Anti-fascism in the Nordic Countries: New Perspectives, Comparisons and Transnational Connections 1138046949, 9781138046948

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Acknowledgements
List of contributors
Introduction
PART I: Anti-fascism beyond the far left
1 Anti-fascist discourses, practices and confrontations in 1930s Iceland
2 Finnish liberals and anti-fascism, 1922–1932
3 An anti-fascist minority? Swedish-speaking Finnish responses to fascism
4 Conservative fascist sympathies and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway
PART II: Anti-fascist youth activism and militant resistance
5 Three arrows against the swastika: militant social democracy and the radical opposition to fascism in Denmark, 1932–1934
6 Social Democratic Youth and anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939
7 ‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’: the anti-fascism of the International of Seamen and Harbour Workers
PART III: Cultural fronts and anti-fascist intellectuals
8 Anti-fascist race biology: Gunnar Dahlberg and the long farewell to the Nordic ‘master race’
9 Finnish socialist intellectuals on fascism and anti-fascism in the 1930s
10 Intellectuals ready to fight: anti-fascist cultural fronts in Scandinavia, 1935–1939
11 Fighting for peace: the Workers’ Stage, popular front and Spanish aid in 1930s Finland
12 The last ‘Münzenberg empire’: the transnational networks of Die Zukunft in the Nordic Countries, 1938–1940
PART IV: Post-war anti-fascisms
13 Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War: the Socialist Youth International and Franco’s regime after the Second World War
14 Radical-right movement and countermovement in Denmark, 1985–present
15 Challenging fascist spatial claims: the struggle over the 30 November marches in southern Sweden
Afterword
Index

Citation preview

“This volume offers a balanced and many-sided look at a key region in the development of anti-fascist initiatives and policies in the interwar era, and a further proof of the globality, diversity and endurance of this movement.” Hugo García is an Associate Professor of Modern World History at the Universidad Autonoma de Madrid, Spain, and co-editor of Rethinking Antifascism. History, Memory and Politics, 1922 to the Present (Berghahn Books, 2016). “This volume offers a very welcome addition to the research of the anti-­ fascist mobilization in the interwar era. A field that that in many respects have been over looked as a research field. The volume offers new insights in the history of anti-fascism initiatives and politics.” Heléne Lööw is an Associate Professor of History at the University of Uppsala, Sweden. She has written several books about the history of fascism in Sweden.

Anti-fascism in the Nordic Countries

Although the Nordic countries have a reputation for tolerance and social democracy, they were not immune to fascism which spread across Europe in the 1920s and 1930s. This book offers the first comprehensive history of anti-fascism in the Nordic Countries. Through a number of case studies on anti-fascism in Sweden, Finland, Norway, Denmark and Iceland, the book makes a significant contribution to the history of contentious politics in the Nordic Countries and to our broader knowledge of European fascism and anti-fascism. The case studies concentrate on the different manifestations of resistance to fascism and Nazism in the interwar era as well as some of the post-war variants. The book will be of considerable interest to scholars of anti-fascism as well as researchers of Nordic and Scandinavian history and politics. Kasper Braskén, PhD, Åbo Akademi University, Finland Nigel Copsey, Professor, Teesside University, United Kingdom Johan A. Lundin, Professor, Malmö University, Sweden

Routledge Studies in Fascism and the Far Right

Series editors: Nigel Copsey, Teesside University, and Graham Macklin, Center for Research on Extremism (C-REX), University of Oslo.

This new book series focuses upon fascist, far right and right-wing politics primarily within a historical context but also drawing on insights from other disciplinary perspectives. Its scope also includes radical-right populism, cultural manifestations of the far right and points of convergence and exchange with the mainstream and traditional right. Titles include: The Portuguese Far Right Between Late Authoritarianism and Democracy (1945–2015) Riccardo Marchi Never Again Rock Against Racism and the Anti-Nazi League 1976–1982 David Renton Anti-fascism in the Nordic Countries New Perspectives, Comparisons and Transnational Connections Edited by Kasper Braskén, Nigel Copsey and Johan A. Lundin The March on Rome Violence and the Rise of Italian Fascism Giulia Albanese Aurel Kolnai’s ‘War Against the West’ Reconsidered Edited by Wolfgang Bialas The Ku Klux Klan and Freemasonry in 1920s America Fighting Fraternities Miguel Hernandez

For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge​.com

Anti-fascism in the Nordic Countries New Perspectives, Comparisons and Transnational Connections Edited by Kasper Braskén, Nigel Copsey and Johan A. Lundin

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Kasper Braskén, Nigel Copsey and Johan A. Lundin; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Kasper Braskén, Nigel Copsey and Johan A. Lundin to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-138-04694-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-17121-0 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by codeMantra

Contents

Acknowledgements List of contributors Introduction

xi xiii 1

K asper Brask é n and Johan A . Lundin

Part I

Anti-fascism beyond the far left

19

1 Anti-fascist discourses, practices and confrontations in 1930s Iceland

21

R agnhei ður K ristjá nsd ó ttir and P ontus Jä rvstad

2 Finnish liberals and anti-fascism, 1922–1932

39

J enni K arim ä ki

3 An anti-fascist minority? Swedish-speaking Finnish responses to fascism

55

M atias K aihovirta and M ats W ickström

4 Conservative fascist sympathies and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway

72

K nut D ø rum

Part II

Anti-fascist youth activism and militant resistance

89

5 Three arrows against the swastika: militant social democracy and the radical opposition to fascism in Denmark, 1932–1934

91

C harlie E . K rautwald

viii Contents 6 Social Democratic Youth and anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939

111

Johan A . Lundin

7 ‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’: the anti-fascism of the International of Seamen and Harbour Workers

124

Hol ger W eiss

Part III

Cultural fronts and anti-fascist intellectuals

143

8 Anti-fascist race biology: Gunnar Dahlberg and the long farewell to the Nordic ‘master race’

145

M artin E ricsson

9 Finnish socialist intellectuals on fascism and anti-fascism in the 1930s

160

Tauno Saarela

10 Intellectuals ready to fight: anti-fascist cultural fronts in Scandinavia, 1935–1939

173

Ole M artin R ø nning

11 Fighting for peace: the Workers’ Stage, popular front and Spanish aid in 1930s Finland

187

M ikko - Olavi Seppä l ä

12 The last ‘Münzenberg empire’: the transnational networks of Die Zukunft in the Nordic Countries, 1938–1940

204

Bernhard H . Bayerlein

Part IV

Post-war anti-fascisms

217

13 Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War: the Socialist Youth International and Franco’s regime after the Second World War

219

A nders Dalsager

14 Radical-right movement and countermovement in Denmark, 1985–present F lemming M ikkelsen

236

Contents  ix 15 Challenging fascist spatial claims: the struggle over the 30 November marches in southern Sweden

254

A ndr é s Brink Pinto and Johan Pries

Afterword

271

N igel C opsey

Index

277

Acknowledgements

The collective work for the present volume began with a workshop organised at the Swedish Labour Movement Archive and Library (Arbark) in May 2017. Our first thanks goes to Arbark’s head of research Silke Neunsinger who kindly offered us Arbark’s excellent conference facilities. The Nordic ‘Politics from Below’ Network played a pivotal role in bringing us all together in the first place. The initiative for the workshop was aptly conceived in ­Valencia, Spain, during the 2016 European Social Science History Conference (ESSHC). While preparing the workshop, we approached Nigel Copsey, who with great enthusiasm accepted our invitation to join the workshop in Stockholm and to team up as a co-editor of the volume. We wish to thank all participants at the workshop for their excellent presentations and the lively discussion. Further thanks goes to our colleagues at Åbo Akademi University, Malmö University and Teesside University for their encouragement and support. A final thanks goes to all participants and commentators at the 2018 ESSHC in Belfast, where the findings of this volume were presented and discussed. The workshop in Stockholm would not have been possible without the generous funding granted by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond (RJ). Kasper Braskén also extends his thanks to Oskar Öflunds Stiftelse for a research grant to work on this volume, and the Academy of Finland which since September 2017 funds Braskén’s postdoctoral research project “Towards a Global History of Anti-Fascism.” Åbo – Malmö – Teesside, September 2018

List of contributors

Bernhard H. Bayerlein  is a Senior Researcher at the Institute for Social Movements at Ruhr University, Bochum, Germany. His research interests include transnational communism, the history of revolutions, and social, political and cultural movements. He also works on Iberian Studies, Comparative Politics and Archival Heritage Preservation. Kasper Braskén is a Postdoctoral Researcher at Åbo Akademi University, Turku, Finland. He is a historian specialising in 20th-century history, transnational social movements and global history. Braskén is leading a 36-month Academy of Finland postdoctoral research project entitled Towards a Global History of Anti-Fascism: Transnational Civil Society Activism, International Organisations and Identity Politics Beyond Borders, 1922–1945. Andrés Brink Pinto is a researcher at the Department of History at Lund University, Sweden. He has a PhD in history from Lund University. His research mainly concerns contentious politics, youth riots and social movements. With Johan Pries, he has co-authored a monograph on the revival and fall of the Charles XII tradition in Lund: Trettionde ­November: Kampen om Lund 1985–2008 (2013). Nigel Copsey is a Professor (Research) in Modern History at Teesside University, Middlesbrough, England. He has published widely on both ­fascism and anti-fascism. His major publications in the field of anti-­fascism are Anti-Fascism in Britain (2nd edn, 2017) and Varieties of Anti-­Fascism: Britain in the Inter War Period (2010), co-edited with Andrzej Olechnowicz. He co-edits the Routledge Studies in Fascism and the Far Right series with Graham Macklin. Anders Dalsager is a PhD student at the University of Southern Denmark and the Danish National Archives. He specialises in Second World War and Cold War history with a special focus on Scandinavian party politics and youth movements.

xiv  List of contributors Knut Dørum is a Professor in Department of Religion, Philosophy and History, University of Agder, Norway. His research interests include urban history, agricultural economy, state formation, political culture and democratisation c. 1700–1940. He is currently writing a book on the political history of Norway c. 1660–2014. Martin Ericsson is a Postdoctoral Researcher in the Department of History at Lund University, Sweden. His research mainly concerns racism, racial violence and racial science, and he has previously published studies on Swedish policies directed against Roma and Travellers. He is currently, together with Andrés Brink Pinto, writing a book on so-called ‘youth riots’ in Stockholm 1948–1987. Pontus Järvstad is a PhD student at the University of Iceland working on a comparative study of postwar anti-fascism in the Nordic countries. He finished his master’s thesis at the University of Iceland (2017) on the topic of continuities of colonialism in fascist ideology and practices. Matias Kaihovirta is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Department of History at Åbo Akademi University, Turku, Finland. He is currently working on the history of the Finland-Swedish labour movement, and he is involved in the research project “Finland-Swedish Anti-fascism”, funded by the Society of Swedish Literature in Finland. Jenni Karimäki  is a Senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Parliamentary Studies located in the Department of Political Science and Contemporary History, University of Turku, Finland. She is Doctor of Social Sciences from the University of Turku. Her research interests include political ideologies and parties in contemporary history. Charlie E. Krautwald is a PhD student at the University of Agder in Norway working on a study of radical street mobilisation and militant political culture during the interwar period. He completed his master’s thesis at the University of Copenhagen (2016) on militant anti-fascism in ­Denmark in the 1930s, the main results of which were published in an article in Historisk Tidskrift för Finland (2017:1). Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir is an Associate Professor in History at the University of Iceland. One of her primary research interests is in the field of Icelandic labour history and its relation to the Icelandic nation. In 2008, she published the book New People. Nationalism and Icelandic Labour Politics 1901–1944. Johan A. Lundin  is a Professor in History at the University of Malmö in Sweden. His key fields of research are in labour history, gender and network studies. He is currently writing a book about anti-fascism in Swedish political youth organisations during the interwar period.

List of contributors  xv Flemming Mikkelsen is a Senior Research Fellow at the Department of Sociology, University of Copenhagen, Denmark. He is currently working in the fields of political movements, historical sociology and ethnic relations. His latest publication is Popular Struggle and Democracy in Scandinavia, 1700–Present, co-edited with Knut Kjeldstadli and Stefan Nyzell (2018). Johan Pries has a PhD in history from Lund University, Sweden. His dissertation, Social Neoliberalism through Urban Planning, concerns the representation of everyday contradictions in urban planning documents, where the neoliberal transformation of Swedish city Malmö since the early 1980s serves as his main case. Pries has also studied and written about the making of the autonomous left in southern Scandinavia. Ole Martin Rønning is Deputy Director at the Labour Movement Archives and Library in Oslo. His PhD thesis ‘Stalin’s Students: Comintern Cadre Schools and the Communist Party of Norway, 1926–1949’ was completed in 2010. His primary fields of research interest are Norwegian/Scandinavian labour, and relations with the Comintern and the international Communist movement. Tauno Saarela holds a PhD in social science. He is a Senior Lecturer in Political History at the University of Helsinki. His research interests include communism in Finland and in the Nordic countries. Mikko-Olavi Seppälä  defended his doctoral thesis on the history of the ­Finnish workers’ theatre in 2007. He lectures at the University of Helsinki. He has published nine monographs, including a history of Finnish theatre and drama (with Katri Tanskanen, 2010). He is currently working on the history of political workers’ theatre in Finland. Holger Weiss is a Professor of General History at Åbo Akademi University, Turku, Finland, and Visiting Professor of History at Dalarna University, Sweden. He has published widely on African, global and Atlantic history, including Framing a Radical African Atlantic. African American Agency, West African Intellectuals and the International Trade Union of Negro Workers (2014), and (ed.), International Communism and Transnational Solidarity: Radical Networks, Mass Movements and Global Politics, 1919–1939 (2016). Mats Wickström is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Department of History, Åbo Akademi University. Turku, Finland. He is currently working on the post-war history of the Swedish-speaking minority in Finland. He is a member of the research project “Finland-Swedish Anti-fascism”, funded by the Society of Swedish Literature in Finland

Introduction Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin

The history of anti-fascism in the Nordic countries remains an underexplored area of research.1 Before we discuss the little research that does exist, we should first explain our choice of ‘Nordic countries’ as opposed to ‘Scandinavia’. The term ‘Scandinavia’ is problematic, because while it obviously includes Denmark, Norway and Sweden, extending it to Finland and Iceland carries some uncertainty. We have therefore opted for the more pertinent term ‘nordisk’ (Nordic). The term ‘Nordic’ came into active use in high politics in the late 1930s when Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden attempted to demonstrate their unity at the outbreak of the Second World War. It was only after the war that Nordic institutions, such as the Nordic Council, were established and this led to the formalisation of Nordic cooperation (Hilson, 2008a: 11–2; Österberg, 2017: 237–57). The writing of ‘Nordic’ history has a longer and more complex history, which today underlines the importance of a Nordic transnational history that reveals the social, political and cultural interconnections within the Nordic sphere and beyond (Haapala, Jalava, & Larsson, 2017).2 Research on anti-fascism in Europe has completely overlooked the Nordic countries (Horn, 1996; Droz, 2001; Kirk & McElligott, 2007; García et al., 2016). Yet recent volumes such as Rethinking Antifascism (2016) have opened up the field to new research questions, approaches and perspectives that can be applied to Nordic cases. As the transnational perspective shows, Nordic anti-fascist articulations were deeply entangled within European networks and movements (García, 2016), although it remains unclear how this was played out in relation to different Nordic movements and political contexts. Research on fascism and Nazism in the Nordic countries is, in contrast, much more extensive. A further disparity is to be noted here: studies treating Nordic relations with Italian fascism are limited in comparison to the research dealing with the Third Reich and the Nazis. Very rarely do studies on fascism or Nazism in the Nordic countries relate to anti-fascism. This is apparent, for example, in Klas Åmark’s standard work on Sweden’s relations with Nazi Germany titled Att bo granne med ondskan (Living next door to evil) (Åmark, 2016; see also Johansson 2014), where there is no

2  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin section dedicated to anti-fascism in Sweden. The chronological and geographical focus of these studies on European fascism in general, or Nazism in particular, concerns Germany after Hitler’s rise to power in 1933. For the Nordic countries, Sweden has traditionally occupied most attention, where the research programme on Sweden and the Holocaust commissioned by the Social Democratic Prime Minister Göran Persson in 2000 resulted in substantial output. The major synthesis was Åmark’s monograph (which was originally published in 2011; thereafter, a significantly revised and updated edition was published in 2016). With the focus explicitly on Nazism after 1933 and not fascism in general, significant aspects of fascism as a transnational movement in 20th-century Europe are overlooked (Durham & Power, 2011; Mammone, 2015; Bauerkämper & Rossoliński-Liebe, 2017). The preceding decade, when Italian fascism formed the major inspiration for the European far right, is largely disconnected from this history. Only recent studies on fascism in Finland, for example, have properly acknowledged the far-reaching influences of I­ talian fascism and Nazism in the 1920s (Silvennoinen, Tikka, & Roselius, 2016). Earlier works on Finnish fascism and Nazism include path-­breaking works by Lauri Karvonen (1988) and Henrik Ekberg (1991). In Sweden, works by Eric Wärenstamoch (1970), Heléne Lööw (Lööw, 1990, 2016) as well as Lena Berggren (2002) have been groundbreaking in their treatment of the early formation of Nazi organisations in Sweden. Studies on Norwegian Nazism include, for example, the work of Hans Olaf Brevig and Ivo de Figueiredo (2002) and Rolf Danielsen Stein Ugelvik Larsen (1976), while the Danish field has been defined by research from scholars such as John T. Lauridsen (2002) and Henning Poulsen (1970). However, as the chapters in the volume show, there is little previous research on anti-fascism on the national level let alone the transnational. For sure, there are studies on the Nordic labour movements, social democracy or communism (Brandal, Bratberg, & Thorsen, 2013; Egge & Rybner, 2015; Hilson, Neunsinger, & Vyff, 2017), but none of these have shown particular interest in the study of anti-fascism. For Sweden, a notable exception is research on the anti-fascist seafarers (Estvall, 2009) and the work by Johan A. Lundin and Victor Lundberg (Lundberg & Lundin, 2014, 2017; and Chapter 6 by Lundin in this volume). For Norway, Knut Dørum has contributed one of the first overviews of the Norwegian communist and social democratic response to the rise of Nazi Germany during the 1930s (Dørum, 2017), while recent research by Charlie Krautwald provides us with new perspectives on the Danish research field (Krautwald, 2017; see also Krautwald’s Chapter 5 in this volume). Nonetheless, little progress has been made since Karl Christian Lammers’ work on ‘fascism interpretations’ in the interwar Scandinavian workers’ movement, which, in any case, is mostly limited to the Danish Social Democrats (Lammers, 1990: 221–34). This volume examines Nordic anti-fascism from the very beginning that, contrary to general assumptions, was not exclusively limited to reactions to

Introduction  3 Nazism. One of the earliest anti-fascist initiatives exemplifies the richness of the Nordic case. Directly after Mussolini’s rise to power in 1922, the Swedish communist, later prominent social democrat Zeth Höglund published the pamphlet Fascismen kommer! Vad gör Sverges arbetare till sitt försvar? (Fascism Is Coming! What Will Sweden’s Workers Do in Their Defence?). Here, he defines fascism as an ‘armed, reactionary league’ that after its rise to power in Italy systematically destroyed the Italian labour movement. In other words, Höglund continues, fascism was a ‘blood thirsty terror regime’ directed against the working people. Höglund’s example shows how anti-­ fascism was directly linked to the struggle of the working class in Sweden as he believed that, even in Sweden, there were forces aiming to form a fascist movement and stage a coup d’état – against the Swedish workers’ movement. Thus, Höglund advised Swedes to follow developments in Italy as much as in Sweden. It would be a ‘fatal mistake’, Höglund continues, to interpret fascism as a specifically Italian phenomenon. From Höglund’s perspective, in all places where national political and social conflicts had become increasingly sharp, fascist ‘murder bands’ had been organised. Not all carried the name of fascism, although they all had the same aims. His critique of Swedish society followed general European anti-fascist articulations, but it still represented something novel in its time: he criticises the bourgeoisie for sympathising with the fascists and applauding their anti-communist work; he attacks the social democrats for abandoning the immediate realisation of socialist goals; and accuses the military of preparing a coup against democracy. Looking closely at the developments in Italy, Höglund sees it as imperative that workers cooperate in a united front against fascism. For Höglund, the main danger came from the working class starting to believe in the illusion of peace between classes. From his perspective, this had been the fatal mistake of the Italians where the ‘reformists’ (i.e. social democrats) had lured the workers into supporting a bourgeois democratic framework, but which resulted in the loss of the fighting power at the crucial moment of fascist victory (Höglund, 1922: 2–8). Höglund’s analysis plays well into the general ideas of early socialist and communist anti-fascism in Europe, and underlines the importance of striking down fascism in its infancy, before it grows too strong and powerful as in Italy (Braskén, 2016). As Höglund’s political biography shows, although he soon abandoned communism for social democracy, he never abandoned the anti-fascist cause (clearly illustrated by his intense activism during the Spanish Civil War). In other words, communism was not a prerequisite for anti-fascism, although for most communists, anti-fascism became a permanent part of their political identity (Whitney, 2009; Lewis, 2012; Pons, 2014: 80–1). Nevertheless, the myth of communist anti-fascism must be critically assessed. Nordic communists were in many cases more sectarian and hostile towards potential allies in a united or popular front. The most striking example of this was the communist usage of the concept of ‘social fascism’, which had catastrophic consequences in the struggle against the Nazis during Hitler’s rise

4  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin to power in 1933. Moreover, as the chapters on communist-led anti-fascism in this volume show, in many cases, the Soviet Union was more interested in maintaining good foreign and trade relations with both Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, than supporting communist anti-fascism in the rest of the world (Payne, 2003; Bayerlein, 2009; Weiss in this volume). This betrayal of anti-fascism as a political cause became explicit in 1939 with the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact, which, due to the newfound cooperation between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, brought interwar anti-fascism to a devastating end (Bayerlein, 2008). Some might argue that the previous research on anti-fascism corresponds with the fact that there was no significant anti-fascist mobilisation in the Nordic countries. The Scandinavian countries (Denmark, Sweden and Norway) have traditionally understood themselves as unique spaces free of fascism and Nazism, deemed utterly foreign in spirit and mentality (Lindström, 1985). The history of Nordic neutrality and the idea of peaceful coexistence in the ‘People’s Home’ ( folkhemmet) has also partially overshadowed the history of anti-fascism. The social democratic idea of the People’s Home has often been interpreted as crucial in this respect, managing to unite countryside with the urban working class and middle class with appeals to nationalism and national solidarity across class boundaries. Thus some have argued that the People’s Home neutralised the fascist threat in Scandinavia by removing political space for a fascist-type of ‘national socialism’ (Berman, 2006: 162–75; Nielsen, 2009; Braskén, Kaihovirta, & Wickström, 2017). However, in recent years, Swedish historians have identified fissures and cracks in the image of the homogenous welfare state and ‘rediscovered’ a past filled with social conflicts and contentious politics (Nyzell, 2009; Flemming, Kjeldstadli, & Nyzell, 2017). There is also a substantial field of research in the Nordic countries dealing with the often ambiguous and sympathetic relations between Nordic state actors and the Third Reich (Whitehead, 1985, 1998; Hyytiä, 2012; Åmark, 2016). The position of ‘neutrality’ meant, in practice, that Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland and Iceland were also far more tolerant, accepting and conciliatory towards Nazi Germany than is commonly remembered. Likewise, the strong currents of Nordic and European anti-communism played a significant role in this context. The anti-communism of fascist and Nazi movements and regimes drew some sympathy. The prevailing mood of anti-communism undermined anti-fascist responses that challenged the position of neutrality with reports on terror and oppression. The authorities often deemed such reports to be ‘atrocity propaganda’ instead of accepting them as part of public debate (Åmark, 2016). During the Cold War, if the Eastern Bloc took on anti-fascism as a central theme in state propaganda, the trajectories of anti-communism remained strong in the Nordic Countries (Ruotsila, 2001). Even so, as Anders Dalsager reveals in Chapter 13, Nordic anti-fascism could find a purpose in the Cold War context, particularly when it came to continuing the struggle against Franco’s Spain.

Introduction  5 This edited volume aims to bring to light a number of overlooked anti-­ fascist actors, campaigns and organisations, which will significantly broaden our understanding of the Nordic responses to fascism and Nazism during the interwar and post-war periods. It remains a shame that anti-­fascism is still something mostly associated with Soviet communism (García et al., 2016). Anti-fascism thus stands out (incorrectly) as a way to divert and subvert the ‘healthy’ traditions of Western liberal democracies or the ideals of the Nordic countries, rather than being perceived as a means through which these very same values might be defended. The Cold War period also stands out for its capacity to produce black-and-white interpretations, when totalitarian perspectives made it even more difficult to approach anti-fascism as an historical concept. In the first place, this volume will therefore show that the history of ­anti-fascism in the Nordic countries goes far beyond the limits of the far left. As with the path-breaking study on varieties of anti-fascism in Britain in the interwar period by Nigel Copsey and Andrej Olechnowicz (2010), the aim here is to show the heterogeneity of voices behind critical responses and resistance to fascism and Nazism in the Nordic countries. Second, this volume follows a line of German literature on anti-fascism and resistance in the Third Reich, where there has been an extensive discussion on the various forms of political, religious and military resistance. This literature includes case studies on the history of communist, social democratic, liberal and conservative forms of resistance. Other major case studies have covered Protestant and Catholic resistance in the Third Reich; with others examining resistance by women, youth movements, Jews and ethnic minorities (Benz & Pehle, 2001; Steinbach & Tuchel, 2004; Kirk & McElligott, 2007; Coppi & Heinz, 2012; Nicosia & Stokes, 2015). There has also been a separate field of research focussing on the anti-fascist exile, which has a more ­direct connection to the Nordic countries (Hoffmann, 1980: 309–506; ­Peters, 1984; Scholz, 2000; Palmier, 2006). The field of exile studies makes a strong case for the relevance of a transnational perspective in analysing how ideas and articulations of anti-­fascism were transferred from continental Europe to the Nordic countries. Yet as Bernhard H. Bayerlein shows in his contribution to this volume, despite the fact that German exiles formed important transnational links, they were in many cases continuing old internal political divisions in their new Nordic setting (communists, social democrats, liberals, etc.). Still they were able to form contacts with significant elements within the Nordic intellectual and political elite. German-speaking exiles started their own ­anti-fascist publications and utilised their close links with Germany in order to get news on the Third Reich, including reports on political oppression, terror, paramilitary violence and the suppression of key rights and liberties (Palmier, 2006). An example of the Nordic interconnectedness to the general ­European ­anti-fascist exile and its struggle against Nazi Germany was the publication of The Brown Book of the Reichstag Fire and Hitler Terror.

6  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin During 1933–1934, this book was circulated in German, English, Swedish and Finnish (Sohl, 1980: 289–327). We have refrained from using a rigid definition of fascism and its relation to other far-right parties and groups. The aim has been to place the analytical focus on the groups and individuals who were actively taking a stand against fascism and who resisted its spread in Europe and the Nordic Countries. How did these various political actors interpret the development of domestic fascist sympathisers and movements, and what kind of critical responses did the interwar far-right surge in Nordic societies trigger? ­Anti-fascism is often understood as merely encompassing ‘active’ collective action, but as this volume shows, there is no need to make any rigid analytical distinction between ‘active’ or ‘passive’ forms of anti-fascism. What matters is a contextual analysis of the various forms and shapes of opposition and resistance. Even the act of theorising fascism can be made in a very anti-fascist way, and these critical interpretations of the fascist movement have had a long-lasting influence on our understanding of fascism (Stone, 2010: 183–4; Stone, 2012: 6). What is Nordic anti-fascism? We understand anti-fascism as a field of contentious activity taking place in various places and spaces. Anti-fascism could be articulated on an intellectual level, for example, and this includes public criticism and condemnation of fascism in textual or visual forms. But these forms of anti-fascist political education, critical theoretical discussion and propaganda should not be artificially separated from street politics, rallies, demonstrations, organisational initiatives and individual activism. After all, anti-fascist street politics were based on both specific and general ‘enemy images’ and critical understandings of the fascist ‘other’. Moreover, the history of anti-fascism must include the realm of cultural politics, ­theatre, the arts and literature. These forms were of paramount importance for the analysis of the fascist movement and for forming emotional and cultural resistance to it. When comparing the Nordic responses to fascism, it is important to highlight that historical and political contexts could be very different even within Northern Europe. In January 1918, for example, a month after Finland’s formal declaration of independence from the newly established Soviet Russia, Finland was thrown into a brutal civil war fought between the ‘Reds’ and the ‘Whites’. A new ‘White’ Finland emerged, triggering a wave of retribution against the ‘Reds’ (Haapala & Tikka, 2012; Tepora & Roselius, 2014; Lindholm, 2017). None of the other Nordic countries had such a devastating start to the interwar period. Norway had been a part of Sweden until 1905. Thereafter, it gained independence. Sweden, Norway, Denmark and Iceland had all been neutral countries during the First World War and so escaped the terror of the battlefields, while soldiers from the Grand Duchy of Finland did not serve on the frontlines. After 1918, all Nordic countries were liberal democracies. Sweden, Norway, Denmark and Iceland (autonomous but until 1944 under the rule of the Danish crown) were parliamentary monarchies,

Introduction  7 while Finland introduced a form of parliamentary system that was combined with strong presidential powers. What further united the Nordic countries was the establishment of strong social democratic parties (founded in Denmark 1871, Norway 1887, Sweden 1889, Finland 1905 and Iceland 1916) and a radical implementation of voting rights for men and women (in Finland 1906, Norway 1913, Denmark with Iceland 1915 and Sweden 1919). Nordic social democratic parties were represented in government during the 1930s, generally receiving over 40 per cent of the votes in parliamentary elections. Another common trait was that all social democratic parties (except ­Iceland) transformed their parties from industrial working-class parties to broader ‘people’s parties’. They all also embraced national alliances with farmers’ parties that enabled support for agricultural subsidies, on the one hand, and social democratic welfare reforms, on the other (Hilson et  al., 2017: 16). The Nordic Cooperation Committee of the Labour Movement (Arbejderbevægelsens nordiske samarbejdskommitté [SAMAK]), which established a Nordic forum to discuss the labour question between the social democratic parties also considered ways to stand up to the threat posed by fascism (Österberg, 2017: 237–57). During the interwar period, the principal fascist threat in Denmark, Sweden, Norway and Iceland was international, rather than domestic (Hilson, 2008b: 28). This situation changed radically with the outbreak of the Second World War, with Denmark and Norway occupied by Germany (1940–1945). ­Anti-fascist resistance continued in Denmark (Kirchhoff, 2000; ­Lammers, 2011) and Norway (Moland, 2000; Levsen, 2011), which has been a­ cknowledged in the general research on European resistance movements (Foot, 1976: 271–85; Moore, 2000; Ueberschär & Steinkamp, 2011). Finland was the one first drawn into war, first during the Winter War, 1939–1940, fought against the Soviet Union and, second, when Finland joined the Third Reich in the battle against the Soviet Union in Operation Barbarossa, 1941–1944. Finland made a separate peace agreement with the Soviet Union that required it to expel all remaining German troops stationed in Finland, and this opened up a new front in the Lapland War, 1944–1945. During the Winter War, there were no traces of resistance in Finland, but during the alliance with Nazi Germany, youth resistance groups did carry out successful sabotage actions, but after a while, they were brutally repressed by Finnish police and surveillance agencies (Rentola, 1998: 602; Selin, 2011). Although sometimes perceived as an isolated corner of Europe and the world, the Nordic countries were, like the rest of the world, influenced and affected by international developments. During the interwar period, this was not only evident in the responses to Nazi Germany, but also in relation to the Spanish Civil War, which has generated a substantial volume of popular books and research volumes focussing on the Nordic volunteers who went to Spain to fight for the republican side (Heiberg, 2014). However, most of these have mainly been limited to country-specific studies where the Nordic context as a whole has been excluded (Lundvik, 1980;

8  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin Lundgreen-Nielsen, 2001; Juusela, 2003; Moen & Sæther, 2009; Koivisto & Parikka, 2015). The examples and cases above show that anti-fascism in the Nordic countries was directed against both international fascism and domestic fascism. Events in Italy, Germany, Spain and elsewhere could inspire intense anti-fascist responses at times. Although domestic fascist movements in the Nordic countries would remain marginal, it was not clear at the time that this would necessarily remain so. For example, the Finnish case, with the rapid rise of the far-right Lapua movement in 1930 and its fascist successor Isänmaallinen Kansanliike (Patriotic People’s Movement), clearly showed that even the Nordic countries were not immune to fascism (Silvennoinen, 2015). Anti-fascism was then, as it is today, often about calling out potential fascist tendencies. There was, in other words, no automatic correlation between the actual level of the domestic fascist menace and the will to act against it. The following outline of the volume highlights some of these anti-fascist articulations, although it is by no means an exhaustive account. Much works still remains to be done in the field of anti-fascist studies and its history in the Nordic countries.

The structure of the book The case studies in the volume show important similarities and differences in the approach of left and liberal social movements, intellectuals, activists and politicians of social democratic, communist, liberal, the agrarian centre parties and even conservative actors. The aim therefore is to step away from state-centred approaches and refocus on Nordic civil society, social movements, activists and their transnational connections. Our intention is not to present country-by-country surveys, but instead the different case studies reveal the presence of a Nordic interconnectedness that also places the Nordic countries in a special relationship to the rest of Europe. We maintain that the study of interwar anti-fascism should not be contained by national boundaries. Anti-fascism needs to be understood from ‘below’ and transnationally, where national boundaries are not the primary concern for analysis. There are four thematic sections to this book. The first one, Anti-fascism beyond the far left, brings together four chapters that illustrate the varieties of anti-fascism in the Nordic countries, including cases of both social democratic, liberal and conservative anti-fascism. The section begins with Chapter 1 on anti-fascist discourses, practices and confrontations in 1930s Iceland. Here, Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad explore how fascism was contested and resisted (even though the history of fascist organisations in interwar Iceland is short). There were no fascist mass movements and no fascists were elected as representatives to parliament or municipal governments. Nonetheless, fascism had a significant impact on Iceland’s political landscape. Fascists were actively publishing journals, periodicals and pamphlets, involving themselves in student politics and marching and

Introduction  9 fighting in the streets. The Nazi movement was still a force to be reckoned with (not least because of connections to the conservatives). The anti-­fascist struggle in Iceland went well beyond taking on the relatively weak and eventually abortive Nazi movement. Even though the pro-Soviet communist movement was the main agent of anti-fascism and the main player in fascist/ anti-fascist confrontations, Icelandic Nazis also met opposition from conservatives, liberals and, particularly, social democrats. In Chapter 2, Jenni Karimäki discusses Finnish liberals and anti-­ fascism, 1922–1932. She elaborates on whether extreme-right or fascist ideals and actions were considered a serious threat or a passing infatuation in Finland. The progression from dismissing ‘fascist delusions’ during the 1920s to taking a strong anti-fascist stance at the beginning of the 1930s is the focus of her analysis. Due to the formative experience of the Finnish Civil War in 1918 and a tradition of integral nationalism, Finnish liberalism was nationalistic in nature and had a strong anti-­c ommunist tendency. In general, communism rather than fascism presented the ultimate threat to a united Finnish nation, and thus, anti-communism often outweighed opposition to fascism. Liberals pursued a united nation in spirit and mentality, but not a coerced acceptance of a single political ideology. This principle was applied to both extremes of the political spectrum. Karimäki shows how the liberals believed that Finland could and should sustain difference of opinion if the principles of constitutional parliamentary democracy and republicanism were to persist. Different political and societal opinions were an asset if they could be channelled for the good of the people. Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström then expand upon the complex Finnish case in Chapter 3. They consider whether the Swedish-speaking ­m inority in Finland represented an ‘anti-fascist minority’. Their chapter ex­ inland, plores the responses to fascism by the Swedish-speaking minority in F which constitutes an overlooked case in the historiography of fascism and anti-fascism. Empirically, their chapter focusses on the anti-fascism of two leading Swedish-speaking public intellectuals, the social democrat K.  H. Wiik and the conservative Eirik Hornborg. As high-profile opponents to fascism in the only two formally Swedish-speaking parties in Finland (the unilingual Swedish People’s Party (SFP), and the bilingual Social Democratic Party (SDP) of Finland), Hornborg and Wiik are representative of both the anti-fascist right as well as the left wing of the Swedish-speaking minority. For Hornborg and the anti-fascists in the SFP, fascism threatened the Finnish bourgeois social order as well as the Finland-Swedes. For the Swedish-speaking social democrats represented by K. H. Wiik, fascism constituted a threat against both the socialist working class and the Swedish-speaking minority. Unlike the Finland-Swedes who had allied themselves with the fascists in hope of concessions in the language strife, or who acted in pure interests of class, Wiik and Hornborg asserted that the Swedish minority would be in grave peril if the fascists claimed power. As

10  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin Swedish-speaking anti-fascists, Wiik and Hornborg united in their criticism of Finland-Swedish high finance and its support for fascism. In Chapter 4 on conservative fascist sympathies and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway, Knut Dørum discusses the impact that Hitler’s seizure of power in 1933 had for the political direction of the Conservative Party (Høyre or ‘The Right’) in Norway. Major forces in this party were inclined to tie bonds and form alliances with the fascist party National Unity (Nasjonal Samling). Within the Conservative Party, there was profound sympathy towards fascism, especially in various grass-roots local organisations. Above all, the party’s youth organisation came out as strong enthusiasts for Nazi Germany. In his chapter, Dørum analyses how key persons in the ­organisation managed to avoid an alliance and collaboration with National Unity, and gain a majority for a declaration condemning National Unity and fascism. The next thematic section of the book concerns anti-fascist youth activism and militant resistance. It opens with Charlie E. Krautwald’s Chapter 5 on militant social democracy in Denmark during 1932–1934. The author shows how the rise of fascism during the 1930s and the Nazi seizure of power in neighbouring Germany spurred a radical anti-fascist sentiment among members of the Social Democratic Youth of Denmark (DSU). Strongly influenced by the militant wehrhaftigkeit or defensiveness of the closely connected German and Austrian labour movements, DSU rank-and-file engaged in militant activism against Danish fascism. By embracing and imitating the transnational trend of radical anti-fascism, they brought this militant political culture into a Nordic setting. However, the use of radical propaganda methods, uniformed fighting groups and violent confrontation provoked a fierce debate within the Danish labour movement. Militant activism did not sit well with the official party policy of the Danish social democrats, who were in government and wanted to utilise state power only in the preservation of democracy. Johan A. Lundin’s Chapter 6 reflects on social democratic youth and ­anti-fascism in Sweden, in the period 1929–1939. It takes, as its starting point, the fact that there has been no room for anti-fascist activities among party members in the historiography of the Swedish SDP. Instead, the economic crisis agreement the party made in the parliament is central to understandings of why fascism did not succeed in the country. Lundin goes beyond this well-versed story and calls attention to the varieties of anti-fascist strategies deployed by members of Social Democratic Youth associations. Unlike earlier research that focusses on party and parliamentary politics during this period, he shows how anti-fascism was expressed in campaigns, meetings, demonstrations and confrontations on the streets and squares. These Danish and Swedish cases are then followed by Chapter 7 that examines Nordic militant anti-fascism in the context of International of Seamen and Harbour Workers (ISH) in Northern Europe during the first half of the 1930s. Here, Holger Weiss explores anti-fascist activities orchestrated

Introduction  11 by the ISH. Anti-fascist activities and campaigns were first and foremost directed against militarist, right-wing and fascist countries, i.e. Italy, Japan and Germany. These activities included the establishment of anti-war committees in harbours during the Manchurian Crisis in 1931–1932; the intensification of agitation and propaganda work of the international seamen’s clubs among German seamen; as well as the ISH’s campaign to boycott ships carrying the Nazi German flag in 1933 and 1934. Our third thematic section concerns cultural fronts and anti-fascist intellectuals. It starts with Chapter 8 on anti-fascist race biology by Martin Ericsson. This chapter explores what it meant to be a ‘researcher of race’ and an anti-fascist at the same time. Race biology, a scholarly discipline encompassing eugenics as well as racial anthropology, was influential in Swedish scientific and cultural debate in the 1930s. One of the leading researchers in the discipline was the physician and anti-fascist Gunnar Dahlberg, soon to be Director of the Swedish State Institute for Race Biology in Uppsala. In 1933, Dahlberg held a lecture in Stockholm, discussing and criticising the notion that the Swedish people was part of a superior ‘Nordic race’. During the lecture, a gang of Swedish National Socialists violently attacked him. In this chapter, this incident is connected to a broader debate about how Swedish ‘race biology’ and racial anthropology did not necessarily lead to fascist positions. We return to Finland in Tauno Saarela’s contribution on Finnish socialist intellectuals in Chapter 9. This chapter discusses how Finnish socialist intellectuals within the Akateeminen Sosialistiseura (ASS) defined fascism as a means for capitalism to survive in the early 1930s. The concern was both of European and Finnish origin. Finnish socialist intellectuals closely followed the discussions of Central European socialists and, taking their cue, ASS intellectuals proposed the formation of a united front as a counterforce against fascism. This proposal did not point towards cooperation between communists and social democrats, but a programme of activity that would unite various social groups. ASS intellectuals viewed the potential for unity optimistically. The popular fronts in France and Spain kept this optimism strong in the mid-1930s. The ASS challenged the politics of the Finnish SDP; the SDP leadership responded in May 1937 with expulsion. Ole Martin Rønning’s Chapter 10 aptly titled ‘Intellectuals ready to fight’ examines the development of anti-fascist cultural fronts in Denmark, Norway and Sweden. It follows how intellectuals and artists engaged in a cultural struggle against a supposed underlying bias in the predominant ‘bourgeois’ culture that, in their opinion, subconsciously, and gradually, paved the way towards increasing acceptance of fascist ideas and principles. Rønning shows the different kinds of anti-fascist activities that the cultural fronts performed. Moreover, he brings to light the international and domestic factors that motivated the formation, and later dissolution of the Scandinavian cultural fronts, including the impact of Stalinism in the Soviet Union.

12  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin Mikko-Olavi Seppälä’s contribution in Chapter 11 connects the cultural struggle against fascism to an analysis of the workers’ stage in the context of the popular front and Spanish aid in Finland. The workers’ stage was an amateur theatre based in Helsinki, which reached a high point when it cooperated with left-wing intellectuals during 1934–1939. Seppälä shows that it was an organic part of the popular front movement, and argues that the theatre was able to open up a counter-public sphere uniting intellectuals and workers. The performance of Elmer Rice’s Judgment Day (1935) set the tone for the struggle for civil rights in Finland in the larger framework of the international struggle against fascism. During the Spanish Civil War, the socialist and pacifist American repertoire of theatre gave way to taking up arms against fascism. For the activist left-wing opposition, the theatre functioned as an extension of political journals, as a (counter-)public sphere and a vehicle for highlighting contemporary political problems, accelerating public discussion and engaging more people – workers and intellectuals alike – in fruitful interaction. Transnational cooperation of anti-fascist intellectuals, artists and politicians is the topic of Bernhard H. Bayerlein’s Chapter 12, which is focussed on the German exile weekly Die Zukunft and its networks in the Nordic countries. Founded in Paris in 1938 with the intention of galvanising opposition to the forthcoming war, the Zukunft functioned as a political and transcultural European paper with a special German-French focus. Bayerlein shows how, in the Nordic countries, some remarkable efforts for anti-fascist (and later anti-Stalinist) media coverage and campaigns were accomplished by the Zukunft. The centrality of Günter Dallmann as the Zukunft’s representative in the Nordic countries is highlighted in the chapter especially, and introduces him as an important, but overlooked mediator between Nordic and European anti-fascist intellectual networks. The final thematic section of the volume looks beyond the interwar period and presents three case studies on post-war anti-fascisms. It begins with Anders Dalsager’s Chapter 13 on how the Scandinavian influenced Socialist Youth International framed anti-fascism in relation to the Franco regime. During the period from 1945 to 1955, the International Union of Socialist Youth (IUSY) organised numerous campaigns and protests against the dictatorship of Francisco Franco in Spain. These protests were, to a large extent, proposed and initiated by IUSY’s influential Scandinavian member organisations and did not only target the brutality of the Franco regime, but also the Cold War strategy of the government of the United States, which looked to include Spain in the Western defence community. By employing an anti-fascist political frame, which referred to the Spanish Civil War and the threats from fascist dictatorships during the interwar years, the ­Scandinavian-influenced IUSY attempted to delegitimise the Cold War rationale that alliances with right-wing authoritarians were necessary in the defence against communism. In this way, the tradition of anti-fascism from the 1930s continued into the post-Second World War period.

Introduction  13 Flemming Mikkelsen’s Chapter 14 follows with an analysis of the r­ adical-right movement and countermovement in Denmark. The Danish far right emerged from xenophobic subcultures as a reaction to increasing immigration during the 1980s and evolved into a social movement of nationalist associations, militant skinheads and neo-Nazis who attempted to conquer the streets. Mikkelsen shows how these attempts were met by an effective countermovement, which built up a coalition of left-wing anti-fascist militants and moderate political organisations. However, from 2001 onwards, national and international circumstances offered new opportunities for the Danish far right both in the streets and as a parliamentary force. This latest upsurge in far-right mobilisation has not been countered so effectively, but the influx of immigrants in 2015 did trigger a renewed emergence of refugee advocates among broad layers in the Danish population. In the final case study in Chapter 15, Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries analyse how fascist spatial claims have been challenged in southern Sweden since the 1980s. By looking at the specific struggle over the 30 November marches, they track how fascist street politics and the anti-fascist resistance have operated through the spatial claim-making. By studying the cumulative effects of struggles between anti-fascists and the far right in the Swedish city of Lund since the 1980s, they argue that fascist claims to urban space gave rise to distinct modes of anti-fascist response. The blockade was a way for anti-fascists to temporarily take control over a site on the far right’s marching route; and then leverage this control in negotiations with authorities. Turf war emphasised the disruption of far-right claims to dominate space by direct, interpersonal violence. Disruption of space was often based on small mobile groups of activists. But each mode of anti-fascist challenge, shaped by particular historical experiences and historical relationships between fascists, anti-fascists and the police, came with inherent vulnerabilities. *** Nigel Copsey’s afterword then draws our volume to a close. Copsey locates the volume in the broader international field of anti-fascism research, identifies problems with current conceptual understandings and makes some suggestions as to the future direction of travel in what is becoming a global arena of ‘anti-fascist’ studies.

Notes 1 The first collection of peer-reviewed articles on anti-fascism in the Nordic countries was published as a special issue of Historisk Tidskrift för Finland (1) 2017, edited by K. Braskén, M. Kaihovirta and M. Wickström. Three of these articles are to be found here as revised and extended versions in English. 2 The Nordic countries also include the autonomous areas Greenland, the Faroe Islands and the Åland Islands (between Sweden and Finland), although they are not separately treated in the volume.

14  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin

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Introduction  15 García, H. (2016) ‘Transnational History. A New Paradigm for Anti-Fascist Studies?’ Contemporary European History 25 (4): 563–72. García, H., Yusta, M., Tabet, X. & Clímaco, C. (2016) ‘Beyond Revisionism. ­Rethinking Antifascism in the Twenty-First Century’ in García, H., Yusta, M., Tabet, X. & Clímaco, C. (eds.) Rethinking Antifascism. History, Memory and Politics, 1922 to the Present. New York: Berghahn Books. Haapala, P., Jalava, M. & Larsson, S. (eds.) (2017) Making Nordic Historiography. Connections, Tensions and Methodology, 1850–1970. New York & Oxford: Berghahn. Haapala, P. & Tikka, M. (2012) ‘Revolution, Civil War, and Terror in Finland in 1918’ in Gerwarth, R. & Horne, J. (eds.) War in Peace. Paramilitary Violence in Europe after the Great War. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heiberg, M. (2014) ‘Visiones Nórdicas de la guerra civil Española’, Studia Historica. Historia Contemporánea 32: 481–90. Hilson, M. (2008a) The Nordic Model. Scandinavia since 1945. London: Reaktion Books. Hilson, M. (2008b) ‘Scandinavia’ in Gerwarth, R. (ed.) Twisted Paths. Europe 1914– 1945. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hilson, M., Neunsinger, S. & Vyff, I. (eds.) (2017) Labour, Unions and Politics under the North Star. The Nordic Countries, 1700–2000. New York: Berghahn. Hilson, M., Neunsinger, S., Vyff, I. & Kristjánsdóttir, R. (2017) ‘Labour, Unions and Politics in the Nordic Countries, c. 1700–2000: Introduction’ in Hilson, M., Neunsinger, S. & Vyff, I. (eds.) Labour, Unions and Politics under the North Star. The Nordic Countries, 1700–2000. New York: Berghahn. Hoffmann, L. (ed.) (1980) Exil in der Tschechoslowakei, in Großbritannien, Skandinavien und Palästina. Kunst und Literatur im antifaschistischen Exil 1933–1945 in sieben Bänden. Leipzig: Verlag Philipp Reclam jun. Höglund, Z. (1922) Fascismen kommer! Vad gör Sverges arbetare för sitt försvar? Stockholm: Fram. Horn, G.-R. (1996) European Socialists Respond to Fascism. Ideology, Activism and Contingency in the 1930s. New York: Oxford University Press. Hyytiä, O. (2012) Suomi ja Hitlerin Saksa 1933–1939. Helsinki: Minerva Kustannus. Johansson, A. W. (2014) Den nazistiska utmaningen: aspekter på andra världskriget. 7, [utök.] uppl. Lund: Studentlitteratur. Juusela, J. (2003) Suomalaiset Espanjan sisällissodassa 1936–1939. Jyväskylä: Atena Kustannus Oy. Karvonen, L. (1988) From White to Blue-and-Black. Finnish Fascism in the Inter-War Era. Helsinki: Finnish Society of Sciences and Letters. Kirchhoff, H. (2000) ‘Denmark’, in Moore, B. (ed.) Resistance in Western Europe. Oxford: Berg. Kirk, T. & McElligott, A. (eds.) (2007) Opposing Fascism. Community, Authority and Resistance in Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Koivisto, H. & Parikka, R. (eds.) (2015) ¡NO PASARÁN! Espanjan sisällissodan kulttuurihistoriaa. Helsinki: The Finnish Society for Labour History. Krautwald, C. E. (2017) ‘Kampklar! Militant antifascistisk mobilisering i Danmark 1930–1936’, Historisk Tidskrift för Finland 102 (1): 114–48. Lammers, K. C. (1990) ‘Faschismus-Interpretationen und Antifaschismus in den skandinavischen Arbeiterbewegungen’ in Grebing, H. & Kinner, K. (eds.) Arbeiterbewegung und Faschismus. Faschismus-Interpretationen in der europäischen ­Arbeiterbewegung. Essen: Klartext-Verlag.

16  Kasper Braskén and Johan A. Lundin Lammers, K. C. (2011) ‘Dänemark: Widerstand zwischen Anspruch und ­Wirklichkeit  – der Mythos vom dänischen Volk im Freiheitskampf gegen die Deutschen’ in Ueberschär, G. R. & Steinkamp, P. (eds.) Handbuch zum Widerstand gegen Nationalsozialismus und Faschismus in Europa 1933/39 bis 1945. Berlin: De Gruyter. Lauridsen, J. T. (2002) Dansk nazisme: 1930–45- og derefter. 1. udg., 1. opl. København: Gyldendal. Levsen, D. (2011) ‘Norwegen. Der Widerstand gegen die deutsche Besatzungsmacht 1940–1945’ in Ueberschär, G. R. & Steinkamp, P. (eds.) Handbuch zum Widerstand gegen Nationalsozialismus und Faschismus in Europa 1933/39 bis 1945. Berlin: De Gruyter. Lewis, J. A. (2012) Youth against Fascism. Young Communists in Britain and the United States, 1919–1939. Saarbrücken: AkademikerVerlag. Lindström, U. (1985) Fascism in Scandinavia 1920–1940. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Lindholm, S. (2017) Fånglägerhelvetet Dragsvik. Massdöden i Ekenäs 1918. Proclio: Ekenäs. Lööw, H. (1990) Hakkorset och Wasakärven. En studie av nationalsocialismen i Sverige 1924–1950. Göteborg: Historiska Institutionen. Lööw, H. (2016) Nazismen i Sverige 1924–1979. Pionjärerna, partierna, propagandan. Stockholm: Ordfront. Lundberg, V. & Lundin, J. A. (2014) ‘Med ett våldsamt knytnävsslag och en välriktad spark? SSU och den nazistiska utmaningen 1933’, Arbetarhistoria 2014: 1–2, Arbetarrörelsen arkiv och bibliotek. Lundberg, V. & Lundin, J. A. (2017) ‘Antifascismens fält. Empiriska exempel från Sverige 1924–1945’, Historisk Tidskrift för Finland (1): 17–42. Lundgreen-Nielsen, K. (2001) Tro eller blændværk? Danmark og den spanske borgerkrig 1936–1939. En undersøgelse af den danske presse og den danske regerings holdning. Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag. Lundvik, B. (1980) Solidaritet och partitaktik. Den svenska arbetarrörelsen och spanska inbördeskriget 1936–1939. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell International. Mammone, A. (2015) Transnational Neofascism in France and Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Moen, J. S. & Sæther, R. (2009) Tusen dager. Norge og den spanske borgerkrigen 1936–1939. Oslo: Gyldendal. Moland, A. (2000) ‘Norway’ in Moore, B. (ed.) Resistance in Western Europe. ­O xford: Berg. Moore, B. (ed.) (2000) Resistance in Western Europe. Oxford: Berg. Nicosia, F. R. & Stokes, L. D. (eds.) (2015) Germans against Nazism. Nonconformity, Opposition and Resistance in the Third Reich. Essays in Honour of Peter Hoffmann. New York: Berghahn. Nielsen, N. K. (2009) Bonde, stat og hjem. Nordisk demokrati og nationalisme - fra pietismen til 2. Verdenskrig. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Nyzell, S. (2009) ”Striden ägde rum i Malmö”. Möllevångskravallerna 1926. En studie av politiskt våld i mellankrigstidens Sverige. Malmö: Malmö Högskola. Österberg, M. (2017). ‘“Norden” as a Transnational Space in the 1930s. Negotiated Consensus of “Nordicness” in the Nordic Cooperation Committee of the Labour Movement’ in Hilson, M., Neunsinger, S. & Vyff, I. (eds.) Labour, Unions and Politics under the North Star. The Nordic Countries, 1700–2000. New York: Berghahn.

Introduction  17 Palmier, J.-M. (2006) Weimar in Exile. The Antifascist Emigration in Europe and America. London: Verso. Payne, S. G. (2003) ‘Soviet Anti-Fascism. Theory and Practice, 1921–45’, Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions 4 (2): 1–62. Peters, J. (1984) Exilland Schweden. Deutsche und schwedische Antifaschisten 1933–1945. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Pons, S. (2014) The Global Revolution. A History of International Communism 1917–1991. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Poulsen, H. (1970). Besættelsesmagten og de danske nazister: det politiske forhold mellem tyske myndigheder og nazistiske kredse i Danmark 1940–43. Aarhus: Diss. Rentola, K., ‘The Finnish Communists and the Winter War’, Journal of Contemporary History 33 (4): 591–607. Ruotsila, M. (2001) British and American Anticommunism before the Cold War. ­ London: Frank Cass. Scholz, M. F. (2000) Skandinavische Erfahrungen erwünscht? Nachexil und Remigration. Die ehemaligen KPD-Emigranten in Skandinavien und ihr weiteres Schicksal in der SBZ/DDR. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Selin, S. (2011) Kun valtionpetos oli isänmaallinen teko. Nuoret sodassa Hitleriä vastaan. Helsinki: Työväen Historian ja Perinteen Tutkimuksen Seura. Silvennoinen, O. (2015) ‘“Home, Religion, Fatherland”. Movements of the Radical Right in Finland’, Fascism 4: 134–54. Silvennoinen, O., Tikka, M. & Roselius, A. (2016) Suomalaiset fasistit. Mustan sarastuksen airuet. Helsinki: WSOY. Sohl, K. (1980) ‘Entstehung und Verbreitung des Braunbuchs über Reichstagsbrand und Hitlerterror 1933/1934’, Jahrbuch für Geschichte. Berlin: Akademie Verlag: 289–327. Steinbach, P. & Tuchel, J. (eds.) (2004) Widerstand gegen die nationalsozialistische Diktatur 1933–1945. Bonn: Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung. Stone, D. (2010) ‘Anti-Fascist Europe Comes to Britain. Theorising Fascism as a Contribution to Defeating it’, in Copsey, N. & Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) Varieties of Anti-Fascism. Britain in the Inter-War Period. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan: 183–201. Stone, D. (2012) Responses to Nazism in Britain, 1933–1939. Before War and Holocaust. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. Tepora, T. & Roselius, A. (eds.) (2014) The Finnish Civil War 1918. History, Memory, Legacy. Leiden: Brill. Ueberschär, G. R. & Steinkamp, P. (eds.) (2011) Handbuch zum Widerstand gegen ­Nationalsozialismus und Faschismus in Europa 1933/39 bis 1945. Berlin: De Gruyter. Wärenstam, E. (1970) Fascismen och nazismen i Sverige 1920–1940: studier i den svenska nationalsocialismens, fascismens och antisemitismens organisationer, ­ideologier och propaganda under mellankrigsåren. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Whitehead, Þ. (1985) Stríð fyrir ströndum. Reykjavík: Almenna bókafélagið. Whitehead, Þ. (1998) Íslandsævintýri Himmlers 1935–1937. Reykjavík: Vaka-Helgafell. Whitney, S. B. (2009) Mobilizing Youth. Communists and Catholics in Interwar France. Durham: Duke University Press.

Part I

Anti-fascism beyond the far left

1 Anti-fascist discourses, practices and confrontations in 1930s Iceland Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad

Introduction The history of fascist organisations in interwar Iceland is short. The first Nazi party, Þjóðernishreyfing Íslendinga (The Nationalist Movement of the Icelanders, NMI), which had close relations with the conservative Sjálfstæðisflokkur (Independence Party, IP), was established in 1933. The following year, the NMI formed an electoral alliance with the IP, but later that year, due to infighting between conservative and radical factions, it was dissolved and replaced by Flokkur þjóðernissinna (The Nationalist Party, NP). However, by 1938 the NP had withered away (Guðmundsson, 1976). Historian Robert Paxton (2004) has explored the successes and failures of different European fascist movements. While Italian and German fascism succeeded by building a mass movement from all classes of society, Paxton shows that their rise to power was dependent on alliances with traditional elites, which involved sacrificing the more ‘radical’ sections within their movements. In Iceland, its indigenous Nazism failed to reconcile its extremist elements with its conservative ones; it never managed to appeal to traditional elites; and therefore, it was unable to grow beyond being a relatively small group of young men. It also had to face opposition from anti-fascists, as we shall see. Yet even though there was no mass movement and no members elected as representatives to parliament or municipal governments, fascism and ­Nazism – as transnational and national phenomena – did exert some significant impact on Iceland’s political landscape. Publishing journals, periodicals and pamphlets, involving themselves in student politics, marching and fighting in the streets, the Nazi movement was still a force to be reckoned with. So too, was their already-mentioned connection with the conservative IP. The anti-fascist struggle thus went well beyond taking on the relatively weak and eventually abortive Nazi movement. As was the case with most of the neighbouring countries, communists were the most outspoken and active opponents of fascism. Founded in 1930, the Communist Party of Iceland (CPI) evolved into a relatively strong and influential – by Northern European standards – political force. As a result, the

22  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad CPI  has received considerable attention in the historiography of 20th-­ century Iceland. Much of this has been penned from an anti-­communist perspective, which means that the theory of totalitarianism has shaped the historical understanding of the communist struggle against fascism. Communists have either been put on equal footing with the Nazis, or have been represented as the greater threat to Icelandic society. This understanding has coincided with confusion or unwillingness to label right-wing radical nationalist parties as Nazis. Due to their initial close relations with the IP, they have been presented as ‘idealistic anti-communists’ – a bulwark against the Soviet and Communist threat. Ultimately, this logic leads to a view of militant anti-fascism as part of the Communists’ support for the Soviet Union, and anti-fascist actions as attempts to destabilise the Icelandic state. Not only does this limit the historical and contemporary understanding of fascism as an ideology fundamentally different from communism – with nationalist, racialist and anti-emancipation politics at its core – it also limits our understanding of anti-fascism. Scholars of fascism have convincingly shown that totalitarian theory obscures more than it can explain. By equating communism with fascism, it ignores key differences such as the social composition of the movements, their system of rule, and ideology (Paxton, 2004). Furthermore, they have called into question the equation between anti-fascism and communism (Garcia et al., 2016: 4). And when it comes to fascism’s relation to traditional elites, Martin Blinkhorn (1990) has pointed out that all over Europe, fascism would coalesce with conservative parties on issues such as anti-communism and scepticism towards democracy. Fascism can thus be seen to have occupied a common political space with conservatives. It is worthwhile keeping this in mind when looking at fascism and anti-fascism in Iceland. The history of anti-fascism in Iceland as a broadly based phenomenon reaching beyond the Communist movement has yet to be written. This is also true of the other Nordic countries where research on anti-fascism during the interwar period has until recently concentrated on the labour movement. This can be contrasted with the rich German historiography of anti-­fascism, where the role of specific groups within the church, youth movements, the old elites, conservatives and the military has also been widely explored. Because of its diversity of expression and origins, anti-fascism should not be considered a singular ideology, but rather an oppositional force dependent on its foe for its political expression. Nevertheless, Nigel Copsey (2010) has proposed a definition of anti-fascism not only as an oppositional force, but also as a defence of enlightenment values of humanism, rationalism, modernism and universalism. This anti-fascist minimum is conceptualised from the historical context of interwar Britain, and Copsey has called for further comparative studies. In a recent article on anti-fascism in the Nordic countries, Kasper Braskén, Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström (2017) have taken steps in this

Anti-fascist discourses  23 direction. They discuss the unique position of the Nordic countries as stable democracies with strong nationally based Social Democratic movements. Consequently, communism and fascism could be contested with a nationalistic narrative labelling both ideologies as ‘foreign’. This was not as straightforward in Iceland where the Communists stood on firmer ground, seeking legitimacy through a radical nationalist discourse as well as active participation in the labour conflicts of the 1920s and 1930s (Kristjánsdóttir, 2017). Even so, a wider view of anti-fascism in Iceland is long overdue. By exploring anti-fascist discourses, practices and confrontations in 1930s Iceland, the aim of this chapter is to consider the ways in which fascism found resistance. Even though the pro-Soviet Communist movement was the main agent of anti-fascism and the main player in fascist/anti-fascist confrontations, Icelandic Nazis also met opposition from conservatives, liberals and, in particular, Social Democrats. Communist politics during the early 1930s in Iceland entailed an emphasis on direct action against the employers and the bourgeois state apparatus. Unions led by Communists were most active in labour conflicts. Following the example from Scandinavia, the leaders of the Social Democratic Party (Alþýðuflokkur, SDP) had taken a clear anti-­communist stance in the late 1920s. When the Nazi movement arrived on the political scene, they accordingly defined it as an offspring of Communist militancy. Yet the Social Democrats were both targets of the ‘anti-Marxist’ campaigns of the Nazis as well as active participants in the anti-fascist struggle. So even though the SDP advocated working-class politics being fought by peaceful means and through parliamentary democracy, it took an active stance against state measures that could threaten the negotiating position of the workers. This applies to the youth movement of the party, the rank-and-file in addition to – even though to a lesser extent – the party leadership.

Iceland during the interwar years When considering interwar Icelandic anti-fascism, it is important to bear in mind that the Icelandic Social Democratic and labour movement was younger, weaker and far less centralised than its sister parties in the Scandinavian countries. The most influential political parties were on the centre and right. First, and largest, was the aforementioned IP, established in 1929. It was a broadly based organisation drawing support from the far right, the moderate right, and even the centre. Second was the Progressive Farmers’ Party (Framsóknarflokkur, PP), a farmers’ party representing rural interests, and as such, both conservative and nationalistic in outlook. Although the Scandinavian labour parties were founded in the late 19th century, it was as late as 1916 before the Social Democratic Party (­Alþýðuflokkur, SDP) and the Icelandic Confederation of Labour (Alþýðusamband Íslands, ICL) were established. Consequently, the Social Democrats were faced with a Communist challenge from an early stage. Organised communism first

24  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad took form as a small but influential group within the SDP. The CPI (Kommúnistaflokkur Íslands) was founded in November 1930, and it quickly managed to build a relatively strong base, receiving as much as 8.5 per cent of the votes in the parliamentary elections of 1937. In 1938, unity talks between the CPI and the SDP ended with a left faction breaking away from the SDP and joining the CPI in forming the People’s Unity Party – ­Socialist Party (Sameiningarflokkur alþýðu – Sósíalistaflokkur, SP). As we shall see, this merger can be traced back to the Communist and Social Democratic cooperation in strikes and anti-fascist action during the mid-1930s. Thus, the SDP never secured itself a position comparable to that of its sister parties in Scandinavia. By 1942, the newly founded SP had outgrown – measured in electoral strength – the SDP, leaving the SDP as the smallest of the four political parties in Iceland (Kristjánsdóttir, 2012). ICL was formed by autonomous trade unions, which each had full freedom to act independently. During the 1930s, many unions remained unaffiliated to the ICL, union membership was relatively low, and the unions led a hard struggle for recognition from the employers. While in Scandinavia, important steps towards institutionalising relations between employers and unions had been taken before the First World War, it was the late 1920s before corresponding steps were first taken in Iceland (Ísleifsson, 2013; Jónsson, 2014). Consequently, labour actions and street-level confrontations were a significant part of the political practice of Icelandic labour – i.e. unions, workers and left-wing political organisations – during the 1930s. The Communists and unions led by Communists were prominent in these conflicts (Ísleifsson, 2013: 232–3). One major street-level confrontation was the so-called Gúttóslagur of 9 November 1932 (hereafter the ‘Gúttó-incident’). It was a demonstration at a City Council meeting which turned into street fighting between workers and police, and significant for its unprecedented violence, as well as the fact that the workers got the upper hand, forcing the police to flee the scene. Tensions had been building for some time leading up to the event because of the conservative City Council’s intentions of ditching a badly needed job creation programme. It is important to mention that these pushes for a job creation programme only targeted working-class men in work with the direct exclusion of women from such work by the union. Women were not viewed as breadwinners by the labour movement and society, even though it was estimated that 300–400 women in Reykjavik in 1932 were just that (Ísleifsson, 2013: 138–9, 152–3). Although the dire circumstances of Reykjavík’s poor and unemployed were the immediate cause of events, afterwards they were subsequently framed as Communist revolutionaries and therefore a threat to the fledgling Icelandic nation state. As such the Gútto-incident fuelled a great deal of anti-communism. The Icelandic Nazis referred to it as the ‘notorious day of terror’ when the police had suffered battery and mutilation (‘Landráð’, 1933). They warned of a coming civil war (Sturlungaöld) if the Communists were not dealt with properly – i.e. put behind bars – and

Anti-fascist discourses  25 blamed the incumbent government of the Progressives for treating the Communists with leniency. Thus, anti-communism was one of the foundational ideological tenets of Icelandic Nazism (‘Ávarp’, 1933; ‘Heldur’, 1933).

Ambiguities The emergence of organised fascism in Iceland in 1933 marked the beginning of a long and ambiguous relationship with the IP. The early Nazi movement had been formed partly in response to the leniency of the IP’s handling of what it saw as the Communist threat, exemplified through the Gúttó-­ incident. Furthermore, many of the founders were shopkeepers dissatisfied with the economic programme of the IP, which they saw as detrimental to small business owners. But while the Progressives, Social Democrats and Communists immediately renounced the young Nazi movement in their papers, classifying them as a foreign entity, with a foreign symbol, a foreign agenda and being intrinsically violent, the IP was the only party that responded positively, although cautiously (Guðmundsson, 1976: 14–20). In June 1933, the party newspaper, Morgunblaðið, had this to say: No matter how the Icelandic Nationalists choose to practice their politics in the future, whether their party will use the swastika as an advertisement for Eimskip [A shipping company which used the swastika as its logo], or whether it will symbolize their loyalty to a foreign political party, one thing is sure: The Icelandic Nationalist Movement is a movement that aims to fight the Communist disease and its foreign decay. This movement is sprung from Icelandic soil, from a native necessity. (‘Þjóðernishreyfingin’, 1933) The paper’s ambiguity is clear; it makes fun of the use of the swastika while seeing the movement as a justifiable national response to communism. Some historians have argued that the initial ‘flirt’ between the IP and the Nazis ended when the NP started expressing contempt for the IP and competing with it in elections (Whitehead, 2010: 218–9). It is true that outright positive commentary about the Icelandic Nazis subsided in 1934. But the relations between the two had not been cut short. From his interviews with the Nazi leader Jón Þ. Árnason, historian Ásgeir Guðmundsson concludes that although there were no formal ties between the parties, members of the IP saw the NP as a youth faction of their own party. Many young Nazis would later become prominent members of the IP. Individual IP politicians supported the party financially, giving monthly donations, which proved valuable due to the Nazis constant problems financing their newspaper (Guðmundsson, 1976: 53–4), and during its lifespan, the NP was allowed to advertise in Morgunblaðið. Moreover, when the IP formed a society for conservative workers in 1938, one of its leaders came from the Nazi movement, and some of its ideology was clearly inspired by Nazism, for instance, the

26  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad motto ‘class with class’ (stétt með stétt), the slogan of the Nazi’s May Day marches (Guðmundsson, 1976: 48; Frostason, 2014: 8–9). As late as 1938, the Social Democrats criticised the IP for having invited the Nazi author Knútur Arngrímsson to speak at their meetings (Arngrímsson, 1937; ‘Sjálfstæðisflokkurinn’, 1938). And even though the conservative press criticised the Icelandic Nazi movement, it was considerably more cautious in criticising the Nazi regime in Germany before the war, writing puff pieces about the regime in its early days (1933–1934). Conservative journalists asked whether the Jews might deserve the persecution they suffered, as well as expressing concern that criticism against the regime could threaten important financial ties between the two countries (‘Gyðingar í Þýskalandi’, 1933; ‘Íslensku Gyðingarnir’, 1934; ‘Þýskalandsviðskiptin’, 1936; Heimisson, 1992: 168–70). Such expressions of sympathy with, or caution towards, the Nazi regime stopped with the outbreak of war and the British occupation of Iceland. In instances after 1934, where Icelandic Nazis started or ended up in fights with Social Democrats and Communists, Morgunblaðið had condemned the Nazi violence as extremist, while, simultaneously, insisting that the Communists were worse (‘Samfylking’, 1935; ‘Reykjavíkurbrjef’, 1936; ‘Reykjavíkurbrjef’, 1937). And when the Nazi movement died out, the paper was quick to give the IP credit for it, arguing that it had managed the extreme right more skilfully than the left had managed the extreme left (‘Öfgarnar’, 1938). At the same time, it denied accusations that there was a Nazi faction within the party: ‘The Independence party has … shown that it is the only party that believes in democracy. The party refuses all association with the extremist Nazi party. Therefore, the Nazis have been fully removed from Iceland’s political landscape’ (‘Reykvíkingar’, 1938). As mentioned in this chapter’s introduction, that the Communists and Nazis posed the same kind of threat has been part of anti-communist historiography to this day. The Nazi movement and its fighting group, Fánalið Þjóðernissinna, have been viewed as essentially a reaction to Communist activity and social unrest such as the Gúttó-incident. One extremist group is given the blame for the rise of other; ‘extremism’, it has been claimed, ‘begets extremism’ (Whitehead, 2010: 218). The Nazis have even been depicted as a lesser evil due to their willingness to assist the police in fighting the Communists; the fighting group portrayed as containing idealised anti-communists rather than ‘pure Nazis’. It is worth mentioning that the Nazi fighting group was not only larger than the communist fighting group, but also the Reykjavik police. This group held shooting practices for its members under the instruction of Agnar Kofoed-Hansen, who would later become chief of police in Reykjavik, and founder of the Icelandic immigration agency (Whitehead, 2010: 218–20). It has already been noted that the Nazis had shown great animosity towards the government of the Progressive party (PP), accusing it of leniency towards the Communists. The PP paper, Tíminn, responded with criticism of the Nazis for stirring up street violence, labelling them as

Anti-fascist discourses  27 ‘Christian communists’ because of the strong religious convictions of some of its members. Furthermore, the paper belittled the new Nazi movement for its patriotic claims, while, at the same time, using foreign words and adopting a foreign ideology (‘Á víðavangi’, 1933; ‘Lánsfjaðrir’, 1933). This nationalist framing of the opposition to fascism requires further consideration. In his doctoral dissertation on Icelandic asylum policy in the 1930s, historian Einar Heimisson showed that the liberal and conservative press (Vísir and Morgunblaðið) espoused deeply held racist and anti-Semitic sentiments. In a similar vein, the Progressives had since the 1920s propagated a racist ideology built on their agrarian romanticism, arguing that urbanisation and foreign finance would destroy the racial purity of Iceland. During the 1930s, the PP Minister of Justice and Prime Minister Hermann Jónasson oversaw deportations of Jewish refugees from Iceland, in one case back to Nazi Germany, and refused to answer letters from asylum seekers pleading not to be deported. This practice stopped with the British occupation in 1940, but before that Icelandic authorities had only allowed Jews into the country, who could either be vouched for by Icelanders or show that they had already secured employment. According to Heimisson’s estimates, hundreds of Jewish refugees were denied asylum in Iceland when applying for it in Denmark (Heimisson, 1992: 168–70, 194, 214–36). The only organisation that tried to help refugees in Iceland, Friðar­ vinafélagið, came under attack from the liberal and conservative press for wanting to import ‘social delinquents’ that would threaten the racial purity of Iceland. It was argued that Iceland could not or should not help refugees (Heimisson, 1992: 228–32). As a result, this specific organisation never managed to welcome any refugees. But their attempts did not go unnoticed. In 1939, when paediatrician and Communist Katrín Thoroddsen was denied permission to take under her supervision a couple of Jewish children from Austria, whose parents were to be sent to the concentration camps, she responded with an article under the headline: ‘Empathy banned in Iceland’ (‘Mannúð’, 1939). The PP press responded, arguing, for instance, that even though there was no denying that some Jewish children needed aid, the Icelandic authorities should concentrate on the needs of Icelandic citizens. No measures should be taken to help Jewish children if that would in any way limit the scope for aid to Icelandic children. Thoroddsen, it was claimed, should draw her attention to Icelandic children instead of Jewish ones (‘Fáránleg’, 1939). As late as 1939, the liberal press (Vísir) even went so far as to argue that the Icelandic race had to be protected from the Jews. After the war, Hermann Jónasson would falsely claim that proportionately Iceland had accepted more refugees than any other nation in Europe, thus creating a myth of Icelandic generosity and ending the discussion of Iceland’s unwillingness to help fleeing Jews from persecution and death in Europe (Heimisson, 1992: 234–5, 240–1). The case of the Icelandic Progressives should make us wary of a teleological understanding of opposition to fascism as intrinsically

28  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad anti-racist. Fascism applied ideological tenets of race and nationalism that it shared with mainstream politics, not only on the right in Iceland, but also in the centre.

