” (p.248-49).

        When the financial markets caught wind of the blocked oil supplies, the value of the British pound plummeted and a run on sterling reserves ensued. “With his currency in free fall, Eden became ever more vulnerable to pressure from Eisenhower. Stabilizing the markets required the cooperation of the United States, which the Americans refused to give until the British accepted a complete, immediate, and unconditional withdrawal from Egypt” (p.196). At almost the same time, Soviet tanks poured into Budapest to suppress a burgeoning Hungarian pro-democracy movement. The crisis in Eastern Europe had the effect of “intensifying Eisenhower’s and Dulles’s frustration with the British and the French. As they saw it, Soviet repression in Hungary offered the West a prime opportunity to capture the moral high ground in international politics – an opportunity that the gunboat diplomacy in Egypt was destroying” (p.197). The United States supported a United Nations General Assembly resolution calling for an immediate ceasefire and withdrawal of invading troops. Britain, France and Israel had little choice bu to accept these terms in December 1956.

       In the aftermath of the Suez Crisis, the emboldened Nasser continued his quest to become the region’s dominant leader. In February 1958, he engineered the formation of the United Arab Republic, a political union between Egypt and Syria that he envisioned as the first step toward a broader pan-Arab state (in fact, the union lasted only until 1961). He orchestrated a coup in Iraq in July 1958. Later that month, Eisenhower sent American troops into Lebanon to avert an Egyptian-led uprising against the pro-western government of Christian president Camille Chamoun. Sometime in the period between the Suez Crisis of 1956 and the intervention in Lebanon in 1958, Doran argues, Eisenhower withdrew his bet on Nasser, coming to the view that his support of Egypt during the 1956 Suez crisis had been a mistake.

        The Eisenhower of 1958 “consistently and clearly argued against embracing Nasser” (p.231).  He now viewed Nasser as a hardline opponent of any reconciliation between Arabs and Israel, squarely in the Soviet camp. Eisenhower, a “true realist with no ideological ax to grind,” came to recognize that his Suez policy of “sidelining the Israelis and the Europeans simply did not produce the promised results. The policy was . . . a blunder” (p.255).   Unfortunately, Doran argues, Eisenhower kept his views to himself until well into the 1960s and few historians picked up on his change of mind. This allowed those who sought to distance United States policy from Israel to cite Eisenhower’s stance in the 1956 Suez Crisis, without taking account of Eisenhower’s later reconsideration of that stance.

* * *

      Doran relies upon an extensive mining of diplomatic archival sources, especially those of the United States and Great Britain, to piece together this intricate depiction of the Eisenhower-Nasser relationship and the 1956 Suez Crisis. These sources allow Doran to emphasize the interactions of the key actors in the Middle East throughout the 1950s, including personal animosities and rivalries, and intra-governmental turf wars.  He writes in a straightforward, unembellished style. Helpful subheadings within each chapter make his detailed and sometimes dense narrative easier to follow. His work will appeal to anyone who has worked in an Embassy overseas, to Middle East and foreign policy wonks, and to general readers with an interest in the 1950s.

Thomas H. Peebles

Saint Augustin-de-Desmaures

Québec, Canada

June 19, 2017

Managing Winston

Sonia Purnell, Clementine:

The Life of Mrs. Winston Churchill 

            Biographies of political spouses run the risk of being overwhelmed by the politician once he or she enters the scene. Sonia Purnell’s Clementine: The Life of Mrs. Winston Churchill, by far the most comprehensive biography to date of Winston Churchill’s wife Clementine, does not quite succumb to that risk.  But Purnell, a freelance British journalist and historian, provides a fresh look at the familiar ups and downs in Winston’s career, recounting them from Clementine’s perspective, from the time the couple first met in 1904 and married in 1908 through Winston’s death in 1965.  Although comprehensive in its cradle-to-grave coverage of Clementine herself, the book shines in its treatment of the couple during World War II.  When Winston became Britain’s wartime Prime Minister in 1940, Clementine functioned as her husband’s closest advisor. She was, Purnell writes, Winston’s “ultimate authority, his conscience and the nearest he had to a direct line to the people.”  Without Clementine sharing his burden, “it is difficult if not impossible to imagine [Winston] becoming the single-minded giant who led Britain, against almost impossible odds, to victory over tyranny” (p.391).