Left-wing discourses and practices Icelandic Communists started expressing concerns about the advance of fascism during the late 1920s. The most influential leaders of the movement were young men who had studied in Denmark and Weimar Germany. The situation in Germany was of course at the centre of anti-fascist debate of the international Communist movement. But the close link between Icelandic Communist leaders and the Communist Party in Germany (Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands [KPD]), as well as important anti-fascist figures such as Willi Münzenberg, affected both their anti-fascist discourse and activism (Olgeirsson, 1974: 35–6). Having returned to Iceland in the mid-1920s, Communist leaders imported the Comintern discourse on the final crisis of capitalism (as it was formulated at the Sixth Congress in 1928). The rise of fascism throughout Europe and the way in which it was likely to find its way to Iceland became a recurring feature of their political discourse. In 1930, the young Communist leader Einar Olgeirsson argued that the connection between Icelandic ‘state capitalism’, on the one hand, and ‘domestic and international monopoly capitalism’, on the other, posed a threat to the working class. As the Icelandic state was becoming ever more dominant within the economic sphere, he claimed, it had become the main agent of international monopoly capitalism. This led to increasing fascist tendencies and any attempt on behalf of the workers to revolt would be met with fierce counterattacks from the state (Olgeirsson, 1930: 319–21). Olgeirsson’s main argument concerned the alleged fascist tendencies of the governing PP. But he took aim at the SDP too, arguing that ‘state capital’ had bought the support of the Social Democrats by granting them various privileges. Hence, Social Democrats had become obedient to the Icelandic state and hostile towards the more radical arm of the workers’ movement, which, as a result, was bound to split into two opposing factions (Olgeirsson, 1930: 319–21). This was a mild version of the social-fascist argument, which became ever more salient in the Communist discourse following the establishment of the CPI in late November 1930. In a pamphlet on fascism, distributed in 1933, Olgeirsson argued that the Social Democrats were just as eager as the fascists to keep the proletariat under the yoke of capitalism and that for all practical purposes they were throwing the workers into the arms of the fascists (Olgeirsson, 1933: 7, 21). A revolutionary stance was also an important feature of Communist ­anti-fascist arguments during the early 1930s. As elsewhere in Europe during the so-called ‘Third Period’ of international communism, the rhetoric was harsh, violent and mostly concerned with class conflict, the crisis of

Anti-fascist discourses  29 capitalism and the forthcoming revolution. In the autumn of 1933, when the party leader, Brynjólfur Bjarnason, responded to recent events in Germany, he stressed the Communist aim of overthrowing the ‘bourgeois state’. In an article on ‘democracy and fascism’, he claimed that as the Icelandic bourgeoisie were becoming ever more prone to fascism, the SDP was bound to follow the example of Social Democratic ‘traitors’ in Germany. The bourgeoisie would use violent means to hold on to their rights and privileges, so the battle was bound to be violent. From the proletarian point of view, it was either a matter of ‘meeting violence with violence’ or ‘kneeling before the executioner’. The world was facing a war of two ideologies, a war between the fascism of Nazi Germany and socialism of the Soviet Union. There were two options: ‘the capitalist dictatorship’, on the one hand, or the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’, on the other (Bjarnason, 1933: 133–44). In the late 1930s, after the advent of the Popular Front, the Communists placed even more emphasis on fighting their politics on the cultural front. But in the early 1930s, strikes and work place activism were at the forefront. Showing that they were more willing than the Social Democrats to make sacrifices on behalf of the workers was an important aspect of their political practice. Each time the state decided to put Communists behind bars, it served as evidence that the Communists played a crucial role in the battle against capitalism. In January 1931, three Communists were arrested in the aftermath of protests relating to a job creation programme for unemployed workers in Reykjavík. In response to their imprisonment, the Communists staged a march where – according to the Communist press – more than a thousand people took part, chanting revolutionary songs under red flags (‘Fangelsanir’, 1931; ‘Guðjón’, 1931; ‘Opið’, 1931). In 1933, Icelandic Communists orchestrated several actions where workers protested against the Nazi takeover in Germany. In August 1933, a group of people took down and tore to pieces a swastika flag that had been flown outside the house of the German consul at Siglufjörður – a fishing town in the north of Iceland. In September, Communists in Reykjavík urged workers to intercept the loading of the German ship Diana, sailing under the swastika flag. This action was in accordance with the practice of the International of Seamen and Harbour Workers (see Chapter 7 by Weiss in this book). According to contemporary accounts, Einar Olgeirsson gave a speech, in German as well as Icelandic, telling the workers that they should refuse to work on the ship while the ‘flag of the bloodhounds’ was flown at its mast. One of the protesters managed to cut down the flag, but after the police had interfered, it was returned to the ship. In November 1933, another attempt was made at desecrating a Nazi flag flown at the mast of the trading ship Eider. This time the Communist managed to take the flag and hold on to it (‘Verkfall’, 1933; Olgeirsson and Árnason, 1973). In all instances, Communists were brought to court and convicted for insulting or dishonouring the German state. They were sentenced for ‘treason’, and even though these were not harsh convictions – and as it turned out, no one was

30  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad incarcerated – it is worth noting these convictions for treason in an Icelandic court (Jóhannesson, 2009: 70–4). That said, no one was caught or accused of putting the following inscription on the house of the German consul in Reykjavík: ‘Down with Hitler! Long live the Communist Party of Germany!’ (Olgeirsson and Árnason, 1973: 245). The fight against German Nazism thus became an important aspect of Communist politics. The actions were followed up with meetings where Communists tramped upon the swastika flag they had seized from Eider, and a series of demonstrations where they objected to the ‘miscarriage of justice’ against Dimitrov and other Communists in the Reichstag fire trial, as well as the imprisonment of Thälmann and other enemies of fascism (‘Almennur fundur’, 1933; ‘Almennur mótmælafundur’, 1933; ‘Móti’, 1933). The Fascist regime in Italy was also denounced by the Icelandic Communists during these years. In 1933, the Italian fascist and military leader Italo Balbo visited Iceland on his transatlantic flight, and he was well received by the Icelandic government. The Communists were the only ones to protest against his visit and the chief of police put a ban on article about Balbo and the Italian ‘regime of workers’ murderers’ (Jónsdóttir, 2003: 38). Furthermore, when Fascist Italy invaded Ethiopia in 1935, the communist press denounced the war, seeing it as an embodiment of fascist terror, demanding that the Icelandic government cease all economic ties to the regime (‘Stríð’, 1935). Thus, anti-fascism was articulated as an international struggle for the defence of the working class and democracy. This was especially true in the conceptualisation of the Spanish Civil War, where three Icelandic Communists volunteered on the side of the Republic, and the Communist press persistently called for aid for Spanish people in the struggle against fascism (‘Hjálpið Spáni!’, 1938; ‘Á Spánarvígstöðvunum’, 1939). As mentioned earlier, the Social Democratic press initially referred to the Nazi party as an offspring of Communist militancy. Such claims could serve as a response to the social-fascist rhetoric of the Communists as well a means to counteract any threats posed by the Communist competition. In April 1933, following scuffles between Nazis and Communists, Alþýðublaðið, the SDP paper in Reykjavík, claimed that the emergence of the Nazi movement in Iceland was the result of the foolish conduct of the Communists. As for their intellectual aptitude, understanding of social matters, and temperament, Icelandic Nazis and Communists were of the same stock. The unconvincing street-boy behaviour of the Communists, and eagerness to divide the labour movement, had invoked anger among the no-good idlers in the upper layer of Icelandic society (‘Nazistar’, 1933; Halldórsson, 1934). Yet despite the cool response to the Icelandic Nazis – to whom they referred to as a group of unruly sons of the bourgeoisie – the SDP press was more vocal in its opposition to the Nazi regime. In January 1934, Alþýðublaðið, for example, published a series of articles by writer Þórbergur Þórðarson, where he discussed the ‘sadism’ of the Nazis, and likened their regime

Anti-fascist discourses  31 to the Spanish inquisition. Following complaints from the German consulate, the Ministry of Justice started legal proceedings. The matter went to court, and Þórðarson was convicted of having dishonoured the leader of a foreign state (‘Réttarrannsókn’, 1934; Jóhannesson, 2009: 70–4). The whole matter thus became cause for heated debates about Nazi sympathy within the Icelandic state apparatus. By that time, the SDP had adopted the ‘anti-fascist circle’ or ‘three arrows’ as the official symbol for the party. The Social Democratic press acknowledged its origins in the German Social Democratic fighting group, and now, it claimed, it was the symbol for the revolutionary German Social Democrats, the Social Democratic international and many Social Democratic youth organisations. The symbol was said to be invented by the ‘Russian professor Tjakotin’ who had showed in his research ‘the influence of symbols on the nervous system of men’. The three arrows were said to penetrate the swastika, and symbolised ‘political activity, organisation and fraternity against any form of conservatism of fascism’ (‘Örvarnar’, 1933). The Russian professor ‘Tjakotin’ is the same German Russian microbiologist and Pawlow-pupil, ‘Sergei Tschachotin’ who Charlie E. Krautwald writes about in this book. Tschachotin spent considerable time with the Danish Social Democrats, and the anti-fascist circle that he claimed he invented was used by many radical anti-fascist groups. In Iceland, it was adopted as the banner of the party newspaper, and even adapted to the local political context. Leading up to the municipal elections in Reykjavík, the paper thus printed a picture of the leader of the IP drawn as a swastika running away from the three arrows (Alþýðublaðið, 1934). This was in response to the fact that two members of the Nazi Party had been offered seats on the IP’s list. On the front page that same day, readers were faced with a large drawing of one of the candidates, carrying a couple of pistols and dressed in Nazi uniform. As was the case in many other countries, the Social Democrats were both targets of the ‘anti-Marxist’ campaign of the Nazis, and active participants in the anti-fascist struggle. Eventually, the experience of street fighting and the advent of the Popular Front led to the emergence of a more unified ­anti-fascism. While the SDP did not abandon the anti-fascist/anti-­ communist rhetoric, it was supplemented with discourses and practices that allowed for some cooperation with the Communists. The particularities of Iceland’s labour relations sketched out above are pertinent in this context. Despite being advocates of working-class politics fought by peaceful means, and within the framework of parliamentary democracy, the SDP had taken an active stance against state measures that could threaten the negotiating position of the workers. Hence, in 1933, SDP members of parliament had opposed government plans to strengthen the police force, stressing that since there was still no law on industrial disputes, it would, in effect, give the government a free hand against actions organised by the labour movement. The SDP dismissed claims that the experience of the Gúttó-incident called for police reinforcements, and the party

32  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad leader Jón Baldvinsson – a moderate Social Democrat and outspoken anti-­ communist – even claimed that there was nothing wrong with the workers gaining the upper hand against the police, now and again (Tómasdóttir, 2011: 49–50). On May Day 1935, anti-fascism was adopted as the main theme of labour movement demonstrations in Reykjavík. The SDP urged workers participating in the marches to wear a triangular badge with the three-arrow symbol. Moreover, party members were advised to wear a blue shirt and red tie (‘Öll’, 1935). The anti-fascist message put forth on the occasion was clear, as was the party’s anti-capitalist position: The capitalist system has served its miserable purpose. All thinking men are aware of this fact. But some are full of fear, for they know that a new economic system means that their power will be curtailed, and they will no longer be able to live as kings at the expense of others. … This is why they resort to attacking the cornerstone of all true progress, the freedom of expression, both in speech and in writing. Nazism is the weapon used to deprive the people of their freedom. When the situation is such as it is, we need to stay united. No freedom loving man or woman can sit idly by while the people unite in their defence of the rights it has already been granted, and the battle for a new just and just society. (‘Allir’, 1935)

Confrontations As discussed in other parts of this book, anti-fascists, mostly based in the labour movement, confronted the interwar threat of Nazi movements of the Nordic countries with a diversity of tactics. Anti-fascism took many expressions, from planned disturbance and blockades of Nazi meetings, to more regular street confrontations, ranging from ridicule and song competitions to outright fistfights. In this, Iceland was no exception. The very first public appearance of the Icelandic Nazis in Reykjavik ended in heavy street fighting that had not been seen since the Gúttó-incident of November 1932. In April 1933, the Communists organised a demonstration in central Reykjavik, together with dock workers, metal workers and print workers, to demand unemployment benefits and oppose the planned introduction of a state police. Members of the newly formed Nazi movement wearing swastikas positioned themselves on a nearby coal heap, interrupting the Communist speeches with loud singing. After unsuccessful attempts at silencing the Nazis, the Communists stormed the coal heap. Leading the charge was the so-called Varnarlið Verkalýðsins (Workers’ Defence League), a uniformed defence group, modelled after the German Roter Frontkämpferbund. Leaders of both camps took part in the fight that ensued. The Nazi leader Gísli Sigurbjörnsson was knocked out, and when the Communist leader Einar Olgeirsson received a blow to the head, a group of Communist

Anti-fascist discourses  33 girls started pelting the assailant with coal. Eventually, the police separated the two fighting groups, which continued with separate marches. Later that day, Nazis boarded up the meeting house of the Communists thus locking up a group that eventually got out with the help of the police (Guðmundsson, 1976: 25–6; Whitehead, 2010: 243–4). The fighting received a great deal of attention in the press. The conservatives praised the Nazis, depicting them as young men and active anti-­ communists, doing the work the state ought to be doing (‘Annað’, 1933). The Progressive and Social Democratic press denounced both groups as violent extremists of the same character (Jökulsson and Jökulsson, 1988: 39–41). A couple of days after the fight, two Progressive MPs presented a motion to parliament, banning all political uniforms and other symbols, arguing that it would minimise the likelihood of social unrest. The Social Democrats added to the motion that political groups should not be allowed to put political symbols on the Icelandic flag. This was in response to the Nazis ­marching with the Icelandic flag posted on poles with metal swastikas on the top. Due to disagreements, the motion never came into fruition (­Alþingistíðindi, 1933; Guðmundsson, 1976). The Communist press argued, conversely, that the events symbolised the Nazis’ ambition to deny the working class its hard-fought democratic right to peaceful assembly. Claiming that the workers of Reykjavík would not stand idly by and nurture a party of murderers, it put the Nazi threat in Iceland in the context of the current state of affairs in Germany: [the workers] will not tolerate the fascist scum marching around with the German murderer-symbol, the swastika, and cheering for Hitler, the German executioner of workers. Those that participate in these activities, will later, if they continue to thrive, implement torture, oppression, and the murder of Icelandic workers, like what is now practiced by the Nazis in Germany. (‘Fasistarnir’, 1933) Violence on behalf of the Nazis, as well as their expressed desire to exterminate Marxism, soon became a major concern for Social Democrats too, especially the Social Democratic youth. In May 1933, a group of Nazis attacked three young Social Democrats in central Reykjavík, severely injuring one of them. The incident was reported to the police, and the organisation of young Social Democrats announced a meeting to discuss its implications. The following weekend, ‘The committee of struggle against fascism’ (­Baráttunefndin gegn fasismanum), consisting of leading Communists as well as prominent poets and writers, organised a large anti-fascist meeting that was advertised in the SDP press. Having discussed the fascist threat, in ­Europe, as well as in Iceland, the meeting elected representatives to attend an international anti-fascist conference in Copenhagen (‘Almennur fundur um baráttuna’, 1933; ‘Félag’, 1933; ‘Nazista-hundaæðið’, 1933).

34  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad The last major, as well as the biggest anti-fascist confrontation occurred on 9 November 1935, on the anniversary of the 1932 Gúttó-incident. There had been lengthy court proceedings against those participating in these riots, many were sentenced, mostly Communists, but also some Social Democrats. In 1935, after heavy protests and a petition with thousands of signatures, the Minister of Justice decided to pardon those that had been sentenced (Ísleifsson, 2013: 155). This angered the Nazis who had defined the incumbent coalition government of the PP and SDP as Marxist and bound to lead the country into moral and economic decay. Their plan was to appropriate the memory of 9 November, stripping it from connections to class struggle, and turn it into the day of the ‘national front’ (dagur þjóðfylkingarinnar), the aim of which was to oust the incumbent government and eventually eliminate political parties as well as ‘the class conflict’ (i.e. the labour movement). This was, of course, not appreciated by the Social Democrats or the Communists. On 9 November 1935, the day of the event, a majority of the audience were Social Democrats and Communists (Guðmundsson, 1976: 25–6; Jökulsson and Jökulsson, 1988: 171–5). After listening to the initial Nazi speeches, a young Social Democrat trying to address the meeting was thrown off the stage. Then all hell broke loose. The Social Democrats and Communists overpowered the Nazis and managed to break up the meeting (‘Nazistiskt’, 1935; ‘Nýr’, 1935; ‘Samfylking’, 1935). Afterwards, the two youth sections celebrated their victory and issued a collective statement. It read: The meeting’s participants state their disgust of the imported ideology of violence and oppression … The working youth of Reykjavik will commemorate the memory of the 9th of November as a day when the working class stood united against the conservative city officials. The memory of this day will likewise encourage the common man to stand united against the lifelong struggle against foreign and native capital, to stand united in the struggle for liberation of the labouring Icelandic masses. (‘Nazistiskt’, 1935; ‘Nýr’, 1935) Some of those who participated in breaking up the meeting had taken part in direct confrontations before. Among those was Indíana Garibaldadóttir who had been the first woman in Iceland to serve time in prison for participating in labour strife, when she threw salt in the eyes of a police volunteer in 1932, a so-called ‘white guard’ (Olgeirsson and Árnason, 1973; Jökulsson and Jökulsson, 1988: 186). Afterwards, the Communist press stressed the importance of the 9 November as an opportunity for the Social Democratic and Communist factions of the labour movement to unite under the banner of the Popular Front (‘Nýr’, 1935). The Social Democratic press, on the other hand, made no such demands, and even though it had published the above-mentioned

Anti-fascist discourses  35 statement, it refrained from mentioning the Communist presence at the meeting (‘Lögregluþjónar’, 1935; ‘Nazistiskt’, 1935). Overall, the outcome of the meeting had been a resounding defeat for the Nazis. In the following days, groups of Nazis would roam the streets and target individuals that were involved in shutting down their meeting. On 10 November, a young Communist was beaten by a group of five Nazis. The following day the young Social Democrat who had asked to address the Nazi meeting was attacked by a group of Nazis who are reported to have been roaming the streets of Reykjavík looking for ‘Marxist’ enemies. Having followed him for a while they attacked him, breaking his glasses and causing some injuries in his face. The incident caused a considerable stir, especially in the left-wing press, and the matter went to court (‘8 nazistar’, 1935; ‘Synir’, 1935; ‘Tveir’, 1935; Jökulsson and Jökulsson, 1988: 182–5). Nonetheless, the Nazis grew in numbers the following year, recruiting many teenagers, establishing a considerable presence both in the Junior College of Reykjavík and the University of Iceland. Yet their electoral base proved too small. The municipal elections of 1938 were a failure, and they never recovered from that defeat. During the British occupation, the Nazis were active in clandestine cells, and when it became clear that Nazi Germany would fall in 1944, most of the Nazis would join the conservative party in failed efforts to push it towards fascism (Guðmundsson, 1976: 54–60).

Conclusion Unsurprisingly, the Icelandic Nazi movement was met with fierce resistance from members of the CPI. Established in 1930, the party was led by a group of young intellectuals, many of whom had studied in Berlin in the 1920s. This shaped their reaction. Entering the Icelandic political landscape during the early days of Nazi Germany’s dissolved democracy, and violent persecution of its political adversaries, the Icelandic Nazis were seen as a threat to the existence of the radical left, and to the labour movement as a whole. Communist anti-fascists – women as well as men – targeted symbols of Nazi Germany, tearing down flags and attempting blockades against German economic interests. Student politics – in secondary schools as well as at the university – were also affected by these conflicts. Many instances of violent confrontations and street fighting followed, culminating on 9 November 1935 where young Communists and young Social Democrats joined forces in active anti-fascist resistance. The divisions of the left – the Communist adherence to the Comintern line of ‘social fascism’ and a Social Democratic response based on the view that Nazism was an offspring of Communist militancy – had complicated early Icelandic anti-fascism. But from 1935 onwards, the Social Democrats became active participants in the anti-fascist struggle, alongside (if not with) the Communists. The intersection of Communists and Social Democrats

36  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad was based on the common understanding that the workers’ right to take active measures in the fight for better wages and working conditions was at the heart of the anti-fascist struggle in Iceland, a stance that can, in turn, be explained by the peculiarities of the Icelandic labour movement and state apparatus, which created a context for anti-fascism fundamentally different from that in Scandinavia. The anti-fascism of the other political parties was not as clear-cut. The Progressives expressed their dislike of the Nazis throughout their existence, labelling them as ‘Christian communists’ with close ties with the conservatives. However, we should be careful not to apply a teleological understanding of opposition towards fascism as inherently anti-racist. This becomes especially clear with the refugee policies of the Icelandic Progressives contextualised in a climate where the liberal and conservative press exacerbated anti-Semitic and xenophobic sentiments. Throughout its existence, the conservative IP had relations with the Icelandic Nazis. Initially, they had been welcomed as able anti-communists, radical young conservatives suited for political alliances. Later, as the Nazis’ radicalised their position, and as the old guard returned to the IP, antagonism increased. Nevertheless, their position towards the Nazis remained far more favourable than towards the Communists. Moreover, it has been claimed that individual conservatives offered financial support and saw the Nazi movement as containing potential future votes. As Martin Blinkhorn (1990) has argued, fascists and conservatives influenced each other in an ambiguous relationship, shaped by coalescence and conflict. In a time of growing right-wing extremism and a resurgence of fascism, we do well to remember these continuities and ambiguities.

References ‘8 nazistar ráðast á formann F.U.J’ (1935) Verklýðsblaðið 15 November: 1. ‘Allir frjálshuga menn undir merki Alþýðuflokksins’ (1935) Alþýðublaðið 30 April: 3. ‘Almennur fundur’ (1933) Verklýðsblaðið 10 October: 2. ‘Almennur fundur um baráttuna gegn fasismanum’ (1933) Alþýðublaðið 27 May: 4. ‘Almennur mótmælafundur’ (1933) Verklýðsblaðið 24 September: 4. Alþingistíðindi (1933) A, 969–70 (þskj.458); C: 278–301. Alþýðublaðið (1934) 17 January: 1 [Picture of swastika running away from three arrows]. ‘Annað hvort’ (1933) Morgunblaðið 25 April: 3. Arngrímsson, K. (1937) Hjólið snýst: ferðaminningar frá Þýzkalandi. Reykjavík: Ísafoldarprentsmiðja. ‘Á Spánarvígstöðvunum’ (1939) Útvarpstíðindi 13 March: 331. ‘Á víðavangi’ (1933) Tíminn 13 and 27 May: 80, 88. ‘Ávarp til Íslendinga!’ (1933) Íslensk endurreisn 11 May: 1. Bjarnason, B. (1933) ‘Lýðræði og fasismi’, Réttur 18 (3): 133–44. Blinkhorn, M. (1990) Fascists and Conservatives: The Radical Right and the Establishment in Twentieth-Century Europe. London: Unwin Hyman.

Anti-fascist discourses  37 Braskén, K., Kaihovirta, M. and Wickström, M. (2017) ‘Antifascismen i Norden: Ett nytt forskningsfält’, Historisk Tidskrift för Finland 102 (2): 5–10. Copsey, N. (2010) ‘Preface: Towards a New Anti-Fascist “Minimum”?’ in Copsey, N. and Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan: xvii–xxi. ‘Fangelsanirnar og atvinnuleysið’ (1931) Verklýðsblaðið 10 January: 1. ‘Fasistarnir kynna sig fyrir verkalýðnum’ (1933) Verklýðsblaðið 25 April: 1. ‘Fáránleg saga um að mannúð sé bönnuð á Íslandi’ (1939) Tíminn 2 May: 197. ‘Félag ungra Jafnaðarmanna’ (1933) Alþýðublaðið 27 May: 2. Frostason, S.S. (2014) Málfundafélagið Óðinn: Stofnun, blómaskeið og hnignun. BA-thesis, Reykjavik: University of Iceland, http://hdl.handle.net/1946/19719. Garcia, H., Yusta, M., Tabet, X. and Climaco, C. (2016) ‘Introduction: Beyond Revisionism: Rethinking Antifascism in the Twenty-First Century’, in García, H., et al. (eds.) Rethinking Antifascism: History, Memory and Politics, 1922 to the Present. New York: Berghahn. ‘Guðjón Benediktsson, Haukur Björnsson og Þorst. Pétursson teknir fastir’ (1931) Verklýðsblaðið 3 January: 1. Guðmundsson, A. (1976) ‘Nazismi á Íslandi: Saga Þjóðernishreyfingar Íslendinga og Flokks þjóðernissinna’, Saga 14: 5–69. ‘Gyðingar í Þýskalands’ (1933) Morgunblaðið 22 October: 6. Halldórsson, P. (1934) Nazismi, kommúnismi eða socialismi. Reykjavík: Samband íslenskra jafnaðarmanna. ‘Heldur viljum við vera tugthúsfangar í Þýzkalandi en verkamenn í Rússlandi!’ (1933) Íslensk endurreisn 11 May: 3. Hemisson, E. (1992) Die Asylsituation in Island in den dreissiger Jahren im Vergleich mit den anderen nordischen Ländern. Freiburg: Albert Ludwigs Universität. ‘Hjálpið Spáni!’ (1938) Landneminn 1 December: 10. Ísleifsson, S.R. (2013) Í samtök. Saga Alþýðusambandsins. Reykjavík: Forlagið. ‘Íslensku Gyðingarnir’ (1934) Morgunblaðið 25 October: 2. ‘Íslenzku sjálfboðaliðarnir á Spáni’ (1938) Landneminn 1 December: 10. Jóhannesson, G.Th. (2009) ‘„Þeir fólar sem frelsi vort svíkja“: Lög ásakanir og dómar um landráð á Íslandi’, Saga 47 (2): 55–88. Jökulsson, H. and Jökulsson, I. (1988) Íslenskir nasistar. Reykjavík: Tákn. Jónsdóttir, H. (2003) ‘Hópflug Ítala árið 1933’, Sagnir 23 (1): 38. Jónsson, G. (2014) ‘Iceland and the Nordic Model of Consensus Democracy’, Scandinavian Journal of History 39 (4): 510–28. Kristjánsdóttir, R. (2012) ‘For Equality or Against Foreign Oppression? The Politics of the Left in Iceland Leading up to the Cold War’, Moving the Social: Journal of Social History and the History of Social Movements 48 (3): 11–28. ­ ational Kristjánsdóttir, R. (2017) ‘Facing the Nation. Nordic Communists and their N ­ eunsinger, S. Contexts, from the 1920s and into the Cold War’, in Hilson, M., N and Vyff, I. (eds.) Labour, Unions and Politics under the North Star: The Nordic Countries, 1700–2000. New York: Berghahn. ‘Landráð kommúnista’ (1933) Íslensk endurreisn 14 November: 1. ‘Lánsfjaðrir frá Þýzkalandi’ (1933) Tíminn 3 June: 91.‘ Lögregluþjónar reka lygarnar ofan í Morgunbl’ (1935) Alþýðublaðið 12 November: 3. ‘Mannúð bönnuð á Íslandi’ (1939) Þjóðviljinn 28 April: 3. ‘Móti fasismanum’ (1933) Verklýðsblaðið 24 October: 1.

38  Ragnheiður Kristjánsdóttir and Pontus Järvstad ‘Nazistar’ (1933) Alþýðublaðið 24 April: 2. ‘Nazista-hundaæðið’ (1933) Alþýðublaðið 26 May: 2. ‘Nazistar’ (1933) Alþýðublaðið 24 April: 2. ‘Nazistiskt ofbeldi á opinberum fundi’ (1935) Alþýðublaðið 10 November: 1. ‘Nýr 9. nóvember samfylkingarinnar’ (1935) Verklýðsblaðið 11 November: 1, 4. ‘Öfgarnar til beggja handa’ (1938) Morgunblaðið 4 February: 5. Olgeirsson, E. (1930) ‘Straumhvörf’, Réttur 15 (4): 312–30. Olgeirsson, E. (1933) Fasisminn. Reykjavík: Kommúnistaflokkur Íslands. Olgeirsson, E. (1974) ‘Risið úr rústum’, Réttur 57 (1): 32–53. ‘Öll alþýða Reykjavíkur undir merki Alþýðuflokksins á morgun’ (1935) Alþýðublaðið 30 April: 1. ‘Opið bréf til Hermanns Jónassonar lögreglustjóra’ (1931) Verklýðsblaðið 17 January: 1. ‘Örvarnar þrjár’ (1933) Alþýðublaðið 14 December: 3. Paxton, R.O. (2004) The Anatomy of Fascism. New York: Knopf. ‘Þjóðernishreyfingin’ (1933) Morgunblaðið 2 June: 3. ‘Þýskalandsviðskiftin’ (1936) Morgunblaðið 17 January: 4. ‘Réttarrannsókn í máli Hitlers’ (1934) Alþýðublaðið 24 January: 1. ‘Reykjavíkurbrjef’ (1936) Morgunblaðið 22 March: 4. ‘Reykjavíkurbrjef’ (1937) Morgunblaðið 16 May: 5. ‘Reykvíkingar fyrirmyndin’ (1938) Morgunblaðið 2 February: 5. ‘“Samfylking” sósíalista og kommúnista’ (1935) Morgunblaðið 10 November: 3. ‘“Samfylking” sósíalista og kommúnista hleypir upp fundi Nazista í K.R.-húsinu’ (1935) Morgunblaðið 10 November: 3. ‘Sjálfstæðisflokkurinn og nazisminn’ (1938) Alþýðublaðið 2 September: 3. ‘Stríð’ (1935) Verklýðsblaðið 7 October: 3. ‘Synir borgaranna’ (1935) Alþýðublaðið 14 November: 3. Tómasdóttir, K.S. (2011) Tengsl lögreglu og ríkisvalds á Íslandi 1921–1935 og stofnun íslenskrar ríkislögreglu. BA-thesis, Reykjavik: University of Iceland, http://hdl. handle.net/1946/7326. ‘Tveir fundir’ (1935) Alþýðublaðið 26 November: 3. ‘Verkfall móti hakakrossinum’ (1933) Verklýðsblaðið 24 September: 1. Whitehead, Þ. (2010) Sovét-Ísland, óskalandið: Aðdragandi byltingar sem aldrei varð 1921–1946. Reykjavík: Ugla.

2 Finnish liberals and antifascism, 1922–1932 Jenni Karimäki

Introduction During the interwar period, the term ‘fascist’ was applied throughout ­Europe as a pejorative for political opponents; only on a few occasions did some accept it as a badge of honour (Payne, 2004: 55). In Finland, no organisations called themselves fascist, and none called themselves anti-fascist for that matter. By no means, however, does this imply the absence of f­ ascist-type and anti-fascist organisations and actors per se. After all, Finland was one of the countries in Europe that encountered a strong extreme-right surge, and one of the few to suppress it. Despite a major adversary, Finnish liberal anti-fascism was not a clear-cut ‘ideology’ that constituted a uniform set of ideas and practices to defeat fascist or extreme-right objectives. Philip Williamson (2010: 75) has described such diversity among the British Conservative Party, and the same characterisation applies to Finnish liberals. It was perfectly possible to share some ideas with fascists, such as fierce anti-communism, and yet be a true anti-fascist with hostility towards most other fascist ideas and methods. Currently in fascism studies, an ‘ideological’ approach is applied to fascism. The aim is to define the concept in terms of the goals it sets out to achieve, rather than in terms of its negations (Griffin, 2004a: 6). Following this line of thought, Finnish liberal anti-­fascism is characterised and analysed in this chapter in a similar fashion. Was it the case that extreme-right or fascist ideals and actions were considered a serious threat, or a passing infatuation? What was the liberal anti-fascist response like, and how did it adapt to the situation? Due to the formative experience of the Finnish Civil War in 1918 and a tradition of integral nationalism, Finnish liberalism was nationalistic in nature and had a strong anti-communist tendency. The neighbouring Soviet Union presented a far more serious threat than fascist or national socialist ideals, and therefore, the left and not the right was the object of the liberal policy of unification. It is important to note that the aspiration to achieve national unification had a profound impact on Finnish liberal anti-fascism. At times, this anti-communism prevented liberals from taking as strong an anti-fascist stance as they would have liked. Popular support for an

40  Jenni Karimäki anti-communist extreme-right movement was too extensive to be dismissed or opposed outright. The history of fascism is a history of a broad European consensus of a radical right dismayed by the political character of Europe that emerged from the First World War, or in the Finnish case from the Civil War. This bourgeois consensus was founded on an uncompromising hostility towards communism, and on a desire to impose an authoritarian conservative concept of national community over the republican or democratic ideal. Resistance to fascism was likewise inseparable from the outcome of the war. As Kirk and McElligott (1999: 2–6) maintain, anti-fascism was rooted in the defence of political gains in the face of the right’s determination to reverse them. Despite their similarities, fascist movements around Europe were very different in character and mirrored the entirely different national backgrounds of the countries in which they developed (Carsten, 1967: 230; Alapuro, 1980; Vials, 2014: 13). As the fascist threat varied in intensity and immediacy, so did the anti-fascist perceptions, understanding and appreciation of it. Thus, various types of coalitions, alliances and constellations constituted the anti-fascist resistance. This ambiguity reflected the profound differences of the political parties constituting anti-fascism, and the deep contradictions of the era itself (Ceplair, 1987: 3; Vials, 2014: 7). As a consequence of the Civil War being fought in 1918, the interwar period saw many internal contradictions and conflicts in Finland. The Civil War itself, the conditions leading to its outbreak and the ultimate victory of the bourgeois Civil Guard – the Whites – had a profound impact on Finnish liberalism and on how Finnish fascism and anti-fascism developed and manifested during the interwar period. Bourgeois cultural unity and ­c entre-left aspirations to achieve national unification prevented Finland from succumbing to authoritarian rule. However, there was a powerful ­conservative-centrist tide that restored, preserved and strengthened the power of the traditional elites against communism and socialism. Finnish society and political culture were predominantly bourgeois, and the left had an extremely weak foothold in traditional social structures such as bureaucracy, the intelligentsia, academia, economic life, the church, the army or the middle class in general. These social structures and groups also constituted the social bases for Finnish liberalism. The main body of the liberal electorate was comprised of landowners, independent farmers, rural civil servants and lower-middle-class-independent entrepreneurs. A Finnish anomaly, however, is that despite the overpowering bourgeois impact and the existence of and support for fascist-type organisations (Karvonen, 2004: 164), Finland was one of the few countries in Europe to retain democracy and not succumb to authoritarian rule. The Finnish middle and upper classes, usually most prone to fascist ideas, were more united after the Civil War than is usually the case in post-revolutionary situations. This cultural unity produced a large bourgeois strata inclined to react similarly to all threats against national symbolic values, and which in hindsight

Finnish liberals and anti-fascism  41 left little room for anti-democratic, authoritarian ideas (Upton, 1970; ­Alapuro, 1980: 683–4; Vares, 2010; Karimäki, 2016). To Finnish liberals – the National Progressive Party (NPP) – the cultural unity of the bourgeois strata was a conundrum; as part of the bourgeoisie, they celebrated the result of the Civil War and yet objected to the extreme-right interpretations of it. The liberal Progressives did not treat the defeated Red masses – save for their leaders – as war criminals, but rather as misguided individuals who needed to be integrated back into society. This aspiration to achieve national unification became the essence of liberal politics and had a profound influence on liberal anti-fascism. The ‘liberal’ nation encompassed everyone except the left and right extremes of the political spectrum; everyone who supported parliamentary democracy and accepted difference of opinion was part of Finnish society (Mylly, 1998: 39–44; Karimäki, 2016: 327–42). The exclusion of revolutionary actors, whether communist or fascist, defined the parameters of Finnish liberal anti-fascism. According to Larry Ceplair (1987: 3), this was a defensive tactic designed to protect them and the state and democracy from movements that promised to destroy what they had achieved and obstruct what they hoped to achieve. Consequently, liberal anti-communism and anti-fascism were all but inseparable; both extremes were to be eradicated to ensure that the united Finnish nation was not compromised. When categorising Finnish liberals as non-fascist or anti-fascist, or active or passive anti-fascist, Nigel Copsey’s well-versed characterisation of anti-fascism as ‘a thought, an attitude or feeling of hostility towards fascist ideology and its propagators which may or may not be acted upon’ is applicable (quoted Copsey, 2000, 2010; Renton, 2001; Olechnowicz, 2004: 637; Olechnowicz, 2010). Even though the Progressives abstained from militant confrontation, a feature Renton (2001) applies to differentiate anti-fascist from non-fascist, they were far from passive or non-fascist. The Progressives defended democracy, parliamentarism and the rule of law by engaging in private and public meetings and organisations, heated parliamentary debates and by producing and distributing anti-fascist literature. Although during the 1920s, these actions and opinions were to a large degree aimed at opposing reaction, conservatism and right-wing politics in general, and did not originate from fear of fascism per se, they later formed the core of the anti-fascist agenda. Copsey (2010: xiv–xv) has incisively described such anti-fascism as liberal anti-fascism since it rejects violence and respects the legal and constitutional framework of the liberal-parliamentary state. However, little scholarly attention has been paid to liberal anti-fascism, with the concept and focus of anti-fascist studies being overwhelmingly associated with left-wing parties and organisations. As Olechnowicz (2010: 5) and Williamson (2010: 73) point out, the centre and right of the political spectrum have been all but absent from anti-fascist scholarly attention. Priority has been given to the political left while overlooking the substantial range

42  Jenni Karimäki of liberal anti-fascism that included conservatives and liberals (García et al., 2016). This lack of interest might be due to liberal anti-fascism being less flamboyant and immediate, and more ambitious, than leftist anti-­fascism (Olechnowicz, 2004: 654). On the other hand, liberal parties experienced such tremendous difficulties Europe-wide during the 20th century that scholarly interest has focussed more closely on general developments within the parties (Johanson, 1980; Cook, 1998; Norberg, 1999; ­Dutton, 2004; ­Karimäki, 2016). In addition, in countries where the fascist threat was more marginal, such as Sweden and Britain, the account of the interwar period has emphasised how structural, political and economic features of the political system obstructed the growth of fascism (Bergren, 2002: 410–11; ­Olechnowicz, 2004: 642). Thus, analysing anti-fascist tendencies at the party level has not been a priority. Nevertheless, Finnish liberal anti-fascists closely resemble liberal ­anti-fascists like the British Sir Ernst Barker (Olechnowicz, 2004) and the Italian Piero Gobetti (Martin, 2007, 2008), whose aim to resist fascism by educating the masses is similar to, for example, the Compulsory Education Act issued by the Finnish, liberal-led government at the beginning of the 1920s. A shared liberal anti-fascist idea was to remove the social and educational conditions that made any democracy vulnerable to extremist ideas, even though at the beginning of the 1920s, these actions were predominantly taken for anti-communist purposes. Unlike what David Ciepley (2006: 315–16, 318) argues, the encounter with totalitarianism did not revive the highly institutional ideals of 18th-century liberalism in Finland. The Finnish liberal reaction against fascism did not lead to the reprise of classical liberal idioms such as ideas forged in resistance to the state, but instead emphasised national unification, social-liberalism, parliamentarianism and the rule of law.

Passive and dismissive liberal anti-fascism of the 1920s Interwar Finland was a European country where the bitter experiences of a Civil War politicised and deepened internal social divisions. The fault line between bourgeois Whites and socialist Reds ran deep, from the spheres of economic and political power to the labour market and civil society. As a seedbed of Finnish fascism, the result of the Civil War, and especially political developments afterwards, left a considerable amount of resentment lingering among the victorious Whites. Monarchists lost the constitutional struggle; Social Democrats returned to parliament in March 1919, and many amnesty laws were passed (Mylly, 1998: 37–8, 43; Silvennoinen et al., 2016: 75, 97). Unlike the situation that many of the Whites had anticipated, political power was not in the hands of the bourgeois right, but in the hands of the bourgeois centre-left. These political developments generated a feeling of frustration among the right that sacrifices made during the Civil War had been for nothing.

Finnish liberals and anti-fascism  43 A symbol of this division was the Civil Guard organisation. The Civil Guard was a voluntary defence organisation with over 150,000 members during the interwar period. Originally established as an NGO, a special law defining and verifying its status was passed in 1927. This clarified the relations between the Civil Guard, state and army. Traditionally, the Civil Guard has been portrayed as an anti-political and anti-extremist organisation that did not aim to challenge the political and societal order (Selén, 1998: 217–18). However, a recent study (Silvennoinen et al., 2016: 210) on Finnish fascism examines it from the viewpoint of radical nationalism and concludes that it was a ‘fascist-type’ organisation, and, to some extent, a threat to democracy. Among the liberal Progressives, the prevalent attitude towards the Civil Guard and towards the fascist threat in general was ambiguous. Liberals were in favour of the Civil Guard per se, but the extreme-right inclinations among members raised alarm. During the 1921 Progressive Party conference, the Minister of Interior, Heikki Ritavuori, maintained that the communists should not be treated as the only revolutionary threat in the country, as there were also extreme-right actors ‘fantasising of a violent revoke of the prevailing order’ (Party conference April 1921, National Archives (NA)). Ritavuori’s aim was to highlight the danger that lurked among the Civil Guard. This statement by Ritavuori, a leftist liberal politician, raised concerns among the right (he was accused of anti-patriotism and aligning with communists). After a heated interpellation debate in parliament, anxiety over Ritavuori’s contested involvement in the East Karelian question unravelled tragically, as he was assassinated by the extreme-right activist Ernst Tandefelt in February 1922 (Karimäki, 2016: 71–3). As expected, this tragedy provoked a bitter reaction from the Progressives. Urho Toivola, editor-in-chief-to-be of the prominent liberal newspaper Turun Sanomat, condemned the right as undemocratic and devious hypocrites (U. Toivola to R. Holsti February 1922, NA). The newspaper Kaleva pronounced that the assassination attested to Ritavuori’s suspicions that there were revolutionary, fascist tendencies among the extreme right (16.2.1922 Kaleva). When the conservative MP and Civil Guard activist Oskari Heikinheimo stated that ‘I must honestly admit that we Civil Guard members […] recognise willingly and proudly that we are the intellectual comrades of the Italian fascists’, it was clear that the insinuations of fascist sympathies among the extreme right were not without basis (Selén, 2001: 209–10; Silvennoinen et al., 2016: 101–3). Even if Heikinheimo’s statement was in part intentionally misunderstood, Civil Guard officials rushed to deny any resemblance to fascism, and most importantly to emphasise that the Civil Guard was a government-abiding military organisation and, unlike the Italian fascists, not a political party (Silvennoinen et al., 2016: 103). To prevent the Civil Guard attempting to affect parliamentary politics and the relations between the bourgeois parties, the Progressives demanded that it should stay politically nonaligned.

44  Jenni Karimäki This was an expression of passive liberal anti-fascism in action. It was also considered important that the Guard was subordinate to the government, as the Progressives believed that this type of governmental supervision would better allow any unrest or rise of fascist tendencies to be detected and dealt with (Olkkonen, 2011: 79–83). In addition, if allowed to remain an exclusively rightist, maverick military organisation, it might encourage communist action and support, and prevent Finnish Social Democrats from developing into a moderate, Western, working-class party. Despite these reservations, the Progressive disposition towards the Civil Guard was predominantly positive and accepting, and many prominent party members, such as Sulo Heiniö and Eero Rydman, were active and notable Civil Guard officials (Selén, 2001). As Silvennoinen et al. (2016: 98) have argued, without this wavering balance between revolution and prevailing order, the Civil Guard’s impact on Finnish domestic politics might have been more unpredictable. A balancing act between more extremist inclinations and moderate nationalists maintained a stable status quo during the 1920s. The positive yet cautious attitude towards the Civil Guard was an expression of how the policy of national unification was also to be promoted outside of parliamentary politics. As Selén (2001: 99) aptly states, the debates around and about the Civil Guard were in fact a part of right-wing adaptation to parliamentary democracy. During the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, Finnish liberals did detect a fascist-type threat among the Civil Guard. When the atrocities of the war began to fade, and social and political circumstances normalised, anti-communist tendencies overpowered anti-fascist warnings among the Finnish liberals (Karimäki, 2016: 76–109). There is a parallel to Britain in this regard. During the 1920s, fascists were fascist in name only; they were not a political power or a party, but anti-communist actors committed to upholding the established constitution, not revolting against it (Williamson, 2010: 76). As compromises made after the Civil War and constitutional struggle were increasingly questioned by both extremes, it was becoming increasingly evident that the liberal-led policy of unification founded on a republican constitution, amnesty, education and land reforms had succeeded only in moderating the Social Democrats. It had failed to cater to the aspirations of both the extreme left and right, whom still harboured thoughts that the war was not finished, only on hold. The aim of the policy of national unification was never to unite communists as communists in society, but rather to moderate them. The liberal anti-communist objective was to reduce the attractiveness of communism through sociopolitical reforms and to demand the relinquishing of revolutionary ideas and means. From the Progressive perspective, the extreme right was different: it was part of the educated and civilised populace, and was expected to know better than to try to revolt or become infatuated by some foreign ideals. The right, be they extreme or not, were expected to succumb to the prevailing republican order (Karimäki, 2016: 327–35). At

Finnish liberals and anti-fascism  45 least in retrospect, to expect this was not unreasonable. Just as in Britain, Finnish right-wing extra-parliamentary radicals sought less to destroy existing institutions and procedures than to gain access to them (Williamson, 2010: 80–1). Since anti-communism was a far more pressing issue than anti-fascism, previous warnings of a fascist threat were replaced by notions of ‘fascist delusions’, as Progressive Party chair Oskari Mantere maintained at the 1924 party conference (Party conference 1924, NA). Fascist-admiring statements made by, for example, activists of the anti-communist Suomen Suojelusliitto (Finnish Defence Union) were designed to raise concern and confusion among the law-abiding citizens, not to attract any serious interest or enthusiasm. Although the Progressive Party administration noted that anti-­ parliamentary attitudes were evident among the extreme right, this kind of fascist admiration was thought to be limited only to very small and narrow realms, and was in no way a threat to democracy (Annual report of party committee 1922–1923 and 1923–1924, National Library (NL); concepts sent to newspapers 1923, NA). If liberal anti-communism was willing to go to great lengths – for example, several unpopular amnesty laws – to diminish the appeal of the extreme left, such action was not seen as necessary where the extreme right was concerned. As noted, during the 1924 party conference, the party leadership denounced ‘fascist delusions’ by describing them as the fantasies of a small number of irresponsible people (Party conference 1924, NA). There was no need to diminish the fascist appeal through reforms or unification policies, as the threat of revolution always came from the left of the political spectrum; however, to dismiss ‘fascist delusions’ was not an exclusively liberal prerogative. For example, the chief of the State Police, Esko Riekki, thought along the same lines, and maintained that ‘fascist delusions’ were mostly due to young men’s illusions of being something or someone, of making a difference. During the mid-1920s, Riekki maintained that Finnish fascism was more an abstract state of mind than a concrete fascist organisation, and as such was not a threat to society or democracy (Ahti, 1990: 90). Despite the pejorative statements by the Progressive leadership, there was no absolute consensus on how to respond to extreme-right organisations. Every liberal accepted the anti-fascist minimum of objecting to fascism and defending democracy and liberal principles per se. Organisations like Suomen Suojelusliitto could be interpreted either as fascist movements or as expressions of public opinion (1.2.1923 Etelä-Suomen Sanomat; 1.2., 25.9.,11.10., 14.10.1923 Turun Sanomat; 28.2.1923 Länsi-Savo). They could also be perceived either as railing against the policy of national unification or as movements promoting bourgeois unity. This division highlighted the heterogeneous nature of the liberal party, and more explicitly the divisions between the opinions of provincial members and newspapers and those of the Helsinki-based party leadership. In general, the more rural the electorate, the more willing they were to understand and accept extreme-right

46  Jenni Karimäki aims. However, the majority of the party conformed to the official party position, and the rest followed suit at the turn of the decade. While the extreme right was to be handled with caution, communists were perceived as the real threat during the 1920s. In retrospect, neither communists nor fascists constituted a real danger, but to contemporaries the Bolshevik revolution and Soviet Russia were a much more credible threat than some discontent felt among the educated Finnish middle class. This gave liberal anti-fascism its ambiguous, passive and dismissive nature during the 1920s. There was no significant reason to demand a strong statement or a united front. The years to come, however, showed that there was cause to be vigilant.

Overwhelmed by the extreme right If the 1920s had been a balancing act between fascist threat and fascist delusions, the next decade certainly put liberal anti-fascism to the test. Between 1929 and 1932, the Finnish extreme-right Lapua movement – founded in, and named after the town of Lapua – gained substantial public support with its anti-communist and anti-democratic aims and rhetoric. With a leader, Vihtori Kosola, imitating Mussolini in dress, manner and symbolic acts, the Lapua movement demanded the proscription of communists, restrictions on voting rights, and the reintroduction of the 19th-century estates. At the height of his popularity, Kosola declared that there were times in history when the written law must be bypassed, where one must follow the healthy patriotic instinct of self-preservation. Although not explicitly fascist, the Lapua movement was the closest thing to fascism found in Finland. However, the success of the movement was short-lived, and it ended in a failed coup d’état in Mäntsälä in March 1932 (Carsten, 1967: 160–7; Upton, 1970; Alapuro, 1980; Heinonen, 1980; Siltala, 1985; Ahti, 1990; Karvonen, 2004; Halmesvirta, 2010; Siironen, 2012; Silvennoinen et al., 2016). During these years, the most crucial aspect of liberal anti-fascism was the defence of democracy, given that all extreme-right or fascist aims were in some way directed at criticising and limiting parliamentary democracy. As Buchannan (2002: 39) demonstrates, the rise of fascism in the 1930s was met with a Europe-wide affirmation of support for democracy. Anti-­fascism could unite broad political coalitions in the name of democracy. In Finland, the rule-of-law front, which could be broadly interpreted as an anti-fascist coalition of sorts, eventually ranged from liberals and agrarians to conservatives and socialists. Ultimately, this coalition promoted the original liberal agenda of the policy of national unification. While defending democracy against the extreme right, moderate Social Democrats succumbed to bourgeois democracy (Karimäki, 2016: 235–61). This view of democracy combined democratic rights with the defence of the established social and economic order, and the Social Democrats assumed this order as the foundation of democratic socialism.

Finnish liberals and anti-fascism  47 In the end, liberals developed a distinct anti-fascist stance. But this was not self-evident during the first year of the extreme-right surge. In November 1929, the Lapua movement emerged as a general bourgeois effort to eliminate communism, and initially won support from all bourgeois parties. The liberal Progressives did not object to this ‘uprising’; even when attention was paid to the right’s ‘dictatorial aspirations’; the Lapua movement was perceived as justified since the communists had vexed law-abiding citizens for long enough (Uola, 2006: 181–9; Karimäki, 2016: 204). Anti-communism overpowering anti-fascism was a general trait among European liberals. James Martin (2007: 117) maintains that to Italian liberals, fascism, however violent and disagreeable, was certainly preferable to communism. Extreme-right activities began in Lapua in 1929 – a rural, rightist and religious community in Southern Ostrobothnia – when a group of young men intervened during a communist youth meeting at the local workers’ lounge. They broke up the meeting and ripped the red shirts off the backs of the participants (Karvonen, 2004: 164–5). Somewhat surprisingly, liberals and the liberal press took rather a tolerant view of these events. Leading Finnish and liberal newspaper Helsingin Sanomat (28.11.1929) saw the rightist reaction as understandable and acceptable, as a communist rally was an insult to the patriotic sentiment. Turun Sanomat (3.12.1929) stated, approvingly, that it was astonishing that things had not gone any further than the ripping of shirts. Two members of the Progressive party leadership, J. H. Vennola and T. M. Kivimäki, maintained that communists were mocking patriotism and Finnish independence (Parliamentary Protocols (PP) II 1929, 1204–7, 1009–10). Accepting the ferocious anti-communism of the Lapua movement was not particularly difficult for the Progressives. As we have seen, since the Civil War, Finnish liberals had been committed anti-communists. At this point, the Lapua movement was such a success that opposing it was not an option, even though it had started to resort to illegal, violent methods such as the kidnapping of suspected communists and the wrecking of communist printing houses. Anti-communist principles were all but impossible to resist without losing public support, and strong anti-fascist statements or demands could not be expressed during the initial surge (Karimäki, 2016: 205–6). Nonetheless, some Progressives did make efforts to condemn illegality and violence and to take a firmer anti-fascist stance. Just a few weeks after the Lapua incident, one of the most prominent liberal anti-fascists, Urho Toivola, addressed the issue in a party committee and cautioned other party members about the fascist tendencies of the Lapua movement. The committee acknowledged Toivola’s concerns, but did not feel the need to publish a formal proclamation; should the movement attain increasingly fascist features, the subject in question was to be revisited (Party committee 18.12.1929, NA; Annual report of the parliamentary group 1929, NL). Yet, the issue of increasing violence was addressed later in parliament. Progressive Party chairman Mantere (PP II 1929, 1834–6) attempted to convince the

48  Jenni Karimäki Lapua-infatuated masses of the benefits of a legal solution to the communist threat. This way, he argued, the fascist threat could be eliminated too. Ultimately, in March 1930, the Progressive Party Council released a moderate proclamation that emphasised democracy as the best insurance for a peaceful and prosperous future, and which stated that although communism needed to be eradicated, anti-democratic opinions and actions should be denounced from whichever direction they were presented (31.3.1930 HS). The best way to assess the Lapua movement and the years from 1929 to 1932 is to conceive of it as the epilogue of the Civil War rather than as an expression of developing fascist or national socialist ideology. The Lapua movement was above all a demonstration of the residual anger and need for revenge that brewed in the minds of many Civil War victors. This was embedded in the structures of bourgeois democracy and its organisations, such as the Civil Guard. Many felt that this was now a golden opportunity for the true victors of the Civil War to take control and to restore the conservative, authoritarian values that had been diluted in the centre-leftist republic (Siltala, 1985: 32–5; Roselius, 2010: 245). When put into this context, the choices made by liberal anti-fascists are easier to interpret and understand (Karimäki, 2016: 209–18). After all, fascism was the lesser evil for the liberal Civil War veterans. Otherwise, the decisions to accept the socalled ‘communist laws’ that, for example, banned the Communist Party, restrained candidate eligibility and gave election committees disproportionate control over candidate selection, or to succumb to extra-parliamentary pressure or agree to an extensive amnesty after the failed coup d’état, would be incomprehensible. The participation in, and submission to, making anti-liberal decisions made the summer and autumn of 1930 bittersweet for the Progressives. The party that always held the bigger picture rather than class interests in high esteem had to renounce its liberal principles for ‘the good of the nation’ to avoid a volatile situation escalating from bad to worse. Although a dignified peaceful demonstration (an imitation of Mussolini’s March to Rome), the Peasant March of July 1930 was a powerful enough expression of the will of the people. For the liberals, to succumb to the passing of the communist laws, to co-operate a right-wing government led by president-to-be P. E. Svinhufvud and to campaign in general elections as part of a bourgeois alliance were all choices made for pragmatic reasons. These decisions resulted in a small electoral victory, but they were far from the anti-fascist liberal mindset that the Progressives were accustomed to hold dear (Karimäki, 2016: 203–23). This pragmatic, trying-to-avoid-a-bigger-disaster anti-fascism was the official party policy. Just as among Italian liberals (Martin 2007: 116), there was a variety of approaches regarding how to relate to fascism, spanning a range of degree of association and repulsion. Much of the party leadership were more appalled by the Lapua movement and their illegalities than was thought possible to express in public (Party council 7.8.1930, NA;

Finnish liberals and anti-fascism  49 Karimäki, 2016: 206–8). On the other hand, there were also those quite willing to support the aims of the Lapua movement. J. H. Vennola, a minister in the Svinhufvud government, did not think that the movement was in any way political like the Italian fascists, but rather was born out of the will of the people and thus had a solid and convincing intent. Those liberals inclined to concur with Vennola came from the rural constituencies; they approved extra-parliamentary measures and wanted the Progressive Party to promote the Lapua agenda more vigorously. Ideological principles were set aside when a purge was demanded. The Lapua movement was seen only as anti-communist, not as fascist (Parliamentary group and party committee 27.6.1930, Party council 30.6.1930, Party conference 1930, NA).

From stagnation to explicit anti-fascism This anti-fascist predicament started to ease during autumn 1930. The general election results in October 1930 guaranteed a bourgeois majority and the passing of the communist laws, which had been the primary objective of the Lapua movement. The Progressives and the rule-of-law front in general regarded the purpose of the Lapua movement now fulfilled, and believed it was time for it to disband (PP 1930 II, 51–3; 2.10., 23.10.1930 TS). The movement becoming an established part of the political system was not a desired outcome since it still resorted to illegality and went to unforeseen lengths, such as the kidnapping of the first president of the republic, the liberal party member K. J. Ståhlberg (Karimäki, 2016: 224–6). Those Progressives who just a few months ago had been in favour of the movement now turned against it (Party council 29.11.1930, NA). The actions and new aims of the extreme right, such as demanding a completely non-­parliamentarian government and the abolition of the proportional voting system, were a strong signal that the movement was not going to disband on its own. The Progressive constituents were now convinced that the movement pursued fascist ideals that went far beyond simply anti-communism. As the situation progressed, so liberal anti-fascists were willing and able to take a firmer, more explicit stance, and did not resort only to parliamentary debates and proclamations. They initiated negotiations between different parliamentary groups to assess the current situation, but in a way that would not provoke intense opposition (Annual report of party committee 1931–1932, NL; Karimäki, 2016: 214). Like Ernst Barker or Piero Gobetti, the objective was to educate citizens about the fascist nature of the Lapua movement, and hence, reduce its appeal. After the kidnapping of Ståhlberg, the Progressives attempted to establish an anti-fascist, a­ nti-Lapua NGO (Tuomioja, 2007: 29–30; Reinimäki, 2010: 29, 35–9). Former NPP party secretary K. N. Rauhala was the prime figure in organising this centre-­ leftist association in support of democracy. The overall aim was to create a nationwide NGO to educate the public about the fascist threat. However, this initiative failed. The upcoming presidential elections made the main

50  Jenni Karimäki partner, the Agrarian Party, apprehensive, not wanting to aggravate their patriotic and rightist, though not extreme-rightist, constituencies (Mylly, 1989: 285–6). Another initiative that might even in Renton’s categorisation qualify as an anti-fascist organisation was Isänmaan ja Laillisuuden Puolesta (ILP), also known as the Pro Patria et Lége organisation (Mylly, 1998: 45–6, 54; Karimäki, 2016: 227–8). Even though the organisation was nonaligned, it was comprised of the Progressive Party, the Agrarian Party and the Swedish People’s Party (the conservative National Coalition Party was excluded because of its close links to the Lapua movement). A key function of the ILP was to monitor the Civil Guard and the Lapua movement and report any suspicious actions and intentions. That it was a covert organisation was not a surprise, but the fact it was acting under governmental approval and supervision was unheard of. Thanks to its intelligence information, this unique anti-fascist organisation also helped decide the outcome of the ­extreme-right coup in Mäntsälä in February 1932. This coup d’état was no conundrum for the Progressives or their anti-­ fascist stance, and it did not come as a total surprise. In November 1931, the Progressive Party Council discussed rumours of a coup. When rural members were asked about the situation in the provinces, they responded by saying that there was no smoke without fire; a coup was being planned. In an attempt to prevent such action, a proclamation announced after the meeting stated that the situation in the country was not stable enough to endure even suspicions of a coup (Party council, 9.11.1931, NA; 14.11.1931 TS). When the suspicions finally and unfortunately realised, it was not difficult for the Progressives to take a negative and judgemental stance (Karimäki, 2016: 239–40). They had already made a clean break from the Lapua movement, and it was easy to condemn such actions against democracy and legality (Upton, 1970; Karvonen, 2004). The Lapua movement had now reached the point of no return as far as the liberal anti-fascists were concerned. The road of understanding and acceptance had taken Finland to the brink of an abyss, argued Helsingin Sanomat (1.3., 7.3.1932). Turun Sanomat (28.2., 2.3.1932) wondered whether the extreme right had learned anything from the Civil War. It was pointless to try to overthrow democracy. When addressing the issue in parliament, party chairman A. K. Cajander claimed that the Mäntsälä coup had been the epilogue of the extreme-right movement, which would now be facing the laws enacted to eradicate treasonous activities, namely and ironically the socalled communist laws (PP 1932, 271–2, 295–7). However, even though the coup was not to be treated as frivolous, Cajander argued that there was no reason to create new divisions among citizens, or new sources of resentment or revenge. Thus, the Progressives supported amnesty for many of those involved in the coup, with the exception of the leaders. Effectively, there was no other alternative for the Progressives. Just ten years ago, they had been at the forefront of proposing an amnesty for the Civil War prisoners

Finnish liberals and anti-fascism  51 in the name of national unification. They would appear hypocritical if they now refused to extend the practice to include the indiscretions of the right. ­Liberal anti-fascism expressed its explicit yet resilient nature once more.

Conclusions The essence of liberal anti-fascism was its flexible and resilient nature; it bent under the pressures of reality, but never folded. Its principles of democracy and legality were never abandoned, but at times, these principles were stretched to their limit to avoid an outright confrontation. During the interwar period, as Buchanan (2002: 54) remarks, democracy needed defending, and rather innovative – and sometimes outright undemocratic – ways of doing were applied. The extreme-right surge was at first too strong for the movement to be opposed completely. For the Progressives, the very essence of the Lapua movement, namely anti-communism, was a long-time goal that could now be achieved. The movement was not forcefully opposed until it resorted to more radical, undemocratic and illegal methods, and, importantly, until the eradication of communism had already been accomplished. Although resilient, Finnish liberal anti-fascism always held on to the anti-fascist minimum of political and moral opposition to fascism or ­extreme-right aspirations that was, at least in their opinion, rooted in the democratic values of the political system. It is, however, necessary to contemplate whether there ever was a real opportunity for fascism to gain power in Finland. In Finland, it was largely a general bourgeois reaction. Since the Finnish bourgeois front was relatively unified, fascist-type phenomena lacked an independent profile. When under pressure from the mass movement, the interests of the dominant, bourgeois classes found sufficient representation in the framework of the existing political system. Another interpretation is that of Anthony Upton (1970: 184, 193–4), who demonstrates that much was conducive to the emergence of a fascist-type movement in 1920s Finland. The right felt cheated out of the fruits of the Civil War victory; accounts were to be settled and the day of reckoning was surely coming. There were communists, openly dedicated to reversing the outcome of the Civil War. Upton argues that the communist bogey was no figment of the imagination, but rather a hard and menacing political reality. Yet, no fascist movement conquered, as Finland was too stony a ground for foreign ideologies to triumph. Democracy and the White legacy of the Civil War were acknowledged by such a vast bourgeois majority, ranging from centre-left liberals to moderate conservatives, that in the end the niche for extreme-right ideas proved all but non-existent. Nonetheless, our account of liberal anti-fascism still deepens understanding of the era. Behind the ideals of liberal anti-fascism was the aspiration to achieve national unification, a Civil War-torn country united from moderate left to moderate right. It might sound strange, but this policy, originally supported by the Progressives and the Agrarians, became far more feasible

52  Jenni Karimäki during the years of extreme-right turmoil. The actions taken against the extreme left compelled the moderate left – the Social Democrats – to accept the preconditions of bourgeois democracy to secure their own existence (Siltala, 1985: 477). After the 1932 coup, Finnish liberal anti-fascism was considerably less ambiguous. From there on in, it was easy and publicly acceptable to condemn extreme-right movements and fascist aspirations. Thus, Hitler’s rise to power in 1933 was interpreted as a revolution, and Germany was no longer conceived as a constitutional state (16.3.1933 HS). The successor to the disbanded Lapua movement, Isänmaallinen Kansan Liike (Peoples’ Patriotic Movement), with its military-like organisation, fascist-imitating agenda and black shirts, was opposed from the beginning (Karimäki, 2016: 261–8). All attacks against democracy were condemned. For the liberals, the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936 was another example of why democracy required a vigorous defence (26.7.1936 HS), as a weak democracy was held to be a seedbed of both communism and fascism. Finnish liberal anti-fascism and the policy of national unification were anti-communist, democratic, parliamentarian, legalistic and nationalistic in nature. This combination of liberal yet nationalistic values aspired to achieve a united nation in spirit and mentality, but never a coerced acceptance of a single political ideology.

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54  Jenni Karimäki Renton, D. (2001) This Rough Game: Fascism and Anti-Fascism. Thrupp: Sutton Publishing. Roselius, A. (2010) Kiista, eheys, unohdus: Vapaussodan muistaminen suojeluskuntien ja veteraaniliikkeen toiminnassa 1918–1944. Helsinki: Suomen Tiedeseura. Selén, K. (1998) ‘Suojeluskuntien Suomi?’ in Alapuro, R. (ed.) Raja Railona: Näkökulmia suojeluskuntiin. Porvoo: WSOY. Selén, K. (2001) Sarkatakkien maa: Suojeluskuntajärjestö ja yhteiskunta 1918–1944. Helsinki: WSOY. Siironen, M. (2012) Valkoiset: Vapaussodan perintö. Tampere: Vastapaino. Siltala, J. (1985) Lapuan Liike ja kyyditykset 1930. Keuruu: Otava. Silvennoinen, O., Tikka, M. and Roselius, A. (2016) Suomalaiset fasistit: Mustan sarastuksen airueet. Helsinki: WSOY. Tuomioja, E. (2007) Sakari Tuomioja: Suomalainen sovittelija. 3rd ed. Helsinki: Tammi. Uola, M. (2006) ‘Parlamentaarisen demokratian haastajat 1920- ja 1930- luvuilla’ in Mylly, J. (ed.) Kansanvalta koetuksella: Suomen eduskunta 100 vuotta, osa 3. Helsinki: Edita. Upton, A. F. (1970) ‘Finland’ in Woolf, S. J. (ed.) European Fascism. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Vares, V. (2010) ‘Suomi diktatuurien kontekstissa’ in Railo, E. and Laamanen, V. (eds.) Suomi muuttuvassa maailmassa: Ulkosuhteiden ja kansallisen itseymmärryksen historiaa. Helsinki: Edita. Vials, C. (2014) Haunted by Hitler: Liberals, the Left, and the Fight Against Fascism in the United States. Boston: University of Massachusetts Press. Williamson, P. (2010) ‘The Conservative Party, Fascism and Anti-Fascism 1918–1939’ in Copsey, N. and Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan.

3 An anti-fascist minority? Swedish-speaking Finnish responses to fascism Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström

Introduction Prior to the outbreak of the Second World War, authoritarian rule had replaced democratic forms of governance in large parts of Europe. From a comparative European perspective, Finland stands out as a democratic exception. However, Finland is also exceptional in the Nordic context due to the relative political successes of its domestic fascism, its official bilingualism (Finnish and Swedish) and its binational conception of statehood. This chapter explores responses to fascism by the Swedish-speaking minority in Finland, which made up approximately 10 per cent of Finland’s population in the interwar period. Since this minority is overlooked in research on European minorities in the interwar era, it is unsurprising that it is also absent from the historiographies of fascism and anti-fascism. Yet fascism was not, as Núñez Seixas (2016: 617) has highlighted, ‘a common enemy for ethnic minorities and nationalities all over Europe’, and notes a ‘systematic inclusion of fascist and right-wing authoritarian tenets in the programmes promoted by the representatives and political parties of national minorities from Brittany to the Ukraine’ after 1933 (Núñez Seixas, 2016: 613). As we will show, the pro-fascist inclination was the reverse for the Swedish-­ speaking minority in Finland, i.e. the pull of fascism was far greater before, rather than after, 1933. We will primarily focus on the response of two leading Swedish-­speaking anti-fascists, Karl H. Wiik (1883–1946) and Eirik Hornborg (1879–1965), to – what Silvennoinen, Roselius and Tikka(2016) characterise as the Finnish fascist ‘moment’ – the Lapua Movement. Wiik was a social democratic ideologue, politician and secretary of the Finnish Social Democratic Party (SDP) between 1926 and 1936. Hornborg was a conservative politician and public intellectual who represented the Swedish People’s Party (SFP). Both were very prominent public figures throughout Finland and particularly in Swedish-speaking areas of the country. As high-profile opponents of fascism in the only two formally Swedish-speaking parties in Finland, the unilingual SFP and the bilingual SDP, Hornborg represented the anti-fascist right of the Swedish-speaking minority and Wiik represented its anti-fascist

56  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström left. This chapter builds upon our earlier intellectual-biographical examination of Wiik’s and Hornborg’s conceptualisation of fascism (Kaihovirta & Wickström, 2017). At the same time, it will address themes that have received scant attention in Nordic historical research, particularly questions concerning the relationship between minorities and fascism, as well as anti-­ fascism, in the interwar period.

Finnish language politics and the rise of fascism in interwar Finland The 1920s revival of the so-called ‘language strife’ over the status of Finnish and Swedish, which had already begun in earnest at the end of the 19th century, was, in a Nordic context as well, a distinct feature of Finnish social and political life in the interwar era. Finland had been an integrated part of the Swedish Kingdom since the 12th century, but in the turmoil of the Napoleonic War, Sweden lost its Eastern territories to Russia in 1809. The Russian emperor Alexander I gave political, religious and cultural autonomy within the Russian empire to his newly conquered domain Finland – primarily to satisfy the local Swedish-speaking elite. As late as the mid-19th century, Swedish was the only language allowed within the administration of Finland. The division between the two language groups was not only of national and cultural significance, but also a social distinction – fluency in Swedish was one of the attributes of the Finnish elite. From the mid-19th century, the status of Swedish and the Swedish-­ speaking elite was challenged by Hegelian and Herderian activists as well as Finnish ethnonationalists (Fennomans, most of whom were Swedish speaking). The first solely Finnish-speaking grammar school was established in 1858, and in 1863, Alexander II, the sovereign of the Grand Duchy of Finland, issued a decree stating that Finnish should become equal to Swedish in public life in 20 years’ time (however, this decree was only fully implemented in 1902). The rise of the Finnish ethnonationalist movement also prompted the formation of a Swedish ethnonationalist movement (Svecomans) and the start of the first major language strife (ethnic conflict) in Finland. Following the introduction of universal suffrage in Finland in 1906, Finnish-speaking Finns gained an overwhelming majority in the new one-­ chamber parliament. This eroded the political power of the Swedish-speaker who had previously controlled two of the four estates in the Diet of Finland. As a result, the SFP was founded in 1906 with the aim of mobilising all categories of Swedish-speaking Finns to defend their ethnopolitical interests. When Finland declared independence in 1917, the language question was already one of the burning political questions in the newly founded state. The radical Finnish ethnonationalists demanded that Finnish should be the only official language. A faction in the SFP, in turn, argued for regional

An anti-fascist minority?  57 autonomy for the so-called ‘Swedish nationality’ in Finland. Both demands were, however, rejected after the somewhat temporary ideological unification of the Finnish-speaking and Swedish-speaking bourgeoisie as ‘Whites’ in the Civil War against the socialist ‘Reds’. Finland officially became a bilingual state through the enactment of the 1919 Constitution and the 1922 Language Act that formally united the two ‘nationalities’ of Finland into one ‘Finnish’ people. This constitutional solution did not, however, appease the Finnish ethnonationalists who rallied under the banner of true Finnishness (aitosuomalaisuus). The True Finnishness movement was mirrored in reverse by the East Swedishness (östsvenskhet) movement among the Swedish-speaking Finns, which in its most radical form was racist (Nordicist) and irredentist (the Swedish-speaking regions of Finland were viewed as part of Sweden). In this context, the advent of a strong right-wing mass movement carried both the promise of (bi-) nationalist, White, ideological reunification against the socialist threat, as well as the risk of ethnonationalist Finnish empowerment for the Swedish-speaking minority. The interwar period in Finland was marked by the legacy of the Civil War of 1918, fought in the aftermath of independence from (newly Bolshevik) Russia, a cultural trauma on par with the Spanish Civil War. The proportional death toll in the repression of the defeated Reds exceeded that of all other European civil conflicts in the interwar era. Yet, despite the White victory and the official banning of the Communist Party, some factions on the White side saw the re-emergence and success of the parliamentary SDP and the rumoured (and de facto) communist underground agitation as a sign that Finland was going down the road towards a ‘half-red’ country. The divisions caused by the destruction of the Civil War continued to run deep both in national politics and everyday life throughout the interwar period. The tactical cooperation between the SFP and the SDP in the 1920s, which resulted in a Social Democratic minority government only eight years after the Red defeat in the Civil War, faced harsh criticism from both conservatives and the True Finnishness movement. This ‘unholy’ alliance between the Marxist ‘Red’ working class and the old Swedish elite was seen, from a True Finnish perspective, as a threat against the newly independent Finnish nation state. When the Lapua Movement mobilised in 1929–1930, it first targeted Finnish communists – but later Social Democrats and progressive liberals also came under attack. The Movement’s leader, often referred to as ‘Finland’s Mussolini’, Finnish-speaking farmer Vihtori Kosola had stated that ‘the fields of our country do not ask what language their ploughmen speak’, a declaration that dissatisfied the True Finnish Lapua-men. It is worth noting that initially, at least, the Lapua Movement gathered both Finnish and Swedish speakers in its crusade against communism (Meinander, 2016: 46–7).

58  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström The Lapua Movement enjoyed substantial support among the Swedish-­ speaking right wing. Several Swedish-speaking Finns were included in the Lapua leadership, notably the industrialist Petter Forsström and the scientist Kai Donner. There was also significant support for the Lapua Movement in the upper echelons of Finnish trade and industry, which had a strong Finland-Swedish predominance (Meinander, 2016: 176), as well as among the general Swedish-speaking population. About a fifth of the approximately 12,500 participants in the called Peasants’ March to Helsinki on 7 June 1930 (cf. The March on Rome) were Swedish-speakers, a significant over-representation relative to the make-up of the Finnish population at that time (Bonäs, 2012: 36). When the Lapua Movement failed in their coup d’état, the Mäntsälä rebellion of 1932, the radical activists of the Movement formed a clear-cut Finnish National Socialist party called the Patriotic People’s Movement (Isänmaallinen Kansanliike, IKL). The IKL was very distinct in their lingual-­ politics, supporting the idea of a Greater Finland (‘Suur-Suomi’) and a true mono-ethnic, monocultural and monolinguistic Finnish Finland.