            But if World War II was the couple’s own “finest hour,” to borrow from Winston’s famous speech to Parliament in June 1940, many of the qualities that enabled them to survive and thrive during that trial can be traced to the testing they received during World War I.  War, it seems, served as the force that bound their marriage together.  We know a great deal about the workings of that marriage because the couple spent an extraordinary amount of time apart from one another. They corresponded regularly when separated, and even communicated frequently in writing when they were together under the same roof. By one count, the couple sent about 1,700 letters, notes and telegrams back and forth over the course of nearly six decades of courtship and marriage, many of which survive.

          The Churchills’ correspondence and the other portions of the record that Purnell has skillfully pieced together reveal a marriage that had its share of difficult moments, bending but never breaking. Both spouses had volatile and frequently volcanic personalities.  Although her husband was known for his bouts of depression, referred to informally as “Black Dog,” Clementine had an actual case of clinically diagnosed depression, and more than her fair share of mood swings and temperamental outbursts. Further, both spouses were surprisingly indifferent parents, more devoted to each other than to their children. Clementine, tormented that Winston might abandon her as her father had abandoned her mother, clearly placed Winston’s needs over those of her children. Yet, on more than one occasion she seems to have contemplated leaving the marriage.  Nonetheless, over the course of 57 years, the marital glue held.

* * *

         Clementine, born in 1885, had an unorthodox upbringing. Her mother, Lady Blanche Hozier, of aristocratic origin but limited means, was trapped in a bad marriage to Colonel Henry Hozier, who left his wife and children during Clementine’s early childhood. To this day, historians debate whether Hozier was indeed Clementine’s biological father, and the matter is unlikely ever to be settled conclusively. Clementine’s two sisters, Kitty and Nellie, may have been her half sisters – their paternity has not been conclusively established either. After Colonel Hozier’s departure, the three girls lived a peripatetic life with Lady Blanche, who took her children frequently to Northern France and allowed herself to be pursued by a wide number of suitors. Kitty seemed to be her mother’s favorite among the three daughters, but she died a month before her 17^th birthday and her mother “was never the same again” (p.21). Lady Blanche never provided Clementine with a steady, loving childhood, a loss which likely affected Clementine’s subsequent relationships with her own children.

         Clementine was first introduced to rising political star Winston Churchill at a society ball in the summer of 1904, when she was 18 and he was 29.  She was far from impressed with the “notorious publicity seeker” (p.29) who had recently defected from the Conservative Party to join the upstart Liberal Party over his opposition to a Conservative proposal to impose protective tariffs on goods imported into Britain.  Inexplicably, the usually gregarious and supremely self-confident young man clammed up, unable to make the requisite small talk. The next encounter occurred four years later, in 1908, when Clementine happened to be seated next to Winston at a dinner party. This time, Clementine “found his idealism and brilliance liberating” (p.31).  Winston was impressed that Clementine, herself more mature at age 22, knew “far more about life than the ladies of cosseting privilege he normally met, and she was well educated, sharing his love of France and its culture” (p.31). After a courtship conventionally aristocratic, if short, the couple married later that year (the courtship, marriage and Winston’s early political years, from 1900 to 1915, are the subject matter of Michael Seldin’s Young Titan, reviewed here in May 2015).

            The marriage was “never destined to be smooth” (p.54), Purnell writes. The man Clementine married was “demanding, selfish and rash” (p.54), emotionally needy, lacking in empathy, and a workaholic with a tendency to bully.  But Clementine could be “rigid and unforgiving” (p.4) and brought an “explosive temper” to the marriage, where the “slightest setback, such as cold soup or a late delivery, could send her into a fury” (p.53). Plagued throughout life by a pattern of “severe listlessness alternating with near-hysterical outbursts” (p.148), Clementine, not Winston, had the couple’s only case of clinically diagnosed depression. Throughout their first three decades of marriage, the couple was united in the goal of making Winston Prime Minister. But they pursued this goal at no small cost to their offspring.

            Between 1909 and 1922, the couple had five children, four daughters and one son. Daughter Marigold, born in 1918, died at an early age. The four surviving offspring — Diana, b.1909; Randolph, b.1911; Sarah, b.1914; and Mary, b.1922 – “saw little of either parent, even by the standards of British upper-class families of the period” (p.184). Winston outwardly adored his children. He gave them silly nicknames and, when available, enjoyed playing games and roughhousing with them. But he was only infrequently available.  Clementine in this account seemed to lack even this level of intimacy. She was distant and not particularly warm with any of her children, and also frequently absent, either traveling with her husband or away on recurring travel and adventures on her own.

          Randolph, Diana and Sarah went on to lead turbulent adult lives. Randolph drank heavily, gambled frequently and acquired a reputation for boorish behavior.  One of the book’s most surprising – indeed stunning – episodes occurred during his 1939 marriage to Pamela Digby, later Pamela Harrington. It was not a good marriage. Randolph was abusive in many ways, physically and otherwise.  In their troubled  marriage, Randolph’s parents plainly sided with their daughter-in-law over their son. After war broke out, with Randolph serving in the army and the couple living apart, Pamela pursued affairs with several leading figures from the United States, including famed journalist Edward R. Murrow and wealthy businessman Averill Harriman, whom she later married.

            In Purnell’s account, both Winston, by then Britain’s wartime Prime Minister, and Clementine encouraged these romantic liaisons for their intelligence gathering potential in furtherance of the war effort. Pamela “fast became one of the most important intelligence brokers in the war” (p.275).   She provided information to her parents-in-law on “what the Americans were thinking” (p.274) and boosted Britain’s case for more American assistance.  Randolph never forgave his parents for condoning the liaisons, and it is not difficult to understand why. Randolph died of a heart attack in 1968, at age 57.

            Randolph’s sisters Diana and Sarah also struggled through adult life.  Diana had two bad marriages and suffered repeatedly from nervous breakdowns.  She likely took her own life from an overdose of barbiturates in 1963, at age 54.  Sarah had a moderately successful acting career, but was plagued throughout much of her adult life by alcohol abuse, “drinking herself to her grave by slow stages” (p.387). She married three times. Her termination of an affair with American Ambassador John Winant likely contributed to his suicide in 1947. With Sarah on the brink of filing for divorce from her second husband, he too committed suicide. Sarah died in 1982, five years after Clementine, at age 68.

            Only the youngest Churchill, Mary, “always the perfect daughter” (p.387), achieved something akin to normalcy as an adult.  She married but once, had five children, served in numerous public organizations, and wrote the first (and seemingly only other) biography of her mother.  In the 1960s, she was quoted as saying that, based on her own childhood experience, she “made a conscious decision to put my children first because I did feel something had been. . . yes, missing at home” (p.359).  Alone among the Churchill children, Mary lived to an old age, dying in 2014 at age 92.

            Purnell documents several points between the two wars, and after World War II, when Clementine appeared to be on the brink of exiting the marriage.  Bitter rows between the parents over Randolph’s behavior as a young adult led in the 1930s to hints that the Churchills’ “ever more regular separations might become permanent” (p.196). After the war, perfect daughter Marry sought to mediate the couple’s differences.  Worried that her parents’ marriage again seemed on the verge of falling apart, Mary acknowledged her mother’s “occasional yearning for ‘the quieter more banal happiness of being married to an ordinary man’” (p.354).