The Swedish-speaking minority and the international and domestic rise of fascism In order for us to resist the Movement, we must know the Movement, and to ascertain the characteristics of the Movement ourselves. (Summary of party secretary Wiik’s speech on the Lapua Movement, 1931) If the inner history of the Lapua Movement will in some instance be truthfully and openly laid bare, it will be the story of one of the most perilous crises Finland has ever endured. (Nya Argus, 17/1930) For K. H. Wiik, fascism, as it manifested itself in Italy, was part of the bourgeois reaction to the successes of the labour movement in Europe following First World War. In 1923, as a correspondent for the Sweden-based party newspaper Social-Demokraten, Wiik already used the term fascism to describe the reactionary politics of the Finnish right wing, especially in comparison with Italian fascism. The similarity between Finnish and Italian fascism was, according to Wiik, clearly evident in the celebration of the fifth anniversary of the Finnish Civil War, complete with grandiose White Guard parades and a willingness on the part of the bourgeoisie to redouble their efforts against the ‘red menace’. According to Wiik’s understanding, the reactionary politics of the Finnish bourgeoisie against the labour movement could be compared to the European conservative reaction that had gained significant ground within right-wing circles in Finland (manuscripts dated

An anti-fascist minority?  59 13 February and 23 April 1923). Wiik’s understanding of Finnish fascism and its connections to the international threat of fascism was influenced by the Socialist Labour International in the 1920s and 1930s, where he represented his party and functioned as member on the executive committee of the organisation (Arbetarbladet, 12 April 1933). In his May Day speech in 1926, the newly elected party secretary, K. H Wiik, issued a warning against the ‘violent fascist machinations’ that threatened the working class: Dark forces do what they can to hinder us in our struggle. In certain countries, they have thus far succeeded. Our Italian comrades have to endure a grievous and difficult fight against the violent command of the fascists, and in our country as well, the working class has to be vigilant, in order that similar movements do not grow stronger. (Speech given on 1 May 1926) Despite the fact that Wiik encouraged vigilance among the working class so as not to allow the strengthening of domestic reactionary forces, he adopted a surprisingly passive stance towards the Lapua Movement. Early on, Wiik was unwilling to define the Lapua Movement as ‘proper fascism’ when Arbetarbladet, the newspaper of the Swedish-speaking Social Democrats, enquired about the party leadership’s views about possible means to oppose the Movement in the spring of 1930 (Arbetarbladet, 19 March 1930). As opposed to Wiik, the paper had already branded the Lapua Movement as fascist some weeks prior to the interviews with the party leadership, making it perhaps the first newspaper to do so in Finland (Arbetarbladet, 12 March and 14 March 1930). Wiik made a conceptual distinction between ‘proper fascism’ and the Lapua Movement based on his Marxist interpretation of fascism. According to Wiik, proper fascism was a political grouping organised by the big capital interests of employers and large farmers. Wiik defined fascism as an ‘expression of the discontent of the grand bourgeoisie’, and in Italy, the same grand bourgeoisie had succeeded in organising a concerted effort against the political mobilisation of the working class. Unlike in Italy and other European countries, however, the Finnish working class was considerably weaker due to the Civil War. Because of this, Wiik did not see any preconditions for the growth of a fascist movement in Finland, as Finnish workers were not a direct threat to the social positions and power of either the peasant class or the upper class. However, Wiik argued that the Finnish peasants played a primary role in Finnish democracy that could potentially create conditions for fascism to succeed. According to him, Finnish peasants recognised the benefits of democracy for their class interests, which precluded any real contingencies for fascists to reshape the country into a dictatorship. Nevertheless, the peasants strove to defend their ‘rights of exploitation’ over the

60  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström working class, which entailed, as Wiik argued, that farmers were on hand to see the positions of the labour movement weaken during times of crisis (Summary of party secretary Wiik’s speech on the Lapua Movement, 1931). When the right-wing Hornborg first took a public stand against the Lapua Movement in April 1930, he immediately labelled the Movement as ‘fascistoid’ in the header of his essay, which stated that the Movement was characterised by ‘Fascist tendencies’. It was the exercise of organised violence in the name of anti-communism that made the similarity apparent between the nascent domestic movement and the fascists of Italy. The question of distinction between just and unjust violence was of central importance in Hornborg’s comparison between ‘the fascist tendencies, which have made their appearance among some of the citizens of our country’, and Italian fascism, the latter of which ‘most certainly’ had had a role to play as an inspiration for fascist impulses in Finland. The context of fascism’s ‘great victory’ in Italy, consisting of the far-reaching effects of communist terror in the face of a hapless state, was, however, clearly different from the relatively stable state of Finland in 1930 (Nya Argus, 8/1930). Apart from the absence of communist terror and faltering governance, there was, according to Hornborg, another important discrepancy between Italian and Finnish fascism, which favoured the former as opposed to the latter – the disparity in national character. Fascism was not only an emergency solution in a post-war Italy struggling under the yoke of communism; it also suited the docile nature of the Italian people. In Finland, with its ‘hard and obstinate fanatics’, Hornborg argued, fascism would sow discord rather than unity (Nya Argus, 8/1930). Like Wiik, Hornborg argued that the political preconditions necessary for the success of Italian fascism were missing in Finland. While Wiik saw the weakness of the Finnish labour movement, Hornborg pointed to the lack of a revolutionary red threat in Finland, which could facilitate the rise of fascism domestically. Additionally, Hornborg reasoned, the more profound cultural and even sociobiological requirements necessary for what he saw as the essentially laudable Italian fascism movement were simply not present in Finland. Hornborg’s first analysis and critique of the Lapua Movement was primarily a comparatively contextual one rather than an ideological critique. By comparing the domestic movement to Italian fascism, Hornborg identified fascist traits within the workings of the former, and concluded that the Lapua Movement was influenced by Italian fascism. The decisive factor leading to Hornborg’s condemnation of the Lapua Movement and his anti-­ fascist stance towards domestic fascism was found in the way in which the Finnish fascists were comparable to their Italian counterparts in questions of social necessity and other preconditions. During this time, Hornborg was, like many of his conservative peers, not, generally speaking, an anti-­ fascist. Fascism per se was not something he condemned unconditionally, as it could preserve the social and political order. The original, Italian form of fascism was, therefore, justified, while the Lapua Movement, the poor

An anti-fascist minority?  61 Finnish interpretation of fascism, was unwarranted in contemporary Finnish society. The violence perpetrated by the fascists in Italy was justified because the movement had acted in societal self-defence against forces that had constituted a real threat against the Italian social order. For Hornborg, the Lapua Movement was merely a ‘secondary fascism’, which was ‘blind’ to the terms of Italian fascism as well as to what it jeopardised with its unlawful acts of violence (Nya Argus, 8/1930). The Lapua Movement grew more powerful, and the abductions and brutality undertaken during the so-called ‘Summer of Lapua’ in 1930 culminated in the Peasants’ March to Helsinki on 7 June of that year. In his memoirs, Hornborg (1960: 37–8) writes that he too lived ‘under the threat of being snatched away’ and that he always carried a firearm owing to this fact. Wiik, on the other hand, feared that the march of the Lapua Movement to Helsinki could possibly result in the arrests of Social Democrats. On the night prior to the Peasants’ March, Wiik prepared for the worst, writing farewell letters to both his wife Anna and to his mother, Hanna Wiik (Letters to Hanna Wiik and Anna Wiik, 7 July 1930). During the summer of 1930, the threat of the Lapua Movement appeared in a stark new light for both Wiik and Hornborg. A fascist coup in Finland had suddenly become a real possibility, and they resisted it with their lives at stake. The fascist tendencies that were detected by Hornborg in April, had in his opinion, blossomed into full-blown fascism by the summer of 1930. Prior to the Peasants’ March, the Lapua Movement had been opposed to the fascist label, while it simultaneously claimed that nothing could stop the momentum of the Movement from reaching its intended destination. Hornborg seized upon this contradiction: ‘The accusations of fascism are indignantly rejected in the same breath as one openly declares fascist intentions’. According to Hornborg, it was an ‘apparent and irrefutable fact’ that the Lapua Movement had become openly fascist. Hornborg defined fascism as ‘a violent struggle, perpetrated without due consideration for the rule of law; against the powers-that-be, which threaten the patriotic and national ideals and the prevailing social order’, and he added that when the left acted in the same way, ‘the applicable method is termed bolshevism’ (Nya Argus, 12/1930). Fascism and bolshevism also shared the dichotomous separation of the people into friends and foes. In the discourse of the Lapua Movement, the friend-or-foe dichotomy was also, according to Hornborg, greatly influenced by its South-Ostrobothnian pietism: ‘It is established [by the Movement] that this is a contest between Almighty God and the Devil’ (Nya Argus, 13/1930).

Fascism and the Swedish-speaking minority in Finland The neutrality of the Lapua Movement in the question of language was a hotly debated issue in the Swedish-speaking public sphere of Finland as the Movement gained large-scale support among the Swedish-speaking elite as

62  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström well as at a grass-roots level in the Swedish-speaking parts of Finland. In the Finland-Swedish liberal and Social Democratic press, as well as among the constitutionally minded bourgeoisie in the SFP, criticism was levied against the True Finnish traits of the Movement. In Arbetarbladet, the socialist and former independence activist Karl Emil Primus-Nyman exhorted his fellow Finland-Swedes to make a concerted effort against the ‘suometarian’, i.e. Finnish ethnonationalist, Lapua Movement: Despite how reactionary the Swedish upper class of our country has proven itself to be on many occasions – one must, however, give the same acknowledgment: its men acted and suffered as patriots during the time of Russification, and they often fought side by side with the Social Democrats of our country against the gendarmes of Bobrikoff and Seyn and the suometarian mercenaries of the latter (Arbetarbladet, 4 July 1930) Primus-Nyman equated ‘Lapuaism’ with communism, arguing that they both served Russian interests by shattering the patriotic unity of the bourgeoisie and workers. In the same interjection, he called upon all Finland-­ Swedes to join forces against the Finnicisation that promised to follow in the wake of the Lapua Movement, as well as against communists, the latter of which he gladly saw ‘being afforded a free ride to the other side of the border, to the country which feeds them and whose power they wish to expand’ (Arbetarbladet 4/7 1930). Prior to the parliamentary elections of October 1930, Hornborg was commissioned by the anti-Lapuan fraction of the SFP to write an anti-Lapua pamphlet, The Great Question, directed to Swedish-speaking voters in Finland. In the pamphlet, Hornborg (1930: 10) emphasised that the Lapua Movement had succeeded in splintering the Finland-Swedes into a friendor-foe dichotomy: We Swedes have already felt it severely: Never before has the discord between us been so acute. This is a direct consequence of our laws being subjugated. For this reason, Hornborg (1930: 11) urged all Finns, regardless of language, to unite under a rallying cry that concisely summed up his conservative, White posture, ‘to the defence of society, the fatherland, and the rule of law against intrigues and violence – against Reds and Blacks, against bolshevism and fascism!’ After the election, which was a success for the Lapua Movement in general, and for the Lapua supporting right-wing fraction in the SFP, in particular, Hornborg returned his attention to the relationship between the Movement and the Finland-Swedes. He chided the ‘[Finnish] Swedish world

An anti-fascist minority?  63 of high finance’ for having given the election campaign a ‘rancorous, foreign imprint’ and demanded disclosures from those ‘who had joined under the black and blue banner of the Lapuan’ on how far their loyalty to the Lapuan leadership went. Hornborg maintained that it was a moral and political fallacy to tolerate the capricious crimes of the Lapua Movement in the hope of gaining concessions in the language strife. An active as well as passive support for the Lapua Movement in the name of Swedishness amounted to promoting the plight of Swedish-speaking Finns above the Fatherland, something that the Swedish-speaking Finns, particularly the right wingers who now backed the Lapua Movement, ‘proudly’ claimed that they ‘never’ did. Hornborg asserted that the time had come for Finland-Swedes to show their patriotism and to renounce the fascist Lapua Movement (Nya ­Argus, 17/1930). Since Hornborg felt that the driving forces behind the Lapua Movement lay in the rapture of the masses, and that self-serving power brokers directed the Movement, there was no reason to put any faith in its political assertions. For Hornborg, negotiating with fascists was an act of fatal vanity. It was not in the interest of the Finland-Swedes to condone the Movement as the status of the Swedish language in Finland rested with the letter of the law, which the fascists did not respect. For Wiik, the ambition to preserve Swedish language and culture in Finland had been of utmost importance when he joined the Swedish-speaking labour movement in the early 1900s. According to Wiik, social democracy was the only force which could ‘save the Swedish element in Finland’, since the majority of Swedish speakers belonged to those who had been deprived ‘of their fathers’ lands and native tongue’ by capitalism (Folktribunen, 1/1907). Throughout his career, Wiik would repeatedly state that capital had no fatherland – for which reason it was deemed preposterous for reactionary circles in Finland, who served the interests of international capitalism, to criticise domestic workers for a lack of patriotism. The worker’s disdain for the patriotism of the bourgeoisie was an ideological one and was inherent in the class struggle – but the love of one’s own nation, culture and language was equally strong among the working class. It was the nationalist chauvinism of certain bourgeoisie that Wiik criticised. As an internationalist, Wiik admitted the existence of separate nations and their right to sovereignty, and he valued the unique characters of nations, including the Swedish-speaking nationality in Finland (Speech given in Magdeburg 23 September 1910 at the SDP congress; Letter to Arvid Mörne, 14 August 1918; Speech given in Jyväskylä, 6 December 1927; Suomen ­Sosialidemokraatti, 9 December 1937). At the same time, Wiik fully appreciated the ability of the Swedish-­ speaking bourgeoisie to win the hearts and minds of the Swedish workers: the True Finnish threat against Swedishness, which at times even showed itself in the Finnish labour movement, repelled the Swedish from socialism. In other words, Wiik (1924: 261–72) had an understanding of

64  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström the importance of language in the creation of a Finland-Swedish minority nation and that lingual solidarity could overpower class solidarity. Wiik also countered a critique from the Swedish bourgeoisie that claimed a lack of loyalty with the Swedish community by reasoning that he differentiated between ‘the Swedish population of Finland and the Swedish-speaking capitalist class of Finland’ (Hufvudstadsbladet, 17 December 1935). In one article, Wiik referred to Hornborg and others Swedish-speaking conservatives, and concluded that indeed there were yet some among the (Swedish-speaking) bourgeoisie who understood the value of democracy and the rule of law as opposed to the fascist inclination to brutal violence and dictatorial excess. Wiik argued that the Swedish-speaking conservatives had rallied behind the democratic cause against the fascist threats, despite the fact that they had not always displayed much faith in the masses’ ability to participate in societal decision-making. Still, a temporary alliance between the labour movement and the bourgeois centre was a firm enough foundation to stand guard against the capitalists and their self-centred interests, which were in conflict with the will of the majority (K. H. Wiik, untitled manuscript sent to Social-Demokraten, 10 December 1931). An important argument that the SDP made under the leadership of Wiik was to show how the Swedish and the Scandinavian Social Democrats were worried by the rise of fascism in Finland. Wiik explained that Swedish and Scandinavian Social Democrats ‘consider that a fascist dictatorship, if brought to fruition, would cast Finland on a divergent path from the Scandinavian partnership, as a fascist Finland would be nobody’s concern’ (Åbo Underrättelser 21 September 1930). This was also an argument used by Hornborg: ‘In the eyes of the cultural word of Northern Europe, our country will be degraded; Finland shall be placed within a lesser category, among the states, which only provisionally could be designated as states that abide by the rule of law’ (Nya Argus, 12/1930). In their opposition to the Movement, Wiik and Hornborg placed strong emphasis on the historical and cultural ties that Finland shared with Nordic and Western civilisation, of which fascism was antithetical to both. At the same time, they stressed that Finland’s inclusion in the Nordic and Western world was far from self-evident and demanded constant effort to uphold. The Swedish-speaking minority in Finland constituted a bridge to the Nordic countries and the West, and, therefore, the Finland-Swedes occupied an essential role in the protection of Finnish democracy and the rule of law. Unlike those who had allied themselves with fascism, such as the influential Swedish-speaking Finns who hoped for concessions in the language strife or those who acted in the pure interests of class, Wiik and Hornborg asserted that the Swedish-speaking minority would be at severe risk if fascists came to power in Finland. As Swedish-speaking anti-fascists, Wiik and Hornborg would therefore unite in their criticism of Finnish-Swedish high finance and its support of fascism.

An anti-fascist minority?  65 The cultural difference between Swedish and Finnish attitudes towards fascism was not a question that Wiik directly reflected upon. The relationship between Finnishness and Swedishness was, however, a question that Wiik had contemplated from a cultural-evolutionary civilisation perspective, in line with his deterministic Marxism. The Swedish element in Finland tied Finnish society to the Nordic countries and ultimately to Western culture and law, which composed the natural preconditions for the (social) democratic development of society. The Swedish worker had consistently shown himself to be more moderate than his Finnish peers in regard to radicalism and authoritarian movements. Cooperation beyond the boundaries of class within the Swedish-speaking minority in order to preserve democratic rule was, according to Wiik, essential for the safeguarding of the Swedish Language in Finland as well as the preservation of the country within the cultural sphere of the Nordic countries and the democratic Western world (Arbetaren, 26 May 1906; Letter to Arvid Mörne 14 August 1918; Wiik 1924; Speech given on the 20-year anniversary of Elanto, 15 October 1925; Arbetarbladet, 7 July 1930). Both Wiik and Hornborg stressed the importance of consolidated Swedish-speaking unity in order to face the fascist threat and to work for a democratic, Western and Nordic Finland. As the Lapua Movement succeeded in its demand to outlaw communism in Finland through the parliamentary declaration of the so-called ‘communist laws’, Wiik and the Social Democrats could see that their position was all the more precarious and exposed to the influence of the Lapua Movement. During the spring of 1931, Wiik emphasised that the Movement had made statements directed against the ‘Marxist labour movement’ of the country. Wiik referenced a speech that the Movement’s leader Vihtori Kosola had given in the Swedish-speaking town of Ekenäs, where the former had claimed, according to Wiik: That ‘Marxist socialism is in fact much more dangerous than communism’. Quite true. Social democracy is capable of significantly countering any kind of reactionary politics, whereas communist passions are more likely to further the same by serving up examples in the defence of such politics. (Arbetarbladet, 15 April 1931) Wiik claimed that the reason the Lapua Movement attacked ’Marxism’ and not socialism directly was that they had been inspired by the example of German National Socialists, an argument which he floated in one of his articles in Social-Demokraten: But why are Kosola and his people discussing Marxism, and not social democracy? Well, because the fascist spawn of Finland are discovering from German fascist brochures the wisdom that they then leave at the

66  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström disposition of the ‘popular movement’, and the German fascists fight only against Marxism, fashioning themselves as (national) socialists. Socialism too is rooted within the consciousness of the working class in order for them to assail it in broad daylight. (Untitled manuscript sent to Social-Demokraten, 11 April 1931) This was consistent with the sentiments of Wiik and the European Social Democrats in which social democracy was the principal target for rightwing reactionaries and fascists, not communism. The progressive ambitions of the Social Democrats were set to become costly and to undermine the social position of capitalism as the exploiter and oppressor of the working class (Olausson, 1987: 84–5). Wiik and the SDP were anxious to challenge the Lapua Movement by demonstrating the latter’s falsehoods, ranging from their brand of ‘socialism’ and their animosity against the upper class, as all part of a populist rhetoric appropriated from the labour movement by domestic fascists. These methods all being undertaken in order to attract the working class into their fold, which was a common, international pattern used by fascist movements (Arbetarbladet, 15 April 1931). Hornborg, who together with other members of the anti-Lapuan constitutionalist faction of the SFP, had joined the bilingual and covert bourgeois anti-Lapua organisation Pro Patria et Lege in the beginning of 1931 (Uino, 1983: 198; also see Karimäki in this volume), and also acknowledged the Lapua Movement’s expansion from what was ostensibly an anti-communist struggle, towards a conflict against social democracy. For Hornborg, this was further proof of the truly subversive goals of the Movement. The threat against social democracy was primarily a question that concerned ‘bourgeois liberalism’ and in the end, all who, ‘disregarding political and social viewpoints’ sought to ‘resist anarchy’. The Lapua Movement was a threat ‘directed against society, not against Marxism’, which should have become apparent to all after the uprising in Mäntsälä 1932 (Nya Argus, 5/1932). In 1930, Hornborg had already demanded that the state respond to the Movement with armed force (Nya Argus, 17/1930), and he did not hesitate to condemn Lapua supporters, ‘those patriots led astray’, during the height of the Mäntsälä rebellion, when the outcome was still far from certain. He demanded that the government ‘crush the Movement once and for all’ (Nya Argus, 5/1932).

The ethnonationalist turn of Finnish fascism Although the Lapua Movement was, if not crushed, at least dissolved after Mäntsälä, it was revived shortly thereafter. Finland’s largest and most influential fascist party, the IKL, was founded on 5 June 1932. The aim of the IKL was to provide a political basis for pursuing the policies of the Lapua Movement and maintaining the organisation that had supported the Movement. The programme of the IKL was essentially based on the following six principles: (1) vehement anti-communism and hostility to the Soviet Union,

An anti-fascist minority?  67 (2) emphasis on corporatism as a substitute for parliamentarianism, (3) intense Finnish ethno-nationalism, (4) Finnification of Finland in a two-step process, (5) the ‘leadership principle’, and (6) emphasis on a conservative form of Protestantism (clerical fascism). The IKL was unquestionably fascist and openly recognised the influence of foreign fascist models (Larsen, 1990: 241). The intense Finnish ethno-nationalism of the IKL, especially in regard to the Swedish-speaking minority, was not initially part of the party’s programme. As a successor to the Lapua Movement, which, as we have seen, presented itself as neutral in the language question, the IKL initially found backing from the same radical-right-wing and fascist Swedish-speaking activists who had been committed supporters of the Lapua Movement. One of the instigators of the IKL, the Swedish-speaking historian Herman Gummerus, left the party shortly after it was founded when the advocates of True Finnishness gained a majority in the party leadership (Uola 1982). In the autumn of 1933, seven prominent Swedish-speaking extreme-right activists, among them Erik von Frenckell, a leading figure in the right-wing fraction in the SFP, sent the (titular) IKL leader Vihtori Kosola a telegram with the following message: Deeply worried about the latest writings in Ajan Suunta [the newspaper of the IKL], in which Swedish is branded as a foreign language and we, who speak this language, in our precious fatherland, are deviously expounded as aliens, we request that you in the name of our common fate state that the symbol that connects it [the IKL], which was meant to gather all right-thinking citizens against the threat of communism and the east, not be misused in said paper and in a party tactical sense disintegrate by being directed against loyal citizens. (quoted in Uola, 1982: 488–9) Kosola, who had been demoted to more of a figurehead status in the IKL, tried to speak on behalf of the Swedish-speaking Finns, but to no avail. The Finnish ethnonationalist course of the IKL was set, even though this position, in addition to alienating the ethnically ‘alien’ Swedish-speaking fascist activists, also deprived the IKL of financial support from the parts of the Swedish-speaking business elite that had previously backed the Lapua Movement (Rintala, 1962: 222–3; Uola, 1982). The ethnonationalist turn of the IKL further undermined the right-wing faction in the SFP, which was already weakened by the Lapua Movement’s failed putsch in 1932. At the 1933 party congress of the SFP, an overwhelming majority of the delegates accepted a resolution condemning autocratic ambitions and urging Swedish-speaking Finns to take a stand against revolutionary extremism: All efforts that seek to facilitate the emergence of a dictatorship in one form or the other, ought to be fought with all legal means, as they are

68  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström not only aimed at the established order of society, which the Swedish People’s Party defends as a constitutional party, but also because these efforts shape themselves as extremely ill-fated in their consequences for the Swedish nationality. The Swedish People’s Party urges all Swedish-­ minded citizens to stay far away from undertakings of this kind and in the interest of the Fatherland and Swedishness, resolutely step up against them, wherever and in whatever way they may appear. (Swedish People’s Party, protocols of the party congress 1933) The election of the anti-Lapuan Ernst von Born as chairman of the SFP affirmed the closing of the party ranks against Finnish ethnonationalist aggression and the defeat of the right-wing faction supporting the Lapua Movement (Karvonen, 2006: 152). The fascist moment in the SFP, and in the Swedish-speaking population of Finland that the party purportedly represented, was cut short due to the ethnic cleavage of Finnish politics. Even though the Swedish-speaking Finns would not mobilise in support of organised fascism anywhere near to the extent in which the minority had supported the Lapua Movement, Swedish-speaking activists were, nonethelesss, involved in several bilingual fascist organisations, and in 1940, a small Finland-Swedish Nazi organisation, the People’s Community Society (Samfundet Folkgemenskap), was founded (Ekberg, 1991: 195). The Swedish-speaking Social Democrats were eager to highlight the True Finnish motives lying behind the Lapua Movement. However, unlike SFP, the Swedish-speaking Social Democrats used ethnonationalistic arguments from a class-perspective in order to defeat Finnish fascism. Arbetarbladet pointed out that SFP did not sincerely support democratic purposes. The Social Democrats pointed out that the bourgeois class had given its silent support to fascism and Nazism elsewhere, and would do so in Finland as well in their attempt to crush the socialist labour movement. Accordingly, the SFP was not the true defender of the Swedish ­m inority – it was actually a party of bourgeois and capitalist class interests (­Arbetarbladet, 10 February 1933, 17 April 1935). According to the Social Democrats, the only support the Swedish-­speaking minority could rely on was a strong social democracy. ‘Common Swedish-­ speaking people have no interest in fascist action or fascist politics’, stated Arbetarbladet, which attempted to underline that the ‘true’ defender of the Swedish minority was the Social Democratic movement with its support from the Swedish-speaking ‘little-people’ (Arbetarbladet, 10 February 1933, 25 September 1933). If the Swedish-speaking capitalists wanted to end the labour movement, they would attack the strongest supporter that the Swedish minority had in Finland (Arbetarbladet, 25 September 1933). Arbetarbladet condemned all Swedish-speakers who supported fascist organisations. The Swedish-speaking Social Democrats, for example, claimed that ‘a true patriot and a true Swedish person has nothing to gain from the Kalsta-movement’, a small bilingual Nazi movement founded in 1932

An anti-fascist minority?  69 called the ‘Finland’s People’s Organisation’ (Finlands folkorganisation) (Ekberg 1991: 68). Supporting movements that were openly hostile towards national minorities was against the interests of the Finland-Swedish minority (Arbetarbladet, 13 October 1933, 23 February 1934, 16 March 1934, 18 January 1936). After the Nazi takeover and the beginning of persecution of Jews in Germany, Arbetarbladet’s chief-editor Axel Åhlström had already argued throughout the summer and autumn of 1933 and early 1934 that Nazism was ‘the end of any minority’. Finnish democracy and national independence could rely on the Swedish-speaking minority and its support of ­democracy. With the support of the SFP-aligned newspaper Vasabladet, Åhlström argued that Swedish-speaking Finns had nothing in common with the Nazis, and instead compared them to the Jews (Arbetarbladet, 7  June 1933; Vasabladet, 15 August 1933). The ethnonationalist turn of Finnish fascism was also in line with the argument of Wiik and the Swedish-­speaking Social Democrats that international capitalism threated the nations of Europe through its influence over fascist and Nazi movements, whereas social democracy could further the development of all nations. Fascism and Nazism were existential menaces to both small nations and national minorities (Untitled manuscript sent to Social-Demokraten 11 April 1931, Arbetarbladet, 25 September 1933; Arbetarbladet, 3 October 1938). During the Kristallnacht, a disciple of Wiik’s, Atos Wirtanen, drew a parallel between anti-Semitic persecution and the True Finnish hatred of Swedish-speaking Finns. In the view of Finland-Swedish Social Democrats, fascism would be the death knell for the Swedish minority (­Arbetarbladet, 7 December 1938). Hornborg raised a similar point when he, in 1933, described the ‘unabashed’ Nazi oppression of the Jews in Germany, all the while having no qualms when their ‘fascist kinsmen’ in Italy ­p erpetrated similar acts against Germans in the South Tyrol, as ‘all dictatorships must have someone to persecute’ (Nya Argus, 12/1933). Fascism, despotic and aggressive in nature, with its existential need of enemies, was, according to Wiik and Hornborg and their respective reference groups, a grave danger to all of the minorities of Europe and for the whole of European civilisation.

An anti-fascist minority? In this chapter, we have explored the question of Swedish-speaking Finnish responses to fascism and shown that the diversity in anti-fascist positions highlighted in international research (Copsey & Olechnowicz, 2010) is also evident in interwar Finland. Anti-fascist stances could be born from the defence of national democracy, anchored both in Marxist internationalism and in conservative nationalism, a Eurocentric perspective of the cultural supremacy of Western civilisation, and, most importantly for the purpose of this study, by belonging to a minority.

70  Matias Kaihovirta and Mats Wickström The strong Swedish-speaking support for the Lapua Movement divided the Swedish-speaking minority and the SFP in a historically unprecedented way. For Hornborg and the anti-fascists in the SFP, fascism constituted a threat against both the bourgeois social order of Finland and the Finland-­Swedes. For the Swedish-speaking Social Democrats represented by K. H. Wiik, fascism was a threat against both the socialist working class and the Swedish-speaking minority. When Social Democracy came to power in other Scandinavian countries (and also later in Finland in 1937), the Swedish-speaking Social Democrats were able to strengthen their position and underline their role as an important link between Scandinavian and Finnish (social) democracy. This was true especially when ‘Norden’ as a political concept was projected as a constitutive element for those supporting democracy in different Nordic national and political contexts (­Österberg, 2017). Wiik and Hornborg placed strong emphasis on the historical and cultural ties of Finland to the Nordic and Western civilisations in their arguments against the Lapua Movement. Fascism was a crime against them both. At the same time, they stressed that Finland’s inclusion in the Nordic and Western world demanded constant safeguarding. The Swedish element in Finland constituted a bridge to the Nordic countries and the West, and therefore, the Finland-Swedes occupied an essential role in the protection of Finnish democracy and the rule of law. Unlike those who had allied themselves with the fascists, such as the influential Finland-Swedes who hoped for concessions in the language strife (Hornborg) or those who acted in pure interests of class (Wiik), Wiik and Hornborg asserted that the Swedish minority in Finland would be in peril if the fascists claimed power. As Swedish-­speaking anti-fascists, Wiik and Hornborg would therefore unite in their criticism of Swedish high finance and its support of fascism. In 1918, Wiik and Hornborg had stood on different sides in the Finnish Civil War. Now they found themselves in the same trench, battling against a common enemy: fascism. Wiik, the ‘man of the rebellion’ (even if he had in principle rejected the revolutionary designs of the Reds), and Hornborg, the ‘reactionary’, came to recognise that they had moved away from being former adversaries in conjunction with the growth of Finnish democracy, and now, side-by-side rallied against the threat that faced them, their political parties and their minority. In an international comparison, these small stories and historical exceptions shed new light on the history of anti-fascism and challenge old grand narratives (Garcia et al., 2016). In conclusion, we want to stress that while our study illustrates Nordic anti-fascism from the perspective of a minority group, it remains the task of future research to continue to unpick the responses to fascism by the Swedish-speaking minority in Finland, in particular, and the question of the relationship between minorities, fascism and anti-fascism in general. An understanding of Finland-Swedish interactions with interwar fascism can contribute to the wider study of how

An anti-fascist minority?  71 minorities respond to fascism. This is an issue not only of historical interest, but also, given the rise of the today’s radical right, one with contemporary resonance.

References Bonäs, J. (2000) Kommunistskräck, konservativ reaktion eller medveten bondepolitik? Svenskösterbottniska bönder inför Lapporörelsen 1930. Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press. Copsey, N. and Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) (2010) Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Ekberg, H. (1991) Führerns trogna följeslagare: den finländska nazismen 1932–1944. Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press. Garcia, H.,Yusta, M., Tabetx, X. and Clímaco, C. (eds.) (2016) Rethinking Antifascism: History, Memory and Politics, 1922 to the Present. New York: Berghahn Books. Hornborg, E. (1930) Den stora frågan. Helsingfors: Ett antal medborgare. Hornborg, E. (1960) Stormig höst. Minnen och genljud från 1930– och 1940–talet. Helsingfors: Schildts. Kaihovirta, M. and Wickström, M. (2017) ‘Socialdemokratisk och konservativ ­antifascism i Finland. Karl H. Wiik och Eirik Hornborg inför Lapporörelsen’, Historisk Tidskrift för Finland, 102(1): 43–74. Karvonen, L. (2006) ‘I stormens öga: Svenska folkpartiet, språkstriden och Lapporörelsen’, in Sandberg, S. (ed.) Svenska folkpartiet genom 100 år. Helsingfors: Schildts. Larsen, S. (1990) ‘Conservatives and fascists in the Nordic countries: Norway, ­Sweden, Denmark and Finland, 1918–45’, in Blinkhorn, M. (ed.) Fascists and Conservatives: The Radical Right and the Establishment in Twentieth Century ­E urope. Abingdon: Routledge. Meinander, H. (2016) Nationalstaten. Finlands svenskhet 1922–2015. Helsingfors: Svenska litteratursällskapet i Finland. Núñez Seixas, X. (2016) ‘Unholy Alliances? Nationalist Exiles, Minorities and Anti-­ Fascism in Interwar Europe’, Contemporary European History, 25(4): 597–617. Olausson, L. (1987) Demokrati och socialism: austromarxismen under mellankrigstiden. Lund: Arkiv. Österberg, Mirja (2017) ‘“Norden” as a Transnational Space in the 1930’s: Negotiated Consensus of “Nordicness” in the Nordic Cooperation Committee of the ­Labour Movement’, in Hilson, M., Neunsinger, S. and Vyff, I. (eds.) Labour, Unions and Politics under the North Star: The Nordic Countries, 1700–2000. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Rintala, M. (1962) Three Generations: The Extreme Right Wing in Finnish Politics. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Silvennoinen, O., Roselius, A. and Tikka, M. (2016) Suomalaiset fasistit: Mustan sarastuksen airuet. Helsinki: WSOY. Uola, M. (1982) Sinimusta veljeskunta: Isänmaallinen kansanliike 1932–1944. Helsinki: Otava. Wiik, K.H. (1924) ‘Sosialidemokratia suomen ruotsalaisten keskuudessa’, in Sosialidemokraattinen puolue 25 vuotta. Helsinki: Sosialidemokraattinen puoluetoimikunta.

4 Conservative fascist sympathies and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway Knut Dørum

Introduction The following analysis will focus on the relationship between right-wing and fascist organisations in Norway in the 1930s, and explores the potential of Norwegian fascism, particularly in 1932–1933, under circumstances of growing polarisation between the conservative and socialist parties. Moreover, the intention is to examine more deeply the inner struggle in the Conservative Party (Høyre) after Hitler’s seizure of power in 1933, a struggle concerned with the relationship the party should have with the fascist party, National Unity (Nasjonal Samling). In 1933, major forces in the Conservative Party were inclined to tie bonds, and form an alliance, with the fascists of National Unity, since there was a profound sympathy towards fascism, especially among various local party organisations. Several conservative newspapers had voiced their approval of Hitler and his new regime (or had at the very least expressed understanding and sympathy regarding his politics). The Norwegian conservative press had lauded Hitler as a man who could save the world from socialism, communism and revolution – a symbol of hope for the future of a disillusioned German people. For a moment, the Conservative Party in Bergen – the second largest city of Norway – made the controversial decision to accept the offer from National Unity to form an electoral pact. However, the Conservative Party leadership managed, together with the important national conservative newspapers, to gain the upper hand, and this resulted in a campaign against Quisling and his party that lasted for several years. Why and how did anti-fascist forces in the Conservative Party ultimately win?

The late recognition of Norwegian fascism When discussing fascism in Norway in the 1930s, as elsewhere, we should not simply reduce it to the size of membership of specific fascist organisations or to results from elections. These are important measures of course, but the potential of fascism can exceed core groups, and the support base can stretch across the right-wing spectrum. Despite the fact that National

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  73 Unity never managed to win more than 2 per cent of the vote in the parliamentary election in 1933, failed to elect any candidates to the parliament (Storting) and lost votes in the elections that followed later, as we shall see, by polarising Norwegian politics, Norwegian fascism still exerted significant influence. Prior to the 1930s, the terms fascism and Nazism were seldom used in Norway. The Labour Party’s main press organ – Arbeiderbladet – applied the term ‘Nazi’ to the leader of the fascist movement – Vidkun Quisling – for the first time on 4 May 1933 (Brevig, 1979: 34). This does not mean that conservatives, liberals, social democrats and communists were unaware of fascist developments in Italy and Germany. The social democratic press had been quick to condemn both Mussolini and his fascists in the 1920s, and the communist organisation Mot Dag – founded by young academics in 1921 – considered Italian fascism a major threat to society and civilisation (Pettersen, 2007). Nonetheless, the Norwegian left paid little attention to the question of fascism before 1931. As late as 1930, the social democratic press treated fascism as a foreign policy issue, which only concerned the interests of Norway to a minor extent (Olsen, 2007). Fascist-type groups in the latter part of the 1920s had been short lived, such as the Norwegian Legion (Den norske legion) from 1927 and the Mobilisation of Nordic People (Nordisk Folkereisning) from 1930. The Norwegian Legion took inspiration from the Italian fascist state; it gained hundreds of sympathisers and did not conceal its orientation towards race issues and anti-Semitism. Yet, after a year, the organisation was dissolved (Emberland, 2015). Meanwhile, the Mobilisation of Nordic People was little more than a sect-like grouplet of officers and businessmen from Oslo, although this latter organisation did deliver ‘troops’ to the fascist party that was about to come into being (Borgersrud, 2010: 89–94). In May 1933, this fascist party, National Unity (Nasjonal Samling), was formed. At first, the leader of National Unity, Vidkun Quisling, was reluctant to be associated with National Socialism and fascism. In 1934, a religious faction of the party, which Quisling still supported, argued against racist propaganda and denied any connection to National Socialism. This faction defined both National Socialism and racism as new forms of paganism (heathendom) and thus incompatible with Christianity (Bruknapp, 1972: 67–9). In the same year, while interviewed by a German newspaper, Quisling stated that his party should not be regarded as an offshoot of Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP). Moreover, it seemed that Quisling would not tolerate anti-Semitism in his own party’s newspapers. Consequently, many of those who declared themselves as national socialist felt compelled to leave the party. They claimed that Quisling had chosen a ‘right-bourgeois Christian direction’. It was not until 1935, as it altered its public profile and strategy that a major change occurred in the propaganda of National Unity. Quisling came to voice a new anti-Semitic line, and in addition to the more established themes of anti-communism and a general

74  Knut Dørum distrust of the liberal democratic system, this new rhetorical and ideological tendency came to the fore in the years to come (Bruknapp, 1972: 67–9).

Politics becomes radicalised and polarised The fear of fascism in Norway did not gather speed within the Norwegian Labour Movement and among social democrats and liberals until after ­Hitler had seized power in 1933. Early in 1931, the Labour Party’s Dagfinn Bech had published a short book warning of the horrors that fascism represented, in which he also considered fascism to be the self-defence of capitalism. Bech predicted that ‘the reaction’ would also harm Norway, and he found traces of this threat in fascistic organisations in Norway, such as the Community Defence (Samfundsvernet) and the Fatherland League (Fedrelandslaget), and in the hostile policy towards the workers conducted by the Liberal Party (Venstre) government. Furthermore, he remarked upon the conservative newspapers’ anti-democratic attitudes, and their praise for the Lapua movement in Finland. Further recognition of the threat of fascism came in the Labour Party’s manifesto produced on 1 May 1931 (Olsen, 2007: 18–26). But it was only after Hitler’s terror became known, that the ­labour movement press fixed its gaze on fascism, and insisted that the danger of fascism was the primary political issue concerning the future of civilisation (Andresen 1997; Olsen 2007; Dørum 2017). Yet very few commentators could see any immediate connection between Vidkun Quisling and Nazism. Quisling had originally served as Defence Minister in governments formed by the Agrarian Party (Bondepartiet) between 1931 and 1933. Outspoken in his anti-revolutionary rhetoric, he found resonance in conservative circles. In 1932, Quisling embarked on a series of scathing attacks on the Labour Party in Parliament. On 7 April 1933, he accused socialists and communists of treason, alleging that the Soviet Union had supplied illegal weapons and financial aid. These accusations implied revolutionary plans. Quisling succeeded in making a strong impression in the conservative press and on right-wing parliamentary groups, and his speech resulted in the appointment of a special committee with a mandate to investigate his allegations. The majority of the committee members closed ranks around Quisling confirming that he had grounds for the accusations he had made in his speech. Only the Labour Party was unrestrained in its criticism of the Minister of Defence and his sources. In the event, the case was dismissed. The committee recommended that no further action be taken. Hans Fredrik Dahl has pointed out: ‘The Storting [the Parliament] refused to make Quisling’s cause its own’ (Dahl, 1999: 87). In the end, Quisling did not gain more support than sympathy, and the Parliament did not take any further action (Dahl 1991: 192–220; Figueiredo 2002: 120–1). Significantly, the political turmoil that Quisling had contrived unleashed an anti-fascist response. The left responded to Quisling’s recently established fascist party – National Unity – with a fear that an alliance

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  75 of right-wing forces could cause serious damage to the labour movement (Olsen, 2007; Dørum, 2017). With one eye on events in Germany, the labour movement in Norway feared that socialism was now in perilous danger. A parallel development that gave further rise to political polarisation was the growing conflict in the workplace. The Labour Party had campaigned in the 1930 parliamentary election on a radical platform that had underlined class struggle and revolution (Maurseth, 1987: 532–47). This was followed by a strike wave during 1931, which culminated in the so-called Battle of Menstad at the centre of Norwegian industry – Norsk Hydro – in the south-east of Norway (in the Skien district of Telemark). Rivalry between the Labour Party and the Communist Party played its part too. Communist-led strikers stormed Norsk Hydro’s Menstad plant. Angry demonstrators overpowered the considerable number of police present, chasing after them and hurling stones and pieces of iron piping. This episode was perceived by Norwegian conservatives as a major challenge to law and order. It was only by sending in military troops that the government managed to control the situation, and Quisling as defence minister became inextricably linked to the crushing military response to the unrest. The Battle of Menstad in 1931 constituted much of the background to the polarised political scene in 1932 and to some extent Quisling’s victories in the spring and summer of that year (Dahl, 1999: 76–7). This polarisation of the political scene compelled the Conservative Party to clarify its views and attitudes towards fascism. Hitler’s seizure of power had unleashed a major response from social democrats and communists in several European countries, including Norway. In the spring and summer of 1933, the Labour Party, the entire labour movement together with the Communist Party of Norway, mobilised to fight fascism in propaganda and agitation, speeches, newspaper articles, and leaflets. Furthermore, street demonstrations, marches and mass meetings filled the streets of the largest cities, especially Oslo. For both the social democrats and communists, it became clear that the Conservative Party, the Agrarian Party and the Liberal-minded Left party (Frisinnede Venstre) nourished sympathy for fascism, and therefore, deserved to be associated with fascism (Andresen, 1997; Olsen, 2007; Dørum, 2017). Having obtained much support and sympathy in 1932, and above all, having succeeded in attributing revolutionary plans to the left, Quisling was in a strong position to become the leader of a new right-wing coalition. Furthermore, he considered himself as the natural head of such a coalition. He could relate to widespread opinion in Norway demanding that the progress of socialism ought to be contained, and it was widely believed that a red revolution was imminent. Surprisingly for Quisling, however, the conservative newspapers Morgenbladet and Aftenposten expressed sharp hostility to National Unity immediately after the formation of the party in the spring of 1933. His miscalculations on endorsement were understandable against the background of the positive attitudes towards fascism that had characterised

76  Knut Dørum the conservative press for some time. In many right-wing political circles, there existed a growing fear of revolutionary activism. Quisling also had reason to believe that major parts of both the Agrarian Party and the Conservative Party would want to enter into a collaboration with him and his new party, given the political tensions between the Labour Party and the entire right wing in Norwegian politics. It did not come out of the blue that the youth organisation of the Conservative Party, which heaped praise on Hitler’s political achievements, was enthusiastic about the political project Quisling fronted, and chose to agitate in favour of collaboration between the Conservative Party and National Unity.

Right-wing press attitudes towards fascism In the 1920s, the editors and journalists of the dominant conservative ­newspaper – Aftenposten – had viewed Italian fascism as a ‘necessary’ counter-­ revolutionary movement rather than viewing it in terms of its negative consequences for democracy (Røste, 1969; Lund, 2012). In 1922, the ­newspaper had welcomed Mussolini’s takeover. The fear of communism seems to have overshadowed all other considerations, despite the recognition that fascism would imply tyranny and dictatorship. Aftenposten persisted in being sceptical towards parliamentarianism as a principle for forming new governments, and instead stressed the need for bringing forth new and strong political leaders. For instance, in 1925, Mussolini was hailed as one of the greatest statesmen in history (Røste, 1969: 139). From 1927, however, ­Aftenposten became more critical by underlining some of the negative consequences of ­fascism in Italy (some of the editorials in Aftenposten conveyed concerns about the use of the violence and that undemocratic approach that Mussolini had taken). Other conservative newspapers such as Tidens Tegn – representing the conservative-liberal party the Liberal-Minded Left – and Nationen – representing the conservative Agrarian Party – stood out as more unconditional in their advocacy of Mussolini and fascism (Røste, 1969: 140). If the editors of all three newspapers were aware of the anti-democratic and despotic nature of fascism (Røste, 1969: 138–9; Kjøstvedt, 1976; Lund, 2012: 83–6), all three newspapers still legitimised Mussolini’s authoritarian and brutal policy by referring to the need for a strong man, who had the capacity to fight communism and defend the social order and society against Bolshevism. All these conservative newspapers built a heroic aura around Mussolini mainly for his success in carrying out economic reforms, which generated prosperity and growth in Italy (Røste, 1969: 214). The strongest pro-Mussolini pieces appeared in Nationen, which together with Tidens Tegn signalled a profound sympathy towards fascism and, later on, Nazism (Røste, 1969: 19–37). What are the reactions of the conservative press to Hitler and his regime in 1933? The press attached to the Agrarian Party and the party the Liberal-­ Minded Left defended the harsh measures that Hitler and the Nazi party

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  77 had taken in their struggle against communism. The left was to blame for the crisis in Germany and for the dissatisfaction and mistrust people felt after having experienced how weak the parliamentary system had been, especially after having witnessed the flirting that had been going on between the liberal bourgeois parties and the more or less revolutionary parties. Furthermore, the newspapers tended to designate the communists as the provocateurs, claiming that thanks to Hitler the Soviet regime and the communists had failed in the attempt to conquer Germany in a situation where the country had been close to succumbing to red revolution. Finally, it was often underlined that the German people had themselves chosen to be ruled by Hitler, who was proving himself more than capable of ruling the country (Pleym, 1976: 9–15; Lund, 2012). The outspoken editor of Aftenposten throughout the 1930s – Johannes Nesse – did avoid commenting directly upon the dramatic reports from Hitler’s Germany about brutality and violence, and instead compared the events in Germany with what was happening in the Soviet Union. In Nesse’s view, fascism resembled communism, and these two ideologies and systems represented the same evils. His main focus was to associate the Norwegian Labour Party with dictatorship, by asserting that the party in its rhetoric promoted that ‘the party is the people, and the people is the state’, which meant intolerance towards other political parties and an extreme collectivism at the cost of individual freedom (Kokkvoll, 1965: 14–15). But when condemning Vidkun Quisling and his party, Nesse did so on the grounds that National Unity represented ‘brown socialism’. On 27 December 1933, one conservative newspaper – Norges Handels og Sjøfartstidende – found reason to suggest to the Norwegian Prime Minister that the country needed ‘a little bit of fascism’ in order to establish a strong and competent government (Valaker, 1999: 18). Some of the conservative newspapers did admit that Hitler had crushed democracy, and acknowledged the damage and the victims of the brutality of his new regime. Nevertheless, the entire press serving the Agrarian Party saw Hitler’s policy as understandable and his methods more or less as necessities in an emergency situation, and pointed out that his actions were triggered by the left and also the liberal bourgeois parties. The Liberal-­ Minded People’s Party (which changed its party name in 1931 by replacing ‘Left’ with ‘People’s Party’) and its newspaper Tidens Tegn ended up openly advocating National Socialism and fascism. However, the party leader Rolf Thommessen tried to make this approach more palatable by becoming known as the spokesman of a ‘democratic fascism without dictatorship’ (Larsen, 2012: 20–1).

Widespread anti-Semitism We must also acknowledge another aspect of the relationship between the Agrarian Party and the Liberal-Minded, on the one hand, and National

78  Knut Dørum Unity, on the other. The open-minded attitude towards fascism and the negligence concerning the well-documented Nazi persecution of the Jews in Germany arose from extensive anti-Semitic attitudes. An analysis of two newspapers – Nationen and Namdalen – serving the Agrarian Party reveals manifestations of typical anti-Semitism during the 1920s. Both newspapers frequently mention ‘the Jewish invasion’, ‘the danger of Jews’ and ‘the negative influence of the Jews’, together with an overall interpretation that the Jewish people had to be regarded as a threat to the nation and to society. Not only did Jews represent separatism; editors also promulgated the myth that Jews and Bolshevists formed an alliance. Furthermore, Jews were accused of leading the revolutionary communist movement, but at the same time exhibiting cynic and greedy capitalism (Simonsen, 2009). Recent studies of right-wing newspapers in the county of Vestfold in the south-east of Norway confirm that anti-Semitism featured in large parts of interwar Norwegian society. Findings display not only well-known myths and ideas about Jews, mentioned above, but also a strong Christian denunciation of the Jews for betraying Jesus. However, the harassment and discrimination that Jews came to suffer in Germany in 1934–1935, especially manifested in the Nuremberg Laws, marked a turning point. The majority of the right-wing newspapers in Norway now rejected and discredited the misdeeds performed by the Nazi regime. This ended the frequently positive description and remarks related to the Nazi regime that had dominated the conservative press in this county in the turbulent year of 1933 (Nilsen, 2010).

The inner struggle of the Conservative Party During the first part of 1933, Aftenposten had become more critical towards fascism and Nazism, nourished by the shocking and dramatic news from Germany after Hitler’s takeover, and by Quisling’s threatening and arrogant behaviour in the public sphere. Finally, violent incidents, where Norwegian Nazis were involved, confirmed the impression that National Unity was a party of thugs. From the beginning, National Unity faced hostility from the newspapers serving the Conservative Party. Early in the spring of 1933, conservative papers such as Aftenposten, Morgenbladet and Bergens Aftenblad designated National Unity as ‘the party of dictatorship’, ‘a Norwegian ­Hitler-movement’ and ‘a Hitler party’ (Strømsøe, 1961: 70, 74). On 10 July 1933, the Conservative Party received an invitation from National Unity to form a nationwide electoral alliance. The Agrarian Party chose not to join this alliance as a general agreement, but local party organisations were free to decide whether it was convenient or not to accept an electoral collaboration with National Unity. The Liberal-Minded reached the same conclusion as the Agrarian Party, and likewise its local party organisations were entitled to form alliances with National Unity on the local level (Gåsland, 1983: 125). The newspapers Nationen and Tidens Tegn did not hesitate to agitate in favour of alliance with National Unity in addresses

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  79 to their respective party members, and at the same directing criticism at Aftenposten and the Conservative Party (Strømsøe, 1961: 29–49). However, a meeting on 12 August 1933 between the Agrarian Party, the Liberal-Minded and the Conservative Party resulted in an agreement to reject any connection with National Unity (Riksarkivet, privatarkivet. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibok nr. 27 1933–1935. Letter from General Secretary Harald Gram to Prime Minister Jens Hundseid, dated 6 September 1933). This mutual arrangement did not stop factions in these three parties from striving to establish political alliances with National Unity. This meeting took place only a week after the Fatherland League (on 3 August) had tried to mediate by taking a new initiative to bring all the four parties, that is National Unity, the Conservative Party, the Agrarian Party and the Liberal-Minded into an electoral alliance (Gåsland, 1983: 126). We know that the general secretary of the Conservative Party – Harald Gram – as early as 28 July 1933 had attempted to convince the leader of the Agrarian Party – the former Prime Minister Jens Hundseid – to reject National Unity. He warned him that if the Conservative Party and the Agrarian Party did not stick together, and formed an electoral pact with National Unity, this would pave the way for fascism and result in the decline of the parliamentary system, followed by chaos or the rule of the masses (RA. Privatarkiv. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibøker nr. 26, 1931–1933. Letter to Jens Hundseid, dated 28 July 1933). At the beginning of August 1933, the newspaper Aftenposten realised that it was now urgent to make a statement against National Unity. On 5 August, the editorial announced that National Unity, regrettably, was collaborating with a ‘seventy-five-per cent socialist party’ called the Radical People’s Party (Radikalt Folkeparti) and with the revolutionary Rural People’s Crisis Organisation (Bygdefolkets Krisehjelp). Actually, these were not socialist organisations, but far-right organisations. It is important to note that Aftenposten deliberately linked National Unity to socialist tendencies, not to fascism. Obviously, such rhetoric was viewed as obtaining greater resonance in the conservative and liberal-conservative camp, and we should regard the editorial as part of a campaign that set out to prevent National Unity from gaining a stronger foothold (Strømsøe, 1961: 29). On 12 August 1933, Aftenposten provided stronger arguments in its condemnation of National Unity. The newspaper asserted that the fragmentation of the party system into a needless number of parties, which National Unity, as a newcomer, had contributed to, would harm democracy and unleash a development similar to that of the dictatorships in Germany and the Soviet Union. Moreover, it contended that the Agrarian Party and the Liberal-Minded by collaborating with National Unity and Rural People’s Crisis Organisation in the coming election had left the Conservative Party as the sole defender of democracy. The message was clear: the various circles in the Conservative Party had a moral obligation to take the right stand (Strømsøe, 1961: 32). Aftenposten had obviously identified widespread

80  Knut Dørum sentiments within the Conservative Party. One could not deny that many members and local organisations nourished a sympathy for Quisling and his party. On the other hand, tactical reasons also served as motivation for the idea of a right-wing alliance. Both the newspapers Nationen and Tidens Tegn challenged the criticism from Aftenposten by stating that the exclusion of National Unity from such a collaboration would lead to a critical loss of votes and thus jeopardise the coming election. Critical letters to the editor of Aftenposten reflected voices that would welcome collaboration with­ National Unity, but they justified their position because on tactical grounds. One should not risk losing votes (Strømsøe, 1961: 38). National Unity could count on a widespread enthusiasm among many ­local leaders and units in the party organisation of the Conservative Party. According to the General Secretary of the Conservative Party, Harald Gram, in a letter dated 7 September 1933, the sympathy for Quisling was deepest in the western districts of Oslo and nearby suburban areas as well as in the cities of Bergen and Trondheim. He feared that the members of the parties in those areas could be tempted to vote for National Unity (Riksarkivet, privatarkivet. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibok nr. 27 1933–1935. Letter from General Secretary Harald Gram to Consul Joh. H. Andresen, dated 7 September 1933). A week later he accepted that the Conservative Party might lose voters to National Unity in the county of Akershus due to the fact that the Conservative Party had turned down the invitation from National Unity to join a political coalition in the coming parliamentary election. The loss of 10,000 votes could be the scenario, he stated (Riksarkivet, privatarkivet. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibok, nr. 27, 1933–1935. Letter from General Secretary Harald Gram to Ivar Lykke, dated 15 September 1933). In September, the newspaper Tidens Tegn maintained that the local organisations of the Conservative Party in the city of Stavanger, the county of Akershus, the city of Drøbak and Nesodden, a municipality near Oslo, opposed the resolution made by the central party leadership (Strømsøe, 1961: 63). In other words, the Conservative Party was a divided party. On 29 August 1933, the central board of the Conservative Party had voted on whether or not the party should accept the invitation from National Unity to collaborate politically by forming an electoral pact for the coming parliamentary election. The decision was an almost unanimous rejection. Only one of the members had voted in favour. As far as the resolution was concerned, the motivation lay in the definition of National Unity as fascist. One had to prevent a situation where the competitor, the Liberal Party (Venstre), would end up standing alone as the only party representing democracy in Norway. One could not risk that voters belonging to both the working class and the middle class could be scared away from the Conservative Party if they had reason to suspect the party of possessing fascist features. Furthermore, the party could not accept National Unity’s ‘socialist’ social and economic programme representing state interventionism and collectivism, which rendered impossible any connection between the Conservative Party

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  81 and National Unity. On 2 September 1933, the Conservative Party declared in the country’s main newspapers that it would have no further connections with National Unity (Strømsøe, 1961: 49; Danielsen, 1984: 232). On 31 August 1933, Harald Gram had reported that he was relieved after receiving good news from the city of Trondheim, but he had also reason to have mixed feelings (Riksarkivet, privatarkivet. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibok, nr. 27, 1933–1935. Letter from General Secretary Harald Gram to Ivar Lykke, dated 31 August 1933). On 28 August 1933, the local party organisation in Trondheim had concluded that the central board ought to resolve this urgent issue. It advised the central board not to reject the invitation from National Unity because of the negative consequences that it would have on the election. Nonetheless, the Conservative Party in Trondheim reluctantly complied with the national resolution (Rygg, 1983: 41). This episode reflected a difficult situation for the leadership, who were facing a situation where a large part of the grass roots and several local organisations of the Conservative Party favoured political collaboration with National Unity. The situation in Bergen mirrored sentiments in Trondheim. In Bergen, the party newspaper Bergens Aftenblad encouraged the leadership of the Conservative Party in the city to assess the possibilities of organising an electoral collaboration with National Unity. A meeting failed to establish an alliance, and when the Conservative Party leadership in Bergen voted against forming an electoral pact with National Unity shortly afterwards, and confirmed this decision in a new meeting, it looked as if collaboration was out of the question (Gåsland, 1983: 126). However, two further nomination meetings on 8 and 12 September 1933 nullified the former result, leaving room for the grass roots in the Bergen party organisation. As many as 131 voted yes to collaboration with National Unity, and only 49 voted against (Persen, 1974: 88; Gåsland, 1983: 128–33). This result in Bergen shocked the central party, and a resolution issued on 19 September declared that the ­organisation in Bergen could no longer cooperate with the rest of the party organisation. However, the resolution stopped short of expelling it completely, (Riksarkivet, privatarkivet. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibok, nr. 27, 1933–1935. Letter from General Secretary Harald Gram to the Right in Bergen, dated 19 September 1933). The eloquent and energetic chairman of the party, Carl Joachim Hambro, then hurried to Bergen to prevent a disaster, but he was still unable to convince the Bergen organisation to recon­ ergen sider its decision. There was no reconciliation until 1934 when the B party finally accepted the central resolution that had been signed on 29 August 1933 (Persen, 1974: 89; Gåsland, 1983: 136). A commentator in a local conservative newspaper in the city of Bodø gave strong support to the party organisation in Bergen by stating that Bergen ‘had been thrown out of the synagogue’. By this, the commentator was referring to the Jewish political leader of the Conservative Party, Carl ­Joachim Hambro, and was exploiting anti-Semitism in this ongoing inner party

82  Knut Dørum struggle (Nordlands Avis, 19 September 1933). Bergen and Trondheim were not the only local organisations causing uncertainty over the anti-fascist line promoted by the leadership in the Conservative Party. A municipality in the county of Hedmark had formed an electoral pact with National Unity, and several newspapers connected to the Conservative Party received reprimands for their unclarified attitude to fascism (Danielsen, 1984: 234). The news that the Agrarian Party and National Unity had formed an electoral pact in three counties, and the Liberal-Minded and National Unity in one county, brought even more confusion. But generally, the thought of creating a right-wing bloc in the coming election more or less collapsed and ended without success. Hambro had together with the General Secretary Harald Gram been the central architect behind the final decision in the central organisation of the Conservative Party to not say no to political collaboration with National Unity.

Division and rapprochement While the leadership of the Conservative Party managed to set the terms for the ordinary party apparatus, it failed for several years to discipline the youth organisation (Unge Høire). The Conservative Party’s youth organisation defied the instructions from the mother organisation. It tended to follow in the same tracks as the corresponding youth organisations in S ­ weden and Denmark in upholding pro-fascist views. The Conservative Party youth published two journals: the youth organisation expressed its views in a journal called Unge Høire (The Young Right), and the Conservative Student ­Society agitated in its own journal, named Minerva. Hitler, Nazism and the new Germany were idolised as the new solution to both the liberal-capitalist laissez-faire chaos and the destructive, revolutionary forces of the communist Soviet Union and its various offspring in ­Europe. Unge Høire claimed in May 1933 that National Socialism represented a sound and true conservatism, and that major parts of the youth organisation cherished and nourished sympathy for events in Germany (Blom, 1976: 51). Likewise, Minerva did not hesitate to show its approval of Hitler’s Nazi Germany. Emphasising the need to bring social democratic corruption and the communist terror in Germany to an end, the Minerva sought to legitimise Hitler’s regime. Although both journals expressed worries about the persecution of Jews going on in Germany, they endeavoured to minimise reports of violence. The real danger with respect to dictatorship allegedly came from the Labour Party in Norway, which heralded a dictatorship and was willing to utilise ‘Nazi methods’ to a greater extent than was the case in Germany. In an attempt to vindicate the Nazi regime, Minerva accepted some of the terms of criticism concerning fascism in the press, such as the expression ‘Nazi methods’ and the description of attacks on the Jews (Blom, 1976: 52–3). But, for Minerva, the alternative was worse. Furthermore, both journals frequently stated that Norway had much to learn from Nazi Germany.

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  83 What is surprising is the strong tendency in the youth organisation to heavily criticise and condemn economic liberalism and to advocate a cooperative political system combined with a strongly centralised government, which could govern regardless of a party system (Blom, 1976: 58–62). In 1933 and 1934, the youth organisation of the Conservative Party and the Conservative Student Society demonstrated sympathy for the Nazi regime in Germany, and they also embraced Vidkun Quisling and argued intensely for a political alliance between the Conservative Party and National Unity (Blom, 1976). In December 1933, the youth organisation in the parish of Tjøme invited Quisling as a speaker at one meeting (Riksarkivet, privatarkivet. Høyres hovedorganisasjon, kopibok, nr. 27, 1933–1935. Letter from General Secretary Harald Gram to Herman Harris Aall, dated 27 December 1933). While the Conservative Party in Sweden chose to exclude the youth organisation from the mother organisation in 1934, its sister party in Norway tried to persuade its youth to submit to the anti-fascist policy line of the mother organisation (see letters from the General Secretary Harald Gram Riksarkivet, dated 27 December 1933, 19 and 22 January 1934). The mother organisation also wanted to neutralise the connections that the youth wing had established with pro-fascist youth groups in Sweden ­(Nationella ­Ungdomsförening) and in Denmark (Konservativ Ungdom). In 1935, ­Harald Gram had to confront the young men in his party who were talking about the need to introduce ‘new times’, thus referring to concepts used by the fascists (Riksarkivet, letter from Harald Gram to Parliament member ­Johannes R. Andresen, dated 10 September 1935). In the same year, when Gram was informed that the central leaders in the youth party planned to arrange a study trip to Berlin in order to learn from the new regime, he warned them not to establish contact with representatives from ‘the New Germany’ (Riksarkivet, Letter from Harald Gram to the General Secretary of the youth party, dated 4 March 1935). At the Conservative Party’s annual nationwide conference in 1934, the youth wing had called for a strong government freed from parliamentarianism and based on corporatism. Significantly, some of these ideas were adopted as parts of the new programme of the Conservative Party – the youth organisation having demonstrated its political strength and resonance in the mother organisation. Ironically, National Unity accused the Conservative Party of imitating its party programme, but also stressed the ideological resemblance between the two parties and the potential for a political alliance (Blom, 1976: 58–9). It was only in 1936 that the youth party accepted the political line the mother organisation had determined about National Unity, having become more critical of the Nazi regime in Germany by 1935 (Blom, 1976: 61–3). Nonetheless, the Conservative Party still maintained a friendly position towards Nazi Germany and Italy during the Spanish Civil War in 1936–1939 and in connection with the Munich peace negotiations in 1938, where the party was subject to criticism for being sympathetic and understanding towards fascism. The conservative newspaper

84  Knut Dørum Aftenposten gave strong support to Franco’s rebellion against the Popular Front government in Spain (Hagen, 1955; Valaker, 1999).

Why did anti-fascism win? So, how do we explain the vastly positive response and endorsement among right-wing parties towards fascism in the 1930s? It would be too simplistic to say that this was a consequence of a turbulent inter-war period consisting of economic crises, political liabilities and an advancing socialist movement combined with the fear of revolution. Parties such as the Conservative Party, the Liberal-Minded and the Agrarian Party were also representative of a conservative elite-authoritarian ideological legacy. Segments of these parties had, for many years, expounded authoritarian ideas stressing the maintenance of law and order and promoting respect and loyalty to state authorities. In the 1930s, conservative circles continued the tradition of scepticism or mistrust towards the party system, parliamentarianism and organised political opposition. When talking about the demand for a strong leader who could unite the nation against inner and outer enemies, the traditional right-wing parties and the fascists found common ground, in which mutual sympathy, endorsement and interaction could thrive. The potential of fascism was far greater than what National Unity could muster in terms of members and voters. On the other hand, the prevailing non-violent and liberal democratic tradition, resting on the primacy of popular sovereignty, the principle of separation of state powers and the protection of civil rights, had pervaded political culture for a long time. These political values and norms could be traced back to the Norwegian political revolution in 1814, but had their major breakthrough in the 1870s and 1880s through the formation of the party system and majority parliamentarianism as the basis for forming new governments. Despite this belief in the party system having been challenged by the danger of the revolutionary Labour Party coming to power and by the economic crisis of the 1930s, this liberal political culture and tradition remained resilient for most of the conservative right, and this provided a sufficient barrier to the fascist movement. While obviously a strategic response, the Conservative Party leadership made decisions for ideological reasons about the need to defend democracy. There existed a widespread fear that National Unity stood for socialism and dictatorship in line with Hitler’s Germany and Stalin’s Soviet Union. Yet elsewhere, for the Agrarian Party, and for the Liberal Minded, collaboration with National Unity was deemed acceptable for strategic reasons. Rejecting the offer from National Unity would lead to a significant loss of voters. The newspapers  – Nationen and Tidens Tegn – representing these two parties argued that National Unity ideologically and politically had much in common with the rest of ring wing, and that National Unity was ‘a typical bourgeois party’ (Strømsøe, 1961: 29–49).

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  85 In the Nordic countries in the 1930s, fascism attracted sympathy and support in various conservative circles. Above all, conservative youth proved to be fertile soil for fascism, and conservative youth organisations in Denmark, Sweden and Norway were prone to opt for many of the novel ideas spreading from Nazi Germany. The exception was the young wing of the Finnish Coalition Party, which largely resisted the fascist embrace. In 1933 and 1934, conservative parties in Scandinavia were in danger of losing their youth organisations to fascism. The mother organisation of the Conservative Party in Sweden chose to exclude its youth organisation, and to establish a new youth organisation to replace the lost one. In 1934, National Youth League of Sweden (Sveriges Nationella Ungdomsförbund) proclaimed itself as a separate and independent party and began to compete electorally with the conservatives. Also in Norway, tensions between the mother and the youth organisation could have resulted in a break and exclusion of the latter organisation. In Denmark, the Danish Conservative Youth organisation (Konservativ ungdom) followed the ideals of the Nazi Germany, and thus appeared to be the most pro-fascist conservative youth organisation in Scandinavia (Krautwald, 2016). Conservative youth in Denmark began to wear uniforms, named their most active unit ‘stormtroopers’, adopted the raised-arm salute, provided their members with paramilitary training during summer camps and entered the streets with mass parades (see Chapter 5 by Krautwald in this volume). Their Swedish counterparts also started to adopt Nazi-symbols and activism in the streets, and became known as ‘grey shirts’. Common to all the conservative youth organisations in Scandinavia was some willingness to implement Nazi ideology in political programmes and in propaganda. However, in Denmark, Sweden and Norway, the leadership of the Conservative parties deliberately attempted to suppress fascist tendencies both within the mother organisations and the youth organisations. In Norway and Denmark, the conflicts and tensions burned out, and rapprochement brought the youth back to the mother organisations. In Sweden, a new Conservative youth organisation, loyal and cooperative with the mother organisation, managed to supersede the original youth organisation that had broken with its mother organisation and became increasingly orientated towards fascism. As pointed out by the political scientist Stein Ugelvik Larsen (1990), the leaders in the Conservative parties – Møller in Denmark, Hambro in Norway, Lindman in Sweden and Paasikivi in Finland – fought inner battles to root out fascism in their party organisations. Here he finds what he thinks is the most important factor explaining why fascism failed to establish strongholds in these countries. Nevertheless, he seems to have underestimated that major factions in Scandinavian Conservative parties were inclined to collaborate and form alliances with fascist parties. As stated by the Danish historian Henning Poulsen, it is clear that several fascist parties in the formative stage had close ties with conservative parties, and that

86  Knut Dørum former conservative supporters in urban districts, especially in Denmark and Norway, held a major proportion of their members (Poulsen, 2015). Against this background, it is necessary to disentangle the main reasons why anti-fascism in the end prevailed over fascism in the Nordic conservative parties. The years 1933 and 1934 marked a turning point when the threatening nature of fascism in Nazi Germany was brought home. At the same time, the fascist movement in Sweden, Norway and Denmark became more violent. This gave rise to condemnation among the right-wing parties, who feared the ‘anarchy of fascism’ as well as the danger of left-wing revolution. Both fascism and socialism were deemed revolutionary and hostile to the established social order. Above all, fascist terror could not fit into the established political culture in which peaceful solutions, negotiations, bargaining, compromise, democratic and humanitarian values, and the norms of the civilised bourgeois society prevailed.

References Andresen, E. (1997) NKPs og DNAs analyse av Hitlers maktovertagelse i 1933, MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Blom, I. (1976) ‘Unge Høire – mellom konservatisme og fascisme: Forholdet mellom Nasjonal Samling og Unge Høire 1933–1936’, in Danielsen, R. L. & Ugelvik, S. (eds.), Fra idé til dom: Noen trekk fra utviklingen av Nasjonal Samling. Bergen: Universitetsforlaget. Borgersrud, L. (2010) Vi er jo et militært parti: Den norske militærfascismens historie 1930–1945, vol. 1. Oslo: Spartacus. Brevig, H. O. (1979) NS – fra sekt til parti: 1933–1937. 2. opplag. Oslo: Pax. Bruknapp, D. O. (1972) Nasjonal samling og rasespørsmålet 1933–1940. MA-thesis. Bergen: University of Bergen. Dahl, H. F. (1991) Vidkun Quisling: En fører blir til. Oslo: Aschehoug. Dahl, H. F. (1999) Quisling: A Study in Treachery. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Danielsen, R. (1984) Borgerlig oppdemmingspolitikk, Høyres historie, vol. 2. Oslo: Cappelen. Dørum, K. (2017) ‘De rødes kamp mot fascismen i Norge i 1930-årene’, Historisk tidskrift för Finland, 102(1): 75–113. Emberland, T. (2015) Da fascismen kom til Norge: Den norske legions vekst og fall 1927–1928. Oslo: Dreyer forlag. Figueiredo, I. de (2002) Fri mann. Johan Bernhard Hjort – en dannelseshistorie. Oslo: Aschehoug. Gåsland, J. E. (1983) Bergen Høyre 1918–1935. MA-thesis. Bergen: University of Bergen. Hagen, R. (1955) Oslo-pressens syn på den spanske borgerkrig. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Kjøstvedt, A. (1976) Holdningen til nazismen i Tyskland hos Dagbladet og Tidens Tegn i perioden 1930 til 1934. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Kokkvoll, A. (1965) Johs. Nesse: En konservativ pressemann i 1930-årene: Aftenposten og totalitære tendenser i tredveårene, studert på grunnlag av redaktør Johs. Nesses lederartikler. Oslo: Chr. Schibsted forlag.

Fascism and anti-fascism in 1930s Norway  87 Krautwald, C. (2016) Kampklar: Antifascistisk mobilisering og militante kampmidler på den danske venstrefløj 1930–1936. MA-thesis. Copenhagen: University of Copenhagen. Larsen, S. U. (1990) 'Conservatives and fascists in the Nordic countries: Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Finland, 1918–1945', in Blinkhorn, M (ed.) Fascists and Conservatives. Abingdon: Routledge. Larsen, T. K. (2012) Rolf Thommessen og Frisinnede Folkeparti 1932–1936: Nasjonale samlingsbestrebelser. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Lund, J. A. (2012) ‘Se til Italien! Vi vil ingenlunde dit.’ En analyse av Tidens Tegn og Aftenpostens syn på den italienske fascismen på 1920-tallet. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Maurseth, P. (1987) Gjennom kriser til makt (1920–1935), Arbeiderbevegelsens historie i Norge, bind 3. Oslo: Tiden. Nilsen, T. (2010) Antisemittisme og antijudaisme i Vestfold 1918–1942: En undersøkelse av lokale antisemittiske og antijudeiske holdninger i avispressen slik de kommer til uttrykk gjennom nyhetsstoff, lederartikler, leserbrev og teologiske tekster i denne perioden. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Olsen, J. (2007) Arbeiderpartiets forhold til spørsmålet om en norsk fascisme 1930– 1933. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Persen, O.-J. (1974) Høgreekstremisme i Bergen 1920–1933. MA-thesis. Bergen: University of Bergen. Pettersen, T. K. (2007) Mot Dag og fascismen – motdagistisk antifascisme i teori og praksis. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Poulsen, H. (2015) ‘The Nordic States’, in Mühlberger, D. (ed.), The Social Basis of European Fascist Movements. London: Routledge. Pleym, B. (1976) Norsk bondepresse og den tyske nazismen: Seks bondeavisers holdning til Tyskland i tidsrommet 1933–1940. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Røste, A. (1969) Tre Oslo-aviser, Italia og fascismen 1922–1929. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Rygg, P. (1983) Trøndersk høyreradikalisme – i fred og krig: Nasjonal samling i Trondheim og Strinda 1933–1945. MA-thesis. Trondheim: University of Trondheim. Simonsen, K. B. (2009) Den store jødebevægelse: Antisemittiske bilder av jøden i bondeavisene Nationen og Namdalen, 1920–1925. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Strømsøe, T. (1961) Enkelte borgerlige avisers reaksjon på dannelsen av Nasjonal samling, og deres stilling til partiets valgkamp 1933. MA-thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Valaker, T. (1999) ‘Litt fascisme hr. statsminister’: Historien om den borgerlige pressen og fascismen. Oslo: Forum/Aschehoug.

Part II

Anti-fascist youth activism and militant resistance

5 Three arrows against the swastika Militant social democracy and the radical opposition to fascism in Denmark, 1932–1934 Charlie E. Krautwald Introduction The rise of authoritarian nationalism across Europe during the interwar period – and especially the 1933 fascist takeover and subsequent liquidation of the labour movement in Germany – spurred the rise of a strong anti-fascist sentiment among activists of the Social Democratic Youth of Denmark (DSU). ­I nfluenced by the radical responses to fascism of social democrats across ­Europe, an ­a nti-fascist opposition emerged in the DSU. Their goal was to combat Danish fascism and make anti-fascism the main priority of the labour movement. However, their use of radical propaganda methods, uniformed protection formations and especially violent confrontation imported from Germany and Austria provoked a fierce and emotional debate in the movement. By 1933, the Social Democratic Party (SD) had been the main governmental party in Denmark for four years and was in the middle of a transition from a traditional class-­ oriented party to a more popular one. The militant activism of DSU rank-and-file did not correspond well with this strategy. On the other hand, it was paralleled with a shift in official social democratic policy away from its traditional pacifism to a more militant attitude towards the defence of democracy. With a focus on anti-fascism among young social democrats, this chapter examines the anti-fascist opposition in the DSU, their transnational inspirations, strategies and forms of action. It discusses the internal debate in the social democratic movement about the means and priorities of the fight against fascism between 1932 and 1934 and asks if this was an expression of what we might call a militant attitude towards social democracy. This chapter is based on a comprehensive study of the archives and publications of the DSU at the Danish Labour Movement Archives supplemented by additional source material and newspaper articles.

92  Charlie E. Krautwald

Approach Why did members of a predominantly reformist social democratic youth organisation in a peaceful country like Denmark engage in militant struggle against a very limited fascist movement like the Danish one? We can choose to look at it from three perspectives. First of all, we can see it as the expression of a small minority of predominantly revolutionary activists who used anti-fascism as a lever in an internal struggle in the DSU for a more radical line. This points to the often-used perspective of extremism, in this case the influence of radical socialist ideas in an otherwise democratic ­political organisation. Second, we can choose to refer to the fact that almost all political youth movements in the interwar period took on new forms of agitation in their mobilisation. You ‘voted with your feet’ so to speak and in that context competing political movements became radicalised and began to attack each other’s claim for the streets. Third, we can choose to perceive it as the manifestation of a transnational, anti-fascist current. Although all three perspectives hold some degree of explanatory value, my starting point is the transnational: radical anti-fascism as a contention-driven political and cultural wave in the international labour movement during the interwar period. My focus, then, is on the innovative transfer of anti-fascist politics, propaganda methods and a militant political culture. One of the main concepts of this chapter is militancy. I use it to describe combative forms and confrontational practices of radical anti-fascism. ­Although the willingness to use violent means lies in the very definition of the term, militancy goes beyond the purely violent. Militant becomes a ­conceptual way of describing political practice and culture from an ­intentional perspective, rather than its possible violent outcome. It relates to actions as well as attitudes and forms of expression. When we talk about militant ­anti-fascism, it concerns a political subculture, characterised by a readiness to use forceful power and a contentious expression in the fight against fascism. The radical opposition to fascism in the DSU has been the subject of a few studies including two master theses (Brandt et.al., 1979; Knudsen & Munksgård, 1981). But these did not examine militant practice, and neither did they approach militant anti-fascism from a transnational perspective. In an article from 2004 investigating a group of prominent Danish social democrats and their ways into the Nazi movement during the German occupation, Martin Grunz connects this ‘nazification’ directly with the ­m ilitant tendencies in the DSU in the early 1930s. He sees this militancy as an ­expression of a collected totalitarian sentiment among a group of radical young social democrats who did not believe in democracy (Grunz, 2004: 37). In general, the political concepts of totalitarianism or extremism have been the predominant framework in Danish historical writing for understanding the radical mobilisation of the interwar period (Kaarsted, 1991: 119–24; Lidegaard, 2005: 28–39; Krake, 2017: 8–11). Very little empirical research has been undertaken in a Danish context, and little attention has been given

Three arrows against the swastika  93 to the question of why otherwise democratic political actors like the DSU engaged in militant struggle in their defence of democracy. Anti-fascist militancy among social democrats was certainly not unique to Denmark. Gerd-Rainer Horn’s transnational study of European ­socialists’ responses to fascism in a number of countries (Horn, 1996) has offered important insights into radical anti-fascist policies within the Labour and Socialist International (LSI) during the 1930s. German scholars on paramilitary politics in the Weimar Republic have given us detailed accounts on the use of militant self-defence organisations like the Reichsbanner (Rohe, 1966; Gotschlich, 1987; Schumann, 2009; Voigt, 2009), while contemporary research in the developing field of anti-fascist studies has considered the participation of social democrats in militant anti-fascist activities during the 1930s. In the Scandinavian countries, where social democrats had governmental power during the 1930s, radical forms of activism among rank-and-file occasioned significant contrasts in respective labour movements (Lundberg & Lundin, 2014; Krautwald, 2017). What is needed is more research into the anti-fascist responses of the Nordic labour movements. And when speaking about social democratic ­defensiveness in the wake of the breakdown of the German movement, the Danish case is especially interesting. The close proximity both geographical and historical to Germany and the fact that Denmark was one of very few places with social democrats in government at the time of Hitler’s rise to power, all affected the response to fascism on the Danish left. There is also a general shortage of research into the mechanism of transnational interwar anti-fascism. It is no surprise to scholars of interwar political history that movements inspired and imitated each other across the borders of Europe; and that the political culture of Germany had a particularly significant influence. We now need to illuminate the transfer of ideas and forms of anti-fascist action to the Scandinavian social democracies. Radical anti-fascism among Danish social democrats was based on small groups within the rank-andfile. However, it reflected a greater international trend of differentiation in anti-fascist tactics within the LSI following Hitler’s rise to power.