          Another sign of the marriage’s sometimes fragile character came in the 1930s, when Clementine, traveling without her husband on a four-month cruise of the East Indies, fell under the charms of Terence Philip, an art dealer with a reputation for “passing flirtations” (p.203).  Phillip was “tall, rich, suave, an authority on art and unburdened by driving ambition – unlike Winston, in fact, in almost every respect” (p.201). It is unclear whether Clementine’s relationship with Phillip was adulterous. Phillip was “thought not to be that interested in women sexually. . . Nevertheless his open and ardent admiration shook Clementine to her core” (p.203-04). Purnell also describes an incident where Winston was invited to take tea with his cousin’s fiancée, only to learn upon arrival at her apartment that the barely clad woman had a purpose other than tea in mind for his visit.  Upon discovering that purpose, Winston “insisted he had left immediately” and recounted the incident to Clementine, who “appears to have been surprisingly relaxed about the encounter” (p.132).

* * *

            Purnell neatly weaves these soap opera details of the Churchill family into the familiar story of Winston pursuing his political ambitions and the less familiar story of Clementine playing an indispensable role in that pursuit. Shortly after the couple’s marriage, Winston became Home Secretary, charged with keeping internal order in the country.  In 1911, he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, head of Britain’s Royal Navy, and held this position when Britain found itself at war in 1914.  In this capacity, he oversaw the failed 1915 attack on Ottoman Turkey at the Dardanelles straights, a calamitous failure for which Winston became the scapegoat, “held liable for one of the bloodiest British military failures in history” (p.81). Purnell suggests that Winston’s marriage saved him from self-destruction at the time of this grim setback. Only Clementine “could repeatedly tell him why he was deemed untrustworthy and why he had made so many enemies”(p.118).

             With Clementine’s support, Winston slowly crept back into politics. He lost his seat as a Liberal Member of Parliament in 1922. At a time when the Liberal Party was fading into irrelevance, he rejoined the Conservative Party in 1924, becoming Chancellor of the Exchequer. In that capacity, he oversaw Britain’s return in 1926 to the gold standard, another decision that proved disastrous for him politically, resulting in deflation and unemployment and leading to the General Strike of 1926. With the defeat of the Conservative government in 1929, Winston was out of politics and entered what he later termed his “Wilderness Years.” In the 1920s, he had earned a reputation as somewhat of a crank, railing incessantly about the Bolshevik menace to Europe.  In the 1930s, he shifted his rhetorical target to Germany and the threat that Adolph Hitler’s Nazi party posed, which the public perceived initially as little more than another example of his crankiness. But in May 1940, Winston became his country’s Prime Minister, charged with leading the war against Nazi Germany which had broken out the previous September.  Winston and Clementine’s “true life’s work” then began,  and she “would barely leave his side again until it was done” (p.234).

            By the time Winston became Prime Minister, Clementine was already an “amalgam of special advisor, lobbyist and spin doctor” — or, as David Lloyd George put it, an “expert at ‘managing’ Winston” (p.94). At each juncture in Winston’s career, Clementine developed an “astute judgment of the characters involved, the goals that were achievable and the dangers to be anticipated” (p.57). She closely reviewed drafts of Winston’s speeches and coached him on effective delivery techniques.   Campaigning for his seat in Parliament bored Winston, and he frequently sent Clementine to rouse his constituents as elections approached.   In a time before political optics and images were given over to full-time professionals, Clementine was Winston’s optics specialist. With her “surer grasp of the importance of public image” (p.3), she frequently raised questions that the more impulsive Winston hadn’t fully thought through about how a course of action would look to the voters or be perceived internationally.

            During World War II, Clementine assumed an unprecedented role as Winston’s aide.  It is unlikely, Purnell contends, that “any other prime ministerial spouse in British history has been so involved in government business, or wielded such personal power – albeit entirely behind the scenes.  She did not duplicate what Winston was doing, or cross it; she complemented it and he gave her free rein to do so” (p.246-47).  When Winston was in Teheran in December 1943 meeting with Roosevelt and Stalin, for instance, Clementine was busy putting out fires and easing tensions within Winston’s cabinet.  At the same time, she “reviewed reports on parliamentary debates, read the most secret telegrams, kept [Opposition leader and Deputy Prime Minister] Clement Attlee informed of the prime minister’s progress, dealt with constituency matters, and sent back to Winston digests of public reaction to the war “(p.314).