Militant social democracy As Horn has pointed out, European social democrats were not anti-­ systemic during the interwar period but rather system-conformist. They were in ­government in several countries and constituted important parts of the coalitions behind many of the new European democracies. Attacks on democracy from the extreme right thus became attacks also on social democracy itself. Confronted by the advance of fascism and the reactionary right during the 1920s and 1930s, social democrats all over Europe became radicalised. A central issue in the international socialist movement was the question of the means by which the anti-fascist struggle might be conducted: how far should social democrats go in the defence of democracy and the

94  Charlie E. Krautwald movement itself? In some countries like the Nordic ones, militancy was peripheral and limited to oppositional groups. In central European countries like Germany and Austria, social democrats prepared for self-defence by creating paramilitary organisations. And in 1934, the threat of imminent fascist takeover in Austria and Spain was encountered by outright armed revolt (Horn, 1996: 17–20). As early as the founding congress of the LSI in 1923, on account of political developments in Hungary and especially in Italy the previous year (­Socialistisk Arbejder-Internationale, 1926: 11–12), the ‘international ­Reaction’ was discussed. During the 1920s, fascism was widely interpreted by the LSI as being the response of the middle class against the crisis following the World War, further radicalised by the Communist movement. This basic view was combined with a theory based on Karl Kautsky’s 1922 work, Die proletarische Revolution und ihr Programm equating the nationalist dictatorships of Italy and Hungary with the proletarian dictatorship in Russia and placing them in strong opposition to parliamentarian democracy (Kautsky, 1922: 98). During the late 1920s, there was also a prevailing perception in the LSI that industrialised countries with rooted democratic traditions had built-in ­resilience to the rise of fascism, which the eastern European countries did not have. The main strategy of the LSI was thus to work inside the frame of bourgeois democracy defending it against the threat of fascism as well as communism (Kowalski & Thom, 1980: 378–83). Under the impact of the economic crisis and electoral breakthrough of the German Nazis in the 1930 Reichstag election, the LSI modified this analysis at its Vienna Congress in 1931. However, it was still underlined that the defence of democracy against dictatorship should be limited to the use of democratic means. However, if the capitalist governments were to let the economies of Central Europe succumb to the crisis, and the working class deprived of democratic rights, there might be no alternative, ‘no other way for the working class than to put all its means of power against the violence of fascism’? (Socialistisk Arbejder-Internationale, 1931: 11). In other words, militant responses to fascism might be justified, but only as a very last form of self-defence. For the German and Austrian social democrats, militant resilience against reactionary attacks on the labour movement was not some ­hypothetical ­possibility. Both the Social Democratic Party of Germany (­Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands [SPD]) and the Social Democratic Workers’ Party of Austria (SDAPÖ) had long been discussing military ­defensiveness and had already created paramilitary defence organisations. As a direct reaction to the threat of Italian fascism, the self-defence formations of local ­workers’ councils in Austria were reorganised in February 1923 as the Republikanischer Schutzbund and put under the control of the SDAPÖ (Deutsch, 1923; Kitchen, 1980: 113–16). The founder and chairman of the Schutzbund, J­ ulius Deutsch, who was one of the first to coin the term anti-fascism, ­described in his book, Antifaschismus! Proletarische

Three arrows against the swastika  95 Wehrhaftigkeit im Kampf gegen den Faschismus as the need for strong ­ efensiveness (wehrhaftigkeit) of the working class through the organisation d of a militarised proletarian self-­protection (Deutsch, 1926: 65–118). In the case of the Weimar Republic, Julius Deutsch soon saw the need for this ­wehrhaftigkeit against fascism. In the early 1920s, the young German democracy was fragile and plagued by attempted coups from both the left and right. In February 1924, just a few months after the communist Hamburg uprising and the failed Beer Hall putsch by the Nazis, the SPD together with the other parties of the Weimar coalition founded the Reichsbanner Schwarz-Rot-Gold. Officially a veterans’ organisation, it was a predominantly social democratic defence organisation, whose main purpose was the protection of the democratic W ­ eimar ­Republic against attacks from radicals. The Reichsbanner was a direct response to five years of militant right-wing mobilisation of paramilitary organisations like the national-conservative Stahlhelm and the Nazi Sturmabteilung (SA) and was in many ways a copy of these organisations although founded on democratic values (Rohe, 1966: 224; Voigt, 2009: 557–60). Reichsbanner scholar, Karl Rohe, argues that the organisation must be understood in a synchronic, transnational context of the combat-ready antagonism between fascism and anti-fascism of the era (Rohe, 1966: 5). Violent clashes were not that common during the 1920s, but with the ­i mpact of the economic crisis and the parallel mobilisation of the Nazi movement in 1930, the political violence on the street seriously escalated. The increased street terror of the SA was the driving force. Communists and, to some extent, the social democrats tried to follow suit with their counter-­ mobilisation (Voigt, 2009: 561–2). The violent confrontations with the Nazis and the electoral success of the Nazis in the September 1930 e­ lection led the Reichsbanner to reorganise in 1930 with the creation of the elite protection units, the Schutzformationen or Schufos, ready to ‘defend democracy and parliament with bodies and fists’ (Schumann, 2009: 293) as one Schufo-­ member and SPD Reichstag-delegate was quoted as saying. The Eiserne (Iron) Front alliance formed in November 1931 by the Reichsbanner, the ­ ro-Nazi SPD and other labour movement organisations in response to the p Habsburg Front continued the militant anti-fascist line in a still more frantic and chaotic attempt to fight the advancement of the Nazis and preserve the imploding Weimar Republic (Schumann, 2009: 294). Needless to say, this strategy proved ineffective. The Nazi seizure of power in early 1933 was now a turning point for the European left. It led to a number of radical revisions of anti-fascist strategies and a differentiation in the LSI with an openness to new policies unheard of before or since (Horn, 1996: 8). While some sections followed national consensus strategies, other social democrats radicalised. According to Horn, for the next three years, left-factions became the mainstay in the prominent Spanish, German, Austrian and French as well as the Belgian sections of the LSI. This led to a wave of local and national united front collaborations with communists

96  Charlie E. Krautwald during 1934 and several sections pursued a general left orientation (Horn, 1996: 25–6, 68–9). Horn has described this as a form of ‘revolutionary s­ ocial ­democracy’ and the culmination of this new radical line came with the armed pre-­emptive rebellions against fascism in Austria and the Asturias in 1934. Both of these revolutionary outbursts were mostly defensive, designed to protect civil rights and liberties against increasing attacks on democracy from the extreme right in the light of the German catastrophe. But in both cases, the social democratic leadership hesitated and did not follow up the creation of armed fighting forces with a resolute plan (Horn, 1996: 20). In truth, none of the social democratic parties of Europe, except ­p erhaps for the Spanish, had the necessary political will, ability or support to ­organise a successful armed resistance against the fascist offensive on democracy (Ceplair, 1987: 6). In the young democracies like the ­German and Austrian, militant defensiveness against fascism became a supplement to the ­legalistic strategies of the LSI. Even though the role of the militant ­organisations must not be overestimated, it is worth noting that it became an integral part of the social democratic parties of Germany and Austria, not a ­peripheral phenomenon. This duality reflected the continued ­discussion in the labour movement about the means by which socialists should fight fascism. Was there a schism between the strong obligation to ­ emocracy with democratic means, on one hand, defend parliamentarian d and the growing necessity for a self-defence against an increasing threat from anti-democratic actors, on the other? The LSI was simply overtaken by events. In this situation, what we might call a militant social democracy, a willingness to fight back, emerged in the labour movement, predating and paralleling the radical s­ ocial democratic opposition after 1933. This militant defensiveness became an inspiration for social democrats in other countries of Europe and came to embellish discussion about means and measures in the response to the fascist threat. The DSU is a good example of this.

The DSU and its self-defence units The DSU was founded in Aarhus in 1920 after a split the previous year in the Social Democratic Youth League (SUF) between reformists and ­revolutionaries following the Great War and the Russian Revolution. The ­revolutionary faction of SUF became the driving force in the founding of the Communist Party of Denmark (DKP). While one of the main focal points of the conflict had been the de facto support of military appropriations by the social democrats, the DSU was founded on a strong anti-­m ilitaristic ground and the demand for full disarmament (Jacobsen, 1945: 33–40). The secretariat, and with it the organisational centre of gravity of the new social democratic youth movement, was located in the provincial capital of Aarhus in its first decade, not Copenhagen. This created room for a more radical and internationally oriented development in the Copenhagen DSU. That is probably the reason why the so-called ‘cultural line’ of the DSU

Three arrows against the swastika  97 during the second half of the 1920s came to be particularly prominent in Copenhagen. Strongly influenced by Austromarxism and its radical cultural movement, the DSU set out to fight bourgeois culture and replace it with a socialist one. Outdoor activities and camp life were very central to this new culture and they were particularly focussed on outer appearance (Jacobsen, 1945: 124–8; Gruber, 1991: 81–113). In 1927, the DSU in Copenhagen thus ­introduced a uniform consisting of a blue shirt and a red scarf modelled upon the German Socialist Workers’ Youth (Johansen, 1945: 58–60). Originally framed as a camp life uniform, it soon found an agitation purpose and the DSU was the first – but not the last – of the political youth organisations in Denmark to introduce uniforms in their propaganda. In the early 1930s, the political situation in Denmark as well as in the DSU was changing. In 1924, the SD had, for the first time, formed a shortlived government with Thorvald Stauning as prime minister. After gaining almost 42 per cent of the votes in the 1929 election, the party formed a new majority cabinet together with the small social liberal party and remained in power until 1940. In reality, the social democrats thereby o ­ btained ­almost ­hegemonic parliamentary power during the turbulent 1930s and this naturally affected the DSU who had to find its place in this political configuration. As in most industrialised countries, the impact of the economic crisis in 1930–1931 became a major game changer in Danish politics. C ­ ounteracting the social effects of the crisis as well as increasing political polarisation ­became the most important task for social democrats. Mass unemployment of around 30 per cent in the early 1930s created momentum for the otherwise languishing DKP, which mobilised a radical unemployment movement. ­Under the influence of the sectarian ultra-left policies of Comintern’s third period, communists simultaneously started a vigorous campaign against the ‘social fascists’ of the social democratic government. This was expressed through repeated attempts in the first half of the decade by the communist youth (Communist Youth of Denmark [DKU]) to split the DSU. In the autumn of 1931, the DKU started a campaign of infiltration and harassment against public social democratic meetings in the Copenhagen area, which continued into 1932. On 9 January 1932, young communists disrupted a lecture by the Russian Menshevik, Abramowitsch, and at a further meeting in April 1932, a massive fist fight broke out (Knudsen & Munksgård, 1981: 69–71). Some of the DSU activists felt a need to protect themselves against such attacks and this became one of the reasons for yet another direct i­ nspiration from the German and Austrian social democrats: the formation of militant protection units. In March 1931, a first initiative had already been taken by 25 members of the Vesterbro branch of DSU in Copenhagen who founded a group later known as Jernfronten (the Iron Front). This took inspiration from the newly founded Reichsbanner Schufos in Germany, but also from the Arbejderværnet or Workers’ Protection formed by the Danish communists in

98  Charlie E. Krautwald December 1930. The Iron Front group, which had a p ­ rogramme consisting of martial arts and drill, was not sanctioned by the SD branch committee and was soon closed down (Alarm 1: 6). The idea of a protection unit ­continued to develop in the DSU, however. At a meeting in December 1931, the chairperson of the Copenhagen Division suggested the formation of an ‘Order Corps’ of 20–30 members tasked with the protection of public ­meetings of the social democrats (Arbejderbevægelsens Bibliotek og Arkiv [ABA], DSU-Kbh., Forhandlingsprotokol 14/12–31). Perhaps, the proposal was inspired by a full-page article the very same month in the DSU journal by Karl Heinz, secretary of the Republikanischer Schutzbund. Under the headline, ‘The Anti-Fascist International’, he reviewed the formation of self-defence organisations in a number of European countries and wrote about their necessity: However, the strength of the anti-fascist protection organisation offers the assurance that the capitalist crisis will not end with the repression of the proletariat and the destruction of all liberties despite all the ­shameless attacks by the fascist mercenaries. (Translated from Rød Ungdom, vol. 12: 111) This was an example to follow and even though it did not materialise at first, ­ ugust 1932, the seeds of an idea were planted in the organisation. In early A the first Ordensværn – literally ‘Order Protection’ – unit (OV) was founded by the Vesterbro branch of the DSU with as many as 80 members ‘completely militaristically organised’. Soon after, several other C ­ openhagen branches followed suit (ABA, DSU Vesterbro, Forhandlingsprotokol 3.8.1932; Alarm 1: 6). The purpose of Ordensværnet was to maintain order at political meetings and demonstrations by ‘reprimand of troublesome souls and preferably avoiding violent behaviour’. When that was not sufficient, the leader could ‘take action and act accordingly’ (translated from: ABA, Reglement for OV). To prepare its members for such confrontations, the OV practised jiu-jitsu, wrestling and gymnastics. The regulations clearly stated that the members had to be at least 18 years of age, have a state-approved health insurance and possess the ‘required physical properties’. Participation in the OV was, it specified, at your own risk (ABA, Reglement for OV). The inspiration from the German and Austrian protection organisations was emphasised by the supplement of the blue DSU-uniform with riding boots, shoulder strap, cap and a red armband (Børne- og Ungdomslederen 3, 1932). Even the name was presumably inspired by the Ordnerwehr of the Austrian social democrats. As a logo, the OV simply copied the so-called ‘three-arrow symbol’ or anti-fascist circle: three obliquely pointing white ­arrows on red background. At the time, this logo was the symbol of both the German Eiserne Front and the SDAPÖ (Johansen, 1945: 15). However, the introduction of militant organisational forms occasioned some debate in the DSU. Some were worried by the militaristic tendencies

Three arrows against the swastika  99 and the OV became a natural focal point for more radical elements of the organisation. On several occasions during the parliamentary elections in the  autumn of 1932, members engaged in violent mass confrontations with the communists, for example, at a public lecture by the former police ­president of Berlin, Albert Grzesinski, on 20 September. Confrontations between socialists and communists climaxed in November 1932, when DSU member Verner Nielsen tragically died from a skull fracture incurred during a fight at a poster action. This sole fatality of physical confrontations during the 1930s in Denmark put a damper on the conflict between the two youth movements (Krautwald, 2017: 125). Nonetheless, the confrontations contributed to the radicalisation of the DSU members in Copenhagen and confirmed the need for a self-defence organisation. Even though the OV was a reaction to attacks by communists, the formation coincided with another development that would come to broaden the activities of Ordensværnet.

Democracy – strike on! Up until the summer of 1932, fascism had not really been on the political agenda of the DSU other than as a theoretical threat and regular unpleasant reminders from sister organisations in Central Europe. However, three developments now changed this drastically. In Germany, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) experienced a strong progress and at the 30 July Reichstag election, the Nazis became the largest party with a massive 37.4 per cent of the vote. The election sent a shock wave throughout Europe and triggered increasing attention on fascism in the DSU. In an article in Rød Ungdom in September, a travel description by a DSU member from the Eiserne Front election campaign was published and it described the violent attacks on social democrats by the Nazis. In the same edition of the journal, a proclamation by the LSI naming fascism as the single most serious threat to socialism was published (Rød Ungdom, vol. 3: 90, 93–4). Danish Nazis followed the development with interest and they scented the morning air. The National Socialist Workers’ Party of Denmark (DNSAP), a Danish copy of the German Nazi party, had lived a relatively secluded ­existence since its founding in November 1930 and lacked a mass base. In May 1932, the Danish Nazis created a Stormtrooper division (SA) in ­Copenhagen and began a propaganda offensive with distribution of leaflets at a number of social democrat open-air meetings. This provoked a string of confrontations during the summer: at a public meeting in Fælledparken on 8 July 1932, for example, when two members of the SA were beaten, while a ‘long chain of Blue Shirts’ and a large crowd of hundreds chased other Nazi activists out of the park (National-Socialisten, vol. 2: 28: 2; ibid., nr. 29: 3). And on 15 August 1932, a political debate meeting in the ­Copenhagen ­suburb of Glostrup developed into a mass fight between uniformed m ­ embers of DSU and ­likewise uniformed SA members. Both groups had apparently been ­biking there from Copenhagen and on their way back to the city, the Nazis

100  Charlie E. Krautwald were once again assaulted and one of them had to draw a knife on the attackers (National-Socialisten, vol. 2: 34: 3). At the same time, the Conservative Youth organisation (KU) had ­begun a political turn towards the extreme right. The KU embraced many of the ­c entral ideological components of Italian fascism and expressed ­positive views on Hitler. In the autumn of 1932, the KU began mobilising on the streets and adopted the use of uniforms, the Nazi salute and Stormtroopers in their agitation (Krautwald, 2017: 127–8). This development, which would grow in the following years, greatly enhanced tensions between the DSU and KU. They were already competitors in the fight to become the largest youth movement in the cities and the fascist tendencies and anti-socialism of the ­ egan KU incited the DSU. During general elections, the two organisations b harassing each other’s campaigns. As an example, uniformed members of OV disturbed two conservative meetings in August 1934, which provoked violent confrontations (KU’s Kampblad, 1934: 1: 5–6). This heightened militancy was not popular across all parts of the DSU, however. The OV had apparently become an organisation within the ­organisation, and different proposals were put forward to revise its purpose and structure. It had also become a political problem for the leadership of the DSU. In March 1933, secretary H. C. Hansen published a statement in a DSU journal under the headline ‘Beware of Exaggerations’ in which he warned against overestimating the importance of outer forms and ­symbols. According to him, the risk was that these tendencies would foster only ‘Shirt- and demonstration-members’ (Børne- & Ungdomslederen, vol. 3: 32–3). Nonetheless, the self-defence units still became an integral part of the Copenhagen Division, tolerated or even approved by the DSU (ABA, DSU, Sekretariatsmødeprotokol 17.8.1932). In Denmark too, the 1933 Nazi Machtergreifung in Germany became a major turning point for both anti-fascism and the SD. The threat was all of a sudden very real and geographically close and this manifested itself in a shift in the policy of the SD. According to Gerd-Rainer Horn (1996: 50), the political differentiation of the LSI after 1933 in left and right directions roughly mirrored the national prerequisites linked to two key paradigms of the social and political development in the 1930s: class polarisation and consensus orientation. The Danish social democrats, traditionally placed on the right wing of the LSI, naturally chose the latter. By pursuing a policy of neutrality and appeasement towards Germany, the social democratic government hoped to keep Denmark out of a possible international confrontation with fascism (Sørensen, 2003: 19; Lidegaard & Højrup, 2007: 209–11). From 1930 onwards, there had been a move in the SD away from its original strong anti-militarism. Now the party completely turned its back on disarmament and embraced a pro-defence policy in a strategy of national survival. This was followed in 1933–1934 by new police and ‘riot laws’ and a ban on the political use of uniforms in order to curb the radical tendencies domestically (Koch, 1994: 80–136). The new willingness to use legislative

Three arrows against the swastika  101 action and agents of the state in the defence of democracy was framed in the DSU by the slogan ‘Democracy – strike on!’ One of the most o ­ utspoken and influential advocates in the movement of this radical will to power was ­Hartvig Frisch. In the preface of his book, Pest over Europa (1933), he ­described the essence of the national survival strategy: ‘we have shown our will to peace but if you meet us with violence and terror, we are determined to vindicate the Nordic border and defend democracy’ (Frisch, 1933: 14). Was this change in defence policy an expression of a militant attitude towards democracy? The Danish social democrats in general placed ­themselves on the right wing of the LSI in their attitude towards fascism and the struggle for socialism. We do however see a certain ambivalence in the ­social democrats’ view on the use of militant means in the defence of society. The Social Democratic Youth gradually adopted pacifism and an anti-national attitude towards defence. But at the same time, there came a counter-reaction – or perhaps more correctly: a parallel one – from a segment of social democratic rank-and-file, which underlined the ambivalence in the movement towards militant social democracy.

‘With physical as well as spiritual violence’ For some of the young social democrats, a parliamentary response to fascism based on militarily enforced neutrality, appeasement towards Germany and legalistic measures was not enough. They felt that a more radical strategy of confrontation against home-grown fascism was needed. What had begun as a spontaneous reaction to the Nazi mobilisation in the summer of 1932 now became concretised as an alternative political strategy of the DSU. Arguably, the most prominent source of inspiration for radical anti-­ fascism in the DSU came from Germany through a quite personal form of innovative transfer. In May 1933, German-Russian microbiologist, Pavlov-­ pupil, and former Menshevik propagandist, Sergei Tschachotin a­ rrived in ­Copenhagen as a refugee from the Nazi persecution in ­Germany. For a number of years, he had been active in the SPD and worked on ­developing the propaganda of the Eiserne Front (Albrecht, 2007). With him, he brought his psychological propaganda methods developed as a response to the propaganda of the German Nazis. The core of Tschachotin’s concept was a propaganda warfare in public space against fascism based on modern mass psychology. It was an attempt to make the propaganda techniques ­s cientific based on the experiences from the Weimar Republic (Tschachotin, 1933). Central to Tschachotin’s modern propaganda was the three arrows ­symbol, the emblem of the Eiserne Front, which he claimed to have ­invented. Together with the raised fist salute: the raised fist salute, and the battle cry ‘Freiheit!’ (freedom), this was a counter-response to the Nazi swastika, ­Hitler salute and ‘Heil’ greeting (Tschachotin, 1933, 27–30). The three arrows themselves contained a number of abstract symbolic meanings including

102  Charlie E. Krautwald the ideological principles of freedom, equality and fraternity. They also signified the three main organisations of the Eiserne Front: the party, the trade unions and the Reichsbanner with the sports associations (Tschachotin, 1933: 20). The aim was to intimidate as well as publicly mock the Nazis. Accordingly, the workers’ movement had to abstain from old-fashioned ­agitation and replace the long, unclear slogans and disorganised demonstrations with active and targeted propaganda directly aimed against the Nazis (Tschachotin, 1933: 27–33). Tschachotin described his concept and experiences from the 1932 ­German elections in the book Three Arrows Against the Swastika published in ­Copenhagen in the autumn of 1933. Sergei Tschachotin soon found an interested following among a group of young radical academics in the DSU and the social democratic student organisation, among them the later prime minister Jens Otto Krag. In the summer of 1933, they gathered in a study circle and, in the following months, became a major catalyst for radical anti-fascism in the DSU. In early September 1933, they established the Social Democratic Propaganda Association (SPF) with the stated goal to introduce ­Tschachotin’s psychological propaganda methods and the three arrows symbol to the social democratic movement in Denmark. Activities included distribution of propaganda material in the movement and sale of flags, bicycle pennants and badges with the three arrows. The symbol and the Danish version of the freedom-­ salute, ‘Kampklar!’ (ready to fight), soon became popular among the DSU rank-and-file and, at the same time, lobbying was directed at the leadership of the SD (SD, kasse 64, Aktiv Socialisme). Tschachotin thus attempted to persuade the social democratic leadership to reorganise their agitation along the lines of his modern propaganda and, in October 1933, the SPF put forward a large-scale plan for a series of courses in propaganda technique. However, Social Democrat leaders were not particularly responsive to Tschachotin’s high-flown visions and perceived him as a self-important fantasist, well underscored by several warnings from senior German social democrats. As early as May 1933, Gerhard Breitscheid of the SPD wrote a letter to DSU secretary and later chairman H. C. Hansen and described Tschachotin as a bit of a braggart, politically questionable and with a dubious background (SD, kasse 64, Aktiv Socialisme). And in ­December 1933, the former SPD chair Otto Wels wrote a letter to the Danish social ­democrats from his exile in Prague and accused Tschachotin of lying about his role in the Eiserne Front as well as his claim to be the inventor of the three arrows (SD, kasse 64, Otto Wels). Nonetheless, Tschachotin and the SPF propaganda group continued their activities and developed a political programme that placed the fight against fascism through modern propaganda at the centre of a radical struggle for socialism (SD, kasse 64, Aktiv Socialisme). They founded the parallel organisation, Aktiv Socialisme (AS), with the aim of ‘activising’ the members of the social democratic movement and introduced so-called ‘active socialism’ – as opposed

Three arrows against the swastika  103 to the passive one of the movement leadership. This was a radical form of s­ ocialism with a programme of three crucial steps on the road to socialism: (1) activate the socialist youth, (2) entrain the unions, and (3) align the masses in order for the working class to assume total state power and create the socialist state. The foundation for the economic organisation of the future state was to be the Belgian Plan de Man, which was mentioned in the programme of the AS (A.S. Programme). The plan called for structural societal change through the immediate takeover of state power and the socialisation of industry. According to the father of the plan, Hendrick de Man, fascism was to be fought not through a defensive struggle for the conservation of democratic rights, but by removing the economic prerequisites for fascism created by the crisis. The Plan de Man was put forward in late December 1933, developed in a series of articles in Le Peuple, the newspaper of the ­Belgian socialist party between September and December (Horn, 1996: 80–3). AS and Tschachotin most likely kept themselves informed by these articles and were perhaps in contact with the Belgian left-faction Action Socialiste. The main strategic purpose for AS was the creation of the Active-­Socialist Front, a united front from below between socialists and communists in the fight against fascism. In a declaration, written in the autumn of 1933, the group described the world capitalist crisis and the existence of the Soviet Union as drivers of fascism, but this was the last convulsion of ­capitalist society. According to this analysis, fascism utilised the economic crisis to gather the petty bourgeoisie and crisis-stricken peasants against the ­working class leading society straight towards world war. The AS pointed to the ­reformism of the labour movement leaders as an obstacle to anti-­ fascist struggle and the direct cause of the victory of fascism in Germany. Accordingly, the anti-fascist struggle should be fought by the ‘The sharpest and most active combat of the fascist movement with the means of modern ­propaganda’ (Deklaration fra A.S.F). This radical analysis of fascism echoed several points in the speech by Otto Bauer and the resolution adopted by the newly held Paris ­conference of the LSI in August 1933 (After the German Catastrophe: 4–22). The strategy and the direct attack on the social democratic leadership sounded ­unmistakably ­ omintern’s third like an echo of the fascism analysis and strategies of the C period (1928–1934), and it contradicted the official policy of the SD. This did not exactly contribute to the popularity of the Active group or the responsiveness of the DSU leadership, and the outspoken criticism of the official policy of the SD was especially hard to tolerate. On top of that, the AS advo­ emocratic cacy of radical anti-fascism did not limit the struggle to purely d means. On the contrary: Although democracy is and will always be our last and final goal, we declare the intention of using democratic methods in the fight against fascism as completely wrong, misleading and only suited to giving fascism

104  Charlie E. Krautwald a platform for take-over of power – we will lead the struggle against fascism with physical as well as spiritual violence. (Deklaration fra A.S.F) AS became advocates of the need and willingness to use militant means in anti-fascist struggle and thus formulated a language for the already ­existing radical anti-fascism in the DSU. Although small in number, the group of radical students became a catalyst of the militant social ­democratic ­defensiveness towards fascism in Denmark. Together with the protective formations of Ordensværnet, it constituted what became known as the Three-arrow movement in the DSU, a focal point for a firmer anti-fascist activism as well as criticism of the reformist political line in DSU and in the Social Democracy. As such, AS was in many ways a clear parallel to the international leftist trend of the LSI that gained momentum as a consequence of Hitler’s seizure of power. With a focus on fighting fascism with more radical means, economic planism, and united front collaboration with the communists, they were clearly inspired by both German and Austrian militant action and by revolutionary social democracy.

Militant street politics and shift towards populism The fact that militancy found resonance among the rank-and-file of the Copenhagen DSU is underlined by an increasingly militant turn towards the Nazis and Conservative Youth in late summer and autumn 1933. On 3 September 1933, about 200 young social democrats and communists disrupted a demonstration of the Conservative Youth in the Copenhagen neighbourhood of Frederiksberg (Berlingske Tidende, 4.9.1933). Three weeks later, a disturbance of a similar demonstration in Fælledparken p ­ rovoked violent confrontations (Konservativ Ungdom, 1933: 19: 1–2; Dagens ­Nyheder, 25.9.1933). During that same period, ‘three-arrow louts’ of the AS were linked to a series of assaults on Nazis from DNSAP and the smaller, more militant National Socialist Party (NSP) in central Copenhagen (National-­ Socialisten, vol. 3: 51: 3; Under Hagekorset, oktober 1933: 7). This escalation in the physical confrontations with the Danish representatives of fascism coincided with the autumn agitation of the DSU, which, under the slogan ‘Crush fascism!’, had anti-fascism as its central theme. In early October 1933, the DSU leadership in Copenhagen responded by imposing a ban on its members disrupting opponent meetings: ‘The belief that it is beneficial for our party to support efforts which, through the use of violence and force, are designed to prevent political opponents from making their opinions known, are wrong’ and that the movement ‘under no circumstances will tolerate deviations from here’ (ABA, SD, Ordensværn). Yet the engagement of members of the DSU in physical struggle against fascism continued into 1934. A series of public Nazi meetings in the ­Copenhagen area were disrupted or attacked during the winter and spring

Three arrows against the swastika  105 by young social democrats and communists (Krautwald, 2016: 100). Whereas members of the Communist Youth and the DSU had previously acted ­separately in their militant actions against right-wing activities, now they engaged in anti-fascist confrontations with each other – from the summer of 1933, the two groups engaged more and more in a de facto cooperation at street level. Out of the 35 registered militant actions in Copenhagen from August 1933 until September 1934 where it is possible with some certainty to identify the organisational background of the participants, communists and social democrats acted together in more than half of them (Krautwald, 2016: 100–1). That might not present to full picture and does not say anything about the extent of actual forehand coordination between the two groups. What it does illustrate however is a willingness of radical anti-­fascists in the DSU to make common cause with the Communist Youth. The vision of a united front from below shared by the communist as well as the Active group was not official social democratic policy. The OV protection formations played a central, but also quite delicate and highly controversial, role in the anti-fascist mobilisation of the DSU and displayed the ambivalence towards militants in the Copenhagen DSU. After several controversies in some of the DSU branches regarding the organisational role of the OV during 1933, the local OV formations were merged into a centralised district organisation in December. It was reorganised in 4–5 columns of 50 men each, but continued otherwise with the same purpose and tasks – now sanctioned by the leaders of the Copenhagen DSU. In the summer of 1934, the OV had about 200 members in Copenhagen (ABA, DSU, Cirkulærer 1933; ABA, SD, Ordensværn). Even though the three-­ arrow movement constituted a radical orientated oppositional current in the DSU limited to a smaller segment of rank-and-file – probably only a few hundred activists – their political line and militancy attracted attention in the social democratic youth movement and was rapidly becoming a political problem for the DSU leadership. The question of the means by which democracy should defend itself against reactionary or revolutionary attacks, and especially the discussion about militancy, had become heated in the social democratic mother party. The three-arrow movement was beginning to constitute a real political ­opposition in the DSU that sought to put the radical struggle against fascism on the political agenda as well as to pull the labour movement in a more leftist direction. In particular, this included strong criticism of the national orientation and defence policy of the social democratic government. The unavoidable showdown in the DSU came at the sixth Congress of the youth movement in April 1934. Several local branches from Copenhagen affiliated with the three-arrow movement, and then tried to seize the political agenda by carrying a series of motions that would make the radical anti-fascist line the official policy of the DSU. Among other things, the three-arrow symbol was proposed as the official DSU emblem, while the Gentofte branch went even further and proposed four resolutions that were a clear extension of

106  Charlie E. Krautwald the Active Socialism programme. One of these argued that the DSU should combat violent fascism with ‘Weapons, which are the equilibrium of the weapons of our opponents’ (ABA, DSU, D.s.U. Forbund forhandlingsprotokol). All proposals fell by the vote, but more than a quarter of the delegates voted to accept the three arrows as the official logo of DSU. Two weeks later, the DSU leadership hit back and Sergei Tschachotin was excluded from the organisation (Krag, 1969: 34). The unrest in the social democratic movement regarding militant tendencies coincided with the shift of the SD from a traditional class-oriented workers’ party to a broader popular party with ambitions of appealing to workers as well as the lower middle class and peasants. This revisionism in the party had long been coming, but it accelerated under the influence of the economic crisis and it culminated with the launch of the new party programme, ‘Denmark for the People’ in May 1934. The Social Democratic government simultaneously introduced legal actions against extremism: first, the passing of the 1933 uniform ban, and then in March 1934 with the so-called ‘Riot Laws’, a ban on weapons in political life and ‘­associations or corps which have the purpose by unlawful use of power to influence ­political or public affairs’ (Lov om Forbud mod visse Sammenslutninger). The existence of a militant organisation in the Social Democratic movement and the participation of members of the DSU in physical confrontations with political opponents on the streets of Copenhagen did not correspond very well with these policies. The social democratic leadership thus had an ­urgent need to get control over the situation. Against this background, the DSU leadership in Copenhagen was ­instructed by the SD to consider the possibility of disbanding of the OV in the summer of 1934 (ABA, DSU-Kbh, Forhandlingsprotokol 16.8.1934.). Interestingly, local chairman Børge Jakobsen was opposed to this. The ­Copenhagen DSU argued that the defence organisation was still needed so long as the Nazi and conservative Stormtroopers were still active. Finally, after disorder at a DSU summer camp north of Copenhagen, where members of the OV had engaged in a fight with other DSU members and then the group’s participation in an attack on a KU demonstration in Roskilde, DSU Copenhagen decided to abolish Ordensværnet in September 1934 (ABA, SD, Ordensværn; ABA, DSU-Kbh, Forhandlingsprotokol 16.9.1934). At the same time, a resolution was adopted that made exclusion from the DSU possible for those intent on confrontation with political opponents. The resolution stated that ‘The DSU does not want and will not contribute to the introduction of the principle of violence in Danish political struggle’ (Bertolt et.al., 1955: 286). This was in reality the final showdown with organised radical anti-fascism in the DSU. But, at the same time, it opened the door for the establishment of a militant anti-fascist network across the left. Excluded and disillusioned members of the OV formed a new organisation, the Alarm group, and this continued the militant struggle against Danish fascism the following year

Three arrows against the swastika  107 in cooperation with members of the Communist Youth of Denmark. At the same time, the rank-and-file of the DSU did not stop participating in militant anti-fascism. In February 1935, 40 members of the DSU were excluded for participating in a united front demonstration arranged by the Alarm group (ABA, DSU, Foretagne eksklusioner). And as late as May 1936, the chairman of DSU in Copenhagen once again had to distribute a m ­ emorandum after the participation of DSU members in riots at two Conservative Youth demonstrations. The memo reminded local branches of the prohibition on ‘acting as rioters at the meetings and demonstrations of other political organisations’, and they thereby exposed themselves to a great risk while ‘also compromising our entire movement’ (ABA, SD, DSU-DUI 1936).

Conclusions There never was a local fascist threat on street level nor in the parliament in Denmark. Still, a small number of the DSU rank-and-file engaged in street fights and violent confrontations with Nazi and fascist-inspired organisations. Was this purely alarmism or was it foresight of a possible scenario where Danish democracy, like in so many other European countries, could no longer contain an extreme-right surge? Today we know that the fascist threat against the Danish and Scandinavian democracies in reality came from Nazi Germany, so even the most slow-witted neutralist could understand it, on a bleak April morning in 1940. But nobody could know this for sure in the early 1930s. Even though the Danish Nazis were quite ridiculous and few in number, fascist ideas and admiration for the new German order of Adolf Hitler transcended political life. And it was prominent in the second largest political youth organisation, Conservative Youth, which had 32,000 members in 1935. In 1933, young Danish social democrats saw how fascism just south of the border had gained state power, not by revolution but by parliamentary elections combined with a targeted violent repression against the left. They saw how the democratic political system had dissolved completely in its attempt to preserve itself. For some radical minded DSU members with an international outlook, militant activism therefore became an attractive alternative to parliamentarian work in the fight against fascism. And they needed only to look to their close affiliated sister movements to the south, to find the inspiration for this. Small groups like the OV and AS then became catalysts of imported ideas and concepts from the German and Austria social democrats and ­communicated them to the rest of the DSU. It was a mobilisation from ­below, an oppositional agenda inspired by events and movements in Central Europe and fuelled perhaps by the stronger radicalism of the political youth in Copenhagen. As shown in this chapter, we can follow the transnational inspirations from movements like the Eiserne Front and Republikanischer Schutzbund as well as a general trend of radicalism in the LSI following the Nazi takeover in Germany quite clearly through the sources. These groups

108  Charlie E. Krautwald were a minority in the movement and expressed a radical opposition to the official policy. They were, however, not out-of-sync with other European social democratic movements of Europe like the Austrian one, which came into real military conflict with the Austrofascists in February 1934 – and lost. Was it acceptable to use undemocratic, militant means in the defence of ­democracy? And could these be pre-emptive strikes against a fascist ­movement in its formative phase or should militancy be strictly defensive? Those questions were central to discussions about the means of anti-­fascist struggle in the interwar period. More fundamentally, it was a question about the limits of democracy and of which norms should characterise ­democratic life. Anti-fascism grew out of the recognition of democracy as the ­fundamental base for political power of the reformist labour movement. Wherever democracy was abolished by nationalist or fascist dictatorship, the labour movement ceased to function. Political class struggle was – s­ imply put – not feasible from a prison camp or a mass grave. We might say that in the LSI and national labour movements, there ­existed a clear schism between a parliamentarian and a militant approach to the defence of the working class against fascism. But those two a­ lternatives did in fact exist parallel to one another in a number of social democratic ­movements in Europe during the interwar period. And, at the same time, this militant approach to social democracy – paralleled in the streitbare Demokratie (militant democracy) of the present-day Federal Republic of Germany – might also be used to understand the shift in policy of the Danish SDP in the early 1930s. The radical change of their defence policy from pacifism and anti-militarism to armed neutrality and positive attitude towards the military were arguably the legal forms of this militant social democracy. The democracy – strike on attitude towards using state power to combat the causes and effects of radicalisation embraced a new will to power in the defence of parliamentary democracy. For Danish social democrats, the question then was whether the wehrhaftigkeit against fascism should be placed in the state system or in the labour movement.

References Danish Labour Movement Library and Archives (ABA) Danmarks Socialdemokratiske Ungdom (DSU): Forretningsudvalg/Sekretariat, referater (1924–1955), kasse 211, Sekretariatmødeprotokol 1932–1937. Hovedbestyrelse, referater (1920–1955), kasse 208, D.s.U. Forbund forhandlingsprotokol. Kredsorganisationer (1920–1977), kasse 80, Ordensværnet 1934. Kredsorganisationer (1920–1977), kasse 80, Foretagene eksklusioner. Kredsorganisationer (1920–1977), kasse 82, Cirkulærer fra Københavnskredsen til D.U.I. og D.s.U. 1933. Danmarks Socialdemokratiske Ungdom-Københavnskredsen (DSU-Kbh.) Referater (1920–1936), kasse 1, Forhandlingsprotokol 1931–1936.

Three arrows against the swastika  109 Danmarks Socialdemokratiske Ungdom-Vesterbro (DSU-Vesterbro) Afdelingens forhandlingsprotokoller (1929–1939), kasse 3, Forhandlingsprotokol 1932–1939. “Reglement for D.s.U. Vesterbro Afd. Ordensværn” i Kasse 3, Forhandlingsprotokol 1929–1932. Socialdemokratiet (SD) Agitation (1910–1965), kasse 64, Aktiv Socialisme. Agitation (1910–1965), kasse 64, Otto Wels om Tschachotin. Deklaration fra A.S.F. Aktiv-Socialistisk Front, Socialdemokratiet, kasse 64, Aktiv Socialisme. Organisationer i arbejderbevægelsen, Korrespondance, kasse 278, Ordensværn 1934. Organisationer i arbejderbevægelsen, Korrespondance, kasse 278, DSU-DUI 1936. Program for A.S., Socialdemokratiet, kasse 64, Aktiv Socialisme. Newspapers and journals Alarm. D.s.U. Oppositionens Blad Berlingske Tidende Børne- og Ungdomslederen Dagens Nyheder Konservativ Ungdom KU’s Kampblad National-Socialisten Rød Ungdom Under Hagekorset Literature After the German Catastrophe: The Decisions of the International Conference of the L.S.I. in Paris, August 1933 (1933). Zürich: Labour and Socialist International. Albrecht, R. (2007) ‘Dreipfeil Gegen Hakenkreutz’ Symbolkrieg in Deutschland 1932. Munich: GRIN Verlag. Bertolt, O., Christiansen, E. & Hansen, P. (1955) En bygning vi rejser, den politiske arbejderbevægelses historie i Danmark. Vol. 2. København: Fremad. Brandt, M., Graulund, J. & Wendt, D. (1979) Socialdemokratisk agitation og propaganda i mellemkrigstiden. Aarhus: Skansen. Ceplair, L. (1987) Under the Shadow of War: Fascism, Anti-Fascism and Marxists 1918–1939. New York: Columbia University Press. Deutsch, J. (1923) Die Faschistgefahr. Wien: lg. D. Wiener Volksbuchhandlung. Deutsch, J. (1926) Antifaschismus! Proletarische Wehrhaftigkeit im Kampf gegen den Faschismus. Wien: lg. D. Wiener Volksbuchhandlung. Frisch, H. (1933) Pest Over Europa: Bolchevisme-Fascisme-Nazisme. 2nd edition, 1951. København: Fremad. Gotschlich, H. (1987) Zwischen Kampf und Kapitulation: Zur Geschichte des Reichsbanners Schwartz-Rot-Gold. Berlin: Dietz. Gruber, H. (1991) Red Vienna: Experiment in Working-Class Culture 1914–1934. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.

110  Charlie E. Krautwald Grunz, M. (2004) ’Den totalitære fristelse, Socialdemokraters veje ind i nationalsocialismen’, Arbejderhistorie, (2–3): 21–43. Horn, G.-R. (1996) European Socialists Respond to Fascism: Ideology, Activism and Contingency in the 1930s. New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jacobsen, J. (1945) Ungdom mellem to Verdenskrige. København: Forlaget Fremad. Johansen, E. (1945) Der har smældet et Flag. København: DSU-Københavnskredsen. Kautsky, K. (1922) Die proletarische Revolution und ihr Programm. Berlin & ­Stuttgart: J.H.W. Dietz Verlag. Kitchen, M. (1980) The Coming of Austrian Fascism. London and Montreal: Croom Helm & McGill-Queen’s University Press. Knudsen, S. & Munksgård, J. (1981) DSU i 30’erne. MA-thesis, University of ­Aarhus (unpublished). Koch, H. (1994) Demokrati – slå til! Statslig nødret, ordenspoliti og frihedsrettigheder 1932–1945. København: Gyldendal. Kowalski, W. & Thom, S. (1980) Faschismusauffassungen in der Sozialistischen Arbeiterinternationale, in Eichholtz, D. & Gossweiler, K. (eds.), Faschismus Forschung: Positionen, Probleme, Polemik. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Krag, J. O. (1969) Ung mand fra trediverne. København: Gyldendal. Krake, K. (2017) Skandinavien i ekstremernes tidsalder: Systemkritik og demokratiforsvar i mellemkrigstiden 1919–1939. PhD dissertation, University of Southern Denmark (unpublished). Krautwald, C. (2016) Kampklar! Antifascistisk mobilisering og militante kampmidler på den danske venstrefløj 1930–36. MA thesis, University of Copenhagen (unpublished). Krautwald, C. (2017) ‘Kampklar! Militant antifascistisk mobilisering i Danmark 1930–1936’, Historisk Tidskrift för Finland, 102 (1): 114–48. Kaarsted, T. (1991) Krise og krig 1925–1950, Danmarkshistorie, vol. 13. København: Gyldendal & Politiken. Lidegaard, B. (2005) Kampen om Danmark 1933–1945. København: Gyldendal. Lidegaard, B. & Højrup, T. (2007) Suverænitetsarbejde og velfærdsudvikling, in Højrup, T. & Bolvig, K. (eds.), Velfærdssamfund – vefærdsstaters forsvarsform? København: Museum Tusculanums Forlag. Lundberg, V. & Lundin, J. A. (2014) ‘Med ett våldsamt knytnävsslag och en välriktad spark?’, Arbetarhistoria, 2014 (1–2): 32–7. Lundberg, V. & Lundin, J. A. (2017) ‘Antifascismen fält: Empiriska exempel från Sverige 1924–1945’, Historisk Tidskrift för Finland, 102 (1): 17–42. Rohe, K. (1966) Das Reichsbanner Schwartz Rot Gold. Düsseldorf: Droste Verlag. Schumann, D. (2009) Political Violence in the Weimar Republic 1918–1933. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Socialistisk Arbejder-Internationale 1923–25 samt den internationale socialistiske Kongres i Marseille 22.–27. August 1925 (1926), København: Socialdemokratisk Forbund. Socialistisk Arbejder-Internationales Beslutninger ved Kongressen i Wien 1931 (1931), København: Socialdemokratisk Forbund. Sørensen, N.A. (2003) ‘Kunne man forestille sig en dansk Hitler?’ Arbejderhistorie, 2: 11–22. Tschachotin, S. (1933) Trepil mod Hagekors. København: Frem Forlag. Voigt, C. (2009) Kampfbünde der Arbeiterbwegung. Köln: Böhlau Verlag.

6 Social Democratic Youth and anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939 Johan A. Lundin

Hitting back! When the Social Democratic Party leader Per Albin Hansson returned home on Friday 3 February 1928, a man was waiting in anticipation. From the shadows, the 23-year-old ex-corporal Sigvard Algot Holmberg stepped forth and surprised Hansson with a punch in the face. Then he fled. ­Hansson took up the hunt and when he caught up with him, he gave H ­ olmberg two strikes with his walking stick. Holmberg’s nose began to bleed profusely (Isaksson, 1996). Contemporaneously, the Social Democratic Youth ­Association (SSU) hailed their party leader’s deed as an exemplary anti-­fascist action (Frihet, 1928). However, this incident has been more or less forgotten. The dominant narrative is instead about how, as prime minister, the balanced and peaceful father of the nation Per Albin Hansson kept S ­ weden out of the Second World War. In equivalent ways Social Democratic historiography de-emphasises anti-fascist activities among party ­members. Instead, the economic crisis agreement with the conservative Rural Party (Bondeförbundet) takes ­centre stage in formulations like: ‘An important side effect of the crisis agreement was that the Nazism’s opportunities to win new sympathizers were impaired. The democratic system worked’ (Hirdman, 1990: 208). In this chapter, I go beyond the story of how the growth of fascism in Sweden was thwarted by Social Democratic conventions in parliament. My purpose is to call attention to the variety of anti-fascist strategies ­practised by members of Social Democratic Youth Associations across Sweden. Unlike earlier research that focusses on party and parliamentary politics during this period, my interest is in how anti-fascism was conveyed in c­ ampaigns, meetings, demonstrations and confrontations on the streets and in the squares. This chapter is partly based on joint research with Victor Lundberg (Lundin, 2005, 2008; Lundin & Lundberg, 2014; Lundberg & Lundin, 2017). In the first place, a short overview of earlier research within the field ­follows. Thereafter, a sketch of the political landscape and the mobilisation of fascism in Sweden in the interwar years is drawn. This is followed by an analysis of the anti-fascist activities of Social Democratic Youth. The ­chapter ends with a short discussion.

112  Johan A. Lundin

Premises Within Swedish historical research, the country’s relationship to Nazi Germany and European fascism during the 1930s and 1940s has attracted significant attention. Swedish historians stress that the relation of the Swedish governments to the development of events in the Third Reich and the rest of Europe was careful, pragmatic and governed by principles of ‘negotiation policy and non-intervention’ (Åmark, 2011: 643). This led to a long-lasting and passionate ‘guilt debate’ about the Swedish government’s so-called ‘­appeasement’ of fascism (Andersson & Tydén, 2007). The historiography of anti-fascist engagement during this period is ­limited. Louise Drangel’s study Den kämpande demokratin (1976) discusses anti-fascist associations such as Föreningen Kulturfront, Antifascistisk Samling and Förbundet Kämpande Demokrati, which focussed their efforts on developing critiques of Swedish government policy towards Nazi Germany. Yet academic research on how homegrown Swedish fascism was ­countered during this period is virtually non-existent. There is, however, some ­research on anti-fascism for later periods (Malmsten, 2008; Brink Pinto & Pries, 2013; Jämte, 2013). The historian Heléne Lööw points out that we know very little about Swedish anti-fascism, even though ‘confrontations between ­anti-­fascists and national socialists have a very long tradition’. She ­furthermore implies that this anti-fascist tradition was a significant one, and that fascist/anti-fascist confrontations were a normal part of everyday life during the 1930s and 1940s (Lööw, 2004: 404). There is an obvious gap in our knowledge about how Swedish anti-fascism manifested itself and how it conducted its political struggle. The impact that anti-fascist mobilisation had on the Nazi movement in Sweden has not been adequately assessed either in isolation, or alongside other factors. What we have instead are histories from different political organisations about their own particular contribution to the wider struggle against German Nazism and European fascism. Yet there was, for sure, a strong anti-fascist engagement across the whole political left wing during the 1930s and 1940s, and this was especially true for youth associations. How fascism should be fought was an issue that was discussed at all levels, from the meetings of local clubs to national and international congresses. Different youth associations organised campaigns and demonstrations, but also confronted fascists in public spaces. Sometimes there was cooperation across youth association frontiers, but mostly their relations bore the stamp of mutual suspicion, not least because each accused the other of having fascist sympathies. I have decided to focus specifically on the SSU for two key reasons. First, it was by far the largest youth association in interwar Sweden. Second, the SSU was a part of the Social Democratic Party that governed the country and yet the party’s history remains silent on the anti-fascist activities of its own ordinary rank-and-file members.

Anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939  113

The interwar Swedish political landscape The First World War and the revolutions in Europe brought repercussions in Sweden. Since the 1880s, demands for universal suffrage had been driven by Social Democrats and Liberals. However, it was only in the shadow of revolutionary Russia that the Conservatives in parliament gave in. Through the suffrage reform of 1918, ‘graded’ suffrage was revoked and women’s suffrage was granted. The first parliamentary election on this basis took place in 1921 and thereafter the parties of the parliament increasingly consolidated. This young democracy was fragile and there was frequent governmental turnover. During the period 1921–1932, Sweden had no fewer than eight different governments with almost as many prime ministers. But thereafter parliamentary politics stabilised with the Social Democrat Per Albin ­Hansson as prime minister between 1932 and 1939. The only exception was the summer of 1936 with the so-called ‘Holliday government’ when Axel Pehrsson-Bramstorp from the conservative Farmers Party was prime minister. This was made possible by the so-called ‘crisis agreement’ of 27 May 1933 when the Social Democrats struck an agreement with the Conservative Rural Party (Bondeförbundet) about the direction of economic policy. Per Albin Hansson then continued to lead the country in a coalition government that was formed at the outbreak of the Second World War. The Social Democratic Party that Hansson had behind him had experienced numerous changes. After 1900, the party had increasingly adopted a more reformist line, but this had not gone unchallenged. Tensions led in due course to defections and exclusions in different rounds. In 1917, for ­instance, a group of parliamentary members broke away from the party and formed Sweden’s Social Democratic Left-Wing Party, which affiliated to the ­Comintern. A few years later, this offshoot party took the name ­Sveriges Kommunistiska Parti (SKP). The Swedish Communist Party was also ­affected by schism. In 1929, a Moscow-critical faction established a b ­ reakaway party, later called the Socialist Party (Socialistiska partiet). These ­communist parties struggled to garner votes. In the general election of 1932, the Stalinist party captured 3 per cent and the dissidents 5.3 per cent. In the election of 1944, the SKP had support from a little over 10 per cent of the electorate and was the only communist party with mandate in the parliament (Norborg, 1995). These breakouts to the left stung the Social Democratic Party for certain, but electoral support for the Social Democrats still continued to grow. The 36 per cent that the party had captured in 1921 had increased to a record 53.8 per cent by the 1940 election. On the Swedish Left, there was also the syndicalist Swedish Workers’ Central Organization (SAC). Not a political party as such, it still played a part in contemporary political debate. This was noted for its anti-fascist activity – the SAC had about 35,000 members during the mid-1930s (Bergkvist & Andersson, 1960). In the 1930s, there were three parties to the right of the Social Democrats in parliament. The Liberals, who during the 1920s were divided into

114  Johan A. Lundin two parties, were united in 1934 under the label ‘Liberal People’s Party’ (­Folkpartiet). During the period until the end of the Second World War, the Liberals could count on the support of about 12 per cent of the popular vote. A similar proportion of votes was given to the Rural Party (Bondepartiet), which had been formed in 1921 to represent the interest of the peasants. This party was essentially conservative even though it seldom conducted ideological discussion. A conservative from of politics was also advocated by the Common Constituent Coalition (Allmänna Valmansförbundet), which later took the name ‘Right Wing National Organisation’ (Högerns ­riksorganisation). Of the conservative parties, this was the most significant. In 1932, it was the second largest party in parliament with 23 per cent of the popular vote. But it was in long-term decline, gradually dwindling to 16 per cent of the popular vote by 1944 (Norborg, 1995: 288). The interwar period was also characterised by the popular development of youth associations, which more or less functioned as mass movements. The largest was the Social Democratic Youth Association with over 97,000 members in 1934 (Peterson, 1975). As was the case elsewhere, these youth associations were often more radical than the parties and more visible in everyday life. The youth association of the right-wing conservative National Organisation went too far in its pro-fascism and it was excluded from the party in 1934.

Mobilisation of fascism in Sweden The historical origins of fascist mobilisation in Sweden stretches back to the beginning of the 1900s, forming a tradition of nationalistic and anti-­ Semitic agitation. Important milestones for the consolidation of the Swedish ­fascism were the foundation of Sweden’s Fascist Struggle Organisation (Sveriges Fascistiska Kamporganisation) and its newspaper Spöknippet from 1926. With the formation of Sweden’s National Socialist Party (Sveriges ­Nationalsocialistiska Parti) (SNSP) in 1930, Swedish fascism momentarily coalesced around the newspaper Vår kamp (Carlsson, 1942: 13–28, 199–209; Wärenstam, 1970: 13–90; Lööw, 1990: 73–5). Yet just like their European equivalents, Swedish fascism was s­ ubject to internal attrition. In January 1933, Sven Olov Lindholm and his ­followers left the SNSP and formed the National Socialist Workers’ Party ­ ominant (­Nationalsocialistiska Arbetarpartiet) (NSAP) and this became the d fascist organisation in Sweden during the 1930s and 1940s. The SNSP lived ­ urugård, on a few years under the direction of the veterinarian Birger F but it was dissolved in 1936. Another organisation was the National ­Socialistic Block (Nationalsocialistiska Blocket) (NSB), formed towards the end of 1933. This organisation aspired to lead Swedish fascism, but it was ­g radually ­emasculated during the second half of the 1930s (Lööw, 1990: 40–9; ­Lundberg, 2014). Alongside these explicitly pro-Nazi parties, a line of organisations with fascist/pro-Nazi sympathies also emerged, such as

Anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939  115 Sweden’s National Coalition (Sveriges Nationella Förbund) (SNF), the Compound of Sweden-Germany (Riksföreningen Sverige-Tyskland) and Swedish opposition (Svensk Opposition) (Lööw, 2004). Nonetheless, it would be the NSAP under Sven Olov Lindholm that dominated Swedish fascism. The party formed Sturmabteilungs (SA) after a strict German model with its own hierarchy of command. The main tasks for this SA were propaganda work as well as different types of operations – such as meeting surveillance and sabotage of meetings, infiltration, and registration and persecution of political opponents. In this context, the youth organisation, Nordic Youth (Nordisk Ungdom), formed in 1933, also played an important role. Sven Olov Lindholm was relatively successful in making the NSAP known in the public space and profiling himself as a fascist spokesperson for ‘common folk’. Nevertheless, neither his party nor any other fascistic organisation achieved any significant political influence in Sweden. The fascistic parties had their largest election ‘successes’ in the general election of 1936, but none, not even the NSAP, managed to capture more than 1 per cent of the vote. Within the historiography, the failure of homegrown Nazism in Sweden has been explained in three main ways. First, through the internal difficulties that prevailed within the fascist movement. Second, because many of the fascist sympathisers were younger than 21 years and therefore did not have the right to vote. Third, political consensus in parliament between the established political parties limited space for fascism. In addition to these explanations, the question of the efficacy of different forms of anti-fascist activism should also be added.

Anti-fascist mobilisation and cooperation Social Democratic Youth (SSU) was well organised, with local clubs all over the country, and divided into regional divisions. The SSU national ­leadership functioned close to the party leadership in Stockholm. In ­addition to the ­paper Frihet, which was published bi-weekly, the national leadership as well as the regional divisions sent circulars with information and instructions to the individual clubs on a regular basis. There was also a mutual ­correspondence where questions and answers were debated. During the 1920s, Sweden’s National Youth Association (Sveriges ­Nationella Ungdomsförbund) (SNU), the right-wing conservative counterpart, had been the primary political opponent of the SSU. However, in the election year of 1932, it was decided that preparations should now be made to take up the fight against those Swedish Nazis who would be participating in the election campaign. Hitler’s seizure of power in Germany during early 1933 sent a shockwave across Swedish Social Democracy. The leadership of the SSU wanted to suppress the incipient Nazi movement in Sweden and ‘Forcefully refute Nazi propaganda’ by spreading knowledge about the economic utility programme of the Social Democratic government. This was

116  Johan A. Lundin effected through presentations and brochures under the banner ‘Work is bread, freedom and democracy’ (SSU, 1934). Yet, many members across the country wanted to do more than that. In the south of Sweden where Nazism was considered particularly strong, the SSU division of Skåne undertook a systematic collection of i­ nformation about Nazi activity during spring 1933. A form was prepared, in which the local clubs were supposed to fill out information regarding what was ­taking place across the local landscape. The clubs would fill in information as to whether local branches of national socialists existed; how many members they had; their occupational profile; the identity of local leaders; how they conducted propaganda and if the SSU conducted local counterpropaganda; if any local Nazi leader had given speeches locally and how large the audience had been (AAS: SSU Skånedistriktet, Nationalsocialismens ­verksamhet). This survey would then be used to form different strategies with which the Nazism in the local community could be opposed. The club in Landskrona reported, for example, that they had three ‘agents’ that had attended the last Nazi meeting. A group of approximately 40 Nazis was believed to be active within this district in 1933. These activists disseminated propaganda through billing and circulation of the journal Vår kamp (AAS: SSU Skånedistriktet, Nationalsocialismens verksamhet). Elsewhere across the country, the initiative to fight the Nazism was also taken up. Some SSU clubs in Norrköping notified the leadership in Stockholm of the following: The national socialistic organisations in Norrköping are currently ­ eveloping a more and more lively propaganda for their ideas. That this d bears fruit is for sure possible to witness on the frequent ­recurrently meetings. From our party organisation’s side very little is done to ­suppress this expansion. The youth associations in Norrköping are thus of the opinion that something must be done in order to organise an effective agitation against the Nazis and therefore these clubs have ­appointed a unified anti-Nazi committee. (AAF, Brev från Norrköpingsklubbarnas antifascistkommitté). The leadership of SSU responded by disseminating a 125-page book entitled Manual for the Propaganda (Handbok för propagandan) in 1935. Comprehensive instructions detailed how one should proceed with flyers, ­demonstrations and meetings, and also detailed the legal provisions that applied at public meetings. The manual also advised that every association should organise a separate group that would attend fascist meetings, which would gather information about opponents: This should consist of stable, calm and dedicated members, that could hear their ideology and be exposed to their rudest imputations with a straight face and without showing that this in any way concerns them. (SSU, 1935: 50)

Anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939  117 The advice to all who attended the meetings of Nazi opponents was to keep their behaviour dignified and non-violent, ‘That not under any circumstances encourage disturbances, through controversy, irritation of the speaker, provocative exclamations etc’ (SSU, 1935: 72). The leadership of SSU worked hard to discipline their members. It carefully watched over the various collaborations that local clubs were undertaking. When the local SSU club and the communist youth association in Lönsboda formed a collaboration committee for ‘the opposing and studying of the National Socialism’ in the summer of 1933, they received instructions to terminate it immediately (AAS, SSU Skånedistrikts arkiv: Brev 11.09.1933). In August 1933, Avantgardet, the paper of the Socialist Party’s youth organisation, triumphantly announced that the local club of SSU had done the same thing as the equivalent club in Svedala and defied the local party leadership. Together they had arranged an anti-Nazi march and held a common meeting: In the lead a banner with the inscription “against national socialism” and with a painting after Diego Riviera. At the arrival at Bökeberg a member of the Social Democratic youth association held a speech and our comrade, Sigfrid Jönsson too, which were followed by resounding applause. Furthermore a resolution against Nazism was adopted. (Avantgardet, 1933) The communist youth association also tried to form a united front. In a salutation from the Communist Youth International, they received the call to action: ‘Cut the young social democrats and the Kilbom workers (the socialists) loose from their treacherous leader’s influence’ (Antifascistisk action, 1933). The united front was not about cross-party coalition-building, but rather about uniting the working class under the communist banner. In an article that was entitled ‘To the Social ­democrat youth association’s council and youth clubs, other working class youth associations and working class youth’, the following was declared: ‘May the working class youth gather in a counterattack against fascism! Do not let your leaders restrain you from the unified fight’ (Antifascistisk aktion, 1933). Within the Socialist Youth International (SYI), where SSU was represented, there were divisions on how to approach the communists. The chairman of SSU, Adolf Wallentheim, gave the following description of the SYI congress in 1933: The general impression was that the atmosphere was quite nervous. The debacle in Germany and the waiting for the same development in Austria is irritating. (…) The Belgians wanted to cooperate with the communists and conduct their own politics, in opposition to their party. The Belgians were supported by the French, Spaniards and the

118  Johan A. Lundin representatives from the Baltic countries. The Scandinavians claimed with firmness the old orientation. (ARF, SSU arkiv: Verkställande utskottets protokoll 4.9.1933) The discussion continued and the SYI never reached a common orientation in the matter. One year later, Anna Lindqvist cynically stated: Here different tactics have been used in the central European countries and in the Nordic countries. Down there people wanted to be radical in the common figures of speech, but were not able to be so in the dayto-day political action. Controversial resolutions have been adopted, but it could not become anything more than that. We have often noted this, but always settled for a more gentle approach. Now the ­activity down there has failed and they are grasping after straws to try to save ­themselves in any way. Now the united front is the salvation. The ­experience we have of the communists’ activities should however tell us that we can not expect anything good from them. They have never done anything else than stab us in the back, when it came to serious cases. (ARF, SSU: Allmän korrespondens, 1934)

Anti-fascist strategies SSU anti-fascism manifested itself in many different ways. Together with the historian Victor Lundberg, I have identified three strategies within the SSU: counter-agitation, confrontation and isolation (Lundberg & Lundin, 2014). SSU clubs across the country carried out a substantial agitation against fascism through leaflet handouts, billing, speeches and meetings. This was most often sanctioned by the regional or national leadership that could provide materials. Sometimes it involved targeting specific groups, as in Helsingborg, where the attention was turned to merchant employees and farm workers since these groups were considered to be especially receptive to the Nazism (AAS, SSU Skånedistrikt: Inkomna skrivelser, brev från SSU Frihet Helsingborg, 15.7.1933). The SSU club in Lund organised local protest meetings against the Nazis in the locations where the Nazis were considered strong, such as Höör, Sjöbo, Dalby and Veberöd (AAS, SSU Skånedistriktet: Inkomna skrivelser, brev från SSU Lund, 13.8.1933). The clubs turned to their district to receive help with speakers at these meetings. Torsten Nilsson, the chairman of Skåne’s district, was very popular and was often engaged in public-speaking. In Löderup, for example, he spoke on the theme of ‘Swastika violence or socialist liberation’ in May 1933 (AAS, SSU Skånedistriktet: Inkomna skrivelser, brev från SSU Löderup, 6.5.1933). Another frequently engaged speaker was Aron Borelius who, for instance, gave a talk on ‘Law or fists?’ in Limhamn on 25 May 1933 (Lundin, 2008). Even the young Tage Erlander, who later became Sweden’s prime

Anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939  119 minister, held a variety of talks in order to ‘Win the people through the concept of reason’ (Erlander, 1972: 199). A more challenging aspect of this counter-agitation strategy was to find Nazi meetings out and demand debate. This was often something that the local club associates could not handle themselves. Instead, they wrote to the district and called for reinforcements. When the Nazi Brolin planned to hold a lecture at the public house in Sjöbo in April 1933, the local SSU chairman Helge Olsson wrote to the district and asked if they were interested in coming to debate with the Nazis (using the word ‘nassarna’, the children’s word for pigs) (AAS: SSU Skånedistriktet, Inkomna skrivelser: brev från SSU Sjöbo, 3.4.1933). Torsten Nilsson wrote in his autobiography about how ‘call-out squads’ travelled around Skåne and ‘demanded debate’ (Nilsson, 1980: 73). Similarly, Tage Erlander talked of ‘a pitched campaign against the Nazism’, where he, among other things, debated with Birger Furugård at a meeting in Sjöbo (Erlander, 1972: 200, 255). In the same spirit, SSU clubs in Veberöd invited local activists from NSAP to a debate in June 1933. The local Nazi leader Kristoffer Persson responded that they could not accept this ‘because the leader in your club acted in an imbalanced manner in speech as well as behaviour at our district meeting’. A discussion in the house of the Labour movement (Folkets Hus) was not an option, but at the railroad hotel ‘where your leader possibly may have a better behaviour than in the above-mentioned meeting’ (AAS: SSU Skånedistriktet, Nationalsocialismens verksamhet, Veberöd 15.7.1933). It was not unusual for debates between local SSU members and Nazis to descend into physical scuffles. In the summer of 1933, many SSU departments supported this ‘take-the-debatestrategy’. In Lövestad, the SSU maintained that debate and discussion with the Nazis were better than SSU-organised meetings because these debates would ‘gather more, maybe many of pure curiosity, hence enlightenment would be possible this way’ (AAS: SSU Skånedistriktet, Nationalsocialismens verksamhet, Lövestad 4.7.1933). Yet in time, directives were issued to completely stay away from Nazi meetings. Another strategy was confrontation. This contained several dimensions. One dimension was to obstruct the meetings of the Nazis, that is, to physically prevent people from attending Nazi meetings. In the Nazi press, there were several reports of this happening, whereby the SSU tried to restrict the Nazis’ public space. Another tactic in this confrontational strategy was to steal or divert attention at meetings. There are several examples on how young Social Democrats sang the Internationale during or just after a Nazi meeting (Arbetet, 13.7.1933). After one meeting at the square Davidhallstorg in Malmö ‘The audience spontaneously joined up in the singing of the Internationale […] the Nazis also started to sing some kind of song which under a few minutes descended into a barely enjoyable singing competition’ (Arbetet, 14.7.1933). These ‘singing battles’ were often well directed and ritualised. Another example of a finely staged counter-protest was the response of Social Democrats at a NSAP meeting in Limhamn, where large sections

120  Johan A. Lundin of the audience on a given signal tuned their backs towards Lidholm as he began to talk (Lundin, 2005). In the Nazi press, there are several examples on how ‘Marxists’ disrupted the meetings by laughter, screams and applause at the wrong moments (Den svenske Nationalsocialisten, 11.7.1933). A further dimension in this confrontational strategy was, of course, ­violence. Adolf Wallentheim, the national chairman of SSU, was not ­unfamiliar with this. Against the backdrop of what was happening to the movement in Germany, he wrote in the May-Day issue of SSU’s ­member’s paper Frihet: ‘Be ready! If the reaction tries to conquer social power in our country it shall meet a battle of life and death’ (Frihet, 1.5.1933). A ­formulation like this gave license to violence as a legitimate weapon in the fight against Nazism. In the novella The forest is burning, which was published as a series in Frihet during 1933–1934, there is a sequence where the use of violence is portrayed as justifiable. The protagonist, a working-class boy and SSU associate, Sven Andersson, is on his way from a summer party together with his friend Inga, when they encounter a gang of so-called ‘­Aryan front fighters’. These youths had been denied entrance to the party and, in anger, attacked the SSU associates in the ticket booth: Before this sight Sven’s peaceful intentions were blown away and replaced by bellicosity. But like always when something is at stake, Sven’s brain became clear and coolly calculating, despite the excitement. With a violant fisticuff and a well-aimed kick he freed his comrade who was lying on the ground from his both antagonists. (Frihet, 15.3.1934) Thereafter, an extensive description of how the fight continued followed. Sven is portrayed like a hero, an experienced fighter with ‘an agile body and well-trained muscles, which were mastered by a clear and calmly working brain’ (Frihet, 1.5.1934). Sven becomes a role model that other SSU associates can identify with. His violence appears in this political context as exemplary. Besides this violent rhetoric, there are also concrete examples of the use of violence when SSU associates met Nazis in the streets and squares. ­According to the Nazi papers, organisers of meetings and sympathisers were often confronted by violent counter-demonstrators. The paper Den Svenske Nationalsocialisten reported on how the electioneer G. N. was brutally assaulted by about 20 ‘juvenile socialists’ in Malmö. According to the paper, he was kicked and beaten until he was unconscious (Den Svenske Nationalsocialisten, nr. 44, 1934). Also Torsten Nilsson describes in his biography how a meeting in Sjöbo got out of hand and turned into a ‘dreadful riot’, where fists and also different weapons were used (Nilsson, 1980: 74). A third strategy was to isolate the Nazis by simply ignoring their meetings. The SSU club in Landskrona underlined that the Nazi meetings should be

Anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939  121 unopposed, ‘In order to not give unnecessary advertisement, to ­absolutely not disrupt such meetings so that no martyr-halo is given to the Nazis’ (AAS: SSU Skånedistriktet, Nationalsocialismens verksamhet, Landskrona 21.7.1933). The Social Democratic morning paper Arbetet declared that, ­after disorder in the Davidhallstorg Square in Malmö in July 1933, let ‘the Nazis spew their abuse to empty squares’. The paper stated that the meeting had attracted a significant number of SSU associates and it i­ nstructed them to: ‘Let the Nazis keep to themselves. Swedish working-class youth is far too good to have the least to do with Mr. Lindholm and his tiny cute Nazis (­referring to piglets by using the word ‘nassar’). Don’t give the police even the least reason to intervene!’ (Arbetet, 14.7.1933). The aim with this strategy was twofold. Other than keeping the working-class youth away from the ‘mating calls’ of the Nazis and thereby minimising the risk that they would end up in bad company, the Social Democrats wanted to avoid their activists from appearing responsible for disrupting demonstrations.

Conclusion This chapter contributes to our understanding of how interwar fascism was confronted in local public spaces. International research emphasises both the variability and complexity of these confrontations (Hillenbrand, 1995; Mommsen, 2003; Capoccia, 2005), and their importance in s­ haping ­organisational cultures and views of both the political system and the role of government (see Stubbergaard, 1996; Copsey & Olechnowicz, 2010; Hodgson, 2010). Giovanni Capoccia underlines the importance of studying interwar political resistance to fascism, not only through a structural and institutional focus, but also from an actor-oriented perspective in order to capture ‘The impact of key political actors’ (Capoccia, 2005: 221–32, quote: 228). Furthermore, I take note of Gerd-Rainer Horn’s study on European socialism’s reaction to fascism in which he notes that previous research has underestimated the role of Social Democracy in resisting fascism (Horn, 1996: 156). This chapter has showed how young Social Democrats in Swedish local communities took part in fascist/anti-fascist political contest through meetings, demonstrations and confrontations in the streets. This was the formative context for many young Social Democrats who later would govern Sweden during the ‘welfare state era’. Key politicians such as Tage Erlander (Prime Minister 1946–1969), Torsten Nilsson (Minister of Communications 1945–1951, Minister of Defence 1951–1957, Minister of Social Affairs 1957–1962, Minister of Foreign Affairs 1962–1971) and Sven Andersson (Minister of Communication 1951–1957, Minister of Defence 1957–1973, Minister of Foreign Affairs 1973–1976) shared a common background in anti-fascist activity. Just like their European counterparts, the Swedish Social Democratic Party was shaped by interwar fascism and democratic crises (Berger & Broughton, 1995; Berman, 1998, 2006; Eley, 2002; Sassoon, 1996).

122  Johan A. Lundin

References Unpublished primary sources Arbetarrörelsens arkiv och bibliotek, Flemmingsberg (AAF) SSU arkiv: - Allmän korrespondens - Verkställande utskottets protokoll Arbetarrörelsens arkiv i Skåne, Malmö (AAS) SSU Skånedistriktet arkiv: - Allmän korrespondens - Inkomna skrivelser - Nationalsocialismens verksamhet Published primary sources Antifascistisk aktion: Kommunistiska ungdomsförbundets kamptidning mot fascismen: (1933–1933). Stockholm: Sveriges kommunistiska ungdomsförbund. Arbetet. Malmö: Nya Arbetet AB. Avantgardet: kommunistisk tidning för Sverges arbetar- och bondeungdom: organ för Sverges kommunistiska ungdomsförbund. (1930–1940). Stockholm: Avantgardet. Berättelse över verksamheten 1931–1934, Sveriges socialdemokratiska ungdomsförbund, Stockholm 1934. Den svenske nationalsocialisten: Huvudorgan för Nationalsocialistiska arbetarepartiet: (1933–1939) Göteborg. Frihet: organ för Sveriges socialdemokratiska ungdomsförbund. (1918–2017). Eskilstuna: Frihet. Handbok för propagandan (1934). Stockholm: Tiden. Literature Åmark, K. (2011) Att bo granne med ondskan: Sveriges förhållande till nazismen, Nazityskland och förintelsen. Stockholm: Bonnier. Andersson, L. M. and Tydén, M. (red.) (2007) Sverige och Nazityskland: skuldfrågor och moraldebatt. 1. uppl. Stockholm: Dialogos. ­ ulcher, J. (eds.) (1995) The Force of Labour: The Berger, S., Broughton, D. and F Western European Labour M ­ ovement and the Working Class in the Twentieth Century. Oxford: Berg. Bergkvist, K. and Arvidsson, E. (1960) SAC 1910–1960: jubileumsskrift. Stockholm: Federativ. Berman, S. (1998) The Social Democratic Moment: Ideas and Politics in the Making of Interwar Europe. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Brink Pinto, A. and Pries, J. (2013) 30 november: kampen om Lund 1985–2008. Lund: Pluribus. Capoccia, G. (2005) Defending Democracy: Reactions to Extremism in Interwar ­E urope. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Carlsson, H. (1942) Nazismen i Sverige: Ett varningsord. Stockholm: Trots allt. Copsey, N. and Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) (2010) Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Anti-fascism in Sweden, 1929–1939  123 Drangel, L. (1976) Den kämpande demokratin: En studie i antinazistisk opinionsrörelse 1935–1945. Stockholm: Diss. Stockholms Univ. Eley, G. (2002) Forging Democracy: The History of the Left in Europe, 1850–2000. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Erlander, T. (1972) Tage Erlander. 1901–1939. Stockholm: Tiden. Hillenbrand, F. K. M. (1995) Underground Humour in Nazi Germany: 1933–1945. London: Routledge. Hirdman, Y. (1990) Vi bygger landet: Den svenska arbetarrörelsens historia från Per Götrek till Olof Palme. [2., rev. uppl.] Stockholm: Tiden. Hodgson, K. (2010) Fighting Fascism: The British Left and the Rise of Fascism, 1919–1939. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Horn, G.-R. (1996) European Socialists Respond to Fascism: Ideology, Activism, and Contingency in the 1930s. New York: Oxford University Press. Isaksson, A. (1996) Per Albin. 3, Partiledaren. Stockholm: Wahlström & Widstrand. Jämte, J. (2013) Antirasismens många ansikten. Umeå: Statsvetenskapliga ­i nstitutionen, Umeå universitet, Diss. Umeå: Umeå universitet. Lundberg, V. (2014) En idé större än döden: En fascistisk arbetarrörelse i Sverige, 1933–1945. Möklinta: Gidlund. Lundberg, V. and Lundin, J. A. (2017) ‘Antifascismens fält – Empiriska exempel från Sverige 1924–1945’, Historisk tidskrift för Finland 102 (1): 17–42. Lundin, J. A. (2005) ‘Slaget på Limhamns torg’, Limhamniana, Malmö: Limhamns museum. Lundin, J. A. (2008) ‘“Lag eller näve?” Det stora mötet för demokrati på Limhamns torg 25 maj 1933’, Limhamniana, Malmö: Limhamns Museum. Lundin, J. A. and Lundberg, V. (2014) ‘Med ett våldsamt knytnävsslag och en välriktad spark? SSU och den nazistiska utmaningen 1933’, Arbetarhistoria 1–2. Lööw, H. (1990) Hakkorset och Wasakärven: En studie av nationalsocialismen i ­Sverige 1924–1950. PhD-thesis, Göteborg: Göteborgs Univ. Lööw, H. (2004) Nazismen i Sverige 1924–1979: Pionjärerna, partierna, propagandan. Stockholm: Ordfront. Malmsten, J. (2008) Den föreningsdrivna antirasismen i Sverige: Antirasism i rörelse, IMER, Malmö högskola. PhD-thesis, Linköping: Linköpings universitet. Mommsen, H. (2003) Alternatives to Hitler: German Resistance under the Third ­Reich. London: I. B. Tauris. Nilsson, T. (1980) Lag eller näve. Stockholm: Tiden. Norborg, L.-A. (1995) Sveriges historia under 1800- och 1900-talen: Svensk ­samhällsutveckling 1809–1996. 4. uppl. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Peterson, C.-G. (1975). Ungdom och politik: en studie av Sveriges socialdemokratiska ungdomsförbund. Diss. Lund: Univ. Sassoon, D. (1996) One Hundred Years of Socialism: The West European Left in the Twentieth Century. London: Tauris. Stubbergaard, Y. (1996) Stat, kris och demokrati: Lapporörelsens inflytande i Finland 1929–1932. PhD-thesis, Lund: Lunds Univ. Wärenstam, E. (1970) Fascismen och nazismen i Sverige 1920–1940: Studier i den svenska nationalsocialismens, fascismens och antisemitismens organisationer, ideologier och propaganda under mellankrigsåren. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell.

7 ‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’ The anti-fascism of the International of Seamen and Harbour Workers Holger Weiss Introduction This chapter discusses the anti-fascist campaigns orchestrated by the International of Seamen and Harbour Workers (ISH) in Northern Europe during the first half of the 1930s. The organisation was a short-lived transnational radical coordinating umbrella body for communist-dominated/controlled trade unions of maritime transport workers established in 1930 during the ‘Third Period’ of the Communist International (Comintern). Officially presented as a radical and independent platform, the ISH was in reality a masked continuation of the Comintern’s Maritime Section, the International Propaganda and Action Committee of Transport Workers (IPAC Transport), and was financed through subsidies from Moscow. The ISH’s aim was to challenge the hegemony of the International Transport Workers’ Federation (ITF) as well as the various national waterfront labour unions. The rationale behind this policy was the belief in Moscow that the former policy of a ‘unity front from below’, where the communists had formed socalled revolutionary opposition groups within labour unions dominated by the Social Democrats, Reformists and Syndicalists, had to be replaced by a new approach. The main idea was to transform existing opposition groups into independent radical unions and to establish independent radical platforms for these organisations (Weiss, 2017). The ISH had legal sections in all three Scandinavian countries. In addition, it operated illegally in Finland and in the Baltic countries. However, the biggest challenge for any historical reconstruction of the activities and campaigns planned and organised by the ISH in Northern Europe is the fact that none of the sections have their own specific archival repositories. Documentary material that existed in Denmark and Norway was either destroyed by the communists, or confiscated when the Germans invaded the two countries in April 1940. The archives of the Swedish section, on the other hand, was first transferred to the Swedish Communist Party in 1935 and then, by order from the Comintern, to Moscow in 1937. ISH campaigns did leave some traces in contemporary local and national newspapers. At times, the secret police made some efforts to control communist activity

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  125 in the harbours and among seamen, resulting in surveillance reports and occasional raids against the headquarters of the ISH sections. My investigation into the ISH and its anti-fascist activities in Northern Europe will be based on documentary sources collected from the Comintern Archives in Moscow (Russian State Archive of Socio-Political History [RGASPI]), the ­Bundesarchiv in Berlin (BArchB) and the British National Archives in Kew (The National Archives [TNA]), as well as the national archives and the ­archives of the labour movement in Sweden (Swedish National A ­ rchives [SNA]; Arbetarrörelsens Arkiv och Bibliotek [ARAB]), Finland and ­Denmark (The Labour Movement Library and Archive [ABA]). The global campaigns of the ISH and their national and local articulations have hitherto received scant attention in academic research. In part, this reflects the positions of seamen and harbour workers within m ­ ainstream labour union history. The organisation of seamen in trade unions, especially, was a challenge as union activity was mainly land-based, while seamen worked on ships that seldom called at their home ports. Moreover, seamen were for long periods regarded as an unruly, individualistic and ­internationalist group who had few interests in organised union activities. A further challenge was unemployed seamen living ashore. ­Especially during the 1920s and 1930s, they constituted a problematic group for ­reformist-led labour unions: receptive to radical, i.e. communist, agitation and ­propaganda, they could turn into a ‘fifth column’ at union meetings and push for radicalisation of trade union activities. It comes as no surprise that many of the leading figures in the ISH had a background in the ‘revolutionary industrial unionism’ and the radical international syndicalism of the ‘Wobblies’, the Industrial ­Workers of the World (IWW), before and during the Great War (Cole, Struthers and Zimmer, 2017) Another handicap was that both Social Democratic and Communist Party and labour leaders r­ egarded the waterfront as a secondary field of work – in sheer numbers, the maritime workers constituted but a small portion of the work force (Eiber, 1997; Nelles, 2001). As Peter Cole and David Featherstone have underlined, apart from the Marine Transport Workers’ Industrial Union, the official maritime trade unions in the USA, Britain and elsewhere were also predominantly exclusionary and segregationist (Cole, 2007; Featherstone, 2008). Calls for multiracial spaces and organisations by ISH activists also faced similar problems in the early 1930s (Häberlein, 2012; Featherstone, 2015). Proletarian or radical international solidarity was part-and-parcel of revolutionary maritime labour unions during the interwar period. David Featherstone’s study on the hidden histories and geographies of maritime anti-colonial, anti-racist and anti-fascist agendas and activities highlights the complexities of radical (communist) articulation of class and race ­(Featherstone, 2012). Focussing on the British and Black Atlantic context, Featherstone, alongside Marika Sherwood, Hakim Adi and Christian ­Høgsbjerg, unearthed the discrepancy between the political call made by ISH members for colour-free and class-based radical maritime internationalism,

126  Holger Weiss and the everyday racism that a Black, Indian or Chinese seaman and harbour worker experienced within their workspace, and from communist union and party leaders (Sherwood, 1996; Adi, 2010; H ­ øgsbjerg, 2011; Featherstone, 2015). However, little is known about the articulations and actions of radical maritime internationalism in the Scandinavian c­ ountries during the ­interwar period, let alone the anti-fascist activities and campaigns of the ISH and its sections in Scandinavia. Some traces of it can be found in Dieter Nelles’ seminal study on the ITF and anti-fascism ­(Nelles, 2001), Martin Estvall has analysed anti-fascist discourses in Swedish maritime journals during the 1930s (Estvall, 2009), and Jepser Jørgensen has scrutinised the activities of the Danish section of the ISH after the Nazi takeover in ­Germany (Jørgensen, 2017). Research exists on the ship sabotage activities of the so-called Wollweber Organisation, sometimes referred to as the ‘Anti-Fascist League’ in the Nordic countries in the late 1930s (Szubanski, 1960; Nørgaard, 1986; Borgersrud, 2001; Scholz, 2012). But these ­activities had no links with the ISH or its national sections in Scandinavia as the latter ones had all been disbanded by 1935/36. Significantly, anti-fascism was at the heart of the transnational discourse of the ISH and its forerunner, the IPAC Transport. In contrast to the ITF and the reformist-led/dominated maritime trade unions, the key idea of the communists was that any union activity, be it a strike or a campaign, always had an international political agenda. When there was a strike by German or Polish seamen, the ISH issued a call for action to all its member sections: boycotts to load/unload ships or refusal of enlisting on ships. Any ­local or national strike was used for transnational agitation and propaganda. An ­i mperialist attack anywhere in the world called for national and local ­political action as a sign of international proletarian solidarity. The ports and maritime transport workers were identified as the core groups in international anti-fascist campaigns as they could block the shipments of war equipment, ammunition and troops. However, such ‘political campaigns’ were in most cases rejected by the reformist-led trade unions as unlawful ‘wild strikes’ and the reformist maritime trade union leaders as well as the ITF usually had little sympathy for such actions.1 Not surprisingly, therefore, following the ‘class-against-class’ tactics of the ‘Third Period’, the ISH and its sections deployed anti-fascist rhetoric in its attacks upon the so-called social fascist reformist leadership in the various national unions. Yet anti-fascist activities and campaigns were ­directed primarily against militarist, right and extreme right-wing countries (‘fascist dictatorships’), i.e. Italy, Japan and Germany but also Finland, the Baltic countries and Poland. This chapter concentrates on the latter form of anti-fascism. It explores the establishment of anti-war committees in Scandinavian harbours during the Manchurian Crisis in 1931–1932; the intensification of agitation and propaganda work of the Interclubs in the Scandinavian countries among German seamen; as well as on the ISH call to boycott ships carrying the Nazi German flag in 1933 and 1934. The

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  127 chapter highlights the intertwined relationship between local and national campaigns launched by the ISH and its sections in the Scandinavian countries and Comintern policies on a global level. Nevertheless, the anti-fascist credo of the Comintern was never supported totally by the Soviet Union. By 1933–1934, Soviet pro-German trade interests were in stark contrast to anti-fascist campaigns launched by the ISH. Last, but not least, the chapter unveils the tragedy of communist anti-fascist campaigns during the early and mid-1930s: while the communists were at the forefront in demonstrating against Japanese imperialism and German Nazism, they never managed to develop these campaigns into mass movements due to the fatal Comintern doctrine that targeted reformism and socialism as ‘social fascist’.

The ISH in the Northern Europe: legal units and illegal networks Communist agitation and propaganda among the maritime transport workers was initially organised through the International Propaganda Committee of Transport Workers. Already in 1921, there had been a vision of an umbrella organisation for radical maritime labour unions, i.e. a Red International of Water Transport Workers’ Unions.2 However, the plan was scrapped; instead, after 1928, maritime work was to be organised through a special unit, known as the International Propaganda and Action Committee of Transport Workers. This Propaganda Committee had several ­objectives. The first was to create cells and sections among the crew on board the ships and among the harbour workers who were to serve as the core action units in case of a strike or other legal activity. These units were expected to constitute themselves as ‘revolutionary groups’ in local and national unions for seamen and harbour workers and were to maintain regular communications with the national representatives of the International Propaganda ­Committee. The International Propaganda Committee would produce material for propaganda and agitation, such as manifestos and pamphlets. The Committee would also sponsor the establishment of so-called Port Bureaus in chief ports in the world. The Port Bureaus were to serve as the chief ­c entres for communication and information among the national groups and the International Propaganda Committee.3 Initially, Port Bureaus were planned for locations where legal communist activities were possible, namely New York, San Francisco, Sydney, Liverpool, Hamburg, Buenos Aires and Marseilles. Once established, the Port Bureaus were also to undertake illegal work, but for tactical reasons, these activities were to be run parallel to their legal activities. In order to reach out to Scandinavian seamen, the Port Bureaus in Hamburg and Liverpool were given the task to publish material in Norwegian. Last but not least, all material produced by International Propaganda Committee as well as the individual Port Bureaus was to be distributed to the other Bureaus in the network.4

128  Holger Weiss The local node of this transnational network was the International Seamen Club or Interclub. While eventually existing in all Soviet ports, 14 Interclubs existed outside the Soviet Union by 1930, including one in Copenhagen.5 Ideally, the local Port Bureaus and the Interclubs were to coordinate their work, while being monitored through directions received from the headquarters of the International Propaganda Committee in Moscow. However, in practice, this hierarchical order had several tactical drawbacks, not least the question of establishing secure connections between Moscow and the various national units. Moscow-controlled communist activities were viewed with utmost suspicion in most countries, resulting in ­communist agitation and propaganda that was either ‘semi-legal’, i.e. by making use of (fake) organisations whose activities had not been blocked by government regulations, or had been totally banned. In a few countries, such as ­Germany and the Scandinavian countries, communist activities were legal. As a consequence, the official headquarters of the International Propaganda Committee was transferred to Hamburg and the Hamburg Port Bureau evolved as the node in the maritime network of the Red International of Labour Unions (RILU) and Comintern (Weiss, 2017: 266–8). In 1928, the maritime work of the RILU was totally reorganised as a consequence of the adoption of the Comintern’s ‘class-against-class’ strategy. The new strategy was adopted by the RILU at its Fourth World Congress in 1928 and was cemented by the so-called Strasbourg Theses in 1929. While the previous ‘united front from below’ tactics was based on the idea of communist factions within the sectoral labour unions and invited communist and non-communist co-operation on the local and national level, the new ­Comintern policy brandmarked the reformist and Social Democratic parties and trade union leadership as the lackeys of bourgeois capitalists. The new trade union strategy of the RILU called for the establishment of a ­revolutionary trade union opposition within the labour unions that would assume control of the unions from within or, if it was not possible, to establish a new revolutionary organisation as a counter-force to the existing union (Tosstorf, 2004). Beginning in 1929, the first step towards the implementation of the ‘classagainst-class’ strategy in maritime work was the transformation of the communist faction to a revolutionary trade union opposition in the various national unions of seamen and waterfront workers. The second step was the transformation of the IPAC Transport into an umbrella organisation of the various revolutionary trade union opposition units. This was achieved in October 1930 with the establishment of the ISH (Weiss, 2017: 271–3). Similar to the IPAC Transport, the headquarters or International ­Secretariat of the ISH was located in Hamburg in the building of the Port Bureau and Interclub at 8, Rothesoodstrasse. However, in contrast to the International Propaganda Committee, the ISH was projected as an umbrella organisation of affiliated national revolutionary trade unions. Politically and tactically, the ISH was envisioned as the radical counterpart of the

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  129 Reformist-controlled ITF. The ITF and the reformist, social democratic, syndicalist or socialist trade union leaders were attacked for being the lackeys of the shipowners; they were blackened as traitors of the working class and were accused for supporting the capitalist bourgeoisie and imperialists in their preparations for a war against the Soviet Union.6 Officially, the ISH presented itself as a new radical transnational and global labour union federation for maritime workers, i.e. a Maritime ­International, with sections on all continents. What constituted a national section, however, remained unclear. Similar to the Comintern and the RILU, a national section was a national maritime trade union that was affiliated to the ISH. However, only in Germany, France, Britain and the USA did the revolutionary trade union opposition emerge as independent unions, i.e. the ­Einheitsverband der Seeleute, Hafenarbeiter und ­Binnenschiffer, the Fédération Unitaire des Marins et Pêchers, the Seamen Minority ­Movement and the Maritime Workers Industrial Union (Margain, 2015; Weiss, 2017: 279). A different situation prevailed in the Scandinavian countries. Apart from the communist-influenced Danish Stokers’ Union, which cut its ties with the ITF and joined the ISH, all of the national unions of seamen, stokers or harbour workers retained its affiliation with the ITF and the reformist Scandinavian Transport Worker Federation. Although communist maritime union activists started to apply the new RILU directives from 1929, progress was slow and it took some years before revolutionary trade union opposition groups had been established in the Scandinavian countries.7 The situation in Sweden was more complex than in Norway or Denmark. Here, there had been a rift in the Communist Party in 1929. While the majority under ­leadership of Karl Kilbom had cut their ties with Moscow, the ­m inority continued as a section of the Comintern. In 1934, the Kilbom group ­established itself as the Socialist Party. As Håkan Blomqvist has underlined, most of the leaders of the seamen’s union belonged to the Kilbom group, i.e. were ‘Socialists’ rather than reformists, and were at loggerheads with the communists (Kennerström, 1974: 61–5; Blomqvist, 2010). The slow pace of organised work in Scandinavia resulted in a critical evaluation at a meeting of ISH executive board in September 1931.8 The meeting resulted in the effective formation of the revolutionary trade opposition within the various national maritime unions, such as the Søfolkenes og Havnearbejdernes revolutionære fagopposition in Denmark, the ­Sjøfolkens Revolusjonære Fagopposition in Norway and the Sjötransportarbetsarnas Revolutionära Fackopposition in Sweden. Each of the national communist – revolutionary – trade union opposition, shortened as RFO, was to establish its own organisational structures including a national secretariat and local sections or groups – they were not independent bodies or trade unions per se. As a consequence, none of the Scandinavian RFOs ever applied for ­formal membership in the ISH, as this could only have been done in the name of a union. On the other hand, the Scandinavian RFOs claimed in their public appeals and on the front pages of their journals and magazines

130  Holger Weiss that they were the national sections of the ISH – as did the ISH in its own publication (Weiss, 2017: 281). The Scandinavian countries were of strategic importance for the ISH – and, by extension, Moscow – in three aspects. First, the Norwegian merchant fleet was the third largest in the world during the 1920s and 1930s. Although Norwegian shipowners and captains did their best to prevent communist agitation and propaganda work on board their ships, such work was not forbidden or illegal per se. Second, Swedish iron ore was a central raw material for war equipment. Third, the Danish islands were the key to the Baltic Sea. However, a few obstacles had to be overcome: Norwegian merchant ships seldom called at home and the ISH International Secretariat was not locally present in the Scandinavian countries. The solution to both problems was the establishment of a parallel network, namely the Interclubs. Although such a club had already existed in Copenhagen since the mid-1920s, others were established in late 1931 and after, in ports such as Stockholm, Gothenburg, Esbjerg, Oslo, Bergen and Trondheim. According to ISH regulations adopted in 1930, the Interclubs were not part of the national sections, but were to be financed and directed by the ISH International Secretariat. The objective with the parallel structure was that the national sections were to focus on agitation within the national maritime unions, while the Interclubs were to focus on foreign ships and their crew.9 Even more complicated was the situation in Finland and the Baltic countries. Organised communist activities had been banned since the early 1920s, and so what existed there were various forms of illegal and underground political and trade union groups. In Finland, the communists were, for a short time, capable of highjacking the seamen’s union in 1930, but the attempt failed as the reformist majority founded a new union and communist activities were banned by the government in late 1930 (Soukola, 2003). In Estonia, on the other hand, the communists were able to get control of the seamen’s union, the Eestimaaline Merimeeste Liit, in 1932 but this attempt, too, was blocked by the reformist majority by establishing a new union one year later (Mihkelsen, 1935). Still, the ISH would claim that it had sections in at least Finland and Estonia – or rather ‘exile’ sections which published their own journals, Majakka and Majakas, in Hamburg. In reality, however, the Finnish and Baltic sections existed only on paper; the magazines and appeals published in Finnish and Estonian were distributed to seamen through the Interclubs and then smuggled via various ports in the Baltic to liaison persons in Finland or Estonia.

Anti-imperialism and anti-war campaigns of the ISH in Scandinavia The Nazi takeover in early spring 1933 posed a challenge for international communist organisations with headquarters in Germany. The ISH solved this problem by relocating the International Secretariat to Copenhagen in

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  131 April 1933. The transfer to Copenhagen added a new objective to the international tasks of the ISH. While the organisation had in previous years launched two campaigns that were in tandem with the Imperial War Thesis of the Comintern, the new campaign of 1933, the Campaign Against the Nazi Flag, was profoundly anti-fascist. The Imperialist War Thesis had already been outlined at the Eighth ­Plenum of the Executive Committee of the Comintern (ECCI) in 1927 and were officially sanctioned at the Tenth Plenum of the ECCI in 1929. The thesis laid the foundations for all international campaigns launched by the ­Comintern or the RILU. The core argument was that the imperialist ­powers, first and foremost Britain and France, were planning for a military invasion of the Soviet Union and the destruction of the Bolshevik revolution and that all workers of the world were called to defend the ‘Fatherland of the Workers’ (Inprekorr, VII: 61, 1927: 1285; Degras, 1971: 64–7). This doctrine was fundamental to the ISH and its international activities right from the start. In effect, the Anti-War Thesis laid the foundations for its international campaign for the establishment of anti-war committees in harbours and on board ships. The task of the committees was to check and report on the export and shipment of war material. When and if possible, the committees were obliged to do their utmost to boycott such shipments (Rotes ­G ewerkschafts-Bulletin, 78/9, 13.12.1930). The test case for the ISH came during the 1931–1932 Manchurian ­Crisis. While Soviet foreign policy officially applied strict neutrality, the Comintern and the RILU started an international solidarity campaign against Japanese imperialism and militarism. Similar to the campaign of the communist parties and labour unions, the ISH campaign rested on two pillars: the Imperial War Thesis and the class-against-class policy. Thus, the ISH and its national sections had a dual message in their appeals – a positive one calling for international solidarity with China, and a negative one attacking the ITF and the reformist union leadship for supporting Japanese imperialism as they opposed the boycott of war equipment to Japan (‘ITF och kampen mot kriget’, Ny Dag 4.12.1931; Borgersrud, 1994: 55). The ‘Hands off China’ campaign of the ISH had two phases in the Scandinavian countries. Initially, in late 1931, the campaign resulted in the ISH call for actions against Japanese imperialism. The Danish revolutionary trade union groups were urged to stop all transport of war equipment via Danish harbours and on Danish ships.10 In Sweden, the national congress (landskonferens) of the maritime revolutionary trade union opposition discussed the war in the Far East (‘R.F.O.:s landskonferens’, Hamn- och Sjöproletären, December 1931). However, not much was achieved. In fact, international inactivity of the communist union activists resulted in a new appeal by the European Bureau of the RILU in February 1932, calling explicitly on maritime workers to boycott and stop the transport of war equipment to the Far East.11 This renewed call – or rather instructions – resulted in local activities. Anti-war meetings were organised in several

132  Holger Weiss locations in Sweden and a local anti-war committee was organised in Gothenburg  in March 1932 (‘Kamp mot kriget–Bilda antikrigskommittéer!’, Hamn- och Sjöproletären, April 1932; ‘Mot det imperialistiska kriget’, Hamn- och S ­ jöproletären, ­February–March 1932). In June, a national ­anti-war ­committee was e­ stablished in Gothenburg with local branches in ­several ports (Stormklockan, 9–16.6.1932). Similar activities had taken place in Denmark and ­Norway and a ‘Scandinavian Anti-War meeting’ was ­scheduled to take place in ­Elsingore in June 1932 (‘Till Helsingör’, Hamnoch Sjöproletären, June 1932; Borgersrud, 1994: 61). Not surprisingly, the communist ‘Hands off China’ campaign received little backing by the ITF, the Scandinavian Transport Workers’ Federation (STF) and reformist trade union leaders in Scandinavia. The ITF and its leader Edo Fimmen opposed the call as it had not been sanctioned by the League of Nations (Nelles, 2001). The Swedish leadership, for example ­(‘Internationell orientering’, Sjömannen, May 1932; reprinted in Eldaren, June 1932), openly rejected the ISH call for a boycott and denounced it as a communist charade – why stop the transport of war equipment to Japan when Russian railway workers were at the same time assisting in the transport of Japanese soldiers and weapons in Manchuria?

Anti-fascism and the campaign against the Nazi Flag Anti-fascism had been part-and-parcel of communist political rhetoric since the 1920s. Initially, the attack was directed against organisations and regimes with a reactionary and ultranationalist agenda, but with the turn to the class-against-class policy, Social Democratic parties and reformist labour unions were denounced as traitors to the working class and branded ‘social fascist’. The Nazi takeover in Germany in 1933 added an international perspective to communist anti-fascism. While earlier appeals warned the working class about the lure of fascism, the anti-fascist struggle against the Nazi regime in Germany was to be a truly international task. This change of policy was to be manifested through a unified front of the international working class and was made public in an appeal by the ECCI in early June 1933 (Weber, Drabkin, and Bayerlein, 2015: 960–2). Anti-fascism constituted the third pillar of the ISH. However, similar to other communist organisations, anti-fascism was initially used only in political rhetoric, not as a guide for international activities. Thus, the anti-­ communist laws in Finland, the Japanese invasion of Manchuria and the attack of the Guomingdang regime in China against the Chinese Soviet were all branded as ‘fascist’ (‘Fascist-Kup i Finland’, Laternen, July 1930). However, apart from the Hands off China campaign, the ISH never called for ­international campaign against – in communist vocabulary – ‘fascist ­regimes’. Instead, as late as February 1933, the ISH International Secretariat’s main focus was still on the anti-war campaign against Japan.12 Activities against fascism were regarded a task for national sections, i.e. the German

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  133 one and the exiled/illegal Italian one (‘Die ISH der Wasserkante an das Wassertransportproletariat: Kämpft in der antifascistischen Aktion gegen den Mordterror der Nazis, für Arbeit und Brot!’, Hamburger Volkszeitung, 16.7.1932). Significantly, the ISH changed its stance towards anti-fascist campaigns after Reichstag fire in February 1933 and the suppression of the ­German Communist Party in March 1933. The consequences of the German ­repression were troublesome for the ISH – its biggest and best organised section was declared illegal and had to build an underground organisation. ­Anti-fascist action became a fight for survival for the ISH International Secretariat in Copenhagen. Its objective was twofold: to publish and disseminate illegal publications in Germany as well as to call for international boycott of the Nazi flag. While the former task was to be coordinated in cooperation with the Danish section, the latter one was to be organised through local Anti-Fascist Action Committees to be established by each of the ISH national sections.13 The International Secretariat published its first call for an Anti-Fascist Front in mid-March 1933. One week later, the Danish section published a translation of the call. The main tenor of the call was the urge to move from agitation to open action: seamen and harbour workers all over the globe were to form a united front in support of the German proletariat. Last, but not least, the maritime workers were invited to send delegates to the planned European Anti-Fascist Labour Conference of the RILU, which was to convene in Copenhagen in April 1933.14 The congress was to protest against the situation in Germany, but to discuss the conditions of the proletariat under ‘fascist’ dictatorship in general, including the situation in Finland, Latvia, Greece and Yugoslavia.15 However, the Danish authorities rejected the idea of an Anti-Fascist congress in Copenhagen. Eventually, the RILU congress merged with the initiative of the World Committee for Peace and Against Fascism to organise an Anti-Fascist Congress in Paris in June 1933.16 While the Danish comrades and the Danish section cooperated closely with the International Secretariat, anti-fascist agitation was slow to gather momentum in Sweden. This was due to the Swedish section being engaged in the national seamen’s strike from early to late March 1933. A first ­appeal for the formation of Anti-Fascist Action Committees on board Swedish ships and in the harbours was only issued in early April. Anti-Fascist a­ gitation had been late, the appeal noted and, not surprisingly, attacked the Social Democratic Party and labour movement: ‘Experience from every Fascist country tells us that Fascism has come into power with the help of the treacherous Social Democracy’ (‘Bilda antifascistiska kommittéer i varje fartyg och hamn’, Ny Dag 11.4.1933). The Swedish Seamen’s Union and its newspaper were remarkably silent on this issue in 1933 (Estvall, 2009). The ISH changed its anti-fascist tactics in April 1933 when the German authorities ordered the German merchant fleet to carry the Nazi flag. The ISH International Secretariat issued a directive to all its sections, calling for a

134  Holger Weiss global boycott of Nazi symbols and urged harbour workers to refuse to unload and load ships that carried the Swastika flag. During First of May Demonstrations, the German consulates in Fredrikstad, Kristiansand, Haugesund and Narvik in Norway as well as those in Esbjerg and Kolding in Denmark were attacked and the Swastika flag was forcefully removed (­ ‘Hakkorsflaggan nedriven’, Norrskensflamman 2.5.1933). The Swedish bourgeois press was relieved: no incidences had occurred in Sweden ­(‘Hakkorsflaggan nagel i ögat på demonstranter’, Svenska Dagbladet 2.5.1933). The first specific actions against German ships took place in Antwerp on 9 and 10 May, soon followed by incidents in Oslo and Bergen, Gothenburg and Stockholm, Copenhagen and Esbjerg, as well as elsewhere, including Barcelona, Le Havre and New York. News about the successful boycotts was used by the communist press in Sweden to encourage similar actions in Swedish ports (‘Hamnarbetarnas aktioner mot hakekorsflaggan’, Ny Dag 28.6.1933). The Danish Havnearbej-­ dernes RFO circulated flyers in the port of Copenhagen urging the harbour workers to boycott German ships.17 Actions against German ships in Scandinavian ports gained momentum in late May. Unemployed seamen boarded a German ship in Copenhagen and carried away the Swastika flag; in another action they tried to distribute anti-fascist literature to the German crew.18 A common form of boycott by harbour workers was to refuse to unload a German freighter so long as it carried the Swastika flag, as was the case in Odense, Oslo, Trondheim and Örnsköldsvik (‘Hakekorsflaggan skars ner i ­Sundsvall’, Ny Dag 7.7.1933; ‘Hamnarbetare i strejk mot hakekorsbåt’, Ny Dag 28.6.1933; ‘Strejk mot hakekorset i Örnsköldsvik’, Ny Dag 29.6.1933; ­Borgersrud, 1994: 78). In Oslo, a boycott by dockers of the G ­ erman freighter ­Holstenthor extended over several days. At first, the local section of the Norwegian Dockers’ Union tried to counteract the ‘spontaneous’ blockade of the German ship by sending a new group to unload the ship, but when the Swastika flag was raised again, the ­Norwegian workers refused to continue their work and the German crew members had to finish the job (‘Anti-Hitler Utbrudd’, Nordisk Tidene 30.5.1933; ‘Holstenthor blev utlosset’, Arbeiderbladet 27.5.1933). By this stage, the boycotts against the Nazi flag in several Swedish (Sundsvall, Gothenburg) and European (Antwerp, Rotterdam, Barcelona, L’Orient, Gdingen and Groningen) ports were being hailed in the Norwegian press (‘Hakekorsflagge tåles icke. Havnebyens arbeidere virer det ned’, Arbeiderbladet 10.6.1933). The German embassy in Norway reacted by sending an official enquiry to the Norwegian Foreign Ministry and asked to receive detailed reports about the attacks (Borgersrud, 1994: 77–8; ­Borgersrud 2001: 43); in fact, such activities were in line with similar reports about the activities of ­G erman political refugees in Norway which were sent to the German police authorities (Selliaas, 1982). When the dockers in Åbenrå (Aabenraa) in southern Jutland refused to unload a German freighter in August, the incident resulted into a diplomatic crisis between Germany and

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  135 Denmark (Mikkelsen, 2018: 90). Consequently, the Danish secret police opened ­i nvestigations about the activities of the ISH and its section in Denmark in 1933 (Jano, 1996: 7, 11). The ISH boycott was received with mixed feelings by the reformist and Social Democratic union leadership. In Norway, boycotts were declared ‘breaches in the industrial peace’ (‘Holstenthor blev utlosset’, Arbeiderbladet 27.5.1933). The Swedish union leaders were equally negative; in their mind, the boycott was nothing more than an unauthorised ‘wild’ strike and an illegal protest. The negative stance by the reformist union leadership drew criticism from the communist journal Hamn- och sjöproletären, which attacked union leaders for preventing actions against a German freighter in Kalmar (Hamn- och Sjöproletären, July 1933: 6). Meanwhile, the reformist union journal Sjömannen sarcastically noted that the ‘successful’ boycott of the ­German oil tanker Kah-Mal in Stockholm was not surprising as it was c­ arried out by communist harbour workers employed by the ­Soviet-owned Naftasyndikatet (‘Hakekorsflaggan fick ’stryka’ flagg!’, Hamn- och ­Sjöproletären, September 1933: 2; ‘Sillénaktion med ’positivt’ resultat. Den första i ­Sverige’, Sjömannen, October 1933: 401). Reformist actions, such as the lowering of the Swastika flag on board the German steamer Gertrud in the port of Gothenburg in September received no comment in the communist press – especially as it turned out that the action had been carried out by the chief editor of the Sjömannen, Waltenin ­Eliasson (‘Svensk halade ned flaggan i Göteborg’, Aftonbladet, 14.9.1933; ‘Tysklands ’kränkta ära’ ­ingenting värd. Hakkorsflagga nedhalad från tysk båt i ­Göteborg’, Sjömannen, ­September 1933: 363–4). Also, when the communist press criticised the Swedish government for granting permission for a shipment of Swedish-made Bofors ammunition to Germany (‘Reformistisk bojkott’, Hamn- och Sjöproletären, November 1933: 8), the reformists sarcastically countered that there existed no boycott of German ships and no attacks on the ­Swastika flag in Soviet ports (‘Om kryssningar, konsekvens och hakkorsflaggor’, Sjömannen, November 1933: 415). Similar critical remarks were raised in the Norwegian social democratic press. While harbour workers throughout Europe were protesting against the ­ erman Nazi flag, no calls for boycotting it were raised in the Soviet Union. G freighters carrying the Swastika flag were unloaded in Leningrad and in Odessa and there were no protests against the Nazi flag on 1 May 1933 outside the German consulates (‘Hakekorsflagge tåles icke. Havnebyens arbeidere virer det ned’, Arbeiderbladet 10.6.1933). Still, the campaign continued both in Swedish and Norwegian ports and local boycotts by harbour workers occurred in Holmsund and Follafoss in early August (‘Fascistflaggan ströks i Djupvik. Strejk mot hakkorsflaggan i Norge’, Norrskensflamman 11.8.1933). By this point, the campaign had also spread to Iceland. In August 1933, demonstrators attacked the German consulate in Siglufjörður and tore down the Nazi flag, while German vessels flying the Swastika flag were boycotted in Reykjavik in September and November 1933 (see further Chapter 1

136  Holger Weiss by Kristjánsdóttir and Järvstad in this volume). The action in Reykjavik in November was, together with similar activities in French, B ­ elgian and Dutch ports, hailed by the illegal Finnish section as signs of a successful campaigns.19 The weakness of the ISH campaign was that it had never been designed as a boycott on German foreign trade. Although the Labour and Socialist International and the International Federation of Trade Unions had issued an appeal for an international boycott on Nazi Germany in August 1933, the Comintern had dismissed the proposal and instead called for an intensification of the boycott of German ships and the protest against the Swastika flag (Weber, Drabkin and Bayerlein, 2015: 1039–42). Even stranger were the official policy of the Soviet Union towards Nazi Germany and the renewal of the trade treaty between the two countries. For the Swedish maritime trade union leadership, this revealed the hypocrisy behind the communist calls for a unified anti-fascist front (‘Bojkotten mot Hitler-land och Kominterns mystiska inställning till bojkotten’, Sjömannen November 1933: 382). The second form of anti-Nazi activities by the ISH was the dissemination of illegal publications to underground cells and groups in Germany. This was organised through special liaison persons in the Interclubs. Key nodes in the dissemination network were Copenhagen, Rotterdam and Antwerp.20 Interclubs in those harbours where visits from German ships were more frequent received additional staff members to boost agitation and propaganda work in German.21 The Interclub in Copenhagen emerged as the operative centre of the clandestine activities when Ernst Wollweber, the leader of the German ISH section, moved to Denmark in August 1933 (Eiber, 1997: 591). The Interclubs in Sweden also emerged as hubs for anti-Nazi agitation and propaganda among German crew members. While the German authorities regarded the boycotts of German ships as a mere nuisance, the attempt to spread communist propaganda among German seamen was seen as highly problematic. German captains were therefore ordered to counteract communist infiltration by all means, among others denial of permission to leave the ship as an attempt to prevent seamen to visit the Interclubs.22 Apart from the actions against the Swastika flag and the dissemination of illegal literature in Germany, the ISH launched an international campaign in support of its Secretary General Albert Walter. Together with the ­German communist leadership and thousands rank-and-file party members, Walter had been jailed by the German authorities in their clampdown on the German Communist Party in March 1933. The most visible international campaign orchestrated by communist international organisations such as International Red Aid was that in support of party leaders Ernst Thälmann and Ernst Torgler as well as the Bulgarian communist Georgi Dimitrov, the latter two being accused for the Reichstag fire. Albert Walter, in turn, evolved as the martyr of the ISH who was tortured by the Nazis in the Fulsbüttel concentration camp outside Hamburg (‘Albert Walter torteras’, Hamn- och Sjöproletären, November 1933). Time and again, the journals of the national ISH sections reminded their readers of the plight of Walter and

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  137 reprinted the ISH Secretariat’s demand for his freedom (‘Resolution för att Albert Walter friges (11.3.1933)’, Ny Dag 13.11.1933; ‘Kräv Albert Walter fri!’, Storm: Organ för Sjötransportarbetarnas RFO 1, 1934). Where possible, the campaign was made publicly visible. For example, two huge banners covered the exterior of the Interclub in Stockholm during the autumn 1933, demanding freedom for Torgler and other anti-fascists, and blamed the Nazis for the Reichtag fire. By the end of the year, however, the Swedish police had removed them (‘Polisövergrepp mot Interklubb’, Ny Dag 22.12.1933).

Postscript: protesting against war and fascism and the collapse of the ISH The impact of the ISH campaign against the Swastika flag in Scandinavian ports is difficult to assess. Although the actions were visible and effective demonstrations, the boycotts never stopped the unloading or loading of a German ship. As a short-lived protest, they were effective, but as the campaign, had no political effect, the ISH leadership had changed its approach by the end of the year and integrated the ‘Boycott the Swastika Flag’ campaign into its activities in support of Soviet China. The new campaign was to be designed as a general anti-fascist measure.23 Events in the Far East had taken a new turn in 1933 when the Chinese national government under Chiang Kai-shek launched its attack against the Chinese communist strongholds in Jiangxi Province, known as Soviet China. The ISH International Secretariat received orders from Moscow to launch a new international campaign in defence of Soviet China in October 1933.24 Due to the ISH Secretariat facing operational problems at that time, its call for the reactivation of the anti-war committees and the blockade of ships with war equipment for Japan and nationalist China were published only in December.25 Flyers in Danish, i.e. prepared by Danish comrades at the ISH Secretariat, soon circulated in the port of Gothenburg, while the ­Swedish RFO-journal Hamnarbetaren urged its readers to back the struggle of the ­Chinese proletariat and to stop the transport of war equipment to the ‘Chinese imperialists’, i.e. Chiang Kai-shek.26 Similarly, the (illegal) Finnish mimeographed journal Kipinä hailed the successful actions of the stevedores in Le Havre in November 1933 as an example to inspire the radical harbour workers for similar expressions of international proletarian solidarity in Finland.27 The conflict in China intensified in 1934 and the communists had to abandon their strongholds in Jiangxi in October and started to retreat to Shaanxi Province (the ‘Long March’), where they established a new basis for their operations. The RILU European Secretariat in Paris tried at this point to reactivate and coordinate its anti-war activities. It established a ­Planning Committee consisting of the ISH Secretariat – which had relocated to ­Antwerp and operated as an underground and illegal unit from there while using its address in Copenhagen as a legal camouflage – as well as representatives of the International Propaganda Committees of railway workers

138  Holger Weiss and metal workers.28 The task of the ISH Secretariat was to open up connections with the ITF and to invite them in unified anti-war activities.29 The national sections of the ISH, especially those in Scandinavia, were urged to intensify their anti-war campaigns, notably to stop the transportation of war material to the Far East (‘Masstransport av krigsmaterial’, Hamnoch Sjöproletären, February 1934). The focus was on Sweden as Gothenburg was the largest export harbour of war material in Scandinavia. If the ISH and the ITF were to join hands, local joint anti-war Committees were to be established that effectively could monitor and block any transport of military equipment (‘Krigsmolnen tätnar’, Hamn- och Sjöproletären, November 1934). Nevertheless, the ITF rejected the invitation of the ISH. This came as no surprise for the ISH leadership; in fact, now they could once again claim that the reformists had undermined unified anti-war activities.30 Communist anti-fascist rhetoric and anti-war activities had at this point merged and the ISH leadership declared in June 1934 that the forthcoming demonstration on 1 August 1934 would be ‘Against the Imperialist War and Against Fascism’.31 A fierce battle raged in the seamen’s union in Sweden during the year as the communist RFO made a serious attempt to oust the reformist and Socialist leadership. In Denmark too, the seamen’s RFO was at loggerhead with the reformists during the seamen’s strike. Class against class seemed as solid as ever: communist anti-fascist rhetoric continued to brand the reformist and Social Democratic/Socialist union leadership as ‘social-fascist’ (‘Fortsätt aktionen! Mot den bruna mordpesten!’, Storm: ­Organ för Sjötransportarbetarnas RFO 1, 1934; Lundvik, 1980: 12–13). One year later, the national sections of the ISH had ceased to exist in the Scandinavian countries. The attempt by the communists to replace the reformist and Socialist leadership of the Swedish Seamen’s Union failed miserably at the union’s national congress in September 1935 (Sjömannen, September 1935; Sjömannen, October 1935). Even worse, by that time, the Swedish RFO did not even exist anymore. A critical analysis by the Swedish Communist Party on the impact of the RFO’s maritime work concluded that it remained minimal; in fact, about 130 communists had been excluded from the seamen’s union in 1933 for their membership in the RFO. The Swedish Communist Party therefore asked the Comintern’s Scandinavian Secretariat for permission to abolish the maritime RFO in February 1935.32 Although the ISH International Secretariat initially rejected the proposal,33 the Comintern agreed on the liquidation of the RFO in March.34 The liquidation of the Swedish RFO reflected the Comintern’s break with the class-against-class doctrine and its (re-)turn to a united front policy, i.e. the Popular Front, which was endorsed at the Seventh World Congress of the Comintern in August 1935. The Popular Front doctrine also meant the death blow of the ISH as it was planned to amalgamate it with the ITF. The ISH abandoned its confrontation with and attacks on the ITF. Instead, it scaled down its activities in order to prepare for a merger with the ITF. But the outcome of this process was an ill-defined attempt to return to ‘united

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  139 front’ strategies (Borgersrud, 2001: 44, 49). Not surprisingly, the ITF responded negatively to the feelers of the ISH Secretariat.35 While such tactics had already been implemented in France and Spain in 1934,36 they received official backing first at the Seventh World Congress of the Comintern in 1935. The weak – if not non-existent – position of the ISH was finally revealed during the campaign against the Italian aggression and war against Ethiopia in 1935. While the ISH Secretariat was quick to respond to the call to organise an embargo against Italian ships and even tried to mobilise a worldwide anti-war and ‘Hands-off Abyssinia’ campaign, its attempt to enlist the ITF for unified action failed miserably (Weiss, 2018). Initially, the ITF Secretariat did not even bother to respond to the ISH’s calls and, after several futile attempts, the ITF declined any further co-operation with the ISH.37 Moscow’s plans of the ISH to establish a ‘world unified front’ together with the ITF never came to fruition. In February 1936, the Danish stoker unions, the last remaining national sections, cut its ties with the ISH and returned to the ITF.38 The final countdown to the dissolution of the ISH is not even documented. It appears that the ISH Secretariat ceased operations by mid-1936. Thereafter, the ISH existed only on paper and was liquidated by the Secretariat of the ECCI in June 1937.39

Notes 1 See further Die 5. Internationale Konferenz der revolutionären Transportarbeiter, abgehalten in Moskau im April 1928 (Moskau: Internationales Propaganda- und Aktionskomitee der revolutionären Transportarbeiter, 1928). 2 Report of the meeting of the Provisional Council concerned with the organisation of a Red International of Water Transport Workers’ Unions, held in ­Moscow, Hotel Lux, 28.4.1921, 534/5/149: 11, RGASPI. 3 The Most Urgent Tasks of the International Committee of Propaganda of the Transport Workers (no date [ca. 1921], 534/5/149: 61–63, RGASPI. 4 Proposition for Marine Transport Bureaus (no date [ca. 1921]), 534/5/149: 96–97, RGASPI. 5 Abschrift. Internationaler Seemannsklub in/Adressen der Internationalen Seemannsklubs (no author, no date [ca. 1930]), R1501/20224: 7, BArchB. 6 [ISH appeal] ‘An alle Seeleute und Hafenarbeiter!’, 534/5/219: 12–16, RGASPI. 7 (Undated) Report regarding the Søfyrbødernes Forbund i Danmark, Sømændenes Forbund i Danmark og Havearbejdernes Faellesforbund (ca 1933/1934), Søfyrbødernes Forbund i Danmark, Kasse 1, 107 Richard Jensen, ABA [hereafter ABA/Jensen]; Borgersrud, 1994: 45–48; Bilaga 6. Konfidentiellt. Den röda fackliga oppositionen (RFO) organisation och verksamhet i Sverige, s. 23, Kommittén ang. statsfientlig verksamhet, SRA. 8 Zweite Plenartagung der Exekutive der ISH, 10–12.9.1931, 534/5/224: 52, RGASPI. 9 (ISH instructions,) An alle Interclubs und sämtliche angeschlossene Organisationen, 4.4.1931, 534/5/221: 1–4, RGASPI; Resolution über die Tätigkeit des Hamburger Internationalen Klubs, no date, filed 15.IV.1931, 534/5/220, 155–161, RGASPI; Decisions of the II. Plenary Session of the Executive Committee of the ISH on the Activity and Tasks of the International Seamen’s Clubs, September 1931, 534/5/224, 191–203, RGASPI.

140  Holger Weiss 10 [ISH pamphlet] Søfolk! Havnearbejdere! [4 p.; ca. 1932], ABA/Jensen. 11 Rote Einheitsfront gegen den räuberischen Überfall auf China und gegen das imperialistische Kriegskomplott gegen die Sowjetunion und Sowjet-China ­(February 1932), R1501/20442: 469, BArchB. 12 ISH appeal in Swedish, January 1933, SÄPO Äldre Aktsystemet Volym 294 Pärm VIII C 3, SRA; ISH-Antikriegsarbeit February 1933, R1507/2085: 86–91, BArchB. 13 A. Shelley to all sections of the ISH and Interclubs, Copenhagen 8.3.1933, KV 2/2158: 6a, TNA. 14 Anti-Fascist Front: ISH News Items No. 9. (Copenhagen, 18.3.1933), HO 144/20657, TNA; Anti-fascistisk Front – ISH:s Meddelelseblad nr 9 (23.3.1933), ABA. 15 ‘Für einen antifaschistischen Arbeiterkongreβ Europas!’, Internationale ­G ewerkschafts-Pressekorrespondenz 3:17, 4.3.1933, 458/9/84: 147, RGASPI; ISH: Einberufung eines Antifaschistischen Arbeiterkongresses Europas, SÄPO Äldre Aktsystemet Volym 118 III B3 s 101 111D: 175, SRA. 16 KV 2/2158: 16a, TNA. 17 (Flyger issued by Havnearbejdernes RFO), Ned med hagekorset, ABA/Jensen; (Flyer issued by Søfolkens og Havnearbejdernes RFO), Til Alle Danske Havnearbejdere, ABA/Jensen. 18 ‘Københavnske søfolk i aktion mod hagekorset’ and ‘Søfolk i Köbenhavn demonstrerer mod hagekorset!’, Udkiggen: Organ for søens og havnens arbejdere 1 (1933), ABA. 19 ‘Protesteerauksia hakaristilippua vastaan’, Kipinä [Winter 1933/34], SÄPO Äldre Aktsystemet Volym 295 VIII C 3 Interklubb och Röd Marin, Pärm 3, SRA. 20 Ernst Wollweber, Lebenserinnerungen: 184, NY 4327/10 Nachlass Ernst ­Wollweber, BArchB. 21 Leo, Bericht 8.6.1933, 534/4/460: 141, RGASPI. 22 Behrends, Preussische Geheime Staatspolizei an die Leitung der Auslandsorganisation der Nazionalsozialistischen Deutschen Arbeiterpartei, Berlin 20.8.1936, 458/9/135: 56, RGASPI. 23 Ernst Wollweber, Lebenserinnerungen: 184, NY 4327/10 Nachlass Ernst ­Wollweber, BArchB. 24 Henri (Luigi Polano) to Genosse Schmidt, 22.10.1933, 534/5/236: 125–126, RGASPI. 25 [ISH pamphlet] Forsvar Sovjet-Kina – stop al Transport af Krigsmaterial (December 1933), SÄPO Äldre Aktsystemet Volym 118 III B3 s 101 111D: 99, SRA. 26 ISH flyer, dated December 1933, F X: 6 Kommunistiska handlingar 1930–1933, Stockholmspolisens kriminalavdelning Rotel 6 med föregångare, SÄPO, SRA; ‘Sovjet-­Kina’, Hamnarbetaren. Organ för hamnarbetarna 1:1 (1934): 3–4, SÄPO Äldre Aktsystemet Volym 295 VIII C 3 Interklubb och Röd Marin, Pärm 3, SRA. 27 ‘Satamatyöläset Le Havressa antavat loistavan esimerkin kietäytymällä sotatarvikkeiden lastauksessa’, Kipinä [Winter 1933/4], SÄPO Äldre Aktsystemet Volym 295 VIII C 3 Interklubb och Röd Marin, Pärm 3, SRA. 28 René, Bericht 24.4.1934, 534/4/493: 224–225, RGASPI. 29 Confidential instructions to the leading functionaries of the ISH-sections, 8.11.1934, 534/5/241: 271–274, RGASPI. 30 René, Bericht 10.12.1934, 534/4/493: 273–274, RGASPI. 31 Appel fra I.S.H.’s Eksekutivkomite – Lad 1. August blive en kampdag imod den imperialistiske Krig og den blodige Fascisme!, ABA. 32 ZK der Kommunistischen Partei Schwedens an Skandinavisches Ländersekretariat, 27.2.1935, 495/15/205: 55–57, RGASPI. 33 Letter from Georges and André, 19.2.1935, 534/5/242: 47–57, RGASPI. 34 Über die Reorganisierung der RGO der Seeleute und Hafenarbeiter Schwedens, 534/3/1041: 252–253, RGASPI. 35 Letter to the RILU Executive Bureau, 12.12.1934, 534/5/241: 300, RGASPI.

‘Boycott the Nazi Flag’  141 36 Die RGI über die Einheitsfront und die Einheit der Gewerkschaftsbewegung, 2.10.1934, 495/4/313: 98–100, RGASPI. 37 Letter from Tillon to Comrade Jusofowitch, 11.10.1935 & 12.10.1935, and mimeographed pamphlet: For the Unity of the Transport Workers in the Struggle Against War – Correspondence between the International of Seamen and Harbour ­Workers (ISH) and the International Transport-Workers’ Federation (ITF) regarding Mussolini’s attack on Abyssinia, 534/5/243: 116–118, 173–177, RGASPI. 38 Report by Richard Jensen, 7.2.1936, 534/3/1089: 24–75, RGASPI. 39 Protokoll (A) Nr 155 zusammengestellt auf Grund fliegender Abstimmung unter Mitgliedern des Sekretariats des EKKI am 27.6.1937, 495/18/1206, RGASPI.

References Adi, H. (2010) ‘The Cominern and Black Workers in Britain and France 1919–37’, Immigrants and Minorities 28: 224–45. Blomqvist, H. (2010) ‘Klassintresse och antinazism inom sjöfarten’, Historisk tidskrift 130 (2): 338–43. Borgersrud, L. (1994) Wollweber-organisasjonen i Norge. Unpublished PhD thesis in history. Oslo: University of Oslo. Borgersrud, L. (2001) Die Wollweber-Organisation und Norwegen. Berlin: Karl Dietz Verlag. Cole, P. (2007) Wobblies on the Waterfront: Interracial Unionism in Progressive-Era Philadelphia. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Cole, P., Struthers, D. and Zimmer, K. (eds.) (2017) Wobblies of the World: A Global History of the IWW. London: Pluto Press. Degras, J. (ed.) (1971) Communist International 1919–1943 Documents, Volume III. 1919–1943. London and New York: Routledge. Eiber, L. (1997) Arbeiter und Arbeiterbewegung in der Hansestadt Hamburg in den Jahren 1929 bis 1939: Werftarbeiter, Hafenarbeiter und Seeleute: Konformität, ­Opposition, Widerstand. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Estvall, E. (2009) Sjöfart på stormigt hav: Sjömannen och Svensk Sjöfarts tidning inför den nazistiska utmaningen 1932–1945. Växjö: Växjö University Press. Featherstone, D. (2008) Resistance, Space and Political Identities: The Making of Counter-Global Networks. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Featherstone, D. (2012) Solidarity. Hidden Histories and Geographies of Internationalism. London: Zed Books. Featherstone, D. (2015) ‘Maritime Labour and Subaltern Geographies of Internationalism: Black Internationalist Seafarers’ Organising in the Interwar Period’, Political Geography 49: 7–16. Häberlein, J. C. (2012) ‘Between Global Aspirations and Local Realities: The Global Dimensions of Interwar Communism’, Journal of Global History 7: 415–37. Høgsbjerg, C. (2011) ‘Mariner, Renegade and Castaway: Chris Braithwaite, ­Seamen’s Organiser, Socialist and Militant Pan-Africanist’, Race & Class 53: 36–57. Jano, T. (1996) ‘Politiets overvågning af DKP 1932–1941’, Arbejderhistorie 1: 1–20. Jørgensen, J. (2017) ‘Revolution, Radical Anti-Fascism and Transnational ­Solidarity. The Danish Seamen and Harbour Workers’ Revolutionary Opposition, 1933–1934’, Paper presented at the 53rd International Conference of ­Labour and Social History (ITH), Linz, 21–23 September 2017. Kennerström, B. (1974) Mellan två internationaler: Socialistiska partiet 1929–37. Kristianstad: Arkiv avhandlingsserie 2.

142  Holger Weiss Lundvik, B. (1980) Solidaritet och partipolitik: Den svenska arbetarrörelsen och spanska inbördeskriget 1936–39. Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Margain, C. (2015) ‘The International Union of Seamen and Harbour Workers (ISH) 1930–1937: Interclubs and Transnational Aspects’, Twentieth Century Communism 8: 133–44. Mihkelsen, J. (1935) ‘Sjöfolket i Estland’, Merimies–Sjömannen 4: 4–5. Mikkelsen, F. (2018), ‘Denmark 1914–1939: Popular Struggle in the Age of Mass Politics’, in Mikkelsen, F., Kjeldstadli, K., and  Nyzell, S. (eds.) Popular Struggle and Democracy in Scandinavia 1700 – Present. London: Palgrave MacMillan. Nelles, D. (2001) Widerstand und internationale Solidarität: Die Internationale ­Transportarbeiter-Föderation (ITF) im Widerstand gegen Nationalsozialismus. ­Essen: Klartext-Verlag. Nørgaard, E. (1986) Krigen før krigen: Wollweber-organisationen og skibssabotagerne. Lynge: Bogans forlag. Scholz, M. (2012) ‘Wollweberligan’, in Bosdotter, K. (ed.) Faror för staten av svåraste slag: Politiska fångar på Långholmen 1880–1950. Stockholm: Libris. Selliaas, A.-E. (1982) ‘Politisk politi i Norge 1914–1937’, Tidsskrift for arbeiderbevegelsens historie 2: 53–91. Sherwood, M. (1996) ‘The Comintern, the CPGB, Colonies and Black Britons’, ­Science & Society 60: 137–63. Soukola, T. (2003) Riistorauhaa rikkomassa: Suomen Merimies-Unionin ja sen edeltäjien vaiheita 1905–2000. Helsinki: Weilin+Göös. Szubanski, R. (1960) Sabotage Operations of the Prewar Anti-Fascist League. New York: U.S. Joint Publications Research Service. Tosstorf, R. (2004) Die Profintern: Die Rote Gewerkschaftsinternationale 1920–1937. Paderborn: Schoenigh. Weber, H., Drabkin, J. and Bayerlein, B. (2015) Deutschland, Russland, Komintern. II. Dokumente (1918–1943), Teilband II. Berlin/München/Boston: De Gruyter. Weiss, H. (2017) ‘The International of Seamen and Harbour Workers – A R ­ adical Global Labour Union of the Waterfront or a Subversive World Wide Web?’ in Weiss, H. (ed.) The Global Dimension of Radical International Solidarity ­Organizations during the Interwar Period. Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers. Weiss, H. (2018) ‘Against Japanese and Italian Imperialism: The Anti-War Campaigns of Communist International Trade Union Organizations, 1931–1936’, Moving the Social: Journal of Social History and the History of Social Movements 60: 121–146.

Part III

Cultural fronts and anti-fascist intellectuals

8 Anti-fascist race biology Gunnar Dahlberg and the long farewell to the Nordic ‘master race’ Martin Ericsson Introduction On the evening of 6 December 1933, members of the National Socialist Party of Sweden (SNSP, Sveriges Nationalsocialistiska Parti), at this time the most aggressive Nazi organisation in the country, violently attacked a lecture at Stockholm University. This gave rise to an extensive press debate; newspapers from left to right condemned the attack, which ended up being a propaganda fiasco for SNSP. So what made the SNSP so incensed by this lecture? It had been organised by the Socialist student organisation Clarté and the lecturer was Gunnar Dahlberg (1893−1956), a researcher in the scientific discipline of ‘race biology’ at the nearby Uppsala University. A couple of years later, he was to become Director of the Swedish State Institute for Race Biology. In 1933, Dahlberg published an article in the magazine Ord och bild titled ‘The Nordic Race from a Socio-­Anthropological Perspective’, in which he criticised the Nazi use of the concept of ‘race’ and in particular the notion that there was a superior ­‘Nordic race’ (Dahlberg, 1933). In his lecture, he was to repeat this critique – not something that the explicitly racist SNSP was minded to tolerate. In Swedish historiography, as well as in popular historical consciousness, race biology as a scientific discipline is often associated with outright racism and racial discrimination against ethnic minorities, as well as having links to the racial ideology of Nazi Germany. Nevertheless, in December 1933, race biologist Gunnar Dahlberg spoke out against racial hierarchies and explicitly criticised Nazi racial policies. It was thus possible for Swedish race biologists to formulate scientific concepts of ‘race’ from an anti-fascist standpoint. In this chapter, my aim is to analyse what such a standpoint looked like in 1930s Sweden. By doing so, not only do I shed new light on less well-known aspects of the discipline of Swedish race biology, I also elucidate the relationship between Swedish anti-fascism, ‘race’ and racism. What was the role of the critique of race as a concept, and of racist ideologies, in Swedish anti-fascism in the early 1930s? The attack on Dahlberg, as well as the public reactions that followed, offers us an empirical case study that is applicable to these questions.

146  Martin Ericsson

Swedish race biology: mainline or reform eugenics? Swedish race biology, a scientific discipline dealing with eugenics as well as physical anthropology, gained significant influence in the first decades of the 20th century, institutionalised in Sweden when the State Institute for Race Biology opened in 1922. Swedish historical research, almost exclusively ­focussing on the 1920s, generally depicts race biology as a discipline that to a high degree shared its understanding of ‘race’ with National Socialism, which meant categorising people into fixed ‘racial types’ and classifying them as superior or inferior. Speaking of the 1920s, this is generally correct. In a longer perspective, however, this is not entirely true. During the 1930s, the discipline was characterised by scientific and political conflict. Inspired by the works of Daniel J. Kevles, Swedish scholars have often designated the conflicting positions as ‘mainline eugenics’ in opposition to a newer ‘reform eugenics’ (Kevles, 1995). The most influential representative of mainline eugenics in Sweden was the physician Herman Lundborg, Director of the State Institute for Race Biology in 1922–1935. His version of race biology emerged in the 1910s as an amalgamation of two scientific traditions. First was a European tradition of racial anthropometry, starting in the middle of the 19th century. That, of course, was not the first time that racial categorisations had been used as a way of legitimising global inequalities, and scientists had already been writing about alleged racial differences between, for example, people with different skin colours for some time. What was new in the mid-19th century was that scholars started studying racial differences among Europeans with the same white skin colour. These studies, linked to the emergence of ethnic nationalism, also used new methods, such as the so-called cephalic index, which was a method for measuring craniums invented by Swedish anatomist Anders Retzius in the 1840s (Jackson and Weidman, 2004: 72−4; Kyllingstad, 2012; Manias, 2013). From this time onwards, several Swedish research projects used craniometry in order to show that the majority of Scandinavians (and most clearly the Swedes themselves) were an unusually ‘pure’ race, who had lived in Scandinavia for several thousands of years without much interbreeding with other races. Similar ideas gained influence in ­European physical anthropology at the same time and, starting around 1900, this ‘race type’ was often designated as a superior ‘Nordic’ race ­(Jackson and ­Weidman, 2004: 105−21; Ljungström, 2004; Manias, 2013: 185−7, 206−9; Svanberg, 2015). Second, mainline eugenics held a vision of society where eugenic measures such as sterilisations would solve social problems, diseases and defects allegedly afflicting Sweden, such as ‘feeble-mindedness’, alcoholism and criminality. Lundborg was a node in what has been called a Swedish eugenics network (Björkman and Widmalm, 2010), whose members successfully portrayed Sweden as a country threatened by a ‘degeneration’ caused by urbanisation, women’s emancipation and ‘racial interbreeding’. In this

Anti-fascist race biology  147 vision, it was difficult to separate physical anthropology and eugenics, and a basic notion in this regard was that the percentage of inherited diseases and defects would rise catastrophically unless the Nordic race was kept pure (Björkman, 2011; Broberg and Tydén, 1996; Tunlid, 2004). These were common ideas in the international eugenics movement, which aimed to create ­racially ‘healthy nations’ in several European and North American countries in the decades following the First World War (Kevles, 1995; Turda, 2013). Mainline eugenics and racial anthropology gained political support from both the left and the right in Swedish politics in the 1910s and 1920s. Thus, it would be completely wrong to define these phenomena as exclusively fascist/ National Socialist per se. Having said that, however, ideas of race and biological inheritance were certainly important foundations of the ideology of the Swedish Nazi movement. National Socialism added yet another ingredient: aggressive anti-Semitism. In fact, anti-Semitism was never a dominant theme in Swedish mainstream eugenics, even though Lundborg himself expressed sympathies for anti-Semitic policies in Nazi Germany (Broberg, 1995: 56−60). Yet at the same time as German National Socialism rose to power, the foundations of Swedish mainline race biology became increasingly unsettled. This was the result of an international movement of reform eugenicists, whose critique of mainline ideas of race became stronger in a reaction to Nazi racial discrimination in Germany (Kevles, 1995; Roll-Hansen, 2010: 85−8). Dahlberg, who like Lundborg had started out as a physician, but had Social Democratic instead of Conservative political ideas, was perhaps the most clear-cut representative of this movement. One finds many basic reform-oriented ideas in his writings throughout the 1930s. For example, Dahlberg and other reform eugenicists were sceptical concerning the notion that it would be possible to eradicate mental defects with the use of extensive sterilisations (which does not mean that they were opposed to sterilisations as such). They also rejected the idea that the emancipation of women was a threat against the future of the race (Björkman, 2011: 137−9; Tydén, 2010). The most crucial conflict concerned the concept of race and what should be the political implications of scientific knowledge concerning race. In this conflict, Dahlberg adopted a confrontational position, starting with his 1933 article in Ord och bild. The article was both an assault on Herman Lundborg’s work as a race biologist (although without explicitly mentioning his name) and on the foundations of Nazi racial ideology. This actually makes it an unusual text, based on two factors. First, a large number of Swedish university teachers and researchers in the 1930s actually expressed sympathies for at least parts of the racial policies of Nazi Germany and saw the concept of a Swedish or Nordic race as an established scientific fact (Oredsson, 1996). Explicitly criticising these ideas from a scholarly standpoint was the exception not the rule, and Dahlberg’s critique was even more unexpected since it was raised by a race biologist. Second, while in the early 1930s, Nordic anti-fascists condemned beliefs in a Nordic or ‘Aryan’ master race as

148  Martin Ericsson well as the discrimination of Jews, they often focussed on other aspects of National Socialism, such as dictatorship, the use of political violence and attacks on trade unions (Bachner, 2009: 321−3). Dahlberg’s critique was an early attempt to attack what we today, in hindsight, have come to regard as the main theme of National Socialism, namely racial discrimination. This is why we should study the arguments in his article closely. How was an anti-fascist position on race biology formulated in the months following ­Hitler’s Machtübernahme in Germany?

Irrational and unscientific: Dahlberg attacks the notion of a Nordic master race The main thesis in Dahlberg’s article was that there were no ‘pure’ races in Europe, and certainly not a ‘Nordic’ race superior to other races. He positioned his critique in a context of contemporary European politics and described National Socialism as a pseudoscientific movement whose racial ideas lacked any ‘scientific objectivity’. He also wrote ironically about the reasons why the Nazis sometimes spoke of an ‘Aryan’ race instead of a ‘Nordic’ one; perhaps they did so since their Führer did not fit the ‘Nordic’ racial stereotype of blue eyes and blond hair (Dahlberg, 1933: 426). However, it is here important to emphasise that Dahlberg did not abandon the scientific concept of race as such. On the contrary, he claimed that it was possible to categorise humanity into three ‘main races’: ‘Negroes’, ‘Mongols’ and Whites. But any attempt to make any more detailed racial categorisations, he wrote, was hazardous, based on two reasons. First, Dahlberg argued that racial differences should not be understood as differences between racial ‘types’ with essential and fixed characters, but as statistical variations concerning physical characteristics such as skin colour. Dahlberg did not rule out the possibility that science would someday be able to prove that there were inherited variations in mental characteristics as well. However, he stated that such evidence was still lacking and that current science only really allowed us to talk about racial differences when it came to physical traits, not when it came to intelligence, character and other mental qualities. This was indeed a radical claim compared to the Lundborg tradition of mainline race biology and eugenics. In a way that would have outraged Lundborg, Dahlberg claimed that assumptions concerning mental differences between races were not based on sound research, but on ‘emotionally based prejudices’ and ‘nationalist ideas that have nothing to do with science whatsoever’. Most importantly, there was no scientific evidence as to the alleged superiority of the ‘Nordic’ race (Dahlberg, 1933: 430). Second, Dahlberg opposed the idea that European populations – all ­belonging to what he called the white ‘main race’ – could be racially catego­ ahlberg rised in any meaningful way, and certainly not into ‘pure’ races. D acknowledged the fact that, for example, people in Sweden generally looked different from people in Southern Europe. But this, he wrote, was a

Anti-fascist race biology  149 consequence of statistical variation and nothing else. When researchers had used these variations to construct elaborate systems of races and sub-races – Nordic, Alpine, East Baltic and so on – their categorisations had been arbitrary, and the term race had never been defined in a clear and concise way. This critique was not only directed against racial categorisations of white people in general. As pointed out by Gunnar Broberg, it was also a devastating assault on what was then considered the flagship of Swedish racial anthropology: the massive anthropometric projects undertaken in the early 20th century in order to study the presence of ‘Nordic’ racial types in the population (Broberg, 1995: 71). At the turn of the century, anatomists Gustaf Retzius and Carl Magnus Fürst had more than 44,000 Swedish conscripts measured and their hair colour, eye colour, height and cephalic index examined. They published their results in 1902 in the book Anthropologia Suecica, claiming that the Swedes were of a particularly ‘pure’ racial type, except in some regions that had been subject to ‘attacks’ of race-­m ixing (Broberg and Tydén, 1996: 82; Ljungström, 2004: 289−312). Herman ­Lundborg continued these studies in the 1920s, using the State Institute for Racial Biology to measure around 100,000 Swedes. His results, which he claimed confirmed the findings of Retzius and Fürst, were published in a 1926 book titled The Racial Characters of the Swedish Nation (Broberg, 1995: 20−6; Kjellman, 2013: 183−7). In countries such as Germany, Italy and France, similar massive anthropometric studies had been subject to anthropological criticism (Kyllingstad, 2012: 50; Quine, 2013: 147−9). Dahlberg was the first to systematically voice this critique in Sweden, writing that the cephalic index and other methods previously used for distinguishing ‘racial types’ from one another were arbitrary and based on ‘more or less preconceived notions of how the Nordic race is supposed to look’ (Dahlberg, 1933: 427). On top of that, Dahlberg also opposed the notion that racial categorisations should influence politics. He argued that even if mental differences between racial populations were eventually established, these would be statistical variations and would never say anything about the character of a particular individual. To discriminate a person because of that person’s race would therefore not be ‘rational’ (Dahlberg, 1933: 432−3). There are aspects of this anti-fascist position on race biology that need to be problematised before proceeding further. It is interesting that even though Dahlberg attacked the political movement of National Socialism, he presented his critique as unpolitical. According to Dahlberg, the Nazis tarnished the disciplines of race biology and physical anthropology by using them to promote their own appalling political vision of a society structured on racial hierarchies. These ambitions were not ‘objective’, something that Dahlberg claimed his own scientific position to be. Thus, his repudiation of racial discrimination was not a moral standpoint, nor was it based on ideas concerning basic human rights. Nazi racial policies were wrong because they did not rest on an ‘objective’ scientific foundation and were therefore

150  Martin Ericsson not ‘rational’. The same attempts to formulate an ‘unpolitical’ anti-fascist position would soon be evident in the debate following Dahlberg’s lecture at Stockholm University. Had this lecture passed without incident, it probably would not have aroused much debate at all.

The Nordic master race strikes back: the attack on Dahlberg Two circumstances made the lecture a potential target for Nazi attack. ­Dahlberg had publically expressed his claims to articulate ideas of race from an anti-fascist position, attacking especially the notion of a Nordic master race. This was a provocation to all of the many, albeit small and divided, Nazi organisations in Sweden at the time. And although the lecture took place at the university campus in central Stockholm, it was not arranged by the university, but by the local branch of the international Socialist and anti-fascist organisation Clarté. This organisation had arranged open lectures at the university for some years, and these had been recently disrupted by members of SNSP and their uniformed Sturmabteilung (SA) troops (a paramilitary branch of the party inspired by the German SA troops). In the autumn of 1933, SA men had interrupted lectures on several occasions by constantly applauding in order to drown out the lecturer’s voice and by singing Nazi songs (Clarté, no. 1 1934). The attack on Dahlberg’s lecture would be the most violent of these disturbances. It is important to emphasise that these kinds of confrontations were not isolated to Stockholm. As Johan A. Lundin shows in Chapter 6 in this volume, they constituted an important feature of the Swedish repertoire of contentious performances in the early 1930s, as Nazis, Social Democrats and Communists commonly tried to interrupt each other’s meetings by making noise and engaging in ‘song battles’ (Lööw, 1990: 183, 176, 355−62). When Dahlberg started his lecture titled ‘The Nordic Race’, somewhere between 75 and 200 people were present (contemporary accounts differ). Most of them were sympathisers of Clarté, but 20−30 of them were SA men from SNSP dressed in brown shirts and boots. When Dahlberg began to speak, the SA men applauded loudly, especially when he mentioned words like ‘nationalism’, ‘Nordic race’ and ‘anti-Semitism’. Dahlberg asked the audience not to applaud until the end of the lecture, but the disturbances continued and it was soon impossible for him to make himself heard. Clarté officials then decided to pause the lecture for a while and move it from an open to a closed venue, meaning that only Clarté members would be allowed to attend. The SA men had not foreseen this turn of events. After a while, they rose from their seats, made the Nazi salute with their right arms, shouted ‘Heil Furugård’ (the Führer of SNSP) and then left the room while singing a Swedish translation of Horst Wessel-Lied, the anthem of the German Nazi movement. Some Clarté members tried to shout them down by singing ‘The Internationale’, thus engaging in a song battle of the kind mentioned above.

Anti-fascist race biology  151 After a pause, Dahlberg continued with his lecture. After a few minutes, the SA men returned. According to the subsequent police report, the plan had been to capture Dahlberg and lock him up in the university lavatory (Police report, 1934: 6−7). This time, a university janitor tried to stop them from entering the room, using his body to block the entrance. However, he stood no chance against the brute force of the SA troops, who punched him in the face and shoved him out of the way. The SA men then rushed into the room, shouting insults such as ‘Out with the Marxist speaker’, ‘Go to ­Moscow you bastard’, ‘Heil Hitler’ and ‘Long live Germany’. Clarté members tried to stop them and fistfights broke out. Dahlberg sat down in a chair next to the lectern, calmly overlooking the commotion. But he was soon attacked as well. Two SA men approached him, grabbed his arms and tried to abduct him. However, Dahlberg managed to free himself by throwing his chair at the assailants, who fled when their commander gave the order ‘SA retreat!’ At that moment, a lone police officer arrived at the scene, and arrested some SA men who had not already escaped. He took them to a nearby police station, where a formal investigation was launched (Police report, 1934: 8, 66, 71).

A Nazi propaganda fiasco: reactions to the attack Papers from the left to the right immediately condemned the SNSP attack on Dahlberg. Condemnations were even issued by the rival Nazi organisation, the National Socialist Workers’ Party (NSAP, Nationalsocialistiska ­arbetarepartiet), which declared in its newspaper that the attack only served to provide the ‘Jewish press’ with arguments against National Socialism (Den svenske nationalsocialisten, 21.12.1933). Why was the attack condemned so unanimously? The syndicalist paper Arbetaren attempted an explanation: this time, the Nazis had exerted their terror against ‘a bourgeoisie scholar at a university, instead of attacking a workers’ rally’. This would make it impossible for bourgeois papers to defend them (Arbetaren, 8.12.1933). This was a valid explanation. By attacking the scientific community of researchers of the university, an institution that even Conservatives and Liberals saw as a foundation of society, the SNSP had crossed a line. Even the Conservative press, which could otherwise show appreciation for Hitler’s anti-Communism, if not his violent methods, found it impossible to defend the attack. Conservative condemnations, however, had an interesting ingredient, since they combined anti-fascism with Swedish nationalism, as when a leading Conservative paper accused SNSP of introducing ‘foreign’ political methods in Sweden (Svenska Dagbladet, 7.12.1933). All non-fascist Stockholm newspapers now depicted Swedish Nazis as undisciplined and unlawful, resorting to brute force instead of intellectual arguments. It is crucial, however, to emphasise that this anti-fascist position did not primarily attack the Nazis’ racial ideology or their anti-Semitism

152  Martin Ericsson (i.e. the aspects of the movement criticised by Dahlberg). The National ­Socialist movement was primarily condemned as undemocratic and violent, not as racist. Only a couple of press comments mentioned the racism of SNSP, as when a Conservative columnist ironically stated that violent assaults on opponents constituted a ‘bad argument for the superiority of the Nordic race’ (Svenska Dagbladet, 8.12.1933). One of the very small number of commentators mentioning anti-Semitism was Folkets Dagblad, the paper of the small Swedish Socialist Party, which attacked the SNSP for their ‘completely lunatic agitation against the Jews’ (Folkets Dagblad, 9.12.1933). This comment had its own ironic twist, since the Socialist Party some years later underwent a bizarre ideological transformation, expressing support for Nazi Germany during the Second World War (Blomqvist, 1999). However, there were also political differences in how the press explained the attack. Conservative papers not only criticised the Nazis, but also the Socialist Clarté organisation. They accused Clarté of being dominated by Communists and wrote that the fact that the organisation had been allowed to arrange lectures at the University was itself provocative, something that did not make the attack defensible, but somehow understandable. Aftonbladet commented that letting a left-wing organisation arrange a lecture on the topic of race was to ‘play with fire’, and Nya Dagligt Allehanda wrote that the attack was a symptom of the ‘violent ideologies of National Socialism and Bolshevism’ (my italics). These papers lumped National Socialism and radical socialism together, despite the fact that the Nazis had solely perpetrated the violence (Aftonbladet, 7.12.1933; Nya Dagligt Allehanda, 7.12.1933). On the other hand, Socialist and Communist papers saw the attack as the latest of many Nazi acts of terror against labour movement activities, a perspective that was entirely absent in Conservative and Liberal press. In fact, the attack was widely referred to in an ongoing debate in the Swedish labour movement at the time: should workers organise their own corps of protection in order to defend themselves against Nazi violence? Several revolutionary leftist papers made such proposals (see, for example, Arbetaren, 8.12.1933; Ny Dag, 9.12.1933). In the days after the attack, even organisations that cannot be described as outright revolutionary seriously discussed these proposals. On 13 December, Clarté arranged a rally to protest against the attack and the chairman of the organisation gave a speech suggesting that workers’ protection corps should be established (Arbetaren, 14.12.1933). The proposal even found support in the leading reformist Social Democratic paper, Social-Demokraten. Ragnar Casparsson, the editor of trade union issues, wrote that the freedom of assembly had to be protected by all means, and that the Nazis had to learn that their violent methods could be ‘dangerous for themselves’. In an editorial, the paper concluded that unless the police intervened against the ‘Nazi plague’, workers would have no choice but to defend themselves (Social-Demokraten, 8.12.1933). Perhaps in order to prevent this, the police did take action against SNSP, conducting a raid

Anti-fascist race biology  153 against the locations where the SA men were lodged, followed by prosecution of 16 Nazis for participating in the attack. The Stockholm City Court eventually sentenced all but one of them, although they were only given fines for disorderly conduct (Social-Demokraten, 8.3.1934).