          Yet, paradoxically, Winston and Clementine did not see eye-to-eye on many of issues of their time, with Clementine’s instincts conspicuously more liberal than those of her husband.  Despite her aristocratic background and lofty position as a politician’s’wife, Clementine was unusually adept at establishing links and relations with average citizens. Her relatively impoverished childhood and limited work experience while unmarried “fostered in Clementine an instinctive sympathy for the worker’s point of view” (p.103).  Even before World War I, she was a fervent advocate of women’s voting rights, “just the first of many issues on which she would part ways with her husband’s more conservative political views” (p.56). Later she would champion co-education at Cambridge University’s Churchill College and abolition of the death penalty.

          During World War II, Clementine frequently visited injured military personnel and otherwise sought out everyday citizens to encourage them to continue to support the war effort.  She also prevailed upon her husband to create opportunities for women to serve in auxiliary military roles. Winston was “initially unenthusiastic at the idea . . . but Clementine persevered and he became one of the first to appreciate that the country could not win through the sacrifice of its menfolk alone” (p.241).

         A tale within the tale of World War II is Clementine’s relationship with American First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt. The two met on several occasions during the war. Clementine did not care for Eleanor’s husband Franklin, who had taken the unpardonable liberty of calling her “Clemmie,” a “privilege normally reserved for the most deserving and long-serving friends” (p.310); and there was no love lost between Winston and Eleanor.  Eleanor felt Winston “romanticized war” (p.281), while Winston found Eleanor to be a busybody “who did not conform to [his] ideas of an ‘attractive’ woman” (p.285).  Nonetheless, the two women “enjoyed each other’s company” (p.296).  They were of a similar age and upper class backgrounds, and each had endured a difficult childhood.  Both demonstrated uncommon concern for the poor and their countries’ least favored citizens.  Each lost a child as a young mother, and had children who struggled through adult life.  Purnell notes that the four Roosevelt sons racked up 18 marriages between them, while Clementine’s four children blundered through a mere eight.

          But the Roosevelts were living almost entirely separate lives during World War II, with Eleanor reduced to the role of a second-tier political advisor, in the dark on most of the key war issues that her husband was dealing with.  She sometimes criticized or questioned her husband’s decisions or policies in a newspaper column she wrote. Such public airing of differences between Clementine and Winston was unthinkable for either spouse.  As Purnell notes, Clementine “never even hinted publicly about her private disagreements with Winston. But then [unlike Franklin Roosevelt] he kept nothing from her” (p.306).

          Roosevelt died in April 1945, less than a month prior to the end of Europe’s most devastating war.  A few short months later, Winston, himself in poor health, saw his Conservative party voted out of office, as Clement Atlee and his Labour Party won a general election in July 1945.  Improbably, Winston returned at age 77 as Prime Minister to lead the Conservatives from 1951 to 1955, his final and generally unsatisfactory years as government leader.  He remained a Member of Parliament until the October 1964 general election, and died just months later in January 1965.

* * *

         Purnell ends her substantive chapters with Winston’s death, covering Clementine’s final years as a widow, up to her death in 1977 at age 92, in an “Epilogue.” This was a period of “almost ethereal calm” (p.387) for her.  With Randolph’s death in 1968, she had outlived three of her five children. Her husband’s towering reputation across the globe was secure and, as Purnell puts it, “if her light was fading, so be it” (p.388).  Purnell’s thoroughly researched and highly readable work constitutes a major step in assuring that Clementine’s light continues to shine.

Thomas H. Peebles

La Châtaigneraie, France

May 4, 2017