Anti-fascism as an unpolitical standpoint In his article in Ord och bild, Dahlberg described his critique of the political idea of Nordic racial superiority as ‘objective’ and thus unpolitical. The same, apparently contradictory, interpretation was made in the debate following the attack at Stockholm University. Dahlberg wrote in his testimony to the police that ‘my lecture had an entirely scientific character’, hinting that he saw ‘scientific’ and ‘political’ as mutually exclusive concepts. Clarté officials supported this claim by declaring that the lecture had been ‘entirely unpolitical’ (Police report, 1934: 70−2). Almost every Stockholm non-­fascist newspaper interpreted it the same way. To give but a few examples, the syndicalist Arbetaren described the lecture as ‘clearly unpolitical’, the ­Liberal Dagens Nyheter thought that it had ‘no political tendency whatsoever’ and the Socialist Folkets Dagbad wrote that Dahlberg spoke about a ‘completely scientific’ subject, and that ‘it was not a political lecture’ (­Arbetaren, 8.12.1933; Dagens Nyheter, 7.12.1933; Folkets Dagblad, 8.12.1933). Perhaps not surprisingly, the Nazis participating in the attack did not agree. When interrogated, one SA man stated that Dahlberg had made him angry, since ‘the lecture was said to be scientific, but the lecturer started to speak about political matters’, referring to the fact that Dahlberg had mentioned the rise of anti-Semitism in Germany following the end of the Franco-Prussian War in 1870−1871. The commander of the SA troops also mentioned that he had felt that Dahlberg spoke about this growth in ­anti-Semitism ‘with criticism’ (Police report, 1934: 15, 33). Opposition to the ‘unpolitical’ interpretation of the lecture also came from the right-wing ­Conservative paper Aftonbladet, writing that it was naïve to believe that ‘in these times, a lecture on the question of race, arranged by a crypto-­ Communist organisation, would not have a political bias or at least be thought of that way’ (Aftonbladet, 7.12.1933). I would argue that with regard to this question, one has to acknowledge that labelling Dahlberg’s anti-fascist position as ‘unpolitical’ was problematic, and that this raises difficult questions concerning the relationship between science and politics. This problem is discussed more extensively at the end of this chapter. Here, it is sufficient to say that although Clarté did have pragmatic reasons for labelling the lecture unpolitical (openly ‘political’ lectures were not allowed at university facilities), this does not explain why Dahlberg, as well as almost every single Stockholm newspaper, also labelled it this way. Instead, we have to relate this to a discourse of science dominating Swedish eugenics and race biology in the interwar years. Both mainline and reform eugenicists tried to frame their

154  Martin Ericsson own position as the most objective. The opposing side was deemed unduly influenced by political ideologies, whether left or right, and therefore not sufficiently objective. Dahlberg also reflected a common theme in the growing international network of anti-fascist eugenicists in the 1930s, which labelled Nazi concepts of race as being unscientific propaganda or pseudoscience rather than immoral standpoints (Brah, 2005: 71−3; Koch, 1996: 157; ­Tunlid, 2004: 230).

Dahlberg’s anti-fascism after 1933 Dahlberg’s anti-fascism did not end in 1933. When Herman Lundborg retired in 1935, Dahlberg was appointed Director of the State Institute for Race Biology after a bitter academic conflict, and his appointment was secured only after an intervention by Social Democratic politicians (­Broberg, 1995: 60−70). Lundborg spent his retirement travelling in Germany, receiving praise from Nazi eugenicists and racial anthropologists. Dahlberg used his new position (which he held until his death) to slowly change the direction of the institute. This, however, was far from a linear process. In Swedish historical research, Dahlberg’s directorship is often said to have been the turning point where Swedish race biology definitively shifted from mainline to reform eugenics, and from a focus on anthropometric measuring of ­racial characteristics to population and medical genetics (Broberg, 1995: 72−9; Broberg and Tydén, 1996: 93−4; Jonsson, 2004: 44; Tydén, 2010: 367). Looking more closely at Dahlberg’s directorship, however, the picture is a little bit more complex. On the one hand, following Dahlberg’s appointment in 1935, the Nazi movements of Sweden were unable to use the publications of the institute to promote their ideas concerning Nordic racial superiority and anti-­Semitism. In fact, Dahlberg went to great lengths to combat National Socialism in publications as well as in action. For example, after the November Pogrom in 1938, he was active in campaigns to help Jewish physicians flee from ­Germany to Sweden (Berg, 2016: 79), and during the Second World War, his collaboration with British eugenicist and anti-fascist Lancelot Hogben led to the 1942 publication of Dahlberg’s book Race, Reason and Rubbish for an English audience. The subtitle made it clear which political movement was the target: ‘An examination of the biological credentials of the Nazi creed’ (Dahlberg, 1942). None of this went unnoticed in Germany. Starting in 1936, the German Foreign Office registered Dahlberg as a researcher hostile to National Socialism (Almgren, 2016: 110). On the other hand, the shift from mainline to reform eugenics was full of contradictions. There are very few studies on the history of the State Institute for Race Biology after 1935. This is somewhat surprising, since the institute never closed. It is a thriving scientific institution even today, although the name was changed to the Department of Medical Genetics at Uppsala University in the late 1950s. What we do know, however, does complicate

Anti-fascist race biology  155 the assumption that the year 1935 marked a decisive shift. The institute continued to undertake studies on alleged racial differences among the Swedish population, especially targeting ethnic minorities. In the early 1940s, for example, the institute helped government agencies come up with anthropologic criteria for who should be counted as part of the Saami population. And up until the 1960s, the institute conducted anthropological studies on Swedish Roma and Travellers, using anthropometry as well as blood group analysis in a way that resembled the racial studies of the 1920s (Ericsson, 2015: 201−12; Lundmark, 2002: 146−50; Ohlsson al Fakir, 2015: 145−52, 160−73, 217−23).

Anti-fascist race biology: racialisation without race hierarchies? To sum up the main findings of this chapter: the picture of Swedish race biology as a discipline primarily based on ideas of racial hierarchies and with Nazi connections is not entirely accurate. In the early 1930s, a reform-­ oriented line of research challenged the ‘mainline’ tradition of race biology. In the case of Gunnar Dahlberg, this new orientation might be described as an anti-fascist type of race biology. It criticised the notion of ‘pure races’ and especially the notion of a superior Nordic race. It criticised political discrimination based on alleged racial hierarchies (at least in Europe). It also opposed anti-Semitism and underscored the risk of drawing far-­ reaching conclusions with regard to racial differences based on methodically unsound anthropometric studies. In Sweden, Dahlberg was the most obvious representative of this anti-fascist research on race, but he was not alone and his ideas were not unique to Sweden. In a Scandinavian perspective, his critique of the notion of a ‘pure Nordic race’ resembled the critique formulated by Norwegian anthropologists Kristian and Elette Schreiner at the end of the 1920s, and his reformist view on eugenics was similar to that of Danish eugenicist Tage Kemp (Koch, 1996; Kyllingstad, 2012: 53−5). His anti-fascist version of eugenics and racial anthropology also has to be seen in a wider, international perspective. Contrary to what one may think, anti-fascist notions of race did not come about with the end of the Second World War and the revelation of the Holocaust. This process started in the early 1930s and was often formulated by researchers working within the disciplines of eugenics and physical anthropology (Jackson and Weidman, 2004: 129−61). Dahlberg was one of many researchers in this international movement. However, neither the anti-fascist race biology of Dahlberg nor the international movement of reform eugenics turned against the concept of race as such, although they saw the concept as much more problematic compared to mainline eugenicists like Lundberg. Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, race was still used as a scientific concept in studies on alleged biological differences among humans, although the word was slowly supplemented by terms such

156  Martin Ericsson as ‘populations’ (Jackson and Weidman, 2004: 167, 173; Koch, 1996: 219−31; Roll-Hansen, 2010: 91). Illustrative examples of this development are the UN agency UNESCO, established in 1945, and the famous so-called second statement on race it issued in 1951 (with Dahlberg as one of the signatories). Drafted by world-leading anthropologists and geneticists, it condemned all forms of racial discrimination, but, at the same time, opposed contemporary demands for abandoning race as a scientific term (Duedahl, 2015; Jackson and Weidman, 2004: 197−200). Still in 1955, Dahlberg himself wrote that it was impossible to do away with the concept (­Jonsson, 2004: 47, 53). Finally, an analysis of Dahlberg’s anti-fascism stresses the importance of making a clear theoretical distinction between concepts such as ‘fascism’ and ‘racism’. Of course, racism may be defined in many ways. However, looking at some influential definitions, Dahlberg’s position clearly does not fit in with either of them. George M. Fredrickson, for example, has defined racism as a worldview in which ‘differences that might otherwise be considered ethnocultural are regarded as innate, indelible, and unchangeable’, and where these differences are used to establish a racial hierarchy or ‘racial order’ (Fredrickson, 2002: 5−6). Dahlberg does not meet this criterion: he condemned racial discrimination, and although he thought that there were human races, he did not view them as unchangeable. Following Robert Miles and Malcolm Brown, racism is an ideology with two elements. First, humanity is ‘racialised’, that is, categorised in a process where ‘meaning is attributed to particular biological features […] as a result of which individuals may be assigned to a general category of persons that reproduces itself biologically’. Second, some of these groups are attributed with negative biological or cultural qualities (Miles and Brown, 2003: 102−4). The second element is missing in Dahlberg’s version of race biology, since he used his position to combat ideas of racial ‘inferiority’ and ‘superiority’, not to promote them. But what about the first element: racialisation? As pointed out by Avtar Brah, texts written with anti-racist intentions may sometimes still have racialising effects (Brah, 2005: 71). This, I would argue, was actually the case with Dahlberg. He explicitly categorised humanity into ‘main races’, such as whites and blacks. And he did attribute meaning to biological features: as shown earlier in this chapter, his own institute carried out anthropological studies on racial differences, sometimes using the same anthropometric techniques as in the massive racial studies undertaken by Lundborg, Retzius and Fürst in the early 20th century. Hence, it was obviously possible for researchers in the 1930s and 1940s to adopt a position of anti-fascist race biology, which at the same time had both non-racist, or even anti-racist, and racialising aspects. This conclusion raises important questions, which are also relevant in discussions on anti-fascist and anti-racist strategies in our own time. Is not a process of racialisation the first and necessary step on the road towards racism? If so, is it possible that Dahlberg simultaneously battled racism, while

Anti-fascist race biology  157 in another way being partly responsible for building the foundations of that very same phenomenon? Today, disciplines such as archaeology and genetics use DNA analysis as a tool in studies of past and present human populations. Once again, categorisations of humanity refer to inherited, genotypic characters. Should we consider these scientific endeavours a continuation of a racialising process with links to the racial anthropology of the 19th and 20th centuries? Or should we consider it a more ‘objective’, ‘scientific’ and thus implicitly ‘unpolitical’ way of thinking about human differences  and genetic variations (these questions are asked in, for example, Bashford, 2010; Manias, 2013: 236)? Related to this discussion is the complicated question how science and anti-fascist strategies and understandings of ‘the political’ relate to each other. Dahlberg described his anti-fascist position as ‘unpolitical’ and not based on a moral standpoint, but as a ‘rational’ conclusion drawn from what he saw as certain scientific facts. But if we choose to label our anti-fascist standpoints primarily as ‘unpolitical’, ‘objective’, ‘scientific’ and ‘rational’, does this not obscure the fact that anti-fascism is an attitude deeply based in the sphere of morals and politics? To conclude this chapter, I would argue in favour of the importance of understanding anti-fascism, as well as anti-racism in general, not primarily as the ‘rational’ choice given certain scientific facts, but as a political and moral position. In accordance with this view, there are political assumptions behind even the seemingly ‘objective’ production of facts.

References Archival Material Police report, 11 January 1934, in Volume 3, Papers of The Committee against Movements Hostile to the State (‘Kommittén ang. statsfientlig verksamhet’), ­National Archives of Sweden (‘Riksarkivet’), Stockholm. Contemporary Newspapers and Magazines Arbetaren Aftonbladet Clarté: Tidskrift för socialistisk politik och kultur Dagens Nyheter Den Svenske Nationalsocialisten Folkets Dagblad Nya Dagligt Allehanda Ny Dag Social-Demokraten Svenska Dagbladet Literature Almgren, B. (2016) ‘Svenska universitet: mål för nazistisk kulturpolitik’, in Björkman, M., Lundell, P., and Widmalm, S. (eds.) De intellektuellas förräderi? Intellektuellt utbyte mellan Sverige och Tredje riket. Lund: Arkiv.

158  Martin Ericsson Bachner,  H. (2009) ‘Judefrågan’: Debatt om antisemitism i 1930-talets Sverige. ­Stockholm: Atlantis. Bashford,  A. (2010) ‘Epilogue: Where Did Eugenics Go?’, in Bashford, A., and ­Levine, P. (eds.) The Oxford Handbook of the History of Eugenics. New York: ­Oxford University Press. Berg, A. (2016) ‘Public Health and Persecution: Debates on the Possible Migration of Jewish Physicians to Sweden from Nazi Germany’, in Monnais-Rousselot, L., and Wright, D. (eds.) Doctors Beyond Borders: The Transnational Migration of Physicians in the Twentieth Century. Toronto: Toronto University Press. Björkman, M. (2011) Den anfrätta stammen: Nils von Hofsten, eugeniken och steriliseringarna 1909−1963. Lund: Arkiv. Björkman,  M., and Widmalm, S. (2010) ‘Selling Eugenics: The Case of Sweden’, Notes and Records of the Royal Society, 64 (4): 379−400. Blomqvist, H. (1999) Gåtan Nils Flyg och nazismen. Stockholm: Carlsson. Brah,  A. (2005) ‘Ambivalent Documents/Fugitive Pieces: Author, Text, Subject, and Racializations’, in Murji, K., and Solomos, J. (eds.) Racialization: Studies in ­T heory and Practice. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Broberg,  G. (1995) Statlig rasforskning: En historik över rasbiologiska institutet. Lund: Lund University. Broberg, G. and Tydén, M. (1996) ‘Eugenics in Sweden: Efficient Care’, in Broberg, G., and Roll-Hansen, N. (eds.) Eugenics and the Welfare State: Sterilization Policy in Denmark, Sweden, Norway and Finland. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Dahlberg, G. (1933) ‘Den nordiska rasen från social-antropologisk synpunkt’, Ord och bild, 42: 426−32. Dahlberg, G. (1942) Race, Reason and Rubbish: An Examination of the Biological Credentials of the Nazi Creed. London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd. Duedahl, P. (2015) ‘Fra race til etnicitet: UNESCO og den mentale ingeniørskunst i Danmark 1945−1965’, Temp: Tidskrift for historie, 6 (10): 34−59. Ericsson, M. (2015) Exkludering, assimilering eller utrotning? ‘Tattarfrågan’ i svensk politik 1880−1955. Lund: Lund University. Fredrickson, G. M. (2002) Racism: A Short History. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jackson, J. P. and Weidman, N. M. (2004) Race, Racism and Science: Social Impact and Interaction. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO. Jonsson, K. (2004) ‘Rasbiologi från vänster? Om Gunnar Dahlbergs vetenskap, politik och popularisering’, in Nordlund, C. (ed.) Livsföreställningar: Kultur, samhälle och biovetenskap. Umeå: Kungliga Skytteanska Samfundet. Kevles, D. J. (1995) In the Name of Eugenics: Genetics and the Use of Human Heredity. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Kjellman, U. (2013) ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale. Visuality and Race in the Work of the Swedish State Institute for Race Biology’, Scandinavian Journal of History, 38 (2): 180−201. Koch, L. (1996) Racehygiejne i Danmark 1920−1956. Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Kyllingstad, J. R. (2012) ‘Norwegian Physical Anthropology and the Idea of a ­Nordic Master Race’, Current Anthropology, 53 (5): 45−56. Ljungström, O. (2004) Oscariansk antropologi: Etnografi, förhistoria och rasforskning under sent 1800-tal. Hedemora: Gidlunds. Lundmark, L. (2002) ‘Lappen är ombytlig, ostadig och obekväm…’ Svenska statens samepolitik i rasismens tidevarv. Bjurholm: Norrlands universitetsförlag.

Anti-fascist race biology  159 Lööw, H. (1990) Hakkorset och Wasakärven: En studie av nationalsocialismen i ­Sverige 1924−1950. Gothenburg: Gothenburg University. Manias, C. (2013) Race, Science, and the Nation: Reconstructing the Ancient Past in Britain, France and Germany. New York: Routledge. Miles, R. and Brown, M. (2003) Racism. London: Routledge. Ohlsson al Fakir, I. (2015) Nya rum för socialt medborgarskap: Om vetenskap och politik i ‘Zigenarundersökningen’: en socialmedicinsk studie av svenska romer 1962−1965. Växjö: Linnaeus University Press. Oredsson, S. (1996) Lunds universitet under andra världskriget: Motsättningar, debatter och hjälpinsatser. Lund: Lunds universitetshistoriska sällskap. Quine, M. S. (2013) ‘Making Italians. Aryanism and Anthropology in Italy during the Risorgimento’, in Turda, M. (ed.) Crafting Humans: From Genesis to Eugenics and Beyond. Goettingen: V and R Unipress. Roll-Hansen, N. (2010) ‘Eugenics and the Science of Genetics’, in Bashford, A., and Levine, P. (eds.) The Oxford Handbook of the History of Eugenics. New York: ­Oxford University Press. Svanberg, F. (2015) Människosamlarna: Anatomiska museer och rasvetenskap i ­Sverige ca 1850−1950. Stockholm: Historiska museet. Tunlid, A. (2004) Ärftlighetsforskningen gränser: Individer och institutioner i framväxten av den svenska genetiken. Lund: Lund University. Turda, M. (2013) ‘Crafting a Healthy Nation: European Eugenics in Historical Context’, in Turda, M. (ed.) Crafting Humans: From Genesis to Eugenics and Beyond. Goettingen: V and R Unipress. Tydén, M. (2010) ‘The Scandinavian States: Reformed Eugenics Applied’, in ­Bashford, A. and Levine, P. (eds.) The Oxford Handbook of the History of Eugenics. New York: Oxford University Press.

9 Finnish socialist intellectuals on fascism and anti-fascism in the 1930s Tauno Saarela

If anti-fascism was not a principal concern among Finnish students and intellectuals in the interwar years – for the most part, Finnish students aligned themselves to the nationalist and right-wing Akateeminen Karjala Seura (Academic Karelia Society, AKS) – there were nonetheless some that were attentive to the threat of fascism. These people were organised in the Akateeminen Sosialistiseura (Academic Socialist Society, ASS) and, in what follows, I will undertake a case study of the ASS and examine how Finnish socialist intellectuals responded to fascism and anti-fascism in the 1930s.

The ASS and Finnish socialist intellectuals The ASS was founded in October 1925 (Saarela, 1990: 17–25, 151–61). At first, it was an independent association, but in 1927, it affiliated to the Social Democratic Party (SDP). The ASS was a small association – at its height it had 40–50 members and 10–15 activists. In part, it may have reflected the hegemony of the AKS among the students that the ASS turned its interests towards the labour movement. But it also reflected the fact that ASS members considered that their task as socialist intellectuals was to acquaint the working class with the ideas of Marxism. This they did by reading the books of leftist socialists within the Second International and by following the discussions within the Socialist Labour International in the early 1930s. On this basis, they formulated their opinions of the tasks of the Finnish labour movement and published them in Soihtu, a periodical that first appeared in 1931. As the opinions of the ASS members were not necessarily in harmony with those of the SDP leadership, they became critics of SDP policy. There were three central figures in the ASS during the 1930s. The ­Swedish-speaking Cay Sundström (1902–1959) played the leading role in the ASS in the period 1928–1934; he was also the founder of Soihtu. From 1934 to 1938, Mauri Ryömä (1911–1958) and Raoul Palmgren (1912–1995) were the central figures in the society. Ryömä was a son of the social democratic ­activist – his father was one of the (re)founders of the SDP after the Finnish Civil War of 1918. Sundström and Palmgren had a bourgeois background. These three men, however, held divergent opinions, as we shall see.

Finnish socialist intellectuals  161 Besides writing and translating in Soihtu, all three were also active elsewhere. Sundström’s contribution was also apparent in numerous articles in the social democratic newspapers, Suomen Sosialidemokraatti, the main organ of the party, and Arbetarbladet, the organ of the Swedish-speaking social democrats in Finland between 1928 and 1934. Raoul Palmgren wrote actively in Tulenkantajat, a liberal-leftist periodical. Sundström and Ryömä became members of parliament in 1936.

Fascism as the means for the survival of capitalism In articles penned in 1930, Sundström first tried to convince the SDP that fascism posed a danger. His primary concern was the vicissitudes of the nationalist and anti-communist Lapua movement, which was willing to resort to violent methods in order to revive the White unity of the Civil War months (see Siltala, 1985; Silvennoinen, Tikka, and Roselius, 2016). Nonetheless, Sundström attempted to give fascism a more general definition. ­Referring to the situation in Europe, he predicted that a fascist epoch could sweep over the whole of Europe. Although making progress, fascism was, according to Sundström, the consequence of a capitalist economic system in crisis. In order to protect capitalism and prevent social revolution, the bourgeois class would resort to fascism (Saarela, 1990: 200–1). Sundström would return to the definition of fascism in March 1932 – soon after the Mäntsälä rebellion, a failed attempt of the Lapua movement to force the government to resign (Silvennoinen, Tikka, and Roselius, 2016: 208–35) – when he made an effort to analyse fascism ‘in the light of the concept of materialist history’ (Saarela, 1990: 201–2). His intention was to criticise simplistic assessments of fascism; not all authority based on violence was fascism, he declared. Sundström differentiated between those monopoly capitalist countries, where democracy was under attack, and those agricultural countries, where a terrorist and militarist dictatorship existed, but where the bourgeoisie and the working class had not yet matured along capitalist lines. After analysing Italy, Spain, Poland, Hungary and Romania, Sundström stated that it was difficult to include the latter countries under fascism. However, he did not say whether he considered those countries fascist or not. In previous articles, he had labelled these countries fascist. Sundström now deepened his analysis of fascism. According to him, fascism was the result of certain economic, social and political forces of which economic factors were paramount. Fascism was the consequence of the inability of capitalism to survive. With the impact of depression on the middle classes, especially on the surplus population in the countryside, the middle classes were becoming increasingly proletarianised. Identifying the democratic system as the reason for their misery, they were being primed to follow fascist-type slogans on the ‘new state’ and ‘strong man’, thereby creating the preconditions for dictatorship. Although emphasising the importance of the

162  Tauno Saarela middle classes, Sundström did not regard fascism as their movement – it was still under the leadership of finance capitalists. Sundström attempted to apply his historical analysis to the fascist movement in Finland (Saarela, 1990: 202–3). According to him, Finnish capitalism was based on the wood and paper industry, one-sidedly connected to the capitalist markets of Western Europe. The financial crisis had a negative impact on Finland; the export of wood decreased. Depression made capitalists uneasy about the strength of the working class in parliament, in the municipal councils and in the trade unions. The depression had not changed the hostility of the peasants towards workers, but it had made them more rebellious. Sundström stressed that the industrialists, big landowners and other reactionaries had been skilful in hiding their real intentions to weaken the influence of the trade union and labour movement. He, however, did admit that the groups involved in the Lapua movement also had their own motives. The civil servants were dissatisfied with their salaries; the idea of Great Finland had stirred some groups of the population. Sundström also touched on the special features of Ostrobothnia, the birthplace of Lapua movement – the Ostrobothnians had maintained their belief that they were representatives of the peasant freedom (the White army in 1918 had been created in that area). Sundström admitted that old habits and notions lived long, but did not believe that the Lapua movement would have emerged without economic crisis. During the period 1933–1934, these socialist intellectuals considered Isänmaallinen Kansanliike (IKL), the extreme right-wing party formed after the proscription of the Lapua movement, to be a significant threat. ­According to Mauri Ryömä and Raoul Palmgren, the IKL was financed by Finnish capital, while the Lapua movement had been supported by Swedish-­ speaking capital. They also recognised that while the Lapua movement had attempted to capture the support of the working people by warning of the danger of Communism and war against the Soviet Union, the IKL was fishing for their support by means of social and economic demands. These socialist intellectuals were concerned that, due to its demands, the IKL might raise considerable support among the poor in both the towns and countryside (Saarela, 1990: 203–5). Their concern reflected the fact that the IKL appealed to the working and educated population and was more ­Helsinki-centred than the Lapua movement (Silvennoinen, Tikka, and Roselius, 2016: 241–3). It was, however, not the threat of the IKL as such, which alarmed Finnish socialist intellectuals most. Events in Europe, Hitler’s ascent to power and the ban of the labour movements in Germany and Austria, and the coup in Estonia made them believe that fascism could become a general system in Europe (as Sundström predicted earlier). Concern over the IKL and fascism in general was also a way to push the SDP into becoming more active in response to the threat of the extreme right. After 1934, the ASS concentrated on that task rather than on defining fascism.

Finnish socialist intellectuals  163

A united working class as a counterforce Finnish socialist intellectuals thought that it would be possible to ward off fascism by creating a counterforce led by a united working class that included parts of the proletarianised middle classes. But the first task was to find ways of bringing the divided working class together. Socialist intellectuals, however, were less concerned about the political and ideological division of the labour movement than the social differentiation of the working class. It would be necessary to bring the unemployed, the irregular and regular employed, and labour aristocracy together under the banner social democracy (Saarela, 1990: 218; Soihtu, 1933: 75–6; 1934: 54–7). Sundström believed that it would be possible to create a party, which would represent the whole working class. He did not attempt to promote the birth of that party by means of the existing parties or groups, but by defining the political line that would draw the entire working class together. According to him, the unity of the working class was more a question of political line and spirit than of organisation. That, however, did not prevent Sundström from expressing his delight in left-wing organisational cooperation (as the example of a united front between socialist and communist parties in France in the spring of 1934 demonstrated). Even so, the content, the fight for democratic rights, was most important (Saarela, 1990: 218–25). The party would have to fight for various civil rights, improvement of the workers’ living standards and democratic control of the economy, and against the warmongering of fascism. Sundström believed that unity would be most natural in the trade unions. He defended strikes, even spontaneous ones, as a factor creating unity (Saarela, 1990: 220–1; Soihtu, 1933: 151–2; 1934: 3–5). Sundström also turned his attention to the middle class. He divided them into groups according to their proximity to the working class. Smallholders, artisans and lower civil servants were closer, whereas peasants, owners of small industries and tradespeople were further from the workers (Saarela, 1990: 224–5). At the turn of 1933–1934, Finnish socialist intellectuals wondered why peasants had become supporters of the fascist movements and not joined the working class as their objective situation required. The main reason they found was in the stronger propaganda of the fascists. Therefore, the labour movement had to intensify its educational work among the peasants, and make practical proposals in order to improve their situation. Socialist intellectuals believed that the peasants hated bank and monopoly capitalists and therefore would support the socialisation of banks and large enterprises. The clash of interests between workers and peasants, of which Sundström had written about earlier, had now disappeared (Soihtu, 1933: 138–43; 1934: 54–7).

The socialist intellectuals and the SDP In order to promote the activity of the SDP in the process of uniting the working class, the ASS made a proposal to the party congress in 1933 that

164  Tauno Saarela it should ‘express a serious invitation to the Finnish working class to unite’ and ‘promote the international solution of the unity question within the framework of social democracy’. The SDP leadership considered this a proposal to cooperate with communists and rejected it. Besides, there was no partner to negotiate with in Finland (communist organisations had been banned by the state). So the difference between the socialist intellectuals and the SDP leadership did not concern cooperation with the communists, but rather what kind of policy the SDP should practise. Socialist intellectuals therefore challenged the political line of the SDP leadership (Saarela, 1990: 218–20). While the ASS studied the situation in general and was worried about the events in Europe, the SDP’s main concern was in Finland. Instead of characterising the depression as the death spiral of capitalism, it was enough for the SDP to stress the difficulties it caused for the workers and middle classes. Contrary to the socialist intellectuals, the SDP did not consider it possible to move from the depression to socialism (Kettunen, 1986: 94–102; Soikkanen, 1975: 309–44). If both the ASS and the SDP saw the middle classes as the main followers of fascist movements, their views differed significantly from each other. While the ASS regarded fascism as an attempt by capitalists to ensure that capitalism survived, the SDP identified the threat of communism as a primary cause behind the rise of fascism. The policy of the SDP was formulated in the aftermath of the Civil War in 1918, and the party wanted to give priority to work in parliament and the municipal councils, to follow a reform policy and cooperate with the bourgeois parties. They therefore considered the spontaneous activities of the working class suspicious and had a tendency to reject extra-parliamentary activities. The activities of the Lapua movement made the SDP leadership very guarded, and it became committed to waiting for the moment when disagreements between the bourgeois parties would emerge. The SDP thought that such a moment came into being after the Mäntsälä rebellion when the so-called ‘legality bourgeoisie’ formed a government. The SDP decided to support that government as a lesser evil, and thus accepted that the earlier limitations on civil rights were not restored and, furthermore, the government even enacted new restrictions (Soikkanen, 1975: 491–559). Socialist intellectuals did not accept the idea that the development of society into a better direction would take place automatically – social changes were the result of people’s activities. Therefore, they considered it important that the party be involved in organising demonstrations and popular meetings, in order not to become isolated from the masses. Extra-parliamentary activities were also important as a counterpoise for fascist actions (Soihtu, 1935: 58–60). According to the socialist intellectuals, the sharpening of the cultural struggle dictated that the labour movement should increase its cultural work. The party had unfortunately neglected Marxist educational work, which would have been a very important activity in the new situation. The

Finnish socialist intellectuals  165 socialist intellectuals firmly believed that the socialist labour movement with its ‘significant facts’ would be able to conquer the masses much better than the fascist movement. Therefore, the party should publish socialist literature, which answered the challenges of the moment, and create an efficient propaganda apparatus in order to remain in contact with masses (Soihtu, 1934: 54–7, 64–7). While speaking for the importance of the educational work, the ASS intellectuals came close to the ideas presented by K. H. Wiik, the party secretary of the SDP during the decade 1926–1936. Wiik considered that before and during the Civil War, the leaders of the labour movement had relied too much on the instincts of the masses and followed them. Therefore, he spoke for a better interaction between the leadership and the rank-and-file, and regarded the liberation of the masses from their original instincts as the important educational task of the SDP. He was also of the opinion that the party should have better control of all extra-parliamentary activities than before the Civil War (Kettunen, 1986, 95–9). Although sharing many ideas with the ASS intellectuals, Wiik did not accept their notions on fascism. In 1930, he emphasised that there were no operational presuppositions in place for a fascist system in Finland, as the labour movement did not threaten the power of the capitalists and the fascist movement did not have a sufficient popular base. In addition, Wiik gave priority to parliamentary means in opposing the right-wing movements (Kettunen, 1986: 311–13; also see Chapter 3 in this volume).

Fascism according to Central European socialists Although the published articles of the young academic socialists coincided with the vicissitudes of the Finnish right-wing movements, they also reflected the tradition of the labour movement and discussions of the Central European socialists on fascism. In their study circle, all the ASS members read texts of the Second International/Labour and Socialist International Marxists. Cay Sundström closely followed the discussions of the leftist social democrats and socialists in Europe. In the late 1920s and early 1930s, publications of the Austrian socialists, especially Max Adler, and their main organ Der Kampf were important reference points for him. In addition, the Klassenkampf, published by Max Adler and the German left social democrats in Germany, and the publications of the Sozialistische Arbeiterpartei Deutschlands, after its foundation in 1931, were also influential. He also read ­ erman Jungsozialistische Blätter and La Bataille Socialisté published by the G Jungsozialisten and the French Socialist Party, respectively ­(Buschak, 1985: 28; Rengstorft, 1976: 13–14; Saarela, 1990: 95–6). Klassenkampf published several articles on fascism during 1930–1931. It was important for the magazine to establish that fascism was the weapon of the capitalist class and to oppose arguments, according to which fascism was an independent movement between the bourgeoisie and working class

166  Tauno Saarela (Klassenkampf, 1931; Seydewitz, 1930: 114). The general thesis that the fascist movement was the method of engagement of the bourgeoisie during the decline of capitalism was usually sufficient for the Klassenkampf group. The magazine did not touch the differences between bourgeois democracy and fascism or the bourgeois parties and the fascist movement. Thus, the magazine could characterise Heinrich Brüning’s bourgeois coalition government as fascist by two-thirds or three-fourths (Drechsler, 1983: 73). Neither did Klassenkampf ponder the composition of fascism nor how the bourgeoisie was able to create the fascist ‘fighting tool’ (Rengstorf, 1976: 76–8). Another interpretation of fascism was also present in the German-­ speaking labour movement in the 1920s. In his articles on the balance of the classes, Otto Bauer, the leader of the Austrian social democrats, drew an analogy between the birth of fascism and the development of absolutism in Europe and the reign of Napoleon III. Drawing upon Bonapartist interpretations, it was held that fascism could achieve power when the bourgeoisie gave up political power in order to maintain its economic domination (Bauer, 1924; Botz, 1974: 29–32). The German left socialist Fritz Sternberg and German communist August Thalheimer also used a Bonapartist interpretation in their analysis of fascism at the beginning of the 1930s. Bauer’s interpretation of fascism stood out from the general social democratic view as he did not accept fascism as a form of domination born ­automatically from the structures of capitalism. For him, fascism was rather a demonstration of the crisis of bourgeois hegemony and the coinciding crisis of the labour movement. Thus, fascism was not born, while the labour movement was on the offensive, but while its progress had come to a halt. Bauer attempted to analyse how various interests were ideologically and politically united in the fascist movement (Botz, 1974: 42–50). Bauer’s interpretation of fascism was adopted in the Linz programme of the Austrian party in 1926, but it was connected to the more general explanation of the bourgeoisie safeguarding its position. Fascism was not a central topic in the articles of the Austrian social democrats in the late 1920s, although the consolidation of Italian fascism, the rise of the National ­Socialists as a mass party in Germany, the strengthening of the Austrian right-wing movements and the economic crisis made the topic more common at the turn of the decade. The concern of the social democrats grew only after the success of the Austrian national socialists in the elections in the spring of 1932 (Botz, 1974: 34–8). The Sozialistische Arbeiterpartei in Germany, which was a Marxist ­Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (SPD) offshoot, took advantage of the Bonapartist interpretation, too. Its programmatic writings were based on Fritz Sternberg’s ideas on fascism presented in the book Der Niedergang des deutschen Kapitalismus. In his book, Sternberg connected fascism with the decline of capitalism (Drechsler, 1983: 229). Sternberg had realised the defects in the definition of bourgeois domination by the Klassenkampf group. He emphasised the differences between legal monopoly capitalist dictatorship

Finnish socialist intellectuals  167 and open fascism; labour organisations were legal during the former, while they were destroyed in the fascist system. According to Sternberg, it was easier for the monopoly capitalists to cut workers’ wages during the rise of fascism; the labour movement was effectively threatened by letting fascists take power. This condition could not, however, last for a long time, because the fascists wanted to conquer executive power (Sternberg, 1932: 341–3). Although Sternberg saw the difference between legal capitalist and fascist dictatorships, he did not stress the independence of the fascist movement but rather emphasised the role of monopoly capitalists in the creation of fascist mass movement. He also thoroughly analysed the weakening of the status of the middle classes, which formed the basis for the national socialist movement and their ‘reactionary-romantic’ response to the change in their status. According to Sternberg, that was possible because the position of the middle classes in the production process prevented them from becoming properly aware of economic processes and of their main opponents (Sternberg, 1932: 344–8). Sternberg emphasised that monopoly capitalists had strengthened the reactionary response of the middle classes by means of their nationalist ideology. Thus, the masses following national socialists did not believe that they were defending the interests of capitalists, but believed to be fighting for the freedom and restoration of Germany; nationalism had united intellectuals, proletarianised small entrepreneurs, peasants and the Lumpenproletariat. Social democrats and communists had not been able to resist nationalism, but had rather supported it (Sternberg, 1932: 348–67). While underlining the significance of nationalism as the basis of fascism, Sternberg came close to Max Adler who analysed social, economic and psychological mechanisms, which drew middle-class people and the unemployed into fascist movements. Adler recognised the reactionary utopias and fear towards the working class, but in emphasising the strong anti-capitalist character of the middle classes and their objective belonging to the working class, he believed it would be a rather easy task to turn their ‘wrong’ consciousness into a right one. He considered socialist demands important in winning over the middle classes. According to Adler, the middle classes had shown their dissatisfaction towards bourgeois democracy, and the ­labour movement had to prove that the fascist movement could not force the anti-­capitalist aims of the middle classes into being (Adler, 1933: 43–6; Der Kampf, August–September 1933 and October 1933). The Russian Menshevik Theodor Dan also stressed that small social reforms would not be enough for the middle classes – alignment with them would be possible, only if a radical upheaval in society was the aim (Der Kampf, August–September 1933). On the other hand, Otto Bauer believed that the working class could mobilise the middle classes against fascist dictatorship by stressing the importance of civil rights, freedom and democracy (Der Kampf, August–September 1933). The unity of the working class was not of such importance in the Central European labour movement before 1932 – the social democrats regarded the speeches of the united front by the communists as manoeuvres;

168  Tauno Saarela the communists considered social democrats as being social fascists and ­attempted to isolate social democratic leaders from the masses. In addition, the Socialist Labour International forbade its member parties from engaging themselves in any activities concerning the united front. It was only after Hitler’s rise to power that both internationals started to speak of cooperation in general, but still adhered to their old conceptions (Braunthal, 1963: 410–20; McDermott and Agnew, 1996: 111–12, 121–3). Of those magazines, followed by the Finnish socialist intellectuals, Der Kampf supported cooperation based on negotiations between the internationals (Der Kampf, August–September 1932; November 1932). In principle, Klassenkampf took a positive attitude. It did not, however, mention cooperation in its programmatic declaration, but spoke in general of the interests of the working class and their unconditional representation (Klassenkampf, October 1927). Thus, the achievement of unity was also connected with the revolutionary reform of the SPD (e.g. Klassenkampf, June 1931). Max Adler went further and made efforts to outline ‘leftist socialism’ which, on the basis of its political principles and activities, would include the whole labour movement. After the defeat of the labour movement in Germany, he gave more emphasis to the idea that the unity was not a matter of organisation, but consciousness and spirit. On that basis, Adler attempted to create an alternative for reformist social democrats and ­Bolsheviks (­Adler, 1933: 19–24, 33–5).

The Finnish socialist intellectuals and Central European socialists In the texts of the Finnish socialist intellectuals, fascism was characterised primarily as a means of capitalists to protect capitalism. They thus paid attention above all to economic development and its effects. Some of Cay Sundström’s articles, however, presented a many-sided analysis of class relations. In that respect, he came closer to the Bonapartist interpretation, which was probably known to him on the basis of Bauer’s and Sternberg’s texts. While analysing the agricultural countries under a dictatorship, although the bourgeoisie had not developed properly, Sundström took cognisance of the idea that power was in the hands of the elite, which did not directly represent the bourgeoisie. He also wrote about how the fascist movement had entered the fight in the midst of the classes. Bauer’s and Thalheimer’s emphasis on the independence of fascism from the bourgeoisie did not, however, appeal to Sundström. In that sense, he and also Ryömä and Palmgren were closer to those who clearly characterised fascism as a creation of the monopoly bourgeoisie (Saarela, 1990: 212–14). It is possible that hints of a Bonapartist interpretation in Sundström’s texts were mediated by Sternberg who regarded fascism as a creation of the monopoly bourgeoisie. But Sundström did not follow Sternberg thoroughly – he did not at first take seriously Sternberg’s separation between legal

Finnish socialist intellectuals  169 dictatorship and open fascism. It took the ASS members up to 1935–1936 to be able to discern between legal and illegal methods. The defects of Finnish political democracy obviously supported this kind of an attitude. Not one of the ASS leaders properly analysed the relationship between fascism and bourgeois democracy (Saarela, 1990: 213–14; Soihtu, 1936: 110–11). The articles in Soihtu demonstrated that the ASS followed Central European social democratic discussions on the cooperation and unity of the labour movement. The Finnish socialist intellectuals shared with the Central European left social democrats, Klassenkampf group and Max Adler, in particular, the habit of speaking of the united working class, but not of cooperation with communists. They also shared the idea that the working class was divided into various groups according to their position in the labour market. The division of the workers presented by the Finnish socialist intellectuals was similar to that of Max Adler. Both expressed their belief that it should be relatively easy to establish unity by representing unconditionally the interests of the working class (Saarela, 1990: 222–3). Their articles did occasionally include references to the cooperation of the parties, but the general talk of working-class unity dominated their presentations (Saarela, 1990: 220, 222). The situation in Finland – where there was only one legal workers’ party – obviously left its mark on the attitude of the socialist intellectuals. Finnish socialist intellectuals saw the creation of the unity of the working class in rather optimistic terms. They did not speak about the dangers of unemployment as a source of indifference and passivity, and did not see the mobilisation of the unemployed as problematically as Adler did. But Finnish socialist intellectuals did share with Adler the idea that labour aristocracy was born out of well-to-do workers and persons who had risen to become functionaries of the labour organisations. For the ASS intellectuals, labour aristocracy was, however, more clearly identified with party functionaries (Soihtu, 1934: 57–61, 64–7, 84–90). That characterisation was strengthened as the SDP leadership started to criticise the ASS and cautioned them in November 1934 (Saarela, 1990: 243). The division of the working class into ‘half-bourgeois labour aristocracy and revolutionary masses’ by Mauri Ryömä came close to communist definitions (Soihtu, 1934: 103–7, 112). Within the European labour movement, it was common to look at the middle classes through the juxtaposition of working class and bourgeoisie. From this perspective, the anticipation that the middle classes were part of the working class took priority, although the texts on the development of capitalism written before the Great War (e.g. Luxemburg, 1913: 443–6; Pannekoek, 1910: 4–5, 126–45) and the discussions in the early 1930s recognised the differences between the interests of the classes (e.g. Der Kampf, August–September, October and November 1933). Thus, it was usual, for instance, for Max Adler in the early 1930s to emphasise the anti-capitalist and radical character of the middle classes at the expense of their negative attitude towards the working class (Katsoulis, 1975: 301–7).

170  Tauno Saarela The study of the middle classes through the similar juxtaposition was very clear in the articles of Mauri Ryömä and Raoul Palmgren (Soihtu, 1934: 64–7; 1935: 106–9). Sundström occasionally recognised that they cherished reactionary utopias and were afraid of the workers but, on the other hand, he considered them as objectively belonging to the working class. He attempted to tie these observations together by emphasising that it was important to break down the old patterns of thought within the middle classes and point out their ‘right’, working-class interests. This would provide the basis to appeal to them through socialist slogans (Saarela, 1990: 224, 227).

Finnish popular front? At the end of 1935, the counterforce against fascism acquired a new name, as the Finnish socialist intellectuals, inspired by the events in France, started to speak of the ‘popular front’. For them the popular front was very close to their definition of a united front. While they had previously tried to attain a united front between workers, peasants and the intellectuals, now they pursued a popular front against fascism, which connected the petty bourgeoisie supporting democracy and peace, the national minority fighting for their rights, the peasants hungry for land and the proletariat fighting for its freedom. It was natural for the socialist intellectuals that a popular front would consist of masses led by the working class (Soihtu, 1935: 106–9). Unsurprisingly, the formation of the government by the SDP, Maalaisliitto (Agrarian Party) and Edistyspuolue (Progressive Party) in March 1937, triggered debate among socialist intellectuals. At first, they did not regard it as a real popular front government, because it did not have an active mass movement behind it as in France or Spain. Finnish socialist intellectuals demanded that the government should prove its character in practice. Although their belief in the ability of the Finnish fascist organisations to take power had diminished, the suspension of the IKL and AKS was still important because they were, according to the Finnish socialist intellectuals, mouthpieces of Nazi imperialism (Soihtu, 1937: 174–6, 230–1). The willingness to accept the government as a popular front government increased in 1938 due to the attempts of the government to suspend the IKL. Some socialist intellectuals were willing to support the intensification of national defence, although another important demand for the democratisation of the army did not materialise (Soihtu, 1938: 273–83).

The European popular front? Socialist intellectuals also invested the popular front with an international dimension – Cay Sundström defined it as an international anti-fascist alliance. In the beginning of the 1930s, these intellectuals considered fascism to be a significant threat to peace. In those days, war was considered to be a struggle for material interests and markets, but during the latter half of the decade, the democratic state system, international law and agreements

Finnish socialist intellectuals  171 and the League of Nations were also considered to be under threat from fascism. As time went on, the viewpoint of the ASS intellectuals changed from classes and social groups to states. Their characterisation of the counterforce against fascism also changed accordingly. In the early 1930s Finnish socialist intellectuals regarded the international labour movement, within which the Soviet Union played a significant role, as a counterforce against fascism. In the latter half of the 1930s, it became more important for the Finnish socialist intellectuals to consider states and their alignments and cooperation as the main counterforce against fascism. Ideas of blocs formed by various countries were flourishing in the latter half of the 1930s, but Finnish socialist intellectuals were inspired, above all, by the ideas of Italian socialist Oddino Morgari and the British socialist John Strachey. Both accepted the military buildup against Germany. Both also emphasised the importance of the Soviet Union for the labour movement and democracy in the world. If the Soviet Union were destroyed, fascism would take power in the democratic countries. Morgari and Strachey also valued collective security arrangements (Soihtu, 1936: 43–6, 151–4). According to Ryömä, fascism would always lose during collective security politics; if it did not go to war, it would fall in inner disputes, if it did, it would suffer a certain defeat against the broad front (Soihtu, 1938: 273–83). The formation of popular fronts in France and Spain supported these optimistic assessments. Especially the latter attracted the attention of Finnish socialist intellectuals. Cay Sundström visited Spain in 1937 and the ASS published a pamphlet by the chair of the Spanish parliament (Martinez Barrio, 1938; Soihtu, 1937: 135–6). The optimism began to falter in 1937, however. The Civil War in Spain, Germany’s rearmament, support to the Spanish rebels and the anti-Comintern pact gave rise to concern also among the ASS intellectuals, and in 1938, their discussion about the anti-fascist front mainly concerned the alliance of the countries against Germany and its allies. Concern for the unity of the front against fascists became more evident during 1937–1938. Soihtu published several articles of British origin criticising the policy of the government and demanding the Labour Party to be active against fascism (Soihtu, 1938: 225–38, 290–6). On the other hand, the purges in the Soviet Union were not considered harmful for the creation of the anti-fascist bloc, although the Soihtu under Raoul Palmgren hinted at their negative aspects. Socialist intellectuals, however, accepted without objections the arguments that the convicted had been instruments of Germany and Japan (Soihtu, 1937: 262–4, 295–6; 1938: 273–83). Cay Sundström approved the arguments that the problems within the popular front in Spain were due to the fascist provocateurs who had infiltrated anarchist and Trotskyist organisations (Soihtu, 1937: 135–6). In the end, Finnish socialist intellectuals failed in their attempts to make the SDP more active in fighting fascism. ASS activities in this field instead aroused annoyance and suspicion, and as early as spring of 1935, there were accusations from the party leadership that the ASS members were communists or led by them. It took until May 1937 before the party leadership

172  Tauno Saarela decided on the expulsion of the ASS from the SDP. In addition, Mauri Ryömä and Raoul Palmgren as the former and present chief-editor of Soihtu were expelled from the party, and Cay Sundström and other editors of the periodical received a serious warning, while party members themselves were forbidden to circulate Soihtu. Their expulsion represented a final defeat in their attempts to form a radical front against fascism.

References Adler, M. (1933) Linkssozialismus: Notwendige Betrachtungen über Reformismus und revolutionären Sozialismus. Karlsbad: Graphia. Bauer, O. (1924) ‘Das Gleichgewicht der Klassenkräfte’, Der Kampf, Februar. Botz, G. (1974) ‘Genesis und Inhalt der Faschismustheorien Otto Bauers’, International Review of Social History 19: 28–53. Braunthal, J. (1963) Geschichte der Internationale. Zweiter Band. Hannover: J.H.W. Dietz Nachf. GmbH. Buschak, W. (1985) Das Londoner Büro: Europäische Linkssozialisten in der Zwishenkriegszeit. Amsterdam: IISG. Drechsler, H. (1983) Die Sozialistische Arbeiterpartei Deutschlands (SAPD): Ein ­B eitrag zur Geschichte der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung am Ende der Weimarer ­R epublik. Hannover: SOAK-Verlag. Katsoulis, I. (1975) Demokratie, Revolution und Diktatur des Proletariats im Austromarxismus. Meisenheim am Glan: Verlag Anton Hain. Kettunen, P. (1986) Poliittinen liike ja sosiaalinen kollektiivisuus: Tutkimus sosialidemokratiasta ja ammattiyhdistysliikkeestä Suomessa 1918–1944. Helsinki: SHS. Luxemburg, R. (1913) Die Akkumulation des Kapitals. Ein Beitrag zur ökonomischen Erklärung des Imperialismus. Berlin: Buchhandlung Vorwärts. Martinez Barrio, D. (1938) Espanjan vapauden – maailman vapauden puolesta. Helsinki: ASS. McDermott, K. and Agnew, J. (1996) The Comintern: A History of International Communism from Lenin to Stalin. Basingstoke and London: Macmillan Press. Pannekoek, A. (1910) Työväenliikkeen menettelytavasta. Pori: Osuuskunta kehityksen R.L. kustannuksella. Rengstorft, E.-V. (1976) Links-Opposition in der Weimarer SPD. Die “KlassenkampfGruppe” 1928–1931. Hannover: SOAK-Verlag. Saarela, T. (1990) ”Eniten ja hyödyllisintä opittavaa Itävallan sosialidemokratialta”. Cay Sundström ja sosialistiset opit 1926–1934. Licentiate thesis in Political History. Helsinki: University of Helsinki. Seydewitz, M. (1930) ‘Die politische Auswirkung der Krise des Kapitalismus’, in Die Krise des Kapitalismus und die Aufgabe der Arbeiterklasse. Berlin-Britz: Verlag der Marxistischen Büchergemeinde. Siltala, J. (1985) Lapuan like ja kyyditykset 1930. Helsinki: Otava. Silvennoinen, O., Tikka, M., and Roselius, A. (2016) Suomalaiset fasistit: Mustan sarastuksen airuet. Helsinki: WSOY. Soikkanen, H. (1975) Kohti kansanvaltaa 1: 1899–1937: Suomen Sosialidemokraattinen Puolue 75 vuotta. Helsinki: SDP. Sternberg, F. (1932) Der Niedergang des deutschen Kapitalismus. Berlin: Verlag Rowohlt.

10 Intellectuals ready to fight Anti-fascist cultural fronts in Scandinavia, 1935–1939 Ole Martin Rønning

In June 1935, a large anti-fascist assembly was organised in Paris. In addition to 250 invited authors from 28 countries, including a large delegation from the Soviet Union, the International Writers’ Congress for the Defence of Culture gathered an enthusiastic audience. Among the authors were famous figures like Ilya Ehrenburg and Boris Pasternak from the Soviet Union, the Germans Heinrich Mann and Bertolt Brecht, the English Aldous Huxley and Henri Barbusse and André Gide from France. Through five hot summer days, the participants that came together in the congress building Maison de la Mutualité listened to appeals calling to defend a common humanistic heritage against the looming threat of fascism (Palmier, 2006: 331–2). Not only did this Paris congress present a common cultural approach for the struggle against fascism, it outlined an overall political context as well, in which popular front tactics would play a central role. Shortly afterwards, in July/August 1935, the Communist International (Comintern) hosted its Seventh World Congress in Moscow. Following developments through 1934, the Comintern formally announced a new ideological line. In order to halt any further development of fascism in Western democratic countries, communists should initiate anti-fascist popular fronts. Popular fronts went beyond united fronts; they were to embrace not only the whole working class, including social democrats, but also bourgeois-liberal democratic political forces (McDermott & Agnew, 1996: 120). The Paris congress looked to forge a common front against fascism by joining activists of different factions. Divisions between dedicated communists and writers previously condemned as ‘bourgeois’ were to be reconciled. Both popular front tactics and the campaign for the ‘defence of culture’ were Soviet-approved concepts. In reality, the Paris congress had been Soviet initiated and organised (Palmier, 2006: 333; Stern, 2007: 68–72; David-Fox, 2012: 292). Behind the Paris congress stood a Moscow-based organisation – the ­International Union of Revolutionary Writers, abbreviated as MORP from the Russian term. A French association of revolutionary writers and artists, L’Association des écrivains et artistes révolutionnaires (AEAR), that was listed as the organising body of the Paris conference, acted as MORP’s

174  Ole Martin Rønning French department. Originally established in 1930, MORP was part of the Comintern’s organisational structure. MORP had experienced a revival following the Nazi takeover in Germany. Many exiled German writers joined the organisation, which in its revitalised state focussed on anti-fascist activity (David-Fox, 2012: 290). Late in 1933, MORP proposed a Paris-based international organisation for anti-fascist and socialist writers. During the preparation of this new writers’ organisation, MORP placed emphasis on trying to distance it from the communist movement. Well-known communist slogans such as ‘Defence of the Soviet Union’ and ‘Struggle against imperialist war and fascism’ were jettisoned in favour of the more inclusive ‘defence of culture’. The new organisation, the International Association of Authors for the Defence of Culture, was finally established at the Paris conference in the summer of 1935 (Stern, 2007: 49, 68–71, 91). What many people perceived as a real and ever-increasing threat from fascism in 1935 empowered a Soviet-led anti-fascism to mobilise radical intellectuals beyond its former horizon of loyal Western friends. Intellectuals could easily be pulled into activities, and more or less communist-ruled so-called ‘front organisations’, in order to defend Western civilisation and culture against Nazi barbarism (David-Fox, 2012: 288). While the popular front was a tactic designed for domestic politics and as such came to be implemented at governmental levels in France and republican Spain, a related development also took place on the international geopolitical stage. Following Hitler’s rise to power in 1933, the Soviet Union had sought to establish alliances with France and Britain. These efforts peaked in May 1935 with the conclusion of a Franco-Soviet mutual assistance agreement, which further bolstered the Soviet Union’s political prestige among radical and socialist intellectuals across the world. With this contemporary international context in mind, this chapter will focus on Scandinavian cultural fronts, anti-fascist organisations created by socialist intellectuals in Denmark, Norway and Sweden. The term intellectuals is understood here as a social group consisting of individuals with higher or academic education as well as creative practitioners of art, literature, theatre and film. Cultural fronts were supposed to represent a broad gathering of intellectuals, exceeding the original core group of devoted activists. Through a diversity of activity, first and foremost publication of journals, the cultural fronts in Denmark, Norway and Sweden intended to create a bulwark against open as well as hidden fascist ideas and concepts that, in their opinion, were permeating contemporary popular culture. These fronts acted within the above outlined international context, heavily influenced by popular front tactics and Soviet foreign policy. When political developments in the Soviet Union during the second half of the 1930s led to a radical change in this context, both the interaction within the cultural fronts, and the fronts’ relations with other groups and other domestic political forces were affected, which in different ways finally led to their termination.

Intellectuals ready to fight  175 The subjects of this study are the Frisindet Kulturkamp (Liberal Cultural Struggle) in Denmark, Sosialistisk Kulturfront (Socialist Cultural Front) in Norway and Kulturfront (Cultural Front) in Sweden. Scandinavian anti-fascist cultural fronts are a relatively poorly researched issue, even if some national studies do exist (Drangel, 1976; Hatlevik, 1977; Hultén, 1977; Bredsdorff, 1982; Munch-Hansen, 1987; Pryser, 1988; Thing, 1993; Bromark & Tretvoll, 2009; Lund, 2012). These fronts have not previously been subject to any comparative treatment, which has obscured their transnational character. By integrating a comparative perspective, this chapter intends to highlight how the international context influenced the mobilisation of Scandinavian intellectuals into cultural fronts as well as the operation of the fronts themselves. Inter-Scandinavian cooperation will be evidenced, but it is also worth noting how each front had its unique development regardless of the relatively similar economic and political ­c onditions in Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Thus, this chapter will explore the following questions: What motivated the Scandinavian cultural fronts’ emergence and later dissolution? Where were the fronts located in each nation’s political landscape? What activities were arranged by the fronts and what results did they achieve? And how did contemporary political practices of Stalinism in the Soviet Union affect the Scandinavian cultural fronts?

A Scandinavian cultural front movement In late 1934, before the Paris congress, the communist writer Martin ­Andersen Nexø launched an initiative to form an association of Soviet-­ friendly intellectuals and artists in Denmark. The aim was to construct a Danish anti-fascist cultural front in order to combat domestic reactionary forces. In February 1935, a preparatory meeting in Copenhagen was attended by about 100 participants. Besides Nexø and numerous other radical intellectuals and artists, Plan, an association of communist students and intellectuals, was also involved. On 7 April 1935, the organisation Frisindet ­Kulturkamp (Liberal Cultural Struggle) was formally established in ­D enmark, with professor of philosophy Jørgen Jørgensen as chairman (Thing, 1993: 479). Meanwhile, the first preparations began for what would become the Norwegian counterpart to Liberal Cultural Struggle. On 1 April, intellectuals and artists affiliated to both the Labour Party and the ­Communist Party met in Oslo. A working committee was elected, assigned to form an organisation that would call on workers ‘to fight for a culture corresponding to the working class’ attitude’ (Arbeiderbladet 2.4.1935). For unknown reasons, it was October 1935 before any organisation was founded. In December 1935, it was finally named Sosialistisk Kulturfront (Socialist Cultural Front). A well-known Labour Party politician and intellectual, historian Halvard M. Lange, who from 1946 onwards served as Norwegian Foreign Secretary, was its first chairperson.

176  Ole Martin Rønning In Sweden, the cultural front originated with left-wing author, Henry ­ eter Matthis. Matthis would later reveal that he had been inspired by the P development of a similar movement in Denmark (Hultén, 1977: 33). Matthis first approached intellectuals and MPs Ture Nerman (Socialist Party) and Frederik Ström (Social Democrats) with his idea of an anti-fascist cultural front. Radical authors Anna Lenah Elgström and Arnold Ljungdahl also participated in preparatory work (Nerman, 1954: 19). In May 1935, the association Kulturfront (Cultural Front) was formally founded, with a modernist architect, Sven Markelius, as chairperson. According to its statutes, the Swedish cultural front wanted to bring together ‘scientifically, artistically and socially active people’ in a broad, dynamic front against various forms of ‘cultural reaction’. The front was specifically directed against ‘glorification of Nazi and fascist violence and war, falsification of racial concepts and racial persecution, degradation of reason and suppression of free science’ (Kulturfront 1, 1936). Anti-fascism was the cornerstone of all Scandinavian cultural fronts. In Norway, the emphasis was on how the working class and the labour movement represented both a guarantee and an opportunity for the future of culture, and thus stood in sharp contrast to fascism. ‘The more reaction expands, the clearer is the fact that it implicates barbarism, the destruction of civilization by war and tyranny and suppression of contemporary science and knowledge’ (Meyer, 1935: 6). First and foremost, it was the working class that stood up in defence of society’s cultural values, the leading ideologue of the cultural front, left oppositional Labour Party politician Håkon Meyer, claimed. In Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, medieval barbarism and superstition had launched an attack against science and culture; Nazism and fascism had for the time being triumphed on the cultural battlefield, benefiting enemies of the people and culture. To avoid this happening in Norway, the Norwegian working class, according to Meyer, had to rise up in cultural struggle (Meyer, 1935: 14–16). Along similar lines, the Danish cultural front wanted to prevent the spread of ‘reactionary barbarity’. This cultural front was envisaged as a broad movement working against ‘reactionary’ influences that appeared across all areas of Danish cultural life. According to popular front tactics, this front should not agitate for a revolutionary change of society, but seek to combat and neutralise ‘Nazi-conservative influence’ among social groups that could be susceptible to reactionary propaganda (Kulturkampen 2, 1935; Thing, 1993: 479). Why did these parallel initiatives take place during the winter/spring 1935? The cultural fronts in Scandinavia were formed as part of a developing international campaign, where the Paris congress was only one expression. At the time, the Scandinavian fronts were understood as being part of a contemporary transnational anti-fascist current among intellectuals, as expressed in France through the Comité de vigilance des intellectuels antifascistes (CVIA), formed in March 1934 by socialist and communist

Intellectuals ready to fight  177 intellectuals, and the British organisation, the National Council for Civil Liberties, also established in 1934 (Social-Demokraten 27.5.1935). In Finland, a related popular front-oriented organisation, Ihmisoikeuksien Liitto (Human Rights League) was founded in November 1935 (Kulturkampen 3, 1936: 2). A cultural front movement also emerged in the United States (­Denning, 1997). Evidently, a common understanding existed in Scandinavian socialist intellectual circles of the need to organise a cultural campaign against reaction and fascism that incorporated elements of popular front tactics. Significantly, in Denmark and Sweden, writers with a positive view of the Soviet Union acted as principal initiators (Nexø and Matthis), while in ­Norway a communist writer, Otto Luihn, took part in the preparatory work (Pryser, 1988: 154). Luihn was head of MORP’s Norwegian branch, Foreningen til fremme for revolusjonær litteratur (The Association for the Promotion of Revolutionary Literature), which had dissolved by the time the cultural front was established (Büchten et al., 2015: 178).

Same but different Nonetheless, within a similar overall scheme of cultural anti-fascism, significant ideological and political differences existed between the Scandinavian cultural fronts. Historian Morten Thing has characterised the Danish front as one of very few successful attempts by the Danish Communist Party to create political alliances or front organisations (Thing, 1993: 479). As previously mentioned, the communist student group Plan was an active participant during the forming of the front. Leader of the Communist Party’s work among students in the mid-1930s, Erik Ib Schmidt, revealed that a communist faction played a major impetus in the cultural front (Schmidt, 1948: 230). The Communist Party also took part in factional activities during the selection of members to the front’s board, but only one party member actually took a seat on the board. This indicates that the Communists had no intention of dominating, but they did want to keep a close eye on the front’s activities and gently guide it in the right direction. Danish Social Democrats, on the other hand, suspected the Liberal Cultural Struggle as a communist front (Thing, 1993: 480–2). The Swedish cultural front had its political centre of gravity to the left of Social Democracy, but there is no reason to suspect that this front was communist-controlled. There is no evidence of involvement by the Communist Party of Sweden during formation. Only one known Communist was actively engaged in the front, even if several affiliated intellectuals did sympathise with the Soviet Union (Drangel, 1976: 32). However, from the very beginning, political tensions existed within the leadership of the cultural front. This became evident when the first issue of the front’s journal in April 1936 triggered a public debate. This debate was occasioned by articles written by Marxist-oriented writer Erik Blomberg, who stated that a

178  Ole Martin Rønning socialist social order was the only guarantee of peace, and Martin Andersen Nexø, who praised Soviet Marxist materialism. It led the liberal newspaper Dagens Nyheter to compare the cultural front with Soviet propaganda organisations such as Friends of the Soviet Union, and branded the front as a Soviet-friendly project (Dagens Nyheter 12.4.1936). Critical voices also rose within the front itself, as chairperson Sven Markelius complained about a lack of internal cooperation. In Markelius’ opinion, the first edition of the journal had a form that deviated substantially from the front’s accepted guidelines. For Markelius, this had created ‘misunderstandings’ that could possibly hamper the realisation of a broad anti-fascist front [Arbetarrörelsens arkiv och bibliotek, Stockholm (AAB): 3298/1 Kulturfront, Föreningshandlingar (1936–1937), Protocol 14.4.1936]. The editorial profile was subsequently adjusted, and the next edition of the journal caused no further debate. In Norway, the political orientation of the Socialist Cultural Front was different. First, the front was perceived as part of the sphere of social democratic Labour Party. There was no reason to accuse the cultural front of being a Communist front organisation. Several of its leading personalities held regular positions in the Labour Party establishment. In addition to their socialist, anti-fascist engagement, intellectuals in the front upheld a cultural-ideological discussion within the Labour Party regarding the issue of developing a distinct socialist working-class culture as an alternative to the existing ‘bourgeois’ culture (Pryser, 1988: 148–50). Second, the Norwegian Communist Party was in a weak position and lacked support among intellectuals. Contrary to the situation in Denmark, there were no organised groups of communist students or intellectuals. In 1935, most socialist intellectuals in Norway had joined the ranks of the Labour Party. Third, even if intellectuals who can be characterised as Soviet-friendly, such as painter Henrik Sørensen and theatre activist Olav Dalgard (Büchten et al., 2015: 182, 189), were involved in the front’s activities and had central functions, the ideological leader of the front, Håkon Meyer, was a convinced anti-­ Stalinist, which was totally unacceptable from a Communist point of view. It is also worth noting that the Norwegian front had the word ‘Socialist’ in its name, suggesting that the project was not intended to encompass ‘bourgeois’ intellectuals – in contrast to the Danish and Swedish fronts, which adopted a popular front modus operandi and explicitly sought to expand outside socialist circles (Hultén, 1977: 35; Thing, 1993: 481). What this meant was that the Norwegian version of popular front cultural anti-fascism originated outside the Socialist Cultural Front. Its forum was the journal Veien Frem (The Road Ahead), published from February 1936 by the communist writer Nordahl Grieg (Hatlevik, 1977: 122–3). But no specific organisation emerged around Grieg’s journal, and the journal itself turned out to be less than successful. Even though it had initially received financial subsidy from the Comintern, the journal soon faced severe financial difficulties and publication ceased in December 1937 (Bentzen, 2002: 229–30).

Intellectuals ready to fight  179 Any talks of an eventual merger between The Road Ahead and the Socialist Cultural Front’s journal Struggle and Culture came to nothing, almost certainly due to insurmountable political differences (Kamp og Kultur 2, 1937: 22–3; Stai, 1954: 26).

Reaching the public If measured by affiliated members, the Danish cultural front turned out to be the most successful. Between 500 and 1,000 intellectuals signed up in support. Unlike the organisations in Norway and Sweden, it was not ­restricted to the capital, as several provincial branches also existed (Thing, 1993: 484). In Norway, the front counted about 200 members from the start and reached a membership figure of 300 at the most (Kamp og Kultur 2, 1935; Pryser, 1988: 154), while the front in Sweden had approximately 150 members at the end of 1936 (Hultén, 1977: 35). Both the Danish and Norwegian fronts were organised with subdivisions. In Denmark, subgroups for architects, actors, authors and technicians existed (Thing, 1993: 484). The Norwegian front originally set up groups for movie and theatre, literature and painting (Kamp og Kultur 2, 1937). Later a photography group was added. A group for musicians was planned, but it was never realised (Lund, 2012: 22). The Swedish front was comparatively far weaker in terms of organisational activities, especially if we take into account that the population in Sweden was twice the size of its Scandinavian neighbours. In 1935, the population of the Scandinavian countries was 6.2 million (Sweden), 3.7 million (Denmark) and 2.9 Million (Norway). This lack of organisational strength may partly be explained by the fact that Swedish intellectuals were more closely connected to the Social Democratic establishment (Jansen & Thing, 2015: 219). The respective cultural fronts sought to mediate their anti-fascist message through different channels. Most important was the publication of journals. Kulturkampen (The Cultural Struggle) in Denmark was published every second month from June 1935, before appearing monthly from 1938 on. The Norwegian journal Struggle and Culture distributed its first issue in October 1935. During 1935, three issues were released, in 1936 ten issues, and in 1937 five issues, before the journal ceased publication after the June edition. The Danish journal kept going the longest; the last edition of The Cultural Struggle appeared in the summer of 1939. In Sweden, only two issues of the front’s journal, Kulturfront (Cultural Front), were ever published. Both appeared during 1936, one issue in the spring and one in the autumn. Cambridge literary historian and former Danish communist Elias ­Bredsdorff, who was once a board member of the Danish cultural front, characterised The Cultural Struggle as a popular front publication in the same category as Cultural Front in Sweden and The Road Ahead in Norway. The Cultural Struggle identified fascism and the Hitler regime as its prime antagonists, but the journal declared that its struggle was against any kind of cultural and political reaction in Denmark and forwarded a progressive

180  Ole Martin Rønning cultural policy (Bredsdorff, 1982: 152). Peter Munch-Hansen has analysed the content of The Cultural Struggle. Most space in the journal was devoted to ‘Foreign affairs and incidents, and their implication for Danish domestic politics’, which accounted for no fewer than 35 articles and four special issues. According to Munch-Hansen, The Cultural Struggle worked to expose how the Danish conservative press helped legitimise fascism through uncritical reporting of international affairs (1987: 6). Elsewhere, Morten Thing judged the journal to be of high quality, both in text and illustration, with weighty contributions from reputable writers and artists. During 1935–1936, each issue had a print run of between two and four thousand copies (Thing, 1993: 487) and for Thing, it embodied Danish progressive politics in the second half of the 1930s. According to researcher Britt Hultén (1977: 34), Swedish Cultural Front put forward a clear socialist message and held a positive view of the Soviet Union. Articles in the only two issues of the journal covered themes such as ‘War and fascism’, ‘Cultural politics’, ‘Liberty and repression’ and ‘Family values’. The volumes were large, more a book than a periodical, with both issues exceeding 100 pages, illustrations included. The first issue contained no less than 17 articles written by different authors. Nine of them were from Sweden. Some well-known names from other countries, such as André Gide and Romain Rolland (France), Martin Andersen Nexö (Denmark) and ­Nordahl Grieg (Norway), underlined the transnational orientation of the issue. The Norwegian journal Struggle and Culture was more ‘cultural’ in its approach and, as previously mentioned, it should not be defined as a popular front publication in strictly ideological terms (Hatlevik, 1977: 122–3). The journal offered a general socialist perspective and articulated a similar kind of anti-fascism as its Danish and Swedish counterparts. The articles in Struggle and Culture can roughly be divided into five main themes: ‘Art, literature and cultural politics’ (49 per cent); ‘International issues, anti-­fascism and racism’ (26 per cent); ‘Religion, sexuality and gender’ (11 per cent); ‘Educational and other domestic political issues’ (7 per cent); and ‘Socialism and ideology’ (7 per cent). More than 60 per cent of the articles within the main theme ‘International issues, anti-fascism and racism’ addressed anti-­ fascism, mostly describing and analysing different aspects of Nazi G ­ ermany (Kamp og Kultur 1935–1937). Among other activities, the Scandinavian cultural fronts set up discussion meetings, both public and for members only, with invited main speakers. The front in Sweden arranged a total of eight meetings in 1936 with lectures thematically divided from ‘Neurosis of the patriarchate’ to ‘The actual political situation in Spain’. According to its own estimates, the Swedish front’s public meetings could attract up to 500 participants (AAB: 3298/1 Kulturfront, Föreningshandlingar (1936–1937), The board’s report 1936; Protocol 15.12.1936). The professional subgroups in the Danish and Norwegian fronts organised their own study activities. All cultural fronts presented various forms of artistic exhibitions and petition campaigns. The Danish front, for

Intellectuals ready to fight  181 instance, organised a campaign that mobilised more than 200 artists to protest against an art competition being included as part of the 1936 Summer Olympics in Germany. In 1937, the Danish front set up an exhibition named ‘The German Cultural Front’, displaying German literature banned by the Nazi regime (Thing, 1993: 484). The combination of cultural and antifascist commitment in the Norwegian front can be evidenced in several public events during the spring 1936. In cooperation with refugees from Nazi Germany, a meeting was arranged with German literature as the subject, where the Norwegian writer Sigurd Hoel presented his essay ‘Concentration Camp and Literature’. The front also organised lectures by the exiled German writer and communist Friedrich Wolf, who visited Oslo in connection with the National Theatre’s performance of his play ‘Professor Mamlock’ (Kamp og Kultur 2, 1937). A certain degree of inter-Scandinavian cooperation existed too. Speakers were exchanged between fronts; intellectuals affiliated to one front could also publish articles in another front’s journal. For instance, the Danish chairperson Jørgen Jørgensen give a lecture on nationalism at a meeting in Stockholm organised by the Swedish cultural front in October 1936 [AAB: 3298/1 Kulturfront, Föreningshandlingar (1936–1937), Protocol 27.10.1936]. Another example is the article ‘Upbringing and War Psychosis’ written by the Norwegian psychologist Nic Waal, which was published in the first edition of the Swedish front’s journal (Kulturfront 1, 1936). The close linguistic similarities between the Scandinavian countries made such cooperation easier.

In the shadow of Moscow In August 1936, the first of a series of show trials opened in Moscow. Charges were directed against an alleged terrorist ‘Trotskyite-Zinovievite Center’ which, in cooperation with German and Japanese intelligence services, was accused of planning to murder the Soviet leadership. Among the defendants were a number of former prominent Bolshevik leaders, with the former revolutionary hero Lev Trotsky identified as head of this fictitious conspiracy. The first Moscow Trial attracted much attention in Norway, not surprisingly since Trotsky had been living in the country after having been granted asylum the previous year by the Labour government. When learning about the accusations, Norwegian Communists and Conservatives alike demanded that Trotsky be expelled. Diplomatic pressure from Soviet authorities further complicated the issue. Finally, the government gave way. Trotsky was deported in December 1936 and continued his exile in Mexico (Høidal, 2013). Among the furore over Trotsky’s legal status, leading ideologue in the Socialist Cultural Front, Håkon Meyer, emerged as one of Trotsky’s foremost defenders in the latter’s attempt to remain in Norway. Meyer was not a Trotskyite and put humanitarian as well as anti-Stalinist motives behind

182  Ole Martin Rønning his support of Trotsky (Skaufjord, 1977: 176; Høidal, 2013: 314). However, Meyer’s criticism of the government’s handling in the case led him into conflict with the Norwegian Labour Party’s leadership. Already tense relations soured even more in the spring 1937 as the Socialist Cultural Front criticised Labour’s cultural politics as being insufficiently detached from ‘bourgeois culture’ (Kamp og Kultur 4, 1937: 5). Governmental grants to poets, so-called ‘war-promoting reactionary movies’ shown at municipal cinemas in Labour-governed Oslo, as well as the editorial line held by Labour’s main paper, Arbeiderbladet, were issues that sparked intense debate (Hatlevik, 1977: 38–49; Pryser, 1988: 156). At the same time, a small Trotskyite movement appeared in Norway. A fierce response came from the Labour leadership, directed not only at the few openly dedicated Trotskyites, but also against Håkon Meyer in person and the Socialist Cultural Front as a whole. Senior Labour executives accused the front of being a Trotsky-influenced faction, which, controlled by Meyer, was trying to undermine Labour’s leadership and damage the party. With prominent Labour figures, such as Halvard M. Lange, already withdrawn from the front, Labour wanted to dissolve what it perceived as a troublesome and potentially damaging opposition group around Meyer. All financial support given by labour organisations to the front ended. As a result, the journal ceased publication (Pryser, 1998: 157; Bromark & Tretvoll, 2009: 97–102; Høidal, 2013: 297–8). The Moscow Trial and the special circumstances of Trotsky’s asylum in Norway were instrumental to Labour’s reaction and the dissolution of the Norwegian Socialist Cultural Front. Labour set up a substitute organisation of socialist intellectuals, Sosialistisk Kulturlag (Socialist Cultural Association) in January 1938, being firmly under the party’s control. Leading Labour intellectuals sought to channel anti-fascist and cultural involvement into this new organisation, and the Socialist Cultural Front finally fell apart. Nonetheless, efforts to create a new organisation of socialist intellectuals loyal to Labour met with little success. Its journal, Revy, only appeared in two (very thin) issues during 1938. The Socialist Cultural Association did retain an anti-fascist perspective that included some elements of popular front ideology. It underlined how the victories of fascism in Europe had activated reactionary strata within Norwegian cultural life, and stated that ‘all progressive forces’, not only limited to the labour movement, should join a common front against aggressive reactionaries (Revy 1, 1938). Nevertheless, during 1938, the organisation faded away, probably due to the deteriorating situation on the international geopolitical stage and a lack of enthusiasm (Pryser, 1988: 158; Bromark & Tretvoll, 2009, 102–3). The Swedish cultural front peaked during 1936. No sources describe any activities in 1937 and, as mentioned, no more editions of the front’s journal appeared. Henry Peter Matthis has claimed that the front gradually gained the character of a ‘discussion club’, mostly arguing about how a broad front could be reached (Matthis, 1977: 23). However, the Moscow Trials and

Intellectuals ready to fight  183 further the emergence of the Great Terror in the Soviet Union increased already existing tensions. In the spring of 1938, the cultural front split as a consequence of the third Moscow Trial, when several former prominent Bolsheviks, with Nikolai Bukharin as the most prominent, were sentenced to death. The seemingly absurd accusations and verdicts at the Moscow Trials led to widespread reaction. In Sweden, senior member Ture Nerman called on the cultural front to make a statement declaring the Trials hostile to culture and thus weakening international anti-fascism (AAB: 410/4/1/17 Ture ­Nerman, Handlingar rörande föreningen Kulturfront 1935–1938, T. ­Nerman’s proposal, 10.03.1938). Although the issue was discussed at two board meetings, the board’s majority decided that the Soviet Union should not be criticised in any way, and declared that the death sentences against the alleged dissidents were politically and legally justifiable. A minority on the board, including its chairperson, the medical doctor and politician ­Israel Holmgren, Nerman and some other board members immediately left in protest (AAB: 410/4/1/17 Ture Nerman, Handlingar rörande föreningen Kulturfront 1935–1938, Open letter from I. Holmgren, 26.03.1938). Soon ­after the cultural front’s activities came a definitive standstill (Nerman, 1954: 21–2; Drangel, 1976: 17–18). However, a cultural front in Sweden continued in the form of the ­journal Nordeuropa. This was established in April 1938 as an inter-Nordic project to be distributed in all the Nordic countries. Besides editorial offices in Lund and Stockholm, additional editorial staff were based in Copenhagen, Oslo, Helsinki and Reykjavik. The journal kept to popular front ideology and its programme lay close to what all the cultural fronts had stated as their purpose, namely: to expose fascistic tendencies in Nordic economics, culture and politics, and to fight for a socialist culture. But Britt Hultén has described how the editorial line of Nordeuropa was constantly being drawn between revolutionary and reformist socialists, Soviet-friends and ­Soviet-critics, Social Democrats and Communists (Hultén, 1977: 150, 159). A basic antagonism existed regarding the Soviet Union: should the Soviet Union be viewed as an ordinary ‘great power’, or should any criticism of Soviet politics be restrained in solidarity with the Bolshevik’s overall socialist project and the greater cause of defeating fascism? The last issue of Nordeuropa appeared in spring 1939; a summer edition never appeared due to financial reasons, but the turmoil caused by the conclusion of the ­Soviet-German non-aggression pact in August 1939 would have made any further editorial work impossible (Hultén, 1977: 208–10). The apparent ideological U-turn occasioned by the Nazi-Soviet pact created much confusion and stopped anti-fascist activity based on cooperation between communist and other political forces. It also fundamentally altered Moscow’s guidelines for the world’s Communist Parties. Explicit anti-fascism and popular front tactics were now discarded. As a result, the cultural front in Denmark now dissolved. There was no longer any need for

184  Ole Martin Rønning a Communist-sponsored anti-fascist cultural front. From September 1939, the front was paralysed, and all activities came to a halt (Thing, 1993: 491). The intellectuals’ anti-fascist cultural movement in Scandinavia that had been based upon, or inspired by, popular front ideology was now dead.

Conclusion As we have seen, in the mid-1930s, socialist intellectuals in Scandinavia were eager to fight for the defence of Western civilisation and culture. Behind the intellectuals’ commitment to the idea of cultural front lay an understanding of society’s middle class as potential supporters, in an active or passive way, of fascism. The predisposition of the middle class was understood as based partly on cultural elements: existing structures in Western societies such as religious and educational practice, attitudes to race and gender, as well as common ways of expression within ‘bourgeois’ culture (literature, theatre, movies). For these intellectuals, ‘bourgeois culture’ communicated an underlying bias that subconsciously and gradually paved the way towards increasing acceptance of fascist ideas and principles. To stop this development, intellectuals thought that culture not only had to be defended against fascist ‘barbarism’, but it also had to change its content and deeper meaning. In that way, socialist and humane ideas could replace the dominant ‘reactionary bourgeois’ bias. Distinctions can be drawn between the Norwegian Socialist Cultural Front and Swedish cultural front, on the one hand, and the Danish front, on the other. In Norway and Sweden the potential for a popular front-based cultural anti-fascism was less than in Denmark, due to the weak standing of the Communist Party among intellectuals. The Norwegian front became more of a cultural project and was to a lesser degree based on Popular Front ideology, while the Swedish cultural front had a substantially weaker organisation and was riddled with ideological conflict between Soviet friends and critics. In contrast, the Danish front could benefit from comparatively larger support from domestic communist and Soviet-friendly intellectuals, which made it possible for the front to continue its activities within the popular front context until as late as August 1939. It might also be added that anti-fascist popular front-inspired politics may also have had greater resonance in Denmark, since the country’s close proximity to Germany made it more vulnerable to any Nazi political pressure, or eventual expansion, compared to the geographically more distant countries of Norway and Sweden. Fascism and Nazism never became a powerful political force in the Scandinavian countries. During the second half of the 1930s, Denmark, Norway and Sweden were all governed by Social Democratic parties, which in cooperation with farmers’ parties sought to limit the potential of fascist movements by creating better conditions for potential core groups of fascist mass support: economically deprived, unemployed and disillusioned groups of the urban and rural population. The Social Democrats developed their own

Intellectuals ready to fight  185 programmes for the political and cultural education of society as well, which implied less need for anti-fascist cultural organisations. Popular Front ideology was also of minor importance in Scandinavia since the fascist threat was not urgent, and Social Democratic parties held power without the need for Communist support. From a Social Democratic point of view, formal cooperation with the Communists was not felt pressing or necessary. In fact, any Communist attempts to create popular front organisations were perceived as a tool to undermine the Social Democratic parties (Drangel, 1976: 30–1; Rønning, 2003). The impact of the Scandinavian cultural fronts in all this is not easy to assess. However, activities performed by the fronts probably had some impact on the public and may have contributed to a better knowledge of the crimes committed by Nazi Germany and other fascist states. But the combination of cultural anti-fascism and popular front ideology gradually lost its momentum among intellectuals parallel to the Soviet Union’s steady loss of political capital, beginning with the Moscow Trials, continuing through the Great Terror and, finally, ending with absolute bankruptcy after conclusion of the non-aggression pact with Nazi Germany in August 1939. Internal Soviet affairs hampered the operability of the cultural fronts in Denmark, Norway and Sweden and, in a various degree, contributed to their dissolution. Even though popular front ideology withered away and cultural front organisations ceased to exist in Scandinavian countries, anti-fascist commitment still remained among socialist intellectuals. Within a few years the very same intellectuals in Denmark and Norway found themselves in a society occupied by Nazi Germany. Connections and networks once developed during the time, and activities of the cultural fronts then became important (Dalgard, 1973: 202; Jansen & Thing, 2015: 220), but now as part of an increasing organised resistance directed towards the occupant’s regime of terror and, in Norway especially, efforts to Nazify society.

References Bentzen, G. (2002) ‘Ung må han ennu være: Nordahl Grieg’, Arbeiderhistorie (Oslo), 6: 223–31. Bredsdorff, E. (1982) Revolutionær humanisme: En introduction til 1930’rnes vensterorienterede kulturtidsskrifter. København: Gyldendal. Bromark, S. and Tretvoll, H. F. (2009) Sigurd Evensmo: Alene blant de mange. Oslo: Cappelen Damm. Büchten, D., Egeberg, E., Holtsmark, S. G., Rønning, O. M. and Sørbye, Y. (2015) ‘Kultur, kunst og propaganda’, in Holtsmark, S. G. (ed.) Naboer i frykt og forventning: Norge og Russland 1917–2014. Oslo: Pax. Dalgard, O. (1973) Samtid: Politikk, kunstliv og kulturkamp i mellomkrigstida. Oslo: Tiden. David-Fox, M. (2012) Showcasing the Great Experiment: Cultural Diplomacy and Western Visitors to the Soviet Union, 1921–1941. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

186  Ole Martin Rønning Denning,  M. (1997) The Cultural Front: The Laboring of American Culture in the Twentieth Century. London and New York: Verso. Drangel,  L. (1976) Den kämpande demokratin: En studie i antinazistisk opinionsrörelse 1935–1945. Stockholm: Liber. Jansen, T. S. and Thing, M. (2015) ‘Communism and Intellectuals’, in Egge, Å. and Rybner, S. (eds.) Red Star in the North: Communism in the Nordic Countries. Stamsund: Orkana. Hatlevik, H. U. (1977) “Kamp og Kultur”: Litteraturkritikk og offentlighetssfærer: En analyse av tidsskriftet Kamp og Kultur og den sosialistiske litterære institusjonen i perioden 1933–38. Unpublished MA thesis. Bergen: University of Bergen. Hultén, B. (1977) Kulturtidskrifter på 30-talet: Nordeuropa, Ateneum, Fronten. Karlskrona: Bo Cavefors Bokförlag. Høidal, O. K. (2013) Trotsky in Norway: Exile 1935–1937. DeKalb, IL: NIU Press. Lund, K. (2012) Kunst og Kamp: Sosialistisk Kulturfront. Oslo: Orfeus. Matthis,  H. P. (1977) På kulturfronten: Artiklar och tal 1935–1977. Stockholm: Kulturfront. McDermott,  K. and Agnew, J. (1996) The Comintern: A History of International Communism from Lenin to Stalin. London: MacMillan Press. Meyer, H. (1935) ‘Klasse og kulturkamp’, in Klasse og kulturkamp. Oslo: Tiden: 5–16. Munch-Hansen, P. (1987) Kulturkampen 1935–39: En historisk gjennemgang og en tematisk/eksemplarisk analyse. Unpublished MA thesis. Copenhagen: University of Copenhagen. Nerman, T. (1954) Trots allt! Minne och redovisning. Stockholm: Koperative förbundet. Palmier, J.-M. (2006) Weimar in Exile: The Antifascist Emigration in Europe and America. London and New York: Verso. Pryser, T. (1988) Klassen og nasjonen 1935–1946, vol. 4 in Kokkvoll, A. and Sverdrup, J. (eds.) Arbeiderbevegelsens historie i Norge. Oslo: Tiden. Rønning, O. M. (2003) ‘NKP, Komintern og folkefrontpolitikken’, Arbeiderhistorie (Oslo), 7: 141–55. Schmidt, E. I. (1948) 30 aars kommunistisk politikk i Russland og Vesteuropa: Gennemgang og kritikk. København: Munksgaard. Skaufjord, T. (1977) Venstreopposisjon i det norske Arbeiderparti 1933–1940. Unpublished MA thesis. Oslo: University of Oslo. Stai, A. (1954) Norsk kultur og moraldebatt i 1930-årene. Oslo: Gyldendal. Stern, L. (2007) Western Intellectuals and the Soviet Union, 1920–40: From Red Square to the Left Bank. London and New York: Routledge. Thing, M. (1993) Kommunismens kultur: DKP og de intellektuelle 1918–1960. Århus: Tiderne Skifter.

11 Fighting for peace The Workers’ Stage, popular front and Spanish aid in 1930s Finland* Mikko-Olavi Seppälä Introduction The Workers’ Stage (in Finnish ‘Työväen Näyttämö’) was an amateur workers’ theatre based in Helsinki. Founded in 1916, the Workers’ Stage reached a high point when it cooperated with left-wing intellectuals in 1934–1939, as outlined below. This chapter will examine how the theatre brought an international anti-fascist repertoire to Finland and how, in and around performances, the struggle for civil rights in Finland was located within the larger framework of an international struggle against fascism. I will concentrate on the performance of Elmer Rice’s drama Judgment Day in May 1935, considered to be the European premiere of the play. Decades later, this performance was canonised as the major anti-fascist act within Finnish theatre in the 1930s. But how successful and influential were the theatre and the performance at the time? I will also turn my attention to how theatre contributed to the Spanish Aid campaigns during the Spanish Civil War of 1936–1939. In this chapter, I consider 1930s political theatre as an organic part of the political activism of the time, deploying political scientist ­Chantal Mouffe’s concept of ‘counter-hegemonic intervention’ (Mouffe, 2013).

Counter-hegemonic intervention and theatre According to Chantal Mouffe, there is always an aesthetic dimension in the political and a political dimension in art. Instead of ‘political art’, she prefers the concept of ‘critical art’ working through emotions at the affective level and showing alternatives to the dominant order or consensus. Mouffe thus sees artistic activism as a form of disruptive ‘counter-hegemonic intervention’ (Mouffe, 2013: 91–9). Yet like Mouffe, Claire Bishop also argues that activist art cannot bring about a political or social change on its own: ‘art has to hand over to other institutions’ (Bishop, 2012: 283). Based on Jürgen Habermas’s theory of the public sphere, historians of labour movements in the 1970s outlined a ‘counter public sphere’ (a ‘proletarian’ * This chapter is based on the article ‘Judgment Day: The Workers’ Stage and the Popular Front in 1930s Finland’, originally published in Nordic Theatre Studies 2/29 (2017): Theatre and the Popular. (Permission granted).

188  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä or ‘plebeian’ public sphere) of working-class publicity (Lottes, 1979: 110–12). Distancing herself from both Habermas’s rational consensual view and Marxist antagonism, Chantal Mouffe speaks of ‘agonistic public space’, one which allows for the confrontation of conflicting opinions (Mouffe, 2013: 91–2). Building on Mouffe’s ideas, Christopher Balme uses the concept of ‘theatrical public sphere’, arguing that a theatre performance can lead to and intervene in wider sociopolitical discourses. With respect to 1920s Germany, e.g. Balme notes that theatre scandals had a long-term impact outside the theatre, ‘in the press, the law courts, even parliament’ (Balme, 2014: 15, 32, 155, 202). The press and law courts also played a role in the case I discuss in this chapter. Closely connected with the 1930s Workers’ Stage, and sharing the same goals, three left-wing cultural journals (Tulenkantajat, Kirjallisuuslehti and Soihtu) intervened in public political discussions and tried to affect ­Finnish politics. From the activist-journalists’ point of view, the whole Workers’ Stage from 1934 onwards could be seen as an extension of interventionist journals. However, the theatre offered something that the journals lacked. In addition to critical theatre performances representing the modern ‘proletarian theatre’ of the time, the theatre grew in importance as a physical gathering point; it served as a public space where various people could meet each other and where counter-hegemonic ideas and sentiments could be expressed and exchanged in relative freedom (but under observation of the state police). Having received a permanent space in the newly built Printing Workers’ House in the spring of 1935, the Workers’ Stage functioned as a focal point and platform for a larger counter-hegemonic intervention that tried to challenge the dominant political order and repressive atmosphere in Finland at the time. United by the theatre, a group of journalists, artists and workers joined forces in a vivid display of political activity; they, e.g. collected signatures on petitions and campaigned for political candidates and victims of the ­Spanish Civil War. Thus, the theatre functioned as an important part of the so-called popular front movement in Finland.

Popular front and cultural front The popular front attempted to gather together socialist and liberal-minded people to combat the threat of fascism. It also had a more specific meaning as an official Communist strategy. Supported by Leon Trotsky at the time Mussolini had seized power in Italy in 1922 (Rosengarten, 2014: 25, 35), the popular front became the official strategy of the Communist International (Comintern) in the summer of 1935, replacing the earlier extreme left strategy that had stressed class struggle, revolution and the fight against social democrats. The popular front policy was formulated by the new leader of the Comintern, Bulgarian communist Georgi Dimitrov, who, having been accused of instigating the Reichstag fire, had successfully defended himself against Hermann Göring and the Nazi regime in the notorious Leipzig court case (Rentola, 2002: 64). Since the popular front aimed to boost popular

Fighting for peace  189 support for communist parties in many countries (Rønning, 2015: 47), the Finnish state police viewed the popular front and its call for a fight against fascism as a communist endeavour. In Finland, this opinion enjoyed wide appeal and tended to isolate the Finnish popular front as a group of leftwing radicals and irresponsible demagogues. After all, as Finland shared an extensive border with the Soviet Union and since many Finnish communists were then living in exile in the Soviet Union, a Bolshevik intervention was seen as a real security risk. However, compared to Finland, the civil rights and anti-fascist movements known collectively as the popular front enjoyed large popular support in several Western democracies at the time. In his study of the USA in the 1930s, Michael Denning stresses that communist sympathisers trying to infiltrate or manipulate the political system belonged on the margins of the popular front as a mass social movement (Denning, 1996: 10, 107). According to Denning, ‘the culture of the Popular Front transformed the ways people imagined the globe […] in its daily work of helping refugees, organizing tours, and holding benefit performances and dances for Spanish and Russian war relief’ (Denning, 1996: 12). As for the Finnish popular front, international contacts were vital for re-energising national or local struggles. As elsewhere, the popular front movement in Finland stressed anti-fascism, pacifism and civil rights.

Fight for civil rights in 1930s Finland The rise of the civil rights movement and the formation of the popular front in 1930s Finland can be seen as a reaction to the repressive legislation proposed and enforced by the government. The issue of insufficient civil rights was felt especially keenly by the communists. Fearing a new attempt at revolution like the one that had led to the Finnish Civil War of 1918, the Finnish state had gradually criminalised communism by 1930. Introduced under pressure from the popular right-wing Lapua Movement in 1930, the so-called Communist Acts abolished all left-wing organisations and newspapers labelled as communist, which had resulted in a number of workers’ houses being closed down and communist youth imprisoned and deprived of their political rights. Though also at risk, the Social Democratic Party (SDP) had managed to maintain its freedom of action. After the Lapua Movement’s failed coup d’etat in 1932, the Finnish government felt threatened by two anti-­ democratic movements: the fascist movement organised in 1933 as a political party (the Patriotic People’s Movement, Isänmaallinen kansanliike [IKL], receiving approximately 8 per cent of votes), and the scattered underground communist activity. Consequentially, the police forces were strengthened (Hietaniemi, 1992: 171–2). In 1934, the government issued a so-called Agitation Law that criminalised defaming of the social order, courts and the public authorities; using the law as a pretext, the government launched

190  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä several libel actions against the liberal press and fiction writers who had criticised or mocked public authorities, priests or the Bible (on the basis of the old Blasphemy Act). In order to eradicate symbolic political protests, the government also introduced the so-called Shirt Law and Flag Law, which banned the use of political flags and the wearing of political symbols and uniforms, e.g. red shirts, in public (Kekkonen, 1999: 80–1; Hentilä, 2006: 163). In the autumn of 1934, even a law enabling forced eugenic sterilisation was suggested. The wake-up call for activism, for the formation of the Finnish popular front, took place in the winter of 1935 when the government proposed reintroducing the death penalty after having imprisoned one of the leading Finnish communists, Toivo Antikainen, in November 1934. Liberal and left-wing intellectuals now began to cooperate with one another and launched a petition to stop the reintroduction of the death penalty. With the Workers’ Stage functioning as a focal point, and organised workers taking care of the practical action, the petition received 120,000 signatures and led to the founding of the Finnish League for Civil Rights in November 1935. Expanding the former left-wing project of aiding political prisoners, the new union defended civil rights, democracy and democratic culture (Rules of the Finnish League for Civil Rights, 1 November 1935, Coll. 8, Erkki ­Vala’s archive, SKS Literary Archive; Saarela, 2002: 51). On an organisational level, cooperation in defence of civil rights led to the establishment of close ties between the Peace Union of Finland, the Academic Socialist Society and the Tulenkantajat Society at the beginning of the year 1935. On an ideological level, this meant cooperation between pacifists, Marxists and pan-Europeans. Having already been carefully observing communist youth, the state police now began following the left-leaning intellectuals and politicians who collaborated with them with new-found suspicion. Communist isolation had indeed started to break down at this point. Pleased with the mounting counter-hegemonic activism, Finnish communists in the Soviet Union tried to encourage left-wing intellectuals by funding the Academic Socialist Society and its magazine Soihtu. In the year 1935, Finnish Communists also began directing material support to independent leftist cultural journals, Kirjallisuuslehti and Tulenkantajat (Saarela, 2015: 172–4; and Chapter 9 in this volume). While still relatively feeble, the civil rights movement had as its figurehead the liberal professor Väinö Lassila. However, the key person linking the left with the liberals and the young with the old was the journalist Erkki Vala (1902–1991). Leader of the Tulenkantajat Society and publisher of the magazine Tulenkantajat, Vala had shifted from the liberal camp to the SDP at the beginning of the 1930s. As an independent forum for political and cultural debate, Tulenkantajat was popular among socialists and liberals alike, and it especially appealed to young people. Having started as a cultural magazine, Tulenkantajat now openly fought the fascists and repressive politics

Fighting for peace  191 in Central Europe and Finland, campaigning for constitutional democratic rights and freedom of speech, which Vala and the left-wing radicals felt were at stake. Having a wide readership, authorities considered Tulenkantajat the most dangerous of the three magazines. As the editor-in-chief, Erkki Vala was convicted several times in the years 1934–1936 for publishing short stories and other writings that, according to the Ministry of Justice, defamed the authorities. (The decision of the Turku Court of Appeal, 17.4.1935, Coll. 8, Erkki Vala’s Archive, SKS Literary Archive). When charged with blasphemy in February 1935, after having published extracts of Jaroslav Hašek’s novel The Good Soldier Schwejk, Vala fought back, gaining international fame as a result (Erkki Vala’s open letter to the Minister of Justice Allan Serlachius, Tulenkantajat, 23.2.1935). Afterwards, his publishing house continued to reprint such scandalous novels (Erkki Vala’s research interview 1973–1974, Coll. 3, Erkki Vala’s archive, SKS Literary Archive). However, the cultural front was not altogether united, as there were tensions between radical and moderate socialists and liberals. Stressing the independent nature of his magazine, Vala’s authority was also soon questioned by the radicalised academic socialists, resulting in a rift in 1935.

The Workers’ Stage, intellectuals and international contacts But what was the role of the Workers’ Stage in the popular front movement? In Finland, contacts with Sweden were traditionally strong and the Swedish journals were widely read. In the Nordic countries, Soviet-inspired agitprop theatre flourished around 1930. In Sweden, banning Soviet guest performances in 1928 did not prevent Swedish agitprop groups from being founded all around the country (Bramsjö & Florin, 1978: 32–6). Communist theatre activity led to the competition with and the revival of the social democrat amateur theatres (Sauter, 2004: 127). In Denmark, actor Per Knutzon was active in organising theatre groups (Det Sociale Teater 1931, RT 1932) performing openly political and social repertory (Kvam, 1990: 71–7). However, Nordic revolutionary theatre groups were fading away by the years 1934–1935 (Bramsjö & Florin, 1978: 203). By that time, the Nazis had seized the power in Germany and Comintern’s new policy restrained class struggle. In this regard, the Helsinki Workers’ Stage arrived at a time when the European heyday for political theatre was already over. For this reason, it found its inspiration in the USA, where the left-wing social theatre had only now started to flourish. During the 1920s, some Finnish workers’ theatres had been owned by left-wing associations and featured a class-conscious repertoire. In Finland, there were no possibilities for an agitprop movement similar to those found in Sweden and other European countries (Samuel, MacColl and Cosgrove, 1985). Having suffered from the anti-communist campaign, the surviving workers’ theatres of the 1930s were careful to avoid an overly explicit

192  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä political repertoire. Criticising this policy, the young academic socialists tried to encourage workers’ theatres to perform only plays that would contribute to the class struggle. Tulenkantajat openly declared that it would support amateur workers’ theatres in their efforts to develop as ‘struggling proletarian theatres’ (Tulenkantajat, 24.2.1934, 17.3.1934 and 18.8.1934). A minor amateur workers’ theatre consisting of socialist workers, known as the Workers’ Stage, consequentially requested that Erkki Vala and Tulenkantajat help them to run the theatre and plan the repertoire. Active members of the theatre at that time included a barber, a brass-maker, a cobbler, an electrician, a launderer and a tailor. At least five out of the eight actors were known to be communists, and at least two of them had already been convicted (The files of Ludvig Korpi, Gustaf Laitinen, Yrjö Nykänen and Hulda Virtanen, The Archive of the State Police, The National Archives). In August 1934, the Workers’ Stage chose its new direction based on advice from intellectuals affiliated with Tulenkantajat and the Academic Socialist Society. The new leaders of the theatre were two young art critics – a 26-year-old socialist journalist named Helmer Adler, who served as director of the theatre board, and a 23-year-old law student named Nyrki Tapiovaara, who was appointed artistic leader in October 1934 when the group realised it needed someone to direct the plays (Vala, 1934). Tapiovaara’s brother, artist Tapio Tapiovaara, became the scenographer. Other members of the theatre board included Erkki Vala and two young academic socialists, Mauri Ryömä and his wife Elvi Sinervo, who wrote novels and directed the speaking choirs of the Socialist Youth Club in Helsinki. The new theatre management immediately started to look for a proletarian repertoire from abroad. As German political theatre had been crushed following the Nazi rise to power, with its foremost figures, Erwin Piscator, Ernst Toller and Bertolt Brecht, living in exile, the new theatre sent inquiries to several institutions and individuals in eight different countries. Helmer Adler described their efforts as follows: ‘When we first started this endeavour, we had nothing but a clear theoretical sight about the proper relation between theatre and politics in the class struggle and some journalistic information on the proletarian theatre in different countries’ (­Adler, 1935a: 122 (translation by M.-O.S)). In the summer of 1935, Adler even travelled to Moscow to meet Piscator in order to establish contacts with the International League of Revolutionary Theatres (IRTB/MORT), a ­Comintern-based organisation that was trying to strengthen the international network of proletarian theatres and increase goodwill towards the Soviet Union (Adler, 1935b: 389–93, 406; Pike, 1982). In his artistic manifesto in the spring of 1935, Nyrki Tapiovaara wrote respectfully about the Russian and German theatrical traditions. He depicted theatre as a weapon in the workers’ struggle for a freer and more meaningful existence in capitalist society. According to Tapiovaara, contemporary proletarian theatre spoke with righteous and a powerful pathos, representing the vital interests of brave working-class protagonists (Tapiovaara, 1935: 120–1).

Fighting for peace  193 The young radicals received some support from the former generation. For example, one communist sympathiser, the middle-aged playwright Hella Wuolijoki, offered the theatre her translation of a contemporary ­Soviet drama, Nikolai Pogodin’s Snow (in Russian Sneg, performed in ­Finnish under the name Me nousemme huipulle) (Pogodin, 1934: 5–6). However, according to Adler, there were practical as well as general problems regarding the status of Soviet drama in Finland. Besides the fact that it was illegal to import Soviet drama into Finland, the subject matter often tended to be too far away from the everyday life in Western societies (Adler, 1935a: 122–3). The Workers’ Stage had better success importing drama from the USA. The journal of the American workers’ theatres, New Theatre, served as an important influence for Finns in this regard. The large number of Finnish emigrants in North America ensured a vivid cultural exchange between Finland and the USA. Founded in 1918, the American Finnish Workers’ Theatre Federation (Näyttämöliitto) coordinated the repertoire of the emigrants’ acting clubs and provided them with the new Finnish plays (Sundstén, 1977: 28–31). As one-fifth of the emigrants returned to Finland (Virtanen, 1979: 66), the overseas influence also found its way to Finland. As for the Finnish workers’ theatres, the return of the famous actor Aarne Orjatsalo in 1929 was met with enthusiasm and expectation. He tried to encourage the Finnish workers’ theatres to become more professional and differentiate themselves from the bourgeois theatres with their repertoire. At the same time, he challenged the moderate social democrat theatre policy and supported contemporary Anglo-American drama. Strongly rejected by the bourgeois hegemony, Orjatsalo returned to the USA in 1931. However, his wife Toini Aaltonen remained in Finland and became a close friend with Erkki Vala (Pennanen, 2017: 362–3, 370–7, 401). She provided the Workers’ Stage with her translations from American socialist drama and eventually became a partner with the director Nyrki Tapiovaara (Erkki Vala’s research interview 1973–1974, Coll. 3, Erkki Vala’s archive, SKS Literary Archive; Kajava, 1990: 229–30). A debut for the new director Tapiovaara, I. J. Golden’s Precedent (1931), premiered in October 1934 under the Finnish title Lakonjohtaja. Described as ‘a drama of real life’ by the author, the documentary play staged the notorious court case of Thomas J. Mooney (in the play Thomas Delaney), a labour organiser who had been convicted of terrorist attacks in San ­Francisco in 1916. The fascist press labelled the performances in Helsinki a ‘communist demonstration’. The left-wing newspapers used the same wording to advertise the event, while security guards ensured that no right-wing demonstrations took place during the performance (Ajan Suunta, 28.11.1934 and 11.12.1934; Tulenkantajat, 27.10.1934; T. Tapiovaara’s speech 27.11.1937, Coll. 5 Bb, Tapio Tapiovaara’s archive, The People’s Archives). Academic Socialists welcomed the performance as a starting point for a wider trend of ‘socialist experimental theatre’ that would soon be introduced all over the country (Palmgren, 1934).

194  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä Pleased with the strong performance, Helmer Adler declared that the theatre had established contacts with an American theatre in the winter of 1935 and would continue to receive a ‘repertoire of struggle’ from across the Atlantic. ‘America is the only bourgeois country in the world with a living proletarian theatre’, he wrote (Adler, 1935a: 123–4). Largely still a German (and Finnish) immigrant phenomenon in the 1920s, the workers’ theatre movement in North America had grown rapidly under the influence of the ­German and Soviet agitprop theatre during the Depression years of the early 1930s (Friedman, 1985: 111–14). However, despite having now established international contacts, the Workers’ Stage had still not managed to break the isolation of left-wing radicalism within Finland. Would the Workers’ Stage be able to influence other theatres and cultural and political life in Finland?

Judgment Day Another tribunal drama that clearly mirrored real-life events at points, Elmer Rice’s Judgment Day, translated by Adler, premiered on the Workers’ Stage on 14 May 1935. The performance took place in the Printing Workers’ new building, which now became the centre for left-wing cultural activism. The play had premiered in New York only eight months earlier, and the Finnish performance was described as the European premiere of the play – although the author most likely did not know anything about it, since the amateur stage did not ask for permissions or pay royalties to foreign countries. In reality, American socialists had been quite critical of Rice’s new play. According to one American critic, Rice’s plays were ‘anti-fascist without being revolutionary or even the least bit radical’ (Blake, 1934: 17). According to Tulenkantajat, the play Judgment Day was about having the courage to resist dictatorship and to resist the oppression of civil rights and the deprivation of justice (Tulenkantajat, 11.5.1935). Based on the Leipzig court case against the communists accused of starting the Reichstag fire in Berlin in 1933, the anti-fascist play takes place in a nameless country in Eastern E ­ urope. The alleged crime in the play is the attempted assassination of the dictatorial leader of the National Party, Vesnic (meaning ‘forever’ in ­Romanian). If Vesnic bears similarities with Adolf Hitler, his minister of culture and enlightenment, Rakovski, is comparable to the Nazi ministers ­Hermann Göring and Joseph Goebbels, who participated in the Leipzig case. In addition, two of the defendants, the mentally disabled Kurt Schneider and the main protagonist George Khitov, had their real-life counterparts in Marinus van der Lubbe and Georgi Dimitrov, the Bulgarian communist who was seen as a hero in the Leipzig case and later became the leader of the Comintern. These similarities were also stressed in the press release by  the theatre and in the writings of Tulenkantajat and Kirjallisuuslehti ­before the play premiered (Helsingin Sanomat, 14.5.1935: 2; Kirjallisuuslehti, 5, 1935: 128; Tulenkantajat, 11.5.1935).

Fighting for peace  195 Under pressure from the dictatorial regime, the old judge Slatarski refuses to give up the principles of justice. In his final speech, defence attorney Conrad (played in Helsinki by the poet Viljo Kajava) points out that the whole world is following the court case: ‘Ten thousand newspapers in a hundred countries have carried daily reports of this case’ (Rice, 1950: 367). In his turn, the defendant George Khitov accuses the dictator of the following: I charge him with tyranny, cruelty, ruthlessness, and wholesale slaughter, with annihilating the liberties of the people and the institutions of justice. I charge him with destroying the precious heritage of our science and our art and with sending into exile the flower of our intellectual life. I charge him with sowing the seeds of terror and hatred. I charge him with racial and religious fanaticism, with deliberately endangering the peace of the world. I charge him with the murder of the thousands of innocent men and women who perished on the scaffold, in the torture chamber, and in the concentration camps. (Rice, 1950: 369) In the play, the fascist leader is accidentally killed by the old judge Slatarski. The performance ends with the suicide of the shocked old judge. Before shooting himself, Slatarski shouts ‘Down with tyranny! Long live the ­people!’ (Savutie, 1935a; Rice, 1950: 371). Being strong supporters of the theatre, Erkki Vala and Maija Savutie wrote positive critiques of the performance in Tulenkantajat and Kirjallisuuslehti (Savutie, 1935a; Vala, 1935: 3). The leading newspaper of the political left, Suomen Sosialidemokraatti (The Social Democrat of Finland), sent Emil Lindahl to review the performance. A veteran of the first wave of proletarian culture in Finland, Lindahl had promoted autonomous working-class culture and class-conscious repertoire for workers’ theatres in the early 1920s (Lindahl, 1921: 17–20). Now he was more sceptical. Lindahl admired the play, but considered the performance only fair at best. He suspected that the new leaders of the amateur theatre were prioritising the topicality of the drama over the smoothness of the performance (Lindahl, 1935: 4). It seems that Lindahl’s reserved view also reflected the tensions between the intellectuals and the workers, on the one hand, and between the young radicals and the older generation of socialists, on the other. The leading liberal newspaper, Helsingin Sanomat, also published a review of the performance. It was written by law student and film critic Arvo Ääri. Although sympathetic towards his colleague Nyrki Tapiovaara, Ääri was critical of the political nature of the performance and of how ‘the director has turned the dramatic ending of the play into pure political propaganda’ (Ääri, 1935: 7). The play was reportedly performed five times to a packed house. Yet the criticisms proffered in the main social democrat newspaper and in liberal newspapers suggest that the Workers’ Stage and its upfront political theatre fell on stony ground when it came to a broader audience.

196  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä

Real-life drama and counter-hegemonic intervention If we shift the focus away from the actual performance and its somewhat lacklustre reception, and instead consider the theatre as an organic part of a larger activist movement, the picture does change. The rehearsals and performances allowed various people to gather together and become cohesive as a group, to organise and celebrate the ongoing political struggle. More than any other production of the Workers’ Stage, the performance of Judgment Day featured a number of intellectuals (journalists and writers) assisting regular working-class amateurs. In retrospect, some of them depicted the experience of being involved in this performance as similar to participating in an anti-fascist demonstration. In their memories, reality and theatre melded together. For instance, the liberal journalist and writer Matti Kurjensaari remembered having played the part of ‘Göring’ (­Rakovski) – although in fact the part had been played by another journalist, the Social Democrat Viljo Kohonen. Many people recalled how well poet Arvo Turtiainen had performed the role of ‘van der Lubbe’ – while not mentioning the actual name of the character, Schneider (Turtiainen, 1980: 54, 157, 176; Kajava, 1990: 206). Turtiainen himself later wrote: ‘That role threw me into the pit hole of fascism. I learned to hate everything that had the slightest flavour of fascism to it’ (Turtiainen, 1966). The play also reflected the situation in Finland. Used as a symbol for how fascist regimes were trying to deny the human rights of communists, the court case for the Reichstag fire in Berlin was well known in Finland even before the performance. Activist-journalists Erkki Vala and Jarno ­Pennanen (editor-in-chief of Kirjallisuuslehti) were dealing ongoing court cases of their own. Vala was actively bringing the Schwejk case to international attention, while Pennanen, at the time of the play’s premiere, was defending himself against charges that he was encouraging communist activity (‘Ent. toimittaja Jarno Pennasen juttu’, Helsingin Sanomat 16.5.1935: 11). Most importantly, the rehearsal process and the performances of Judgment Day in Helsinki coincided with preparations for a court case against a high-level political prisoner, the communist leader Toivo Antikainen. Tulenkantajat referred to the upcoming case as a new Dimitrov case and wrote that a grand drama was being performed in the state prison under the direction of government prosecutors: ‘It is like history repeating itself, yesterday Leipzig, today Helsinki. […] Soon it might be that Göring and van der Lubbe can be found behind the props’ (Tulenkantajat, 30.3.1935) The performing of Judgment Day strengthened and illustrated this claim, as the cultural opposition could now put a face to political persecution in its struggle for greater human rights during 1935. It is important to stress the fact that the activism of the amateur actors was not limited to the stage; rather, performing political theatre comprised just one part of their activism. Cooperating with Antikainen’s mother, the amateur actors of the Workers’ Stage distributed underground manifestos and

Fighting for peace  197 gathered signatures against the death penalty. The ­Finnish Union for Human Rights was founded in the autumn of 1935, thereby uniting liberal and socialist intellectuals and radical workers (­Pennanen, 1970: 209; ­Hyvönen, 1971: 268; Pajunen, 1976: 125). Throughout 1935, Tulenkantajat cited foreign newspapers that criticised political developments in Finland. During the decisive sessions of the court case against A ­ ntikainen (resulting in a life sentence) in May 1936, the journalists Vala and Adler escorted foreign journalists to the session hall, thus giving the case international visibility (The police report from the Antikainen court case from 25–28.5.1936, Helmer Adler’s file, The Archive of the State ­Police, The National Archives). Annoyed by the writings, the Ministry of Justice accused the magazine in April 1936 of defaming the courts of justice and public authorities. Although Vala was sentenced to four months in prison, the authorities still expressed their dissatisfaction with the verdict and wished to see T ­ ulenkantajat abolished (The accusation letter of the public prosecutor against Tulenkantajat to the ­Helsinki City Court on 21.4.1936 and Turku Court of Appeal on 25.8.1936, Coll. 8, Erkki Vala’s archive, SKS Literary Archives). The parliamentary elections in July 1936 resulted in a victory, with the help of communist votes, for the social democrats, and thus for the aspirations of the popular front movement. When the existing government refused to resign, yet another scandal occurred in the aftermath of the elections. As already mentioned, the state police kept people involved in the popular front under close scrutiny, suspecting them of having communist connections. In a secret memorandum ordered by Prime Minister Kivimäki, the state police named several well-known liberal politicians, distinguished intellectuals and celebrated artists as being guilty of popular front activism. Erkki Vala and Tulenkantajat published the Prime Minister’s memorandum as a ‘literary supplement’ in September 1936, causing the scandal-ridden government to resign in disgrace and resulting in a general uproar against the state police. The journalist responsible for leaking the information, Erkki Vala, had succeeded in orchestrating a counter-hegemonic intervention (Hietaniemi, 1992: 196–8; Lackman, 2009: 227).

Controversial aftermath Although the tone of government politics now became less restrictive, the outcome of the intervention for the activists and communists was controversial. Members of the left-wing opposition, including Vala and several academic socialists affiliated with the Workers’ Stage, had their membership in the SDP revoked in 1937 as the social democrats became part of the ruling government coalition together with the agrarian and liberal parties. At the same time, the Party banned the oppositional magazines T ­ ulenkantajat, ­Kirjallisuuslehti and Soihtu and forbade party members from circulating them (Soikkanen, 1975: 582). By seemingly getting rid of the troublemakers,

198  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä the SDP wanted the bourgeois parties to consider it a reliable and responsible political partner. In the context of the popular front movement, the production of Judgment Day remained the peak and best example of broad-based cooperation between different social and political groups in support of a common aim: the fight for human and civil rights, including freedom of speech. However, the Workers’ Stage became politically isolated once it had been banned by  the social democrats. In point of fact, though, the connection between the liberals and the radical left had already begun to break down in 1935, when many of the intellectuals who had contributed to the performances left the Workers’ Stage after Judgment Day. Most importantly, the director Nyrki Tapiovaara left his post as artistic leader, thus distancing himself from openly political theatre. However, Tapiovaara did return to direct Clifford Odets’s The Paradise lost on the Workers’ Stage in February 1937. Academic socialists continued to be quite heavily involved in the Workers’ Stage, but (with some exceptions) they left the performances to the working-class actors.

Spain: pacifism abandoned In the latter half of the 1930s, the ‘proletarian’ and anti-fascist character of the Workers’ Stage strengthened. Although still marginal, the theatre also won new performers and audiences, especially from among the ranks of the communist youth and speaking choirs. Among the new actors were several convicted communists who could now concentrate on cultural work. Among the new actors of the theatre in 1935–1936, there were at least five men who had previously been convicted of communist activity. One of them was recruited for illegal printing (The files of Paavo Grönlund, Vietto Kyllönen, Edvin Lindholm, Holger Vigren and Kauno Viitanen, The Archive of the State Police, The National Archives). The theatre staged two anti-war novels, Jaroslav Hasek’s The Good Soldier Schwejk (1936) and ­Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front (1937), both of them dramatised and directed by Pentti Raunio. Contemporary left-wing ­A merican plays from the repertoire of the Theatre Union and the Group Theatre (New York) continued to be an important part of the repertoire for the Workers’ Stage. The theatre went on to stage Peace on Earth by George Sklar and Albert Maltz in October 1935, followed by Clifford Odets’s Waiting for Lefty and the monologue I can’t sleep in January 1937. Having been the opening play staged by the Theatre Union in 1933, Peace on Earth was a so-called pendulum play, depicting the political awakening of a non-partisan intellectual who had witnessed a harbour workers’ strike against the shipping of ammunition (Saal, 2007: 84). With its ­anti-war pathos, sharp contrasts and the use of speaking choirs, Peace on Earth had been influenced by the aesthetics of German political theatre. The ­Helsinki performance received an enthusiastic reception in the pacifist and socialist press. In her review, academic socialist Maija Savutie stressed how

Fighting for peace  199 American intellectuals had joined forces with the proletariat (Savutie, 1935b; Pasifisti, 1935). The director of the performance was her friend, journalist Kaisu-Mirjami Rydberg. A political activist, Rydberg also took part in the conference of the International Peace Campaign (Le Rassemblement Universel pour la Paix [RUP]) in Brussels in September 1936. She was one of the most active coordinators and promoters of the Spanish Aid campaigns in Finland, organised from December 1936 onwards to provide material assistance to Spanish children (Juusela, 2003: 85–93). With regard to the Spanish Civil War, the theatre once again provided a platform for activism. From 1936 until 1939, the Workers’ Stage toured and contributed to several festivities and gatherings organised to help Spanish Aid, i.e. to raise money and win publicity for the Republican side in the Civil War. During these events, the theatre dramatised the ongoing war by performing battle scenes from the pacifist plays in its repertoire and by preparing new tableaus inspired by the war, such as ‘To the Barricades in Spain’ and ‘The Secret’ by Ramón J. Sender (premiered already before the war had burst out) (The annual report of the Workers’ Stage 1937–1938, Coll. 1 Da, The archive of the Workers’ Stage, The People’s Archives; Turtiainen, 1936; Aho, 2015: 364). At the same time, some members of the theatre became involved in underground activism, e.g. communist printing and volunteering for the Spanish Civil War. One actor was accused of recruiting volunteers for Spain, while two actors left the theatre and joined the Spanish Republicans (Pajunen, 1976: 11–12; Kössi Leino’s file, The Archive of the State Police, The National Archives). The new chairman of the theatre board, Tapio Tapiovaara, contributed to the Spanish Aid campaigns with his graphic art and decorations and occasionally as a speaker. For instance, Tapiovaara introduced the programme in a Spanish soirée organised by the Workers’ Stage in a working-class suburb of Helsinki in November 1937. In his speech, he stressed that the theatre wanted to stage a protest against the horrible war and encourage everyone to fight against it, and at the same time remind the audience of the struggling in Spain. ‘Let us show that international solidarity also in Finland means a power that forces fascism to hesitate before it strikes’, he said, concluding with the words, ‘Don’t forget Spain, it is fighting for your cause’ (Tapio Tapiovaara’s speech 23.11.1937, Coll. 5 Bb, Tapio Tapiovaara’s archive, The People’s Archives). As in other European countries, so too in Finland the Spanish Civil War meant abandoning formerly pacifist or neutral attitudes. The Finnish communists and academic socialists were ready to take up arms and fight against fascism (Aho, 2015: 386; Koivisto, 2015: 302). The exiled German playwright, Bertolt Brecht, depicted this shift in attitudes in his Civil War play Señora Carrar’s Rifles (1937). Directed in Helsinki by Helmer Adler, the play premiered on the Workers’ Stage in October 1938 and was performed several times to benefit Finnish Republican soldiers returning from Spain at the beginning of 1939. The theatre organised the homecoming festivities and aid

200  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä for Finnish veterans of the war (The minutes of the Board of the Workers’ Stage, 19.12.1938, 2.1.1939 and 20.3.1939, Coll. Cb, The archive of the Workers’ Stage, The People’s Archives). However, the Spanish campaigns led to disappointment when the Republican side lost the war. Another factor weakening the position of the Finnish extreme left was Stalin’s purges, in which he crushed the aspirations of Finnish communists in the Soviet Union in 1937–1938. When the Soviet Union pressured Finland in the autumn of 1939 to cede some areas for military bases, its actions were condemned by the majority of communists at the Workers’ Stage (Toivo Kallio’s report, 25.9.1939, Kössi Leino’s file, The Archive of the State Police, The National Archives). After the Winter War of 1939–1940, however, academic socialists and communists once again collaborated in order to establish friendly relations with the Soviet Union. When Finland entered another war against the Soviet Union in 1941, the political activism of this group was crushed by the state police. Several activists who had performed at the Workers’ Stage languished in prison until the war was over. The director of Judgment Day, Nyrki Tapiovaara, lost his life in the Winter War, while Helmer Adler, a suspected spy closely followed by the state police, committed suicide in December 1940. Tapio Tapiovaara survived the war and helped lead the revival and transformation of the Workers’ Stage into the professional Workers’ Theatre of Finland in 1945.

Conclusion The case of the Workers’ Stage shows how an amateur theatre was, as an organic part of a larger activist movement, able to open up a counter-public sphere uniting intellectuals and workers. With an openly political message, the performance of Judgment Day set the tone in the struggle for civil rights in Finland in the larger framework of the international struggle against fascism. During the Spanish Civil War, the pacifist repertoire of the theatre gave way to performances depicting scenes of taking up arms against fascism and open fighting. Moreover, the theatre and its activist personnel functioned as a platform for the practical organisation of counter-hegemonic intervention, Spanish Aid and underground activism. This activism had clear political results in the 1936 elections (although the personal outcomes for the activist artists and communists turned out to be controversial, as they were rejected by the new governing coalition). It can be argued that for the activist left-wing opposition, theatre functioned as an extension of their political journals, as a (counter-)public sphere and a vehicle for highlighting contemporary political problems, accelerating public discussion and engaging more people – workers and intellectuals alike – in more fruitful interaction. The theatre gave frustrated workers and intellectuals a space to gather and organise a practical and largely underground activist movement. Although isolated in Finland, the Workers’ Stage still felt itself part of the larger international anti-fascist struggle, a cultural front for a better future.

Fighting for peace  201

References Archives The National Archives, Helsinki The Archive of the State Police (Etsivä Keskuspoliisi) The SKS Literary Archive (The Finnish Literature Society), Helsinki Erkki Vala’s archive The People’s Archives, Helsinki The archive of the Workers’ Stage (Työväen Näyttämö) Tapio Tapiovaara’s archive Journals Ajan suunta (Helsinki), 1934 Kirjallisuuslehti (Helsinki), 1934–1939 New Theatre (New York), 1934–1936 Soihtu (Helsinki), 1934–1939 Tulenkantajat (Helsinki), 1934–1939 Literature Adler, H. (1935a) ‘Työväen Näyttämö: Kokemuksia ja suuntaviivoja’, Kirjallisuuslehti 5: 122–4. Adler, H. (1935b) ‘Piscatorin luona’, Kirjallisuuslehti 16: 389–93, 406. Aho, M. (2015) ‘Espanjan asia on meidän: Suomen vasemmistososialistien ja kommunistien propaganda ja toiminta Espanjan tasavallan puolesta’ in Koivisto, H. and Parikka, R. (eds.) No pasarán! Espanjan sisällissodan kulttuurihistoriaa. ­Helsinki: Työväen historian ja perinteen tutkimuksen seura. Ääri, A. (1935) ‘Elmer Ricea Työväen Näyttämöllä’, Helsingin Sanomat 21 May: 7. Balme, C. (2014) The Theatrical Public Sphere. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bishop, C. (2012) Artificial Hells: Participatory Art and the Politics of Spectatorship. London and New York: Verso. Blake, B. (1934) ‘Judgment Day’, New Theatre 1 (9) October: 17. Bramsjö, H. and Florin, M. (1978) Blå blusen: Arbetarteater på 30-talet. Lund: Arbetarkultur. Denning, M. (1996) The Cultural Front: The Laboring of the American Culture in the Twentieth Century. London and New York: Verso. Friedman, D. (1985) ‘A Brief Description of the Workers’ Theatre Movement of the Thirties’ in McConachie, B. and Friedman, D. (eds.) Theatre for Working-Class Audiences in the United Stated, 1830–1980. Westport and London: Greenwood Press. Hentilä, S. (2006) ‘Itsenäistymisestä jatkosodan päättymiseen 1917–1944’ in Jussila,  O., Hentilä, S. and Nevakivi, J. (eds.) Suomen poliittinen historia ­1809–2006. ­Helsinki: WSOY Oppimateriaalit. Hietaniemi, T. (1992) Lain vartiossa: Poliisi Suomen politiikassa 1917–1948. ­Helsinki: The Finnish Historical Society. Hyvönen, A. (1971) SKP:n maanalaisuuden vuodet: Suomen työväenliikkeen historiaa 1920–1930-luvuilla. Helsinki: Kansankulttuuri. Juusela, J. (2003) Suomalaiset Espanjan sisällissodassa. Jyväskylä: Atena.

202  Mikko-Olavi Seppälä Kajava, V. (1990) Aika rakastaa, aika laulaa: Runoilija muistelee. Helsinki: Otava. Kekkonen, J. (1999) Suomen oikeuden historiallisia kehityslinjoja. Helsinki: ­Helsingin yliopisto. Koivisto, H. (2015) ‘Solidaarisuuden tunnetta ja sodan todellisuutta – suomalaisten vasemmistointellektuellien tulkintoja Espanjan sisällissodasta’ in Koivisto,  H. and Parikka, R. (eds.) No pasarán! Espanjan sisällissodan kulttuurihistoriaa. ­Helsinki: Työväen historian ja perinteen tutkimuksen seura. Kvam, K. (1990) ‘Dansk teater i mellemkrigstiden’ in Rosenqvist, C. (ed.) Nordiska spelplatser: Studier i nordisk teaterverksamhet från sekelskifte mot sekelslut. Gideå: Vildros: 63–80. Lackman, M. (2009) ‘“Ensimmäisen tasavallan” turvallisuuspoliisi 1918–1944’ in Simola, M. (ed.) Ratakatu 12. Helsinki: WSOY. Lindahl, E. (1921) ‘Työväki ja näyttämötaide’ Punikin Joulu 1921, Helsinki: 17–20. Lindahl, E. (1935) ‘Kiintoisa näytelmäuutuus Työväen Näyttämöllä’, Suomen Sosialidemokraatti, 16 May: 4. Lottes, G. (1979) Politische Aufklärung und plebejisches Publikum: Zur Theorie ind Praxis des englischen Radikalismus im späten 18. Jahrhundert. München and Wien: Oldenbourg. Mouffe, C. (2013) Agonistics: Thinking the World Politically. London and New York: Verso. Pajunen, J. (1976) Espanja, sinä nuoruutemme. Jyväskylä: Gummerus. Palmgren, R. (1934) ‘Lakonjohtaja Työväen Näyttämöllä’, Soihtu 7–8: 134. “Pasifisti” (1935) ‘Me teemme lopun ammusten lastaamisesta’, Sodanvastustaja 1: 9–10. Pennanen, J. (1970) Tervetultua tervemenoa: Jarnon saaga II. Porvoo & Helsinki: WSOY. Pennanen, J. (2017) Orjatsalo: Taiteilija politiikan kurimuksessa. Helsinki: Sanasato. Pike, D. (1982) German Writers in Soviet Exile 1933–1945. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Pogodin, N. (1934) ‘Lumi’, Tulenkantajat 16 June: 5–6. Rentola, K. (2002) ‘Komintern ja Suomi 1934–1944’ in Lebedeva, N., Rentola, K. and Saarela, T. (eds.) Kallis toveri Stalin! Komintern ja Suomi. Helsinki: Edita. Rice, E. (1950) Seven Plays by Elmer Rice. New York: The Viking Press. Rosengarten, F. (2014) The Revolutionary Marxism of Antonio Gramsci. Chicago: Haymarket Books. Rønning, O. M. (2015) ‘Communism in the Nordic Countries 1917–1990’ in Egge, Å. and Rybner, S. (eds.) Red Star in the North: Communism in the Nordic Countries. Stamsund: Orkana Akademisk. Saal, I. (2007) New Deal Theater: The Vernacular Tradition in American Political Theater. New York and Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. Saarela, T. (2002) ‘Kommunistinen internationaali ja suomalainen kommunismi 1919–1935’ in Lebedeva, N., Rentola, K. and Saarela, T. (eds.) Kallis toveri Stalin! Komintern ja Suomi. Helsinki: Edita. Saarela, T. (2015) ‘Communism and Social Democrats’ in Egge, Å. and Rybner, S. (eds.) Red Star in the North: Communism in the Nordic Countries. Stamsund: ­Orkana Akademisk. ­ heatres of the Left 1880–1935: Samuel, R., MacColl, E. and Cosgrove, S. (eds.) (1985) T Workers’ Theatre Movements in Britain and America. ­London and Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Fighting for peace  203 Sauter, W. (2004) ‘Teater och politik: klass, kamp och motstånd’ in Hammergren, L., Helander, K., Rosenberg, T. and Sauter, W. (eds.) Teater i Sverige. Hedemora: ­Gidlunds förlag. Savutie, M. (1935a) ‘Porvarillisen teatterin jäähyväisvalssi – Tuomion päivä’, Kirjallisuuslehti 7: 174–7, 183. Savutie, M. (1935b) ‘Teatterikatsaus’, Kirjallisuuslehti 17: 423–5. Soikkanen, H. (1975) Kohti kansanvaltaa I: Suomen Sosialidemokraattinen Puolue 1899–1937. Helsinki: SDP. Sundstén, T. (1977) Amerikansuomalainen työväenteatteri ja näytelmäkirjallisuus ­vuosina 1900–39. Turku: Siirtolaisuusinstituutti–Migrationsinsitutet. Tapiovaara, N. (1935) ‘Työväenteatterin tyylistä’, Kirjallisuuslehti 5: 120–1. Turtiainen, A. (1936) ‘Työväen Näyttämö’, Tulenkantajat 22 February: 3. Turtiainen, A. (1966) ‘Ylistys saatanalle’ in Ylioppilasteatteri 40 vuotta 1926–1966. Helsinki: Ylioppilasteatteri. Turtiainen, A. (1980) Elämää ja ystäviä. Helsinki: Tammi. Vala, E. (1934) ‘Helsingin Työväen Näyttämö’, Tulenkantajat 20 October: 3. Vala, E. (1935) ‘Elmer Ricen Tuomion päivä Työväen Näyttämöllä’, Tulenkantajat 18 May: 3. Virtanen, K. (1979) Settlement or Return: Finnish Emigrants (1860–1930) in the International Overseas Return Migration Movement. Helsinki: The Finnish Historical Society.

12 The last ‘Münzenberg empire’ The transnational networks of Die Zukunft in the Nordic Countries, 1938–19401 Bernhard H. Bayerlein Willi Münzenberg’s last ‘anti-fascist empire’ In October 1938, a number of leading German and European anti-fascist politicians and activists founded the large-format Die Zukunft (The ­Future) as a political and transcultural European journal, with a particular Franco-­ German focus. The main editor of the Zukunft, Willi Münzenberg, was at the time in the final stages of his break with the Stalinised German Communist Party. Unsurprisingly, therefore, among those who declined to cooperate in this venture was the Communist Party of Germany (KPD) [Dahlem to Thormann, 20.9.1938, F7/15123, Archives Nationales Paris (Pierrefitte) (ANF)]. Under Münzenberg’s leadership, and his wife Babette Gross as manager (Gross, 1967; Langkau-Alex, 2018), a total of 81 issues of the Z ­ ukunft were published; in 1978, it was reprinted as an 848-page facsimilé edition (Die Zukunft, 1978). The editors-in-chief included the communist dissident Arthur Koestler, the left-socialist German journalist Hans Siemsen (for a short period) and the left Catholic Austrian and German Werner Thormann (Koestler, 1967: 7–11). Not only were German-speaking writers like Alfred Döblin and Joseph Roth contributors, but also renowned international literati like H. G. Wells, Ignazio Silone, Norman Angell (awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1933) and Jean Giraudoux published in the Zukunft. Philosophers such as Emmanuel Mounier and Paul-Ludwig Landsberg, psychologists and social scientists like Manès Sperber, Raymond Aron and Sigmund Freud himself, and a phalanx of renowned publicists and journalists like Henry Noel Brailsford and politicians like Wickham Steed, Paul Boncour, Duff Cooper, Carlo Sforza, Francesco Nitti, Georges Bidault and Yvon Delbos also contributed. For the first time since 1933, nearly all currents of the anti-Hitler opposition were represented in this journal (Roussel, 1992: 188–91). Willi Münzenberg (1889–1940), a member of the Central Committee of the KPD since 1924, established himself as an outstanding leftwing organiser, propagandist, editor and media activist in the Weimar Republic and worldwide. Until his death, he was a central actor of the

The last ‘Münzenberg empire’  205 German-speaking emigration and the anti-Hitler opposition in Europe (Gross, 1967). Between the two world wars, he was one of the most prominent opponents of the Nazis. The global non-governmental cultural and political organisations founded under his aegis included cultural, anticolonial, anti-racist, anti-imperialist networks, as well as humanitarian and solidarity organisations (Braskén, 2015). These initiatives bundled a great deal of collective energy, but they were susceptible to the ever changing mood of Soviet politics (Bayerlein, 2016: 28–88; Bayerlein, Braskén and Weiss, 2016). Münzenberg’s reception among historians remains diffuse and contradictory. While some French historians have distinguished Münzenberg as an ‘artist of the revolution’ (Dugrand and Laurent, 2008), elsewhere he is portrayed as a devilish tool of totalitarianism, especially so in some US publications (see McMeekin, 2005). Münzenberg’s (divisive) memory is preserved through the International Willi-Münzenberg-Forum in Berlin. In addition to organising the Willi Münzenberg Congress, and numerous other events, it has published a detailed chronology on its website.2 The Zukunft as the last, albeit much smaller ‘Münzenberg empire’, not only succeeded in putting forward ideas, information and reports, but also established transnational ancillary organisational networks like the ‘Friends of the Zukunft’, the ‘German-French Union’, the ‘Federal Fellowships’ and other humanitarian initiatives, some of them in Scandinavia, as we shall see. In fact, the journal served as a strategic platform for an all-European network that wanted to realise the 11th hour ‘dream of Hitler’s downfall’ (Schiller, 2010). At the same time, it looked to build a new, independent socialist workers’ movement. This was the aim of Münzenberg’s group, ‘The Friends of Socialist Unity’. In creating a space for all oppositional forces, Münzenberg remained faithful to his guiding principles. His aim was, on the one hand, to construct a large unity movement against Hitler (‘of the popular front type’) and, on the other hand, to support the workers’ movement in creating a new unified movement (‘of the united front type’). New findings in Münzenberg’s correspondence with Dimitrov and Stalin show that Münzenberg went beyond the KPD’s traditional ideological ‘popular front’ type of anti-fascism as a valid and sufficient solution (Weber et al., 2014a: 240–70; 2014b: 1024–381). This rectifies traditional views depicting him as a champion of the narrow and instrumental ‘popular front’, which as a Comintern and Soviet-induced tactic failed definitively in 1936/1937 (Bayerlein, 1996). Die Zukunft became a transnational network with political agency. It represented the last unified movement of the interwar anti-Hitler opposition (Schlie, 1990; Keller, 1999; Schiller, 2007, 2010; Bock, 2014: chapter XI; Bayerlein, 2017: 51–89). The aim here is to analyse its presence, its ­articulation of anti-fascism and its networks in the Nordic countries. This ­chapter offers insights into the Zukunft’s conceptual, performative, spatial and (collective) biographical dimensions from a comparative perspective.

206  Bernhard H. Bayerlein This study is set to the time period lasting from the signing of Munich Agreement in August 1938 to the German invasion of Denmark and ­Norway in April 1940. This chapter is mainly based on archival studies in the Archives Nationales of France (ANF), which holds the editorial archives of the journal. The editorial archive contains basic documents, manifestos, as well as the membership lists of the ‘Franco-­German Union’ and the ‘Friends of Socialist Unity’, which have so far hardly been evaluated. Further correspondence, surveys and monitoring documents were consulted in the military archives in Moscow. Investigations in ­Moscow showed that there was also ­ ukunft in  the military archive of the R ­ ussian a smaller collection on the Z Federation. The Military Archives in Moscow contain a large number of papers concerning German emigrants in France and Western Europe. Further documents have been found in the German Federal Archives in Berlin and Koblenz as well as in the ‘Exile Archive’ (Exilarchiv) of the ­German National Library (Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Frankfurt am Main, DNB), which contain among others the papers of Werner Thormann and Margarete Buber-­Neumann. This research is a part of a larger project at Ruhr-­University Bochum’s Institute for Social Movements, which aims to produce a comprehensive monograph on the Zukunft.3

The Zukunft’s Nordic network The German-Swedish fictional author Peter Weiss serves as a useful starting point in order to trace the Zukunft’s network in the Nordic countries (Weiss, 1975, 2005). In his three-volume novel The Aesthetics of Resistance (1975, 1978, 1981), Weiss portrays the anti-fascist resistance, the failure of the left, and makes use of actors linked to the Zukunft, including figures such as Willi Münzenberg in Paris and Max Hodann in Norway and Sweden. Although Peter Weiss was probably never involved in the work of the Zukunft, he lived in Stockholm in 1939/1940 and was connected to key figures in the ­Zukunft’s Nordic network. Among others, he had contacts with ‘globetrotter’ Max Barth, who in 1940 lived in Stockholm in the same building as Weiss. Barth contributed texts to the Zukunft, and had a personal connection to the Zukunft’s representative in the Nordic countries, Günter Dallmann, the editor of the Zukunft in Stockholm. Barth was Dallman’s brother-in-law (Barth, 1986: 116, 189, 193). Günter Dallmann and Peter Weiss had intensive talks and correspondence in the 1970s – possibly even earlier – and perhaps these served as inspiration for the writing of The Aesthetics of Resistance, which became one of the most important German post-war novels. In this way, Dallmann’s support and positive reception of Weiss’ work in the 1970s span a historical arc to the Zukunft of 1939–1940. The Zukunft’s ability to transfer its articulations of anti-fascism through its transnational networks was somewhat limited in the Nordic Countries. In December 1938, Babette Gross travelled to Scandinavia in order to promote

The last ‘Münzenberg empire’  207 the journal: ‘strange, somewhat sluggish people, and so cold and dark over there, brrr!’, she wrote to the Brupachers in Zürich.4 This needs to be placed in the context of a very challenging political landscape. Nevertheless, some remarkable efforts and templates for anti-fascist (later also anti-Stalinist) media coverage and campaigns were made in the Scandinavian countries. These efforts included support for refugees, the launch of a solidarity campaign for Finland against the Soviet military attack in 1939, and calls for freedom and resistance against the German Wehrmacht in Norway in 1940. In Denmark, Norway and Sweden, the Zukunft networks succeeded in supporting or organising political, social and independent cross-organisational and intellectual engagement in the fight against repression and for humanitarian aid to refugees (especially the most disadvantaged, who were not supported by the communist or social democratic parties). Moreover, these campaigns managed to win over important liberal, social democratic and left-socialist circles, as well as parts of the independent left intelligentsia for cooperation as authors or supporters.

The Zukunft in Sweden In Sweden, but also to a degree in Norway and Denmark, a cast of highprofile political decision makers supported the Zukunft. Several important players of the German-speaking emigration in Sweden were involved, such as Paul Bromme, a central figure in Swedish popular front circles, who was engaged on behalf of the Revolutionary Socialists, and worked towards the unification of German and Austrian socialists in Scandinavia (Müssener, 1975: 177); the doyen of German exile studies, Walter A. Berendson, who in 1939 concluded his work Die humanistische Front; and Max Barth, who after engaging in a general strike against Hitler in 1933 separated from his ‘corrupt brothers’ in the Central Committee of the Communist Party (Pross, 1987) and became ‘globetrotter of the exile’ (Barth, 1986). That the promotion of Zukunft in Scandinavia was relatively successful reveals its nature as a pan-European forum. The incipient success was built on the traditional relations of Münzenberg with Nordic left leaders and militants and on networks created by German political exiles. A key factor in its success was the role of its representative in Stockholm, the journalist and poet Günter Dallmann, who lived on the Stora Essingen island. The leftsocialist writer and translator Dallmann belongs to the most underestimated of anti-fascist actors in the Nordic countries. He acted as an editor of the Zukunft in Sweden, but also oversaw Norway and Finland. In his articles for the journal, he used the pseudonyms Lot Anker, Sven Haegner, Eric Landelius, Karl Mörne, H. P. Schlicht, Günter Dalm and probably also L. Irec. The only book on Dallmann published in Germany is a small anthology of his poems (Dallmann, 1995). Born in 1911, the dentist’s son from a Berlin Jewish family, Dallmann studied political science, sociology and literary history in Berlin, Frankfurt

208  Bernhard H. Bayerlein am Main and Heidelberg from 1929 to 1933. At the same time he worked as a journalist for, among others, the Welt am Abend, the Weltbühne and also the anarchist journal Die schwarze Fahne. He was a trade unionist, and member of the Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (USPD). In 1929, he entered the Red Student Group, and in May 1932 briefly the KPD. In 1933, he fled to France and emigrated to Stockholm in September 1934, where he wrote for a variety of Swedish papers, the Berner Tagwacht and the German exile press. In 1934, he joined the Sozialistische Arbeiterpartei Deutschlands (SAP) group in Stockholm under August ­Enderle and was active in the émigré teachers community (Müssener, 1975: 115). Between 1939 and 1944, he worked as a language teacher at the adult education centre, and from 1943 to 1945, as an employee of the archive of the Samarbetskomittén för demokratiskt uppbyggnadsarbete (Röder and Strauß, 1980: 121). Dallmann’s meticulous correspondence with the Paris management of Babette Gross, the editor-in-chief Werner Thormann and Münzenberg is partially handed down in the editorial archives (F7/15123 and F7/15128, ANF). Dallmann’s involvement has hardly been acknowledged in the scholarly literature. Among the few exceptions is a seminar paper from the 1970s (Lingens and Svevar, 1971). Surprisingly, Klaus Täubert, in the biographical epilogue to Dallmann’s poetry collection (Täubert, 1995: 84–90), does not mention his work with the Zukunft. A reference to Dallmann is entirely missing from Frank Meyer’s study of the political and cultural journalism of the German-speaking exile in Scandinavia (Meyer, 2000: 137). Even ­Helmut Müssener, who lists Dallmann more than a dozen times in the register of his standard work on the German exile in Sweden, does not mention the ­Zukunft, not even in a separate biographical note (Müssener, 1975: 501; ­Peters, 1984; Dünzelmann, 2016). Among the Swedish political supporters of the Zukunft were the Social Democrat Minister for Education and Culture, Arthur Engberg; the director of the leading Swedish anti-fascist daily, Göteborgs Handels- och Sjöfartstidning, professor Torgny Segerstedt; the president of the ‘Anti-fascist Union’ Dr Nils Silfverskjöld; the poet Eyvind Johnson; the Finnish-Swedish writer Elmer Diktonius; and the secretary of the Swedish ‘Society of the Nine’, the leading academy for literature of the North, baroness Marika Stiernstedt. Swedish political writers included the veteran communist Ture Nerman. Nerman’s anti-fascist and anti-Stalinist periodical Trots Allt, which he edited in 1939, was inspired by the Zukunft and his contacts with Münzenberg. Support also came from Olof Aschberg and his wife Rosa Siri, who gave considerable financial subsidies. Among the Swedish contributors were Zeth Höglund, the founding father ­ tockholm; Sven of Communism in Sweden and later Socialist mayor of S Danvik, the author and editor of Clarté and Per Meuling, a journalist from Göteborg. The left-socialist and well-known defender of human rights, Georg Branting, organiser of the Swedish Solidarity Committee with

The last ‘Münzenberg empire’  209 Spain, and his wife cooperated. Other supporters included Karl G ­ erhard, the anti-fascist actor, film and musical director; and Gustaf Ankar, the pastor and vice president of the Stockholm Cathedral chapter. An important connection was also established via the author and journalist Victor Vinde, who as Paris correspondent of Dagens Nyheter and the ­G öteborgs-Handels-och-Sjöfarts-Tidning was an intermediary between Scandinavia and France. When compared to other exile organs, mentioned above, most of which were terminated in 1939 – the Zukunft stands out due to the large number of articles and news bulletins it produced in this dramatic phase, relevant not only for the Nordic countries but also globally. The Zukunft’s output can be broken down into two phases. The first was concluded with the anti-­Stalinist turn triggered by the signing of the German-Soviet non-­aggression and friendship pacts of August and September 1939. The turn was manifested in the most well-known article of the Zukunft, “The Russian stab-in-the-back”, where Münzenberg cried out: ‘The traitor, ­ ­Stalin, is you!’ (Paul, 1990: 9–28; ­Bayerlein, 2008: 114). During this first phase, Münzenberg was formally expelled from the Central Committee of the KPD. Nonetheless, he still aimed to build an anti-Hitler front of the Western powers including the Soviet Union. Efforts were made to create a democratic popular resistance movement in Germany, which was supported by the German-speaking emigration and European anti-fascists. In doing so, the journal still radiated great hope. Dallmann was confident that efforts to establish an ‘East-West bloc’ with the Soviet Union would be successful (Dallmann, 27.5.1939, ANF, F7/15123). As a highlight, a German-Swedish 16-page special issue of the Zukunft was edited shortly after the German occupation of Czechoslovakia. It was published on 31 March 1939, and was dedicated to ­‘Swedish-German relations, the position of the European North in the fascist world (and) the political, social and spiritual life of Sweden’ (Die Zukunft, 31.3.1939). Various authors demanded a more forceful reaction against the Nazi danger, like the publicist Torgny Segerstedt, the theatre director Karl Gerhard, and the author Marika Stiernstedt. In the main article, the Swedish Minister of Culture, Arthur Engberg, called for a ‘fight for democracy’ and for a fight against ‘total submission’. Dallmann, who was the most important author in this issue, emphasised how the ‘people’s freedom in Sweden’ was a model system, based on the early introduction of social rights, for example, the equality of married and unmarried women and maternity care. Concerning the mood in Sweden, Dallmann described the fight against the Nazis as being characterised by both ‘scepticism and willingness’. In Sweden, ‘liberal bourgeois-prominent circles’ and the ‘bourgeois-Jewish public’ seemed more interested in the Zukunft than Swedish trade unionists and socialists (11.3.1939, F7/15123, ANF). Nonetheless, more and more Swedish people took into account – as Dallman wrote – that their existence was seriously

210  Bernhard H. Bayerlein threatened by the National Socialist dictatorship. The journal also reported on the foundation of an anti-fascist ‘Northern European Book Club’, after the model of the British Left Book Club, in collaboration with the magazine ‘Northern Europe’ in Lund. This initiative was directed against the ‘Nazi infiltration’ in all areas of Scandinavia. It involved, among others, Richard Lindström, editor-in-chief of the Gothenburg Social Democratic organ Ny Dag (Die Zukunft, 31.3.1939). During this first phase of the Zukunft, the tone was still optimistic concerning the course of Soviet politics. It was, for example, thought that the Soviet Fleet would protect Sweden and the Baltic countries in the case of an emergency. Yet views changed as the advent of the Second World War seemed imminent. The Zukunft’s grounds for optimism diminished, first, as a consequence of the appeasement policy of the Western democracies and, second, as a consequence of the conclusion of the Stalin-Hitler pact. From this point on, the Zukunft’s campaigns were directed against the betrayal of the liberal democracies and Hitler’s military advance in Europe backed by Stalin and Molotov, especially so in the wake of the Soviet Winter War of 1939/1940 against Finland. The Zukunft’s efforts led to a new symbiosis of anti-Hitlerism and anti-Stalinism in the German political emigration community (but not yet as an ‘anti-totalitarian consensus’ in the current sense) (Bayerlein, 2018).

The Zukunft in Denmark Among the Scandinavian countries, Denmark was an exception. Here, the journal was sold in public places and kiosks in Copenhagen, and also in provincial towns (partly due to the high number of German visitors and tourists). It was even offered at the Hotel d’Angleterre, one of the world’s most luxurious establishments of the era. Subscriptions were lower than in Sweden, but sales were relatively high. The Zukunft’s first representative was Erich Alfringhaus who was a social democratic journalist designated by Babette Gross during her stay in ­Denmark in December 1938 (2.1.1939, F 7/15123, ANF). Alfringhaus’ successor, who was more successful (but of still undefined identity like main a­ uthor ‘H.C.’), was a former KPD member from Hamburg (24.5.1939, F7/15123, ANF). From Denmark, the social democratic publicist Hans Reinow (i.e. ­ iennese writer, Hans Reinowski) contributed articles, as well as the native V translator and expert of Dante, Karl Federn (Dähnhardt and Nielsen, 1988: 106). Active support was provided by Danish cultural workers, including the dancer and actress Sonja Wiberg and her colleague Karen Lykkehus, the painter Kirsten Kjaer, the Danish writer Marcus ­Lauesen, and the ­Austrian-Danish author Annemarie Selinko. An incipient support network was built up, and by the end of 1939, a ­‘Danish-German friendship circle’ had been founded uniting ‘free-spirited’ Germans and Danes, who also established contact with the ‘Franco-German

The last ‘Münzenberg empire’  211 Union’. In close collaboration with their Franco-German comrades, humanitarian assistance was given to former members of the International Brigades. Most of them were held in internment camps in France. But those who were not loyal Communist Party (CP) members were largely cut off from the humanitarian care packages (‘Liebesgaben’) in the camps and elsewhere (Koestler, 1972: 345–524). The Zukunft was active in supporting a group of them (Nelles, 1994: 56–85).

The Finnish diaspora In Finland, circulation of the journal was low. Aiming to expand the sales and support network of the Zukunft, Dallmann toured the other Nordic countries, travelling, for example, in early May 1939 to Oslo and in late June 1939/early July 1939 to Helsinki. He came back to Stockholm on 3  July 1939 (F7/15123, ANF). In Finland, primary supporters included the ­Latvian Bruno Kalnins (but probably only for the first period) and the leading ­Swedish-Finnish social democrat Karl H. Wiik and his wife Anna. Next to the Social Democrats, the liberal bourgeoisie seemed most interested, especially an editorial group from the newspaper Nykypäivä (13.7.1939, F7/15123, ANF). But for Dallmann, securing 50 subscribers in this ‘semi-fascist country’, described as backward in every respect, would be a good result (3.7.1939, F7/15123, ANF). November 30, 1939, the day when the Winter War began with the Soviet assault on Finland was ‘a significant turning point in the history of Northern Europe’ and in a certain sense also for the Zukunft. ‘Without Hitler’s consent and help, the Russian war against Finland would have been impossible, just as Hitler could begin his war against Poland only with the permission and assistance of Stalin’ (Die Zukunft, 8.12.1939). By means of a vigorous – perhaps unique – campaign, the journal called for the deployment of volunteers to fight for Finland, including former fighters in the Spanish Civil War. The Swedish obstruction of the transfer of Allied armed personal was sharply criticised (auxiliary detachments of volunteers came mainly from Sweden, but even some Hungarians, Americans and Italians volunteered). For Münzenberg, the implications for the international workers’ movement were global: the Russian bombs on Helsinki had smashed the last ruins of the Comintern. The Zukunft continued to wave an anti-fascist/anti-­Stalinist flag and this was perhaps unique for the German-speaking emigration. Until the Zukunft’s closure in May 1940, as a consequence of the German occupation of France, the journal continued to pursue the line of an anti-­ Stalinist, ­‘anti-fascist war’.

The promise of Norway In Oslo, Max Hodann, Münzenberg’s friend since the 1920s, was asked to function as the Zukunft’s representative, but he was not especially active.

212  Bernhard H. Bayerlein In the second phase, he was unwilling to support the journal because he remained faithful to the German communists. Most of the contacts were made through the SAP and with the support of left-wing social democrat and Sopade member Paul Bromme, who was one of the main German actors together with Willi Brandt. Another supporter was the lawyer Arne Ording, a member of the left-socialist intellectual group ‘Mot Dag’ and chair of the Socialist Association of Intellectuals. The Norwegian correspondent of the Zukunft was the Swedish journalist and social democrat Oesten Ericson. Its supporters included Wilhelm Rothkopf, a Jewish-born Austrian, who after the German occupation organised the first escape route for Norwegian Jews to neutral Sweden. He thereby saved hundreds, until he himself was murdered in Auschwitz. From the cultural scene, support came from the actor Max Lefkound and his colleague and playwright Robert Peiper, a member of the Austrian Communist Party (Meyer, 2000: 136). After the invasion of the Wehrmacht, which began on 9 April 1940, the Norwegian army initially continued to resist and was supported by large parts of the population despite the formation of the Quisling collaboration government. The Zukunft described Norway as the centre of the struggle of the European nations. In its last edition from 3 May 1940, the anarchist poet and thinker Walter Mehring translated the Norwegian national anthem into German (Die Zukunft, 3.5.1940). In the preceding issue, the journal had published a letter by a group of German anti-fascist fighters from Spain who promised to fight ‘with the weapon in their hands in the Norwegian army on the side of other troops against Hitler’ (Die Zukunft, 19.4.1940). The success of this initiative remains unclear, but in the first few days, mostly Trotskyist members of the ‘Mot Dag’ group did succeed in training two volunteer companies (Dahl, 1990: 26–31).

Conclusion Up to now, it has not been possible to identify exact sales figures of the Zukunft in the Nordic countries. What we do know is that there were 58 subscribers in Sweden in May 1939 (25.5.1939, F7/15123, ANF). A tentative estimate on the basis of existing documents suggests a figure of 500–600 copies for all four countries. But let us put circulation figures to one side as this tells us only so much. The history of this journal demands that we rethink the history of the German and European emigration. Significantly, what it reveals is the emergence of a combined anti-fascist and anti-Stalinist resistance as a new symbiosis at the end of the interwar period. This was relevant not only for the German-speaking political emigration, but for the European Left and for anti-fascism as a whole (Bayerlein, 2018). As an ‘Antifascist intermediate empire’ (Bernot, 2010), Münzenberg’s Zukunft functioned as a connecting link between the German emigration and the European resistance on the eve of the Second World War. In the Scandinavian context, in the period

The last ‘Münzenberg empire’  213 following the non-aggression pact, the Zukunft added some notable accents to anti-fascist resistance, as the campaign of solidarity with Finland against Stalin’s war in late 1939 and the Norwegian military resistance against the Wehrmacht in the Second World War in April 1940 showed. Nevertheless, this change came too late, and not only for the Nordic countries.

Notes 1 My thanks go to Kasper Braskén (Turku) and Fredrik Petersson (Stockholm) for their advice. 2 https://www.muenzenbergforum.de 3 http://isb.rub.de/forschung/drittmittel/zukunft.html.de 4 Gross to the Brupbachers, 24.12.1938, Fritz Brupbacher Papers, file 147, IISH, Amsterdam. Thanks to Ursula Langkau-Alex, Amsterdam.

References Archives Archives Nationales Paris, (Pierrefitte) (ANF) F7 15123 F7/15128 F7/15129 International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam Fritz Brupbacher Papers Online sources www.muenzenbergforum.de http://isb.rub.de/forschung/drittmittel/zukunft.html.de www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/france/2016-10-31/spirit-resistance-excerpt https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Jewish_deportees_from_Norway_during_ World_War_II#cite_note-41 Generalliste P. Walter Jacob Archiv (Stand 2010/11). https://www.exilforschung. uni-hamburg.de/archiv/generalliste/generalliste-2011-03-31.pdf Literature Barth, M. (1986) Flucht in die Welt: Exilerinnerungen, 1933–1950. Waldkirch: ­Waldkircher Verlagsgesellschaft. Bayerlein, B. H. (1996) ‘Einheits- und Volksfrontmythos als Ursprungslegenden des Antifaschismus’ in Claudia, K. (ed.) Die Nacht hat zwölf Stunden, dann kommt schon der Tag: Antifaschismus, Geschichte und Neubewertung. Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuchverlag. Bayerlein, B. H. (2008) “Der Verräter, Stalin, bist Du!”: Vom Ende der linken Solidarität: Komintern und kommunistische Parteien im Zweiten Weltkrieg 1939–1941. Unter Mitarbeit von Natal’ ja Lebedeva, Michail Narinskij und Gleb Albert. Mit einem Zeitzeugenbericht von Wolfgang Leonhard. Vorwort von Hermann Weber. Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag.

214  Bernhard H. Bayerlein Bayerlein, B. H. (2016) ‘The ‘Cultural International’ as the Comintern’s Intermediate Empire: International Mass and Sympathizing Organisations Beyond Parties’ in Weiss, H. (ed.) International Communism and Transnational Solidarity: Radical Networks, Mass Movements and Global Politics, 1919–1939. Leiden: Brill. Bayerlein, B. H. (2017) ‘Willi Münzenberg’s ‘Last Empire’: “Die Zukunft” and the “Franco-German Union”, Paris, 1938–1940: New Visions of Anti-Fascism and the Transnational Networks of the Anti-Hitler Resistance’, Moving the Social 58 (2017): 51–89. Bayerlein, B. H. (2018) ‘Kein Antifaschismus ohne Antistalinismus. Willi Münzenberg “Die Zunkunft” und die antistalinistische Wende in der deutschsprachigen Emigration 1933–1940’ in Bayerlein, B. H., S ­ onnenberg, U. and Braskén, K. (eds.) Global Spaces for Radical Solidarity. Contributions to the First Willi-­ Muenzenberg-Congress, Berlin: International Willi Münzenberg H Forum: 218–270. Bayerlein, B. H., Braskén, K. and Weiss, H. (2016) ‘Transnational and Global Perspectives on International Communist Solidarity Organisations: An Introduction’ in Weiss, H. (ed.) International Communism and Transnational Solidarity: Radical Networks, Mass Movements and Global Politics, 1919–1939. Leiden: Brill. Bernot, J. (2010) Gaston Palewski: Premier baron du gaullisme. Paris: François-­ Xavier de Guibert. Bock, H.-M. (2014) Versöhnung oder Subversion? Deutsch französische V ­ erständigungsOrganisationen und -Netzwerke der Zwischenkriegszeit. Tübingen: Narr. Braskén, K. (2015) The International Workers’ Relief, Communism, and Transnational Solidarity: Willi Münzenberg in Weimar German. Houndmills: Palgrave MacMillan. Dahl, N. K. (1990) ‘Avec Trotsky en Norvège’, Cahiers Léon Trotsky 43 (September). Dähnhardt, W. and Nielsen, B. S. (1988) Geflüchtet unter das dänische Strohdach, Schriftsteller und bildende Künstler im dänischen Exil nach 1933. Heide in ­Holstein: Westholsteinische Verlagsanstalt Boyens. Dallmann, G. (1995) Zwischenrufe: Gedichte aus großer und sehr kleiner Zeit. Post-scriptum by Klaus Taeubert. London: Mytze. Die Zukunft. Organ der Deutsch-Französischen Union (L’avenir), Ein neues Deutschland, ein neues Europa. Paris, Hrsg: Willi Münzenberg (1978). Vaduz: Topos-Verlag. Dugrand, A. and Laurent, F. (2008) Willi Münzenberg: Artiste en révolution, 1889– 1940. Paris: Fayard. Dünzelmann, A. E. (2016) ‘Stockholmer Spaziergänge. Auf den Spuren deutscher Exilierter 1933–1945’. Books on Demand. Gross, B. (1967) Willi Münzenberg: Eine politische Biographie. Mit einem Vorwort von Arthur Koestler. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Keller, T. (1999) ‘Das rheinisch-revolutionäre Europa: Die Exilzeitschrift „Die Zukunft“ (1938–1940)’ in Grunewald, M. (ed.) Le discours européen dans les revues allemandes (1933–1939)/Der Europadiskurs in den deutschen Zeitschriften (1933–1939). Bern: Lang. Koestler, A. (1967) ‘Vorwort’ in Gross, B. (ed.) Willi Münzenberg: Eine politische Biographie. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Koestler, A. (1972) ‘Abschaum der Erde’ in Koestler, A. (ed.) Gesammelte autobiographische Schriften, vol. 2: Abschaum der Erde. Vienna: Verlag Fritz Molden.

The last ‘Münzenberg empire’  215 Langkau-Alex, U. (2018) ‘The Woman in the Background: In Search of Babette Gross and the Others in Münzenberg’s Networks in the 1930s’ in Bayerlein, B. H., Sonnenberg, U. and Braskén, K. (eds.) Global Spaces for Radical Solidarity: First Willi-Muenzenberg-Congress, Berlin, 17–20 September, 2015. Berlin: International Willi Münzenberg Forum. Lingens, R. and Svevar, K. (1971) Der Publizist Günter Dallmann. Stockholm: Univ. Stockholm. McMeekin, S. (2005) The Red Millionaire: A political Biography of Willi M ­ ünzenberg: Moscow’s Secret Propaganda Tsar in the West. New Haven: Yale University Press. Meyer, F. (2000) Schreiben für die Fremde: Politische und kulturelle Publizistik des deutschsprachigen Exils in Norwegen und Skandinavien 1933–1940. Essen: Klartext. Müssener, H. (1975) Exil in Schweden: Politische und kulturelle Emigration nach 1933. Munich: Hanser. Nelles, D. (1994) ‘Die Unabhängige Antifaschistische Gruppe 9. Kompanie im Lager Gurs: Zur gruppenspezifischen Interaktion nach dem spanischen Bürgerkrieg’ in Grebing, H. and Wickert, C. (eds.) Das „andere Deutschland“ im Widerstand gegen den Nationalsozialismus: Beiträge zur politischen Überwindung der nationalsozialistischen Diktatur im Exil und im Dritten Reich. ­Essen: Klartext. Nerman, T. (1939) ‘Der Norden und ein freies Deutschland’, Die Zukunft 31 (13) March. Paul, G. (1990) ‘Lernprozess mit tödlichem Ausgang: Willi Münzenbergs Abkehr vom Stalinismus’, Exilforschung. Ein internationales Jahrbuch VIII. Peters, J. (1984) Exilland Schweden: Deutsche und schwedische Antifaschisten ­1933–1945. (East) Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Pross, H. (1987) ‘Sechseinhalbtausend Mark Wiedergutmachung: Barths Exilerinnerungen sind das Zeugnis eines Nichtkorrumpierten in seiner Unbefangenheit’, Die Zeit 24 April, www.zeit.de/1987/18/sechseinhalbtausend-mark-wiedergutmachung. Röder, W. and Strauß, H. A. (eds.) (1980) Biographisches Handbuch der deutschsprachigen Emigration. Vol. I: Politik, Wirtschaft, Öffentliches Leben. Munich: K. G. Saur. Roussel, H. (1992) ‘Zu Willi Münzenbergs verlegerischer Tätigkeit im Kontext seines Umgangs mit den Medien in der Weimarer Republik und im französischen Exil’ in Roussel, H. and Winckler, C. (eds.) Deutsche Exilpresse und Frankreich. Bern: Peter Lang. Schiller, D. (2007) “Propaganda als Waffe”: Kurt Kersten und Willi Münzenberg. ­Berlin: “Helle Panke” zur Förderung von Politik, Bildung und Kultur. Schiller, D. (2010) Der Traum von Hitlers Sturz: Studien zur deutschen Exilliteratur 1933–1945. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Schlie, T. (1990) Alles für die Einheit: Zur politischen Biographie Willi Münzenbergs (1935–1940). MA-thesis, Hamburg: Universität Hamburg. Täubert, K. (1995) ‘Nachwort’ in Dallmann, G. (ed.) (Lot Anker): Zwischenrufe. Gedichte aus grosser und kleiner Zeit. Nachwort von Klaus Taeubert. London: A.W. Mytze. Weber, H., Bayerlein, B. H., Drabkin, J. and Galkin, A. (eds.) (2014a) Deutschland, Russland, Komintern. Vol. I: Überblicke, Analysen, Diskussionen: Neue Perspektiven auf die Geschichte der KPD und die deutsch-russischen Beziehungen (1918–1943). Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter. www.degruyter.com/viewbooktoc/ product/186108.

216  Bernhard H. Bayerlein Weber, H., Bayerlein, B. H., Drabkin, J. and Galkin, A. (eds.) (2014b) Deutschland, Russland, Komintern. Vol. II, Deutschland, Russland, Komintern – Dokumente (1918–1943): Nach der Archivrevolution: Neuerschlossene Quellen zur Geschichte der KPD und den deutsch-russischen Beziehungen. Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter. www.degruyter.com/view/product/212875. Weiss, P. (1975) Die Ästhetik des Widerstands. Roman. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Weiss, P. (2005) The Aesthetics of Resistance. Vol. 1. With a foreword by Jameson, F. Durham and London: Duke University Press.

Part IV

Post-war anti-fascisms

13 Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War The Socialist Youth International and Franco’s regime after the Second World War Anders Dalsager Introduction In July 1951, a telegram was sent from Copenhagen to the US Foreign Secretary Dean Acheson in Washington. The telegram was sent by the Social Democratic Youth International (IUSY), was signed by its Danish General Secretary, Per Hækkerup, and expressed strong dissatisfaction with recent American initiatives to include General Franco’s Spanish dictatorship in Western military cooperation against the Soviet Union (Villaume, 1994: 676). The telegram stated that 500.000 young Social Democrats in Europe and the world protest strongly against actual American plans of including Franco’s Spain in Western defence which will endanger the unity between the free countries. We turn against any partnership and alliance with the Franco regime and will co-operate only with a free and democratic Spain. (Fri Ungdom 8: 21) (Copenhagen 1951, o.t. from Danish) It is unknown whether Secretary Acheson had any knowledge as to what IUSY was and how much influence it had. The statement, which had been dispatched on the initiative of Hækkerup and with support from the rest of IUSY, was a clear indication of the profound anger and shock felt among the Youth International’s member organisations over the US attempt to integrate the Franco regime into the framework of Western military cooperation. The reaction of the IUSY to the American initiative is interesting for several reasons. First and foremost, it was one of many political expressions of anti-fascist mobilisation among Socialist and Social Democratic Youth dating back to 1936 and the onset of the Spanish Civil War. This tradition had continued after the Second World War, where the IUSY – alongside the International Conference for Socialist Parties (ISC, later re-established as the ‘Socialist International’ [SI]) (Padgett & Paterson, 1991: 223) – had initiated several anti-Franco campaigns in the hope that the international community could be persuaded to push for regime change in Spain, indicating that

220  Anders Dalsager this would be a continuation of the victorious wartime struggle against the fascist powers.1 In this way, the letter to Acheson represented a continuation of anti-fascist aspirations dating back to the 1930s, but under the new conditions of the Cold War, where the East-West conflict was perceived as the most important global issue by most Western observers, and where Soviet Communism was regarded as the main threat against the democratic countries by most Western leaders – including the majority of the Western and Nordic Socialist and Social Democratic Parties (Sassoon, 2014: 209–40). Second, the reaction is also interesting because IUSY – as the nationality of its General Secretary indicates – was to a large extent dominated by the strong Scandinavian Social Democratic Youth organisations, which through numerical strength and financial contributions yielded a significant influence over the International’s political priorities (Luza, 1970: 104–6, 126). Though IUSY had active member organisations on three continents, its political statements on Spain – including the Acheson telegram – was almost entirely an expression of the type of anti-fascist political narrative favoured by leading young Scandinavian social democrats.2 At the same time, Scandinavian Social Democratic Youth organisations advocated the adoption of strict anti-Communist policies in IUSY, especially after the  S ­ ovietisation in the Eastern Europe. Both the Scandinavians and the majority of IUSY’s leadership emphasised the need for the remaining democracies to stand together against Communist expansion. The US initiative to integrate Franco’s regime into the Western Bloc nonetheless challenged any ideas that the East-West conflict was simply a conflict between democracy and totalitarianism. This created a difficult dilemma for both the IUSY and its member organisations from Scandinavia and the rest of the world, which during the first decades of the Cold War wanted to promote simultaneously parliamentary democracy, anti-fascism and anti-­ communism. A dilemma that was intensified by other developments during the late 1940s and early 1950s which allowed Franco’s government  to obtain US dollar credits and diplomatic recognition from other parts of the world (Urwin, 1997: 240). Therefore, it was no coincidence that the protest telegram from IUSY’s Danish chairman to Dean Acheson emphasised that the International ‘… turn against any partnership and alliance …’ with ­Franco’s regime – including more than military cooperation – and that any such partnerships ‘… will endanger the unity between the free countries’ (Rød ­Ungdom 8: 21). This chapter will offer an account of how the IUSY responded to the US rehabilitation of Francoist Spain during the period from 1945 to 1955, with a special focus on the role of its influential Nordic member organisations. My concerns are fourfold: the political initiatives in the forms of protest letters, campaigns or other initiatives that the leadership of IUSY took concerning the regime in Spain during the decades following the Second World War, from 1945 to 1955; the political narratives – here defined as frames – that were promoted by the IUSY through these initiatives; the extent to

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  221 which these initiatives and narratives were influenced by Scandinavian Social Democratic Youth; and the extent to which these initiatives and frames represented attempts by not only the IUSY, but also Scandinavian Social Democratic Youth to apply the idea of anti-fascism under the shifting political conditions dominating the Cold War period. My approach to these questions is inspired by sociologists David Snow and Robert Benford, who – after several years of field research – developed a theoretical apparatus for understanding social movements’ attempts to mobilise and influence opinions in surrounding communities by using the concepts of collective action frames and frame alignment (Benford & Snow, 2000; Snow & Benford, 1988, 2000, 2005; Snow, Rochford Jr, Worden, & Benford, 1986). Snow and Benford – like a number of other social movement theorists – regard frames as dynamic, narrative schemata of interpretation, which, on the one hand, shape the way participants in social movements understand the world (Goffmann, 1974; Snow, Rochford Jr, Worden, & Benford, 1986: 464), and, on the other hand, are developed by the very same participants as they interact with the world around them. Snow and Benford employ the term master frames to describe the broader ideological frames (such as certain views on fascism, socialism or democracy), that tie one or several movements together. Within the boundaries of such master frames, smaller area-specific frames can be developed by placing specific events or people (such as Franco), in certain social and moral contexts, where either negative or positive associations are assigned (Benford & Snow, 2000: 618–19, 623–7). Employed in combination with the approach to the study of anti-­fascist movements and ideas, which Hugo Garcia labels ‘transnational anti-­ fascism’  – and which regards anti-fascism as part of a transnational and even ambiguous political project (Garcia, 2016) – this sociological concept of framing might therefore provide a useful framework to define the continuities and changes in narratives about Franco Spain and the Western World promoted by young Social Democrats and Socialists after 1945. On this basis, this chapter argues that the IUSY – among others due to eager Scandinavian efforts – continued to campaign against the authoritarian regime in Madrid even though the Franco government had considerable success in achieving international diplomatic recognition and establishing trade relations with the West during the late 1940s and the 1950s. With eager Scandinavian participation, IUSY leaders developed their anti-Franco campaigns into tools for attacking not only the Madrid dictatorship, but also the Cold War logic dominating the policies of the West and the US government in particular. As we shall see, the IUSY compared the oppressive policies of the Communist dictatorships in Eastern Europe from the late 1940s with the developments in Spain after 1938; and criticised extensive cooperation between the US government and the Spanish dictatorship in the construction of the anti-Soviet Western Bloc. Scandinavian Social Democratic Youth

222  Anders Dalsager organisations pressed the IUSY into applying idea of ‘democratic anti-­ fascism’, an idea popular in the Western World after the Second World War (Hobsbawm, 2003: 175–6), in order to raise the controversial issue of security policy cooperation between authoritarians and the Western Democracies in the polarised atmosphere of the Cold War.

The legacy of 1936: resisting Franco In the early morning of 18 July 1936, military garrisons in several areas of Spain rebelled against their democratically elected, republican government. Within a few weeks, a full-scale civil war between the Republic of Spain and rebellious military units commanded by fascist and monarchist-inspired generals was a reality (Preston, 2006: 100–23). The plotters behind the rebellion were officers determined to end the Republican experiment with democracy and the spread of Socialist and communist ideas. Very soon, one of them, General Francisco Franco, managed to assume the role of leader of the rebellion and he would quickly secure political, military and economic support from Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany (Preston, 2006: 152–3). The open assault on the Spanish Republic immediately attracted international attention and triggered reactions from labour movements and Republican sympathisers all over the world. The Labour and Socialist International immediately declared its solidarity with the Spanish Government and its Spanish member organisation, the Partido Socialista Obrero Espanol (PSOE). Shortly thereafter, the executive committee of the Socialist Youth International (SYI), which was dominated by organisations from Scandinavia, France and the Benelux countries (‘Spaniens Ungdom med i Ungdommens Internationale’, Rød Ungdom 6, 1937), saluted the Socialist Youth of Spain (Juventudes Socialistas de España, JSE): ‘The Socialist Youth all over the world follow […] your heroic struggle against the Monarchist and Fascist criminals which have forced the Spanish Democracy into the terrible ­m iseries of Civil War’ [‘The Youth International and Spain’ (o.t. from ­Danish), Rød Ungdom 9, 1936]. The SYI also called for solidarity demonstrations, collections of funds for the Spanish workers and for young socialists from all over the world to join the International Brigades. Such calls were heard, and in European countries where Socialist and social democratic – or ­communist – movements were still legal, demonstrations, fundraising and recruitment calls in support of Republican Spain were widespread (Preston, 2006: 135–62). This political and material support from the SYI to the Spanish Republic was motivated by the belief that the Franco-led rebellion was part of an international tendency, whereby democratic structures and Socialist movements in one country after another were being crushed by fascists and other authoritarian movements. This had happened in almost all of Eastern and Southern Europe and in Austria and Germany, so that a large number of the SYI member organisations were illegal in their home countries. The SYI

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  223 therefore emphasised that the crisis in Spain was part of a broader international threat to democracy and democratic socialism. A good example of this is the May Declaration of the SYI bureau from 1937, in which it was stated that We serve a common task whether we are employees at the great social construction of Democracy or whether we are putting our lives and liberty at stake in the darkness of illegality to defeat Fascism. […] Spain is today the centre of the European struggle for freedom and peace. (‘May Call of the Socialist Youth International’, (o.t. from Danish) Rød Ungdom 5, 1937) The SYI executive committee also unanimously passed a resolution criticising those European countries, including those with Socialist and social democratic representation, who decided to adhere to the so-called ‘non-­ intervention-pact’. This pact meant that the belligerents, including the Republic, could not purchase arms and other military equipment from their democratic neighbours, even though the explicitly anti-democratic ­Franco-led insurgents received massive support from Italy and Germany. The international isolation of the Republic – instead of the Francoist forces – was seen as a ‘… challenge to the conscience of international opinion …’ and it was pointed out that republican Spain deserved support from other democratic countries. Not least because ‘… the struggle which is at the moment is carried on by the brave fighters in the International Brigade and the republican army, is the struggle for and of all those workers who wish to live in freedom’ (‘Spaniens Ungdom med i Ungdommens Internationale’, Rød Ungdom 6, 1937). Not surprisingly, the SYI painted a gloomy picture of the future after Franco declared his victory over the Republic in 1939. The SYI congress in 1939 stated that The politics of the violence of international Fascism which has led to the crimes towards Abyssinia, China and Spain […] has limited the possibilities of a peaceful international settlement to an extreme degree […] Freedom, Democracy and Socialism are the safest guarantees for peace. (Rød Ungdom 10, 1939) But this statement was followed by a thorough condemnation of the role of the Communist movement and the Soviet Union in Spain. During the Civil War, Socialist and Communist Youth movements in Spain had united in a single organisation, which had been originally accepted as a member of the SYI (Rød Ungdom 10, 1939). However, due to internecine conflicts between different sections of the Republican forces – among others between the Communists and the Socialists – and due to the failure of the Popular Front government in France, where Socialists and Communists had tried to

224  Anders Dalsager work together – almost all cooperation between Socialist and Communist Youth was now rejected by the SYI Congress (Rød Ungdom 10, 1939). The Danish and the Swedish member organisations of the SYI were some of the most vocal critics of the Communists in this regard, having voiced thorough scepticism towards the entire idea of anti-fascist cooperation with Communist organisations before the Spanish Civil War. Their argument was that parliamentary democracy was a necessary precondition for socialism and that it was a dangerous strategy to defend this system against fascism by joining forces with Communists who also opposed parliamentary democracy (‘S.U.I.s Kongres’, Rød Ungdom 10, 1935). The SYI and especially its Scandinavian member organisations – just like many more or less reformist labour movement organisations of the 1930s – thus adhered to an ideological belief which assigned the existence of parliamentary democracy a crucial role in the developmental potential of socialism. But, in the SYI statements on the Spanish Civil War, it is also obvious that fascism was assigned the role as the main antagonist to democracy and socialism, which made support for the Spanish forces fighting Franco a litmus test for the will of socialists and other forces to defend democracy and the development of socialism. In this struggle, the Communist movement went from being viewed as ally by some SYI members, to becoming a clear antagonist.

1945–1946: new anti-fascist consensus The 1939 congress would be the last in the pre-war SYI. With the outbreak of the Second World War and the German occupation of most of mainland Europe, most contacts between the Socialist and Social Democratic Youth organisations now broke down. It was not until 1945 and the Allied victory in the war that international Socialist youth contacts were re-established (Luza, 1970: 61–80). These contacts quickly resulted in the re-establishment of the SYI. In the autumn of 1946, 22 Socialist and Social Democratic Youth organisations from Europe and North America founded IUSY at a congress in Paris (Luza, 1970: 81). The moderate Social Democratic Youth movements in Scandinavia were by now the largest and most well-established group. The Danish Danmarks Socialdemokratiske Ungdom (DSU) had about 30,000 members in the late 1940s, the Norwegian Arbeidernes Ungdomsfylking (AUF) had about 50,000 members and the Swedish Sveriges Socialdemokratiska Ungdomsförbund (SSU) boasted no fewer than 100,000 (compared to the entire French organisation whose membership fell from 35,000 in 1946 to 8,000 by 19503). The Scandinavian contingent teamed up and secured control over the International’s executive committee and bureau during the proceedings in Paris. Through alliances with Polish representatives and the moderate Dutch Socialist Youth, they also managed to have the headquarters of the organisation moved to Copenhagen, Denmark – and to get the

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  225 aforementioned Per Hækkerup, who was also chairman of the Danish Social Democratic Youth, elected as the IUSY’s first general secretary (Luza, 1970: 98–102). This all happened before the Socialist and Social Democratic Parties had managed to establish the ISC as a forum for coordination, so the youth organisations were from the beginning ahead of the ‘adult’ Socialist Parties when it came to consolidating and developing their international coordination. Because of this, and because the later SI (established in 1951) did not develop any real authority in relation to the national movements, the IUSY never ended up in a situation where it had to submit to another international political authority. However, the Scandinavian IUSY member organisations did uphold a policy of loyalty towards their national mother parties, and this meant that there were still limits as to how far they could support IUSY motions, which criticised policies adopted by their mother parties (Luza, 1970: 101). In spite of that, and even though the Scandinavian dominance at the constituent congress led to conflicts between a faction of radical Marxist Socialist Youth organisations from France and Southern Europe and the moderate Scandinavian and Dutch youth movements,4 the participants at the International’s constituent congress could still agree on the need to condemn the Franco regime in Spain. Before the Congress, the Danish DSU had called for action from the newly formed United Nations (UN) against Franco ‘… which shields the remains of Europe’s Nazism and Fascism …’ (‘Franco-Diktaturet’, Rød Ungdom 5, 1946). And at the IUSY congress itself, the delegates passed a resolution that pledged to continue the struggle against Franco and called upon the member organisations of IUSY to provide financial aid for the newly re-established independent Spanish Socialist Youth movement, JSE (which worked both in exile in France and illegally in Spain).5 And in a further declaration of principles, the IUSY congress also labelled fascism as the principal enemy of democratic socialism and its objectives of achieving universal political and social democracy.6 In this way, the attitude of IUSY and its member organisations towards Spain remained within the anti-fascist frame of the 1930s, although with a slightly more optimistic tone than in 1939. A few months after the IUSY congress, the optimism seemed to be confirmed. In December 1946, the UN General Assembly passed a resolution stating that Franco’s government was ‘… a Fascist regime patterned on, and established largely as a result of aid received from, Hitler’s Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Fascist Italy’, which did not represent the Spanish p ­ eople and could not be admitted into the UN – and that all member nations should withdraw their ambassadors from the country if free elections were not held.7 The UN looked to refuse Franco access to the international community. Unfortunately from the viewpoint of IUSY, other than diplomatic isolation, the international community did not take further effective steps to put pressure on the Spanish regime (Preston, 1988: 213–16).

226  Anders Dalsager

1946–1948: anti-fascism in the shadow of the Cold War During 1946–1947, the Franco government carried out a wave of arrests, arresting 60 young Socialists among others. The Spanish Socialist Youth (JSE) immediately informed IUSY about this, and at the bureau meeting in December 1947, several bureau members suggested that the Youth International should send a group of observers to the trial of the arrested. Martinez Dasi, the representative of JSE in the IUSY bureau, was opposed to this suggestion. He felt that the most important task was to change the international attitude towards Franco and collect funds for JSE’s work inside and outside Spain. This was a task that the Scandinavian member organisations of the IUSY had already taken upon themselves, and, in early 1948, the Swedish and Danish Social Democratic Youth movements were able to transfer 275,000 francs to the JSE exile organisation.8 And in a declaration from the IUSY Congress in Louvain in 1948, proposed by the Scandinaviandominated IUSY bureau and passed unanimously by the delegates, it was stated that The Congress in Louvain sends its fraternal and heartfelt greetings to the youth of Spain, and particularly to the young Socialists who are fighting resolutely against the Fascist regime of Franco. […] The Congress […] considers that the liberation of Spain must be achieved by the work of all democrats […] We affirm that the liberation of the ­Spanish people must be fundamentally based on international energetic action. […] Therefore this international action must have the effect in the political and diplomatic sphere of isolating Franco completely, and in the economic sphere it must result in restrictive measures and particularly in the freezing of credits and cessation of economic help from all sources.9 The IUSY continued to frame the Spanish situation as a global problem, and called upon all democratic political forces to isolate, boycott and thereby oust Franco. Yet in spite of these efforts, optimism regarding the removal of Franco decreased dramatically outside the IUSY organisation. Since the UN only took very limited steps to weaken the Franco regime, and because the ­Spanish dictator at the same time seemed determined to stay in office in spite of the Axis defeat, leaders of the European Socialist Parties started to declare openly that the removal of the Franco regime did not seem imminent. This only seemed to be confirmed with the increasing conflicts between the US, Britain and the Soviet Union, which made the Western powers focus their attention on the East-West power struggle rather than the removal of Franco (Preston 1988: 213–14; Urwin, 1997: 240). In November 1947, this situation led to a discussion at an ISC meeting of the Socialist Parties in Antwerp. At this meeting, the far-left Italian Socialist

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  227 leader, Pietro Nenni, who eagerly opposed any US engagement in Europe, emphasised that Washington was to blame for the situation in Spain, since the Americans – in Nenni’s opinion – wanted to keep the regime alive to secure a bridgehead in Europe that could help them dominate the continent.10 These statements were countered by representatives from other countries, especially Koos Vorrink from the moderate Dutch Labour Party. Vorrink insisted that it was unacceptable that the ISC were not more critical towards the political developments in the Soviet-occupied countries in Eastern ­Europe, and that it was hypocritical to criticise Spain when political arrests in Communist-led Romania were not mentioned.11 In the end, the ISC meeting passed a resolution stating that The Conference deeply regret the United Nations’ lack of unified and firm action towards Francoist Spain. It calls for the immediate resumption of the international effort which is necessary to liberate the people of Spain and to re-establish the Republic.12 But even though this did not follow the line of either Nenni or Vorrink, their discussions demonstrated that the Spanish issue was being dragged into debates about the escalating East-West conflict. Shortly thereafter, similar developments occurred in IUSY – but with a different outcome.

1948–1951: IUSY reactions to Eastern European oppression While the banner of anti-fascism was kept high in the IUSY, the International and its member organisations were also busy dealing with issues related to the Eastern Bloc, and these issues seemed more and more pressing for each day that passed in the late 1940s. In February 1948, the Communist party of Czechoslovakia staged a coup d’état against the country’s government, effectively removing the last parliamentary democracy in Soviet-­occupied Eastern Europe (Naimark, 2013: 186–7). During the previous years, political pluralism had been terminated in several Eastern European countries, and one of the results had been that the local Social Democratic and Socialist Youth movements had been banned or forcibly merged with Communist Youth Organisations (Luza, 1970: 117–19). At the IUSY office in Copenhagen, Per Hækkerup received an increasing number of letters from young Eastern European Social Democrats, who had been forced into exile in the West. The young Czechoslovak Social Democrats now joined this group.13 A staunch anti-Communist and critic of the Soviet Union from his earliest youth (Bøgh, 2003: 55), Hækkerup immediately proposed a statement to the central board of leadership in his own organisation, the DSU, which referred to the oppression in both Eastern Europe and Spain and thereafter declared that the young Danish Social Democrats ‘… condemn dictatorship and violent oppression wherever it exists’.14 This declaration received clear verbal support and was passed

228  Anders Dalsager unanimously in the DSU.15 Thereafter, Hækkerup wrote a circular to all IUSY member organisations with the clear message that The development of the last months has given us bitter experiences and disappointments. The Socialist Youth Movement in Eastern Europe does not exist any longer as free organisations, but has partly been engulfed by united movements under Communist leadership, partly maintains – as the Polish Federation which has withdrawn from the Union [IUSY, AD] a short time ago – a hostile attitude towards the Socialist Federations in Western Europe. But on the other hand this development has meant a clarification of the International Socialist Youth Movement. We can now turn to our political tasks without any compromise. […] We know that our third way, democratic socialism, is the only solution face to face with dictatorships, may they come from right or left.16 In this way, Hækkerup argued with the clear support of his own organisation that the Communist dictatorships in Eastern Europe were absolutely comparable to the one in Spain, and that the solution for democratic Socialists was to defend the world’s democracies by fighting both fascism and communism as forms of dictatorship. This attitude met with approval among most IUSY member organisations. At the executive meeting in Stockholm in July 1950, a declaration was passed which stated that ‘Now as always the Socialist Youth uncompromisingly takes its stand against all sorts of dictatorship, whether fascist or communist’.17 And at the 1951 IUSY Congress in Hamburg, a new declaration of principles which defined communism and fascism as related types of dictatorships was unanimously passed by the delegates. This declaration stated that We speak on the behalf of the youth of the entire world: The youth of Asia and Africa, participating with millions of their people in the revolutionary struggle for emancipation from capitalist exploitation. The youth of the ‘people’s democracies’, who are subject to fascist techniques of terror and exploitation. The youth of fascist and semi-fascist countries, who also fight for freedom and democracy against tyranny and oppression. The youth of the bourgeois world, who are menaced by the scourge of unemployment and exploited by capitalism. […] Against communist and fascist attack we young socialists defend the political liberties and economic rights which the Labour Movement has achieved for the working classes.18 In this way, the anti-fascist frame was expanded to include communism, developing into something which could be regarded as a more general

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  229 anti-totalitarian master frame (Garcia, 2016: 569). This obliged the young Socialists to fight the two ideologies and the movements that adhered to them without any compromise – not a viewpoint far removed from the one the Swedes and Danes had advocated in the SYI in the 1930s. Soon enough, the fact that such an approach clashed with the actual policies of the US government – a government that was absolutely willing to make compromises with fascist-inspired regimes in the struggle against the Soviet Union – meant that this historically conditioned democratic Socialist frame of anti-fascism was reinvigorated as an important subelement of the anti-totalitarian master frame among the IUSY member organisations.

1949–1955: Francoist victories and Socialist resistance While IUSY was dealing with the increased oppression in Eastern Europe, the members of the International’s leadership were quite aware that F ­ ranco’s regime was attempting to open up to the world in order to attract tourism and to establish relations with other states, especially the US. When, in 1949, it was rumoured that Spain – with the US and Latin American backing – would attempt to obtain membership of the UN, and that Franco was negotiating with Washington in order to obtain American dollar aid, there was a determination to act. This determination increased in the IUSY when the JSE reported that Spanish police had also carried out a new wave of arrests of suspected Socialists and opposition activists in the country. A British proposal that 100 young foreign Socialists should travel to Spain and carry out militant demonstrations, burning pictures of Franco, was considered but later discouraged by the JSE bureau representatives, who feared reprisals against the possible participants. Instead, the Spaniards called for solidarity demonstrations and new collections of funds for the Spanish youth movement. And this led to fundraising campaigns in ­Austria, Sweden, the Netherlands, France, Norway, Switzerland, West Berlin and Denmark.19 During the autumn of 1950, news arrived at the IUSY office that shocked the International and its member organisations. On 10 October, IUSY ­received a letter from the American Students of Democratic Action which expressed grave concerns over unconfirmed reports that a number of Socialist and social democratic European governments – including the otherwise Franco-hostile governments in Scandinavia – might not oppose a revocation of the 1946 Declaration of the UN, which a number of Latin American countries were going to propose.20 A couple of weeks later, the IUSY received letters from the British Labour Party Youth and the exiled Spanish JSE which confirmed that when the United Nations General Assembly was going to take a decision on the matter, Socialist and social democratic governments in Britain, Denmark, Sweden and Norway were all going to abstain from voting.21

230  Anders Dalsager In a letter to the IUSY leadership sent on 21 October 1950, Martinez Dasi from the JSE stressed that the revocation of the 1946 declaration would constitute a major blow to the illegal Spanish opposition. He urged the member organisations in IUSY to influence their governments and mother parties to vote against the proposal.22 Hækkerup’s response to this came swiftly. He proposed that an appeal was made to the member organisations of IUSY to start new campaigns for Spanish freedom, ‘… stressing our opposition especially to the inclusion of Franco’s Spain in Western defence’.23 There was no doubt that abstaining in the revocation vote was a consequence of heavy US pressure, but the news still triggered fierce debates in several European countries, including Denmark and Norway. Here, several leading members of the Social Democratic Youth organisations were among the most critical towards the decisions of their mother parties in government. Denmark and Norway ended up abstaining like several other European countries, thus paving the way for Spain’s re-entry into the international community.24 In Denmark, IUSY General Secretary and DSU chairman Hækkerup actually defended his organisation’s governing mother party by claiming that it had demonstrated resistance to the admission of the Franco regime by ordering the Danish UN representatives to vote no to the admission proposal in the UN political committee – before ordering them to abstain in the General Assembly. His defence unleashed a wave of criticism among both ordinary members and elected leaders in the DSU (something which alongside the situation in Norway, where protests were accompanied by boycotts of Spanish goods) was a reminder that Franco’s Spain could still jeopardise party loyalty in Scandinavia.25 And at the SI congress in 1951, IUSY’s representatives criticised the implicated parties, while the International considered sending a delegation to deliver a protest note to the UN.26 Worse was to follow. In 1953, the US and Spain signed the Madrid Pact on mutual defence, which also provided for American airbases on Spanish territory. The US government described this as necessary for the defence of the West against Soviet aggression. And finally in 1955, Franco’s Spain was – with US support – admitted as a full member of the UN, enjoying the same rights and privileges as all other states (Urwin, 1997: 240). Among IUSY leaders, this was seen as nothing short of a catastrophe. Several of the IUSY leaders, including the influential Hækkerup, were staunch supporters of the Atlantic Pact27 (Bøgh, 2003: 110), and Hækkerup himself had been a signatory of the 1951 IUSY telegram addressed to the US foreign secretary Acheson, which claimed that such an agreement would ‘… endanger the unity between the free countries’ (Rød Ungdom 8: 21). With the Madrid Pact now a reality, the US had bilaterally included Spain in the Western defence system, which was supposed to secure democracies against dictatorships. At the next IUSY executive meeting in October 1953, fierce criticism of the Madrid Pact followed. The committee stated that

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  231 The Executive Committee of the IUSY […] expresses its indignation at military agreements made between the governments of the USA and of Franco’s Spain. It protests against the confirmation given to the servitude so imposed on the Spanish people in spite of their fight for freedom; against the principles of democracy, and contrary to the declaration of the Human Rights and the preamble to the North Atlantic Pact. The Executive Committee asks the Socialist International and affiliated members to urge the governments included in the North Atlantic Pact to abrogate the Spanish-American agreement and to organise in collaboration with the organisations of IUSY all action conducing to this end. The Executive Committee once again expresses its feeling of solidarity with the Spanish Socialists and with all the victims of Franco rule. It requests member organisations of IUSY to prepare a propaganda action before the end of 1953, to draw attention of public opinion to the situation in Spain and at the same time to collect funds in order to give some active help to Spain.28 Interestingly, the executive committee referred to both the UN Human Rights declaration and the preamble to the Atlantic Pact, which defined the alliance as a community of democracies defending freedom. In this way, the cooperation of the US government with – in IUSY’s words – a ‘fascist’ regime constituted a betrayal of the defence of democracy. At the same time, strong reactions also followed from several IUSY member organisations. The Danish organisation was the most active, both organising a fundraiser for the Spanish Socialist Youth29 and issuing a statement for the international community (which was also distributed among IUSY member organisations), declaring that The news of the Spanish-American agreement […] has been cause of anger and sorrow everywhere in the democratic world. […] this agreement is a mockery of everybody with a democratic mentality and we regard this agreement as an outrageous mistake and a basic political stupidity. […] We turn against any kind of companionship with the bloody ­Spanish dictator.30 At the same time as insisting that the Western defence community had to be all about defending democracy, if it were to retain its legitimacy, the IUSY and a number of its member organisations also maintained that the Franco regime was an active threat against democracy (not only because it was responsible for bloody oppression in Spain, but also because the existence of the regime itself still represented a threat that fascism might spread to other countries). The argument of the US government – that Spain was a useful if not necessary element in the defence of Western Europe – had no validity to the IUSY, and especially not its Scandinavian member organisations. The US

232  Anders Dalsager policy was based on a bipolar logic, shaped by the Cold War antagonisms, where the most important task was to strengthen the Western Bloc in the struggle with the Eastern Bloc (Leffler, 2010: 86–8). But the arguments dominating the Scandinavian-backed framing of the IUSY advanced another world view where fascist dictatorships (especially those who oppressed democrats like the Spanish Socialists) were a threat to democracies everywhere. This approach was derived from another kind of bipolarity than the one propagated by the US government in the 1950s and it had been shaped by the Scandinavian leaders in SYI in the 1930s and by the IUSY in the 1940s: the struggle against fascism and the fascist-like Communist regimes by the forces of democracy was the crucial task.

Conclusions When one looks at the development of IUSY policies towards Franco’s Spain and the role of the young Scandinavian Social Democrats, one of the most astonishing characteristics is the continuity of the narrative, which was disseminated by both the International and its Nordic associates when it came to fascist and fascist-inspired regimes – especially the one in Spain. In the period of the Spanish Civil War, the interwar SYI organisation was characterised by a clear anti-fascist attitude, held together by – in Benford and Snow’s terminology – a ‘master frame’, which defined fascism as the absolute antithesis to democracy and thereby also – in the perception of the SYI – socialism. After the Second World War, the newly founded, Scandinavian-­ influenced IUSY retained this specific frame when it came to Spain, and this naturally meant that the IUSY member organisations had to support the Spanish Socialist Youth in exile that attempted to overthrow the regime and resist any attempts to integrate the Franco regime in the international community. Within this anti-fascist frame, such integration equated to an attack on democracy. This clashed with the bipolar Cold War approach, which prescribed the assembly of the broadest possible alliance against the Soviet enemy. The IUSY did not submit their anti-fascist frame to a Cold War frame – instead the IUSY retained their anti-communism in an anti-fascist framework, which remained true to anti-totalitarian master frame of the SYI in the 1930s. It can thus be concluded, •

•

The IUSY took a wide range of initiatives against Franco’s Spain after the Second World War. But even though there was plenty of will among some IUSY leaders to engage themselves personally in activities in Spain, the only possible material assistance for the JSE was the collection of funds, and the creation of a Franco-critical international atmosphere. The IUSY continued to disseminate an anti-fascist frame when it came to the issue of Franco’s Spain throughout the period. This frame was usually presented with explicit references to history – comparisons to

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  233

•

•

Hitler, Mussolini or the Spanish Civil War – and to fascism as an international threat – in order to evoke the threat of fascism and to legitimise the fierce resistance against his rule. Scandinavian Social Democratic Youth provided important political resources for IUSY’s (and SYI) agitation in the form of actors and funds. Actors and funds, on the one hand, pushed for a more hostile approach to communism and, on the other hand, stuck to an outright rejection of US rehabilitation efforts towards Franco. Scandinavian efforts strengthened the IUSY’s anti-fascist frame in an anti-totalitarian context. This anti-fascist frame was connected to a general resistance towards totalitarian rule from 1947 to 1948 creating something resembling a new anti-totalitarian master frame, but in a way that resembled the SYI criticism of communism from the late 1930s and in a way that retained the image of fascism as a specific threat.

In spite of all this, the IUSY efforts were in vain: Franco survived the period from 1945 to 1955 and became a close American ally. And yet Franco’s regime did experience some defeats in Western Europe before its demise during the 1970s. One was the fact that it never, despite several American attempts, became a NATO member. The reason? The Social Democratic leaders of the NATO member countries of Denmark and Norway, of whom several had been active in the SYI, openly stated that they would veto any US proposals to formally include Franco in the Western military alliance (Villaume 1994: 681–682).

Notes 1 Resolution: ‘Spain’, Extraordinary Congress Louvain 1948, fld. 147, IUSY Archives, the International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam and (Luza, 1970:125). 2 An example is the aforementioned telegram and ‘Help our Spanish Comrades’, Circular 1, 1948, fld. 345, IUSY Archives. 3 Report from meeting in the Bureau, 6.10.1946, fld. 28, IUSY Archives and SUI’s executivkomitemøde I Stockholm 21–24.7.1950, fld. 2, IUSY Archives. 4 File conc. 1st Congress, Paris, fld. 143 and (Luza, 1970: 88). 5 ‘“Séance de la soirée du samedi 5 octobre 1946”, File Concerning the 1st IUSY Congress, Paris, 1946, fld. 143, IUSY Archives. 6 ‘Declaration of Principles’, Congress 1946, fld. 342, IUSY Archives. 7 ‘Relations of Members of the United Nations with Spain’, Res. 39.I. of the UN General Assembly, 12.12.1946 (https://documents-dds-ny.un.org/doc/RESOLU TION/GEN/NR0/032/83/IMG/NR003283.pdf?OpenElement / link controlled 15.10.2017) 8 Meeting of the Secretariat in the Netherlands, 19–21.12.1947; fld. 28, IUSY Archives. 9 Congress Circular 6, 15.8.1951 (report for the years 1948–1951): 7–8, fld. 148, IUSY Archives, the International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam. 10 Minutes from ISC meeting, Antwerp, November 1947. Congress files of Nina Andersen, the ISC Conference, 28.11–2.12.47, fld. 4, box 652, Archives of the

234  Anders Dalsager

11 12 13 14

15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Social Democratic Party, Arbejderbevægelsens Bibliotek og Arkiv (ABA), Copenhagen. Minutes from ISC meeting, Antwerp, November 1947. Congress files of Nina ­A ndersen, the ISC Conference, 28.11–2.12.1947, fld. 4, box 652, Archives of the Social Democratic Party of Denmark. Statement on Peace and Economic Reconstruction, (o.t. from Danish), congress files of Nina Andersen, the ISC Conference, 28.11–2.12.1947, fld. 4, box 652, ­A rchives of the Social Democratic Party of Denmark. Circular, April 1948, fld. 345, IUSY Archives. Translation from the original Danish text by author. See ‘D.s.U.s Hovedbestyrelse udtaler’, in ‘Hovedbestyrelsesmøde d. 3. og 4. April 1948’, Forhandlingsprotokol Hovedbestyrelse og Sekretariat fra d. 3. April 1948 til 29.8.1951, DSU Archives. ‘Hovedbestyrelsesmøde d. 3. og 4. April 1948’, DSU Archives. The Circular exists in two versions, one in English and one in Danish (for the Scandinavian organizations). In the Scandinavian version, Spain was mentioned explicitly as a parallel to Communist Eastern Europe. Cirkulære and Circular, April 1948, fld. 345, IUSY Archives. ‘17th July Manifesto’, Report of the General Secretariat on IUSY activities ­1948–1951, fld. 148, IUSY Archives. Proposal submitted by the Political Resolution’s Committee, fld. 148, IUSY Archives. Meeting of the Secretariat in Stockholm, July 20th-24th, fld. 29, IUSY Archives. Reports based on General Secretariat Correspondence, 15.9–15.11.1950: 4, Fld. 244, IUSY Archives. Reports based on General Secretariat Correspondence, 15.9–15.11.1950: 5, Fld. 244, IUSY Archives. Reports based on General Secretariat Correspondence, 15.9–15.11.1950: 5, Fld. 244, IUSY Archives. ‘Extracts from General Secretariat Correspondence 1.9–15.11.1951’: 11, fld. 244, IUSY Archives. ‘Spanien’, Rød Ungdom 6, 1949. For Hækkerups defense, see Rød Ungdom 7 and 8, 1949 for the numerous protest letters from the rest of the organization. Concerning AUF in Norway, see (Halvorsen, 2003: 288). ‘Spanien’, Rød Ungdom 6; Rød Ungdom 7, 8, 1949. Reports based on General Secretariat Correspondence, 15.9–15.11.1950: 6, Fld. 244. IUSY Archives. See also ‘REPORT OF THE GENERAL SECRETARIAT …’, Congress Circular 6, 1951, fld. 148, IUSY Archives. ‘Spain’, REPORT OF THE GENERAL SECRETARIAT 1951–1954: 16, fld. 444, IUSY Archives. ‘Report based on General Secretariat correspondence 1.11.1953’ (1954):13, IUSY Bureau Meeting – Vienna, 23–24.3.1954, fld. 31, IUSY Archives. ‘SOLIDARITY WITH OUR SPANISH COMRADES’, 20.10.1953, box 37, DSU Archives, ABA.

References Benford, R. D., & Snow, D. A. (2000) ‘Framing Processes and Social Movements: An Overview and Assessment’, Annual Review Sociologic 26: 611–39. Bøgh, N. (2003) Hækkerup. København: Aschenoug. Garcia, H. (2016) ‘Transnational History: A New Paradigm for Anti-Fascist Studies?’, Contemporary European History 25 (4): 563–72.

Framing anti-fascism in the Cold War  235 Goffmann, E. (1974) Frame Analysis. Cambridge: Harper Colophon. Halvorsen, T. (2003) Partiets Salt. Oslo: Pax. Hobsbawm, E. (2003) The Age of Extremes. London: Abacus, Ed. Leffler, M. P. (2010) ‘The Emergence of an American Grand Strategy, 1945–1952’ in Leffler, M. P. & Westad, O. A. (eds.) The Cambridge History of the Cold War, vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Luza, R. (1970) History of the International Socialist Youth Movement. Leiden: A. W. Sjithoff. Naimark, N. (2013) ‘The Sovietization of Eastern Europe 1944–1953’ in ­Leffler, M. P. & Westad, O. A. (eds.) Cambridge History of the Cold War, vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Padgett, S., & Paterson, W. E. (1991) A History of Social Democracy in Postwar Europe. London: Longman Publishing Group. Preston, P. (1988) ‘The Decline and Resurgence of the Spanish Socialist Party During the Franco Regime’, European History Quarterly 18 (2): 207–27. Preston, P. (2006) The Spanish Civil War: Reaction, Revolution and Revenge. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Sassoon, D. (2014) One Hundred Years of Socialism: The West European Left in the Twentieth Century. London: LB Tauris. Snow, D. A., & Benford, R. D. (1988) ‘Ideology, Frame Resonance, and Participant Mobilization’, International Social Movement Research 1 (1): 197–217. Snow, D. A., & Benford, R. D. (2000) ‘Clarifying the Relationship between Framing and Ideology in the Study of Social Movements: A Comment on Oliver and ­Johnston’, Mobilization 5 (1): 55–60. Snow, D. A., & Benford, R. D. (2005) ‘Clarifying the Relationship between Framing and Ideology’ in Johnston, F. & Noakes, J. A. (eds.) Frames of Protest: Social Movements and the Framing Perspective. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Snow, D. A., Rochford Jr, E. B., Worden, S. K., & Benford, R. D. (1986) ‘Frame Alignment Processes, Micromobilization, and Movement Participation’, American Sociological Review, 51 (4): 464–81. Urwin, D. (1997) A Political History of Western Europe since 1945. London: Routledge. Villaume, P. (1994) Allieret med forbehold. København: Eirene.

14 Radical-right movement and countermovement in Denmark, 1985–present Flemming Mikkelsen

An early history of fascism and anti-fascism in Denmark The first recorded action by fascist Blackshirts took place in Copenhagen in 1925, but it was another eight years before Nazis marched in the streets again. The Nazi seizure of power in Germany 1933 strengthened Nazi sympathisers in Denmark, who rallied in the streets and allied with rural crisis movements. Some right-wing organisations, such as the Conservative youth organisation took inspiration from ideologies and political tactics of fascism and Nazism in Europe, and encouraged the deployment of an active and sometimes violent street-level politics. It challenged the Social Democratic Youth organisation that likewise built up a corps in uniform with the ‘Three Arrow’ symbol as their tallying point after the German anti-Nazi model. Together with Communist youth factions, they clashed with Conservative and Nazi combat groups in the streets of Copenhagen and in several provincial towns (see Krautwald’s Chapter 5 in this book). However, the greatest challenge to the democratic political order did not come from these minor confrontations, but originated from the Nazification of the German minority in Southern Jutland and the cooperation with German Nazis south of the border. This mobilisation was met by a large number of youth organisations in North Schleswig and in other parts of Denmark that built up a dense network of associations and arranged youth rallies and demonstrations. In short, the reason why fascism and Nazism did not obtain a foothold in Denmark during the 1930s, is because the Social Democratic movement and the Liberal movement were able to narrow the social and political space for radical groups and parties (Mikkelsen, 2018). These precautions and measures were once again activated during the German occupation of Denmark 1940–1945. The first years of the German occupation put a damper on open anti-­ fascist demonstrations. But from 1943, street fighting, riots, sabotage, barricades, political killings and strikes characterised the Danish resistance (Bergfeldt, 1993; Pedersen and Holm, 1998). Increasing employment, demands for higher wages and daily controversies with anti-sabotage guards and the Wehrmacht gave rise to several strikes and rallies, which from 9 to 29

Radical-right (counter) movements   237 August 1943 spread to 17 provincial towns, but never reached ­Copenhagen (Kirchhoff, 1979; 2004). The Danish authorities were unable to stop the insurrection and after three weeks the Germans declared a state of emergency. The Germans also announced that sabotage attacks on the Wehrmacht and other illegal actions were a capital crime. However, the Danish government opposed the German measures and, as a consequence, resigned. The August insurrection drove a wedge between the Danish elite and the Germans, bolstered the resistance movement and moved Denmark closer to the ­Western Allies. Another major outburst of protest and defiance towards the German occupation broke out the following year, and this time with the epicentre in Copenhagen. Against the background of Allied offensives, the Germans launched a crackdown on sabotage and executed eight freedom fighters, decreed a prohibition of public meetings and imposed a curfew between 8 pm and 5 am. Four days later on 26 June 1944, workers at B&W (a large shipyard in Copenhagen) went home at two o’clock, and in the days that followed, socalled ‘part-time strikes’ spread to other work places. People made bonfires in the streets, built barricades and used firearms against German patrols and Nazi collaborators who shot back. When the dust had settled c. 90 civilians had been killed and 670 wounded. The third wave of public contention occurred shortly after the liberation on 4 May 1945. In addition to public celebrations of the liberation, as well as outrage and protests against Nazi collaborators, workers began to demonstrate again and political organisations started holding mass meetings and the rallies. The Second World War and the resistance to the German occupation had immunised the Danes against any form of fascist revival. The backing for liberal democracy was further strengthened during the Cold War, and there was no room for authoritarian movements and open collective violence against visible minorities. This situation lasted until 1985, when an aggressive right-wing movement was born (Mikkelsen, 2011: ch. 12).

Sources, methodology and concepts My empirical focus is on events, actors and organisations, where the event, rather than the individual, is the basic unit of analysis. The preferred research technique is protest event analysis, i.e. a systematic recording of contentious gatherings and related information on who did what, when, where and why (Olzak, 1989; Koopmans and Rucht, 2002). The empirical cornerstone consists of 353 extreme-right actions between 1982 and 1999, and 270 anti-racist actions in the years 1987–1998. The two datasets have been complied by René Karpantschof (1999), who has gathered information on public collective actions (demonstration marches, outdoor rallies, violent attacks, etc.,), which were intended to either promote or prevent the extreme-right cause in Denmark between 1980 and 1998/1999. The information collected was then categorised and coded under variables such as type of action, time,

238  Flemming Mikkelsen type of actor, number of participants and object of action, which allows for quantitative analysis of radical-right and anti-racist activities. However, figures do not tell the whole story and in line with other protest event analysis, I combine statistics with historical case studies. For this purpose, the source materials comprise a variety of materials such as court cases, police and intelligence reports, television broadcasts, interviews, correspondence and so on as well as the actors’ own periodicals, magazines and pamphlets alongside unpublished minutes. This enables an examination of the actors’ tactical considerations and internal discussions, and their formal and informal organisation and alliance structure. Three concepts frame the analysis: political opportunities, interaction and transnationalism. Some of the policy-specific opportunities are rather constant over time such as the legal system and the state’s willingness to accept radical political propaganda; however, there are more volatile dimensions of the political opportunity structure that may encourage or debilitate the mobilisation of a movement (Goldstone, 2003); especially elite dissent on the influx and integration of foreigners and refugees, and, as a concomitant, mass media coverage of public debates that opens up windows of opportunities for radicals to exploit (Koopmans and Olzak, 2004). On the other hand, changes in party-political structure and increasing electoral support for radical-right parties may also cause a shift from protest to politics because movement entrepreneurs choose to leave the streets to carry on from within the established political system (Karapin, 2007). Movements are embedded within a multi-organisational field of supportive, antagonistic, and indifferent actors (Klandermans, 1992). In most ­European countries, the radical right has been confronted by opponents (Meyer and Staggenborg, 1996; Lloyd, 2000), who are assumed to take movement form when the movement – in this case the extreme-right ­movement – shows signs of success; second, when the interests of some population (i.e.  foreigners, refugees and left-wing sympathisers), are threatened; and third, when organisational allies are available to aid oppositional mobilisation. And although the focus is on extreme-right groups, neo-­Nazis and anti-­ racists within the Danish nation state, it quickly becomes clear that these movements are part of international currents (­Mikkelsen, 1999; ­Durham and Power, 2010). Therefore, transnational relations and international coalition formation are also important features.

The formation of a social movement from the right Figure 14.1 refers to the year 1985 as the time for the extreme-right movement’s breakthrough in Denmark, and furthermore shows that attacks on immigrants and refugees became an essential driving force behind the extreme right’s mobilisation. In addition to a closer look at the extreme right’s action repertoire and target of action, this section will clarify why 1985 stands out as a turning point and why the extreme right peaked in 1993.

Radical-right (counter) movements   239 70

Total

Collective actions against immigrants and refugees

60

Number of Actions

50 40 30 20 10

1999

1998

1997

1996

1995

1994

1993

1992

1991

1990

1989

1988

1987

1986

1985

1984

1983

1982

1981

1980

0

Figure 14.1  E  xtreme-right actions, 1980–1999. Source: Karpantschof and Mikkelsen, 2017: 717. Note: The solid line covers collective actions against immigrants and refugees including Jewish symbols, whereas the dotted line represents the total number of right-wing collective actions.

In 1983, during a heated debate on foreigners in the Danish Parliament, Conservative Minister of Justice Erik Ninn-Hansen pleaded for a halt on refugees arguing that further immigration would lead to race riots, and represented a threat to the Danish nation state (Jensen, 1999). But in spite of these warnings, the bill, which guaranteed immigrants the right to family reunion, was passed in Parliament by the government and most of the opposition. The populist Progress Party (Fremskridtspartiet) took sharp objection. Most national newspapers were sympathetic but, during the summer and autumn 1984, the criticism grew stronger, and Conservative politicians in particular argued that the law was in need of revision (because more guest workers would move to Denmark from West Germany on the ground that their work and residence permit expired there). Thus, on 13 August 1984, the Liberal politician Svend Heiselberg declared in public that: ‘We may try to stem this mass invasion of Iranian refugees. I am worried that we will face the situation where 25,000–30,000 Iranians settle in Denmark and provoke a rebellion’ (Jensen, 1999: 336). Other politicians, including Social Democrats, and newspapers followed up on these statements, adding fuel to xenophobic sentiments (Schierup, 1993). Then in 1985, a crowd of c. 350 Danes assaulted a group of Iranian refugees, who had been lodged in a hotel in the mid-sized provincial town

240  Flemming Mikkelsen of Kalundborg. The Kalundborg incident, which occupied the national newspaper headlines for several weeks, sparked further anti-­i mmigrant and anti-refugee arsons and small-scale unrests in other towns as well (­Karpantschof, 1999: 35–8). These events concerned some people who feared a racist upsurge, while others saw it as a signal of a growing national awakening of the Danes. In particular, one party began to capitalise on the heated immigration dispute, the right-wing populist, ­anti-bureaucratic Progress Party. Since its sensational entrée with 15.9 per cent of the votes in the 1973 elections, the Party had been marginalised in Parliament, and after continuous decline, it reached a low of 3.6 per cent in the 1984 elections. At that time, the charismatic founder of the party, Mogens Glistrup, turned to the immigration issue with his openly racist notion of a ‘Mohammedan threat’ – accompanied by a rising star in the party, Pia Kjærsgaard, who, in 1995, would lead a breakaway faction that turned into the highly successful Danish People’s Party (Dansk Folkeparti) (Rydgren, 2004). After 1985, attacks against ethnic minorities intensified, and the media increasingly framed a xenophobic us-versus-them attitude (Hussain et al., 1997; Madsen, 2000). In Parliament, the number of bills, statements, decisions and questions concerning immigrants and refugees grew, at the same time as politicians and other opinion makers ‘played the ethnic card’ in order to attract public attention and sympathy (Gaasholt and Togeby, 1995). In other words, during the years 1983–1985, immigrant issues moved to the core of the established political debate, and became an important rallying point for political parties, politicians and the media. Anti-immigrant statements and xenophobic attitudes entered the public sphere and brought legitimacy to anti-immigrant and racist subcultures, which grew stronger, more organised, and took the form of a radical-right social movement concurrently with changes in national and international political opportunities, transnational alliances and the emergence of an anti-racist countermovement. Figure 14.1 plots these developments. At first, most actions were aimed at refugees and immigrants, and were often confronted with small groups of anti-racists, but later, during the 1990s, the extreme right committed itself to demonstrations and confrontations with anti-racist groups, the police and claimed public space. Refugees and immigrants were the principal target of the extreme right, and they were also exposed to far more violent attacks than other groups, as it appears in Table 14.1. One may conclude that contentious action manifested itself in cycles against the background of increasing immigration: the first time in 1985 and the second time in 1991–1993. In 1985, changing national political opportunities sparked the upsurge; in 1991–1993, it was the international political scene with the simultaneous violent assaults and arsons on immigrants in Germany (Heitmeyer, 1993: 17–28). In Denmark, too, neo-Nazis imitated their German ‘comrades’, and the chairman of the Danish Association (Den Danske Forening), Prof. Ole Hasselbalch, described the violent attacks

Radical-right (counter) movements   241 Table 14.1  Forms and targets of action by extreme-right groups, 1982–1999 Targets of actiona Forms of action

Immigrants and refugeesb

Others

Total

Conventional Demonstrative Confrontative Violent Total

1 1 25 129 156

73 33 32 59 197

74 34 57 188 353

Source: Karpantschof and Mikkelsen, 2017: 718. a Includes only the primary target of action. b Including Jews.

as ‘popular resistance against the colonisation of Denmark by foreigners’ (Danskeren, May 1992; Ekstrabladet, 28 September 1992). As already indicated, the trend and the repertoire of action express a change in the composition of radical-right activists, adherents, and organisations. Thus, Figure 14.2, based on information on actions, confirms the increasing organisation and politicisation of the extreme-right movement. To begin with, clashes between local residents, youth gangs and asylum seekers could not be unambiguously traced back to racist attitudes, but may have had their origin in struggles over local territories, cultural differences and sexual jealousies. But some of them grew into major riots, as was the case in Kalundborg 1985. With the escalation of confrontations, racist subcultures such as right-wing skinheads and Ku Klux Klan supporters took advantage of the situation and resorted to violence against ethnic minorities and their sympathisers (Bjørgo, 1997). In 1986–1987, the Committee against the Refugee Law and the Danish Association were established, and in the following years, other anti-­foreigner organisations were established too, such as Stop Immigration, the Well-­ Being Party, Stop the Big Mosque and the National Party Denmark. Other radical-right organisations and parties could be mentioned, but the Danish Association was the largest and most influential extreme-right organisation with Pastor Søren Krarup and professor of law Ole Hasselbalch as ideological leaders (Karpantschof, 2002). From the early 1980s on, neo-fascists and neo-Nazis had appeared across Europe. A number of right-wing nationalist parties gained considerable electoral support, especially the Republikaner in Germany and the Front National in France. Both stood as a major source of inspiration for the ­Danish Association (Betz, 1994; Solomos and Back, 1996; Rydgren, 2007). In brief, during the 1980s, an advantageous national and international opportunity structure for xenophobic, racist and nationalist actions, including transnational co-operation, was created. These tendencies clearly became noticeable during the 1990s.

242  Flemming Mikkelsen 60

Number of Actions

50 40

Right-wing nationals neo-Nazis Political sympathizers Local groups and racist subcultures Non-identified

30 20 10

1998

1996

1994

1992

1990

1988

1986

1984

1982

0

Figure 14.2  E  xtreme-right actors, 1982–1999 (number of actions). Source: Karpantschof and Mikkelsen, 2017: 719.

From 1990, the number of conventional and demonstrative actions such as political meetings, propaganda and public cultural arrangements increased mainly on the initiative of the Danish Association. Mostly, they passed peacefully and were characterised by national symbols, patriotic songs and speeches directed against immigrants and so-called Danish ‘traitors’. But, where the Danish Association – in spite of foreign inspiration – was deeply rooted in the political life of Denmark, international events and transnational networks played a key role in the development of Danish neo-Nazis (Karpantschof, 1999: 39–47). In 1992, after an internal showdown, a group of young neo-Nazis assumed control over the Danish National Socialist Movement (Dansk National Socialistisk Bevægelse, DNSB), and following the Nazi-international, NSDAP-AO (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei–Ausland und Aufbauorganisation); they soon turned to the streets parading Nazi symbols and assaulting refugees and immigrants. They took advantage of the antiminority riots in Germany 1991–1992, and tried to construct a coalition embracing neo-Nazis, skinheads and the youth branch of the Danish Association in 1994–1996. A further militarisation of the movement occurred with the emergence of a new Nazi faction Blood & Honour Denmark as part of the international Blood & Honour movement. At the same time, they arranged international Nazi meetings and other political activities, paraded the streets, assaulted immigrants and became involved in confrontations with Anti-Fascist Action, local anti-racists and to some degree with the police. In the following years, this pattern repeated itself except that the anti-racist/anti-fascist mobilisation grew stronger, and contributed to the

Radical-right (counter) movements   243 decline of the radical-right movement including the neo-Nazis towards the end of the 1990s (Karpantschof, 1999: 111–58). Let us take a closer look at the interaction between the extreme-right movement and the opposition. My main contention is that the extreme right and its opposition rose together as a result of mutual escalation until 1992– 1993, after which the opposition introduced a new strategy based on both direct action and consensus mobilisation that contributed to the decline of the extreme right. But we also need to recognise the importance of the institutionalisation of the extreme right in the form of the Progress Party and the Danish People’s Party on the decline in extreme-right protest.

Counteractions and the momentary decline of the radical right Figure 14.3 shows the amount of anti-racist/anti-fascist gatherings and participants compared to the extreme right, and thus, gives a clear impression of their relative strength. Already in 1963, several youth organisations demonstrated against the apartheid regime and sought to establish a boycott of goods from South Africa. In the following years, students and left-wing campaigners built up solidarity movements in support of oppressed people all over the world

20000

70 60 50 40

10000 30

Number of actions

Number of participants

15000

20

5000

10

Right-Wing participants Right-Wing actions

1999

1998

1997

1996

1995

1994

1993

1992

1991

1990

1989

1988

1987

1986

1985

1984

0

1983

1982

0

Anti-Racist participants Anti-Racist actions

Figure 14.3  A  ctions and participants of anti-racist and extreme-right movements, 1982–1999. Source: Karpantschof and Mikkelsen, 2017: 722.

244  Flemming Mikkelsen (Bjerregaard, 2010). However, when it came to the situation in Denmark, anti-racists were slow to mobilise. Not until 1987 did small groups of leftwing activists and militant squatters begin protesting against xenophobic and radical-right groups in Denmark. What finally sparked an anti-racist movement was the rise of a significant opponent and suddenly imposed grievances. The tumultuous attacks on refugees in Kalundborg in 1985 and the formation of the national right organisation, the Danish Association, in 1987 with prominent public figures, were what the dispersed leftist organisations and milieus needed in order to gather momentum. As it appears from Figure 14.3, 1992–1994 represents a shift in the scale of opposition campaigning that went from a relatively isolated far left affair to a movement that mobilised much larger numbers and broader constituencies than before. One general reason why opponents were able to mobilise so many people is that using public space as a political platform had been a well-tested strategy used by Danish left-wing activists, who had built up networks and contacts since the mid-1960s (Mikkelsen, 1999). Yet, the key trigger was a lethal bomb attack in 1992 that demolished a left-wing office, killing a well-known anti-­ racist activist. The physical meeting places for neo-Nazis in Kværs and Kollund in southern Jutland, and their headquarters in Greve close to Copenhagen, functioned as a magnet and focus for left-wing radicals, moderate trade union leaders and politicians and, last but not least, hundreds of local residents. Having been dominated by an old guard of left radicals until 1991, the anti-racist campaign reorganised in 1992 with a new umbrella association, the Anti-Racist Network. The earlier organisation, the Common Initiative against Racism, founded in 1987, was able to mobilise small left-wing factions, and to launch militant actions, often carried out by experienced street fighters from Anti-Fascist Action (Mikkelsen and Karpantschof, 2001). The new organisation, Anti-Racist Network, wanted to coordinate numerous scattered groups and local initiatives, and forge contacts with politicians, establish interest organisations and mobilise the wider public. This form of consensus mobilisation managed to gather thousands of sympathisers (see Figure 14.3) and became important during large-scale campaigns such as the Crystal Night Initiative, Liberation Day arrangements and Rock against Racism. Under the slogan ‘A stranger is a friend you haven’t met’, Anti-­Racist Network joined hands with organisations like SOS against Racism, Trade Unions against Racism, the Danish Centre for Human Rights, Joint Council of Danish Youth, the Danish Refugee Council and several immigrant associations. Another umbrella organisation, the Popular Movement against Xenophobia, sponsored numerous concerts, art exhibitions, essay competitions and discussions, all within the overarching theme of ‘anti-racism’. The effect of the overall change of the alliance structure and strategy of the anti-racist movement on the radical right-wing movement is reflected in Table 14.2. Anti-racist actions have been divided into actions carried out as a direct response to a radical-right activity, and those activities which were intended to proclaim a worthy cause in public (i.e. anti-racism).

Radical-right (counter) movements   245 Table 14.2  A nti-racist actions against the extreme-right movement, 1987–1992 and 1993–1998 Direct response to a rightwing collective activity 1987–1992 77% 1993–1998 28%

Manifestations Other actions Total in against right-wing without pct persons, symbols specific target and places

Total number of anti-racist actions and participants

3% 34%

80–26,132 190–61,061

20% 38%

100% 100%

Source: Karpantschof and Mikkelsen, 2017: 723.

Having given priority to direct confrontation and street fighting against organised right-wing adherents, the anti-racists reorganised at the beginning of the 1990s, as described above, after which they built up a broader coalition, and introduced more conventional forms of protest action in order to get attention and support from potential allies and a wider public. Street fighting, however, was still an often used tactic by the radical anti-fascist flank of the anti-racist coalition. With the appearance of the neo-Nazis on the political scene after 1992 (see Figure 14.2), disruptive and violent actions took on a new dimension. Measured by the number of participants, the scale of disruptive counter-mobilisation increased, and militants launched an array of successful raids against Rudolf Hess parades during 1995–1998, which deprived neo-Nazis of street credibility and standing. Part of the consensus strategy was to build a transnational network including similar movements and activities in other countries, which gave further public legitimacy to the anti-racist movement. In Table 14.3, I have enumerated actions with participants from other countries. Against the background of the lethal anti-socialist bomb assault in 1992, and the cycle of racist violence in Germany 1991–1993, the umbrella organisation, the Anti-Racist Network joined a common European demonstration against neo-Nazism and racism on the Memorial Day of the Crystal Night in Nazi Germany. A further internationalisation of the anti-racist campaign occurred in 1993–1994, when the German Nazi and Holocaust denier, Thies Christophersen, and the outlawed German Nazi group, Nationalistische Front, set up two centres in southern Denmark for international meetings, manufacturing and distribution of illegal Nazi propaganda in Germany. After enduring demonstrations and unrest that mobilised thousands of locals and anti-fascist activists from the rest of Denmark and North Germany in 1994, the two Nazi centres were abandoned. This pattern of local, national and transnational anti-Nazi mobilisation repeated itself during a series of successful protest campaigns against Nazi marches from 1995 to 1998. Yet in spite of massive foreign participation by mostly German and Swedish activists, the opposition was not totally dependent on international support. It could rely on backing from the far left to the very political centreground. Furthermore, anti-Nazi progress in

246  Flemming Mikkelsen Table 14.3  International participation in anti-racist and neo-Nazi movement activity, 1982–1999 Neo-Nazi actions

Anti-racist actions

Year

Actions Actions with International Actions Actions with in total international participation in total international participants in pct. of participants total number of actions

International participation in pct. of total number of actions

1982–1984 1985–1987 1988–1990 1991–1993 1994–1996 1997–1999 Total

0 1 4 18 16 25 64

0 0 0 13 10 25 13

0 0 0 0 6 12 18

0 0 0 0 38 48 28

0 5 40 67 98 60 270

0 0 0 9 10 15 34

Source: Karpantschof and Mikkelsen, 2017: 724.

Kværs, Kollund and Roskilde from 1994 to 1995 created a momentum of self-­confidence and the ‘expectation of success’ (Klandermans, 1997:  28). Thousands of Danes counter-mobilised, participating in successful antiNazi demonstrations and militant blockades against what would be the last major Nazi marches in 1997–1998. Lack of recruitment to the neo-Nazi movement made the neo-Nazis vulnerable, and when they had the opportunity to gain support from Nazi parties in other countries, they strengthened their transnational engagement after 1993. Among the most important German partners, we can single out Freiheitliche Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, Nationale Liste and Anti-Antifa. In Sweden, it was Vitt Arisk Motstånd and NS-Göteborg and National Socialistisk Front, whereas Norges Nasjonalsocialistiske Bevegelse and Norsk Anti-Antifa constituted the Norwegian allies. Several transnational organisations, such as NSDAP-AO, strengthened the DNSB’s contacts to an international network of patriotic and neo-Nazi organisations including Anti-Antifa and Blood & Honour that gained momentum after 1994. International participation made it possible for DNSB to launch more effective street demonstrations and attract media attention. That marches occurred in Denmark is largely due to the ban on Nazi propaganda and Nazi symbols in Germany and Sweden. If support from abroad increased their resources and prolonged their fighting spirit, in the longer run, the opposition in the streets proved too strong, and the Nazis and the skinheads gave up on theirs attempt to push forward an extreme right-wing street movement. At the same time, the right-nationalists affiliated with the Danish Association, dissociated themselves from the true hardcore neo-Nazis and de-escalated protest. Instead, the activists and leaders of the Danish Association turned towards public

Radical-right (counter) movements   247 debates and supported the Progress Party and the Danish People’s Party, which had now largely adopted the symbolic anti-immigrant repertoire of the extreme-right milieu.

The transformation of the radical right and the emergence of refugee advocates In the year 2000, two microscopic neo-Nazi marches in Denmark only mobilised 60 and 20 participants, whereas other radical-right groups completely refrained from public demonstrations (Ritzau/b.dk 29 July 2000; Ritzau/b.dk 26 August 2000). It actually looked like the attempt to build a radical-right movement with street-level mobilisation and cooperation between various right-wing groups in Denmark had failed due to defeat in the streets and a critical public attitude to strong Nazi elements (Karpantschof, 1999). Yet the wheels of history keep turning. From the turn of the millennium, the growing success of the Danish People’s Party, the 9/11 terrorist assault in the United States, the Danish Mohammad cartoon crisis 2005–2006 and a lethal jihadist attack in Copenhagen 2015 alongside an influx of ­Syrian and other refugees offered new opportunities and affected the character of the current extreme right in Denmark. After the mid-1990s, many Danish political parties and voters saw immigrant issues as the most urgent problem, and one that could cause a shift in the balance of national political power (Andersen, 2002). In that situation, the barely three years old Danish People’s Party successfully used anti-immigration rhetoric in its first election campaign in 1998 and entered the parliament with 7.4 per cent of the votes. Since then, the party has advanced continuously and it became the second largest party in Denmark with 21.1 per cent in the 2015 national election. The Danish People’s Party obtained 7.4 per cent at national election in 1998, and then 12.0 per cent 2001, 13.2 per cent in 2005, 13.8 per cent in 2007, 12.3 per cent in 2011 and 21.1 per cent in 2015. This progress soon placed the Danish People’s Party in a key parliamentary position from where it has acted as a support party for the Liberal-Conservative coalition government 2001–2011, and again for the Liberal government from 2015 to the present. More significantly, the party has been surprisingly capable of dominating the public agenda on the issue of immigration in a way that has radicalised not only the traditional right-wing parties, but also the Social Democrats and the Socialist People’s Party. Hardline rhetoric against the so-called ‘parallel societies’ of Muslim immigrants, the need to protect ‘Danish values’ and calls for stricter rules concerning refugees have become common (Politiken 15 March 2008; Dr.dk 21 January 2016; Yilmaz, 2016). In other words, when the extreme right suffered defeat as a street-level movement in the end of the 1990s, the Danish People’s Party offered a political career and a public platform from where extreme-right activists could carry on with nationalist propaganda, attacks on human rights and

248  Flemming Mikkelsen anti-immigration rhetoric. This ‘parliamentarisation’ can be seen as a moderation of the extreme right, and in fact the Danish ­People’s Party has expelled a number of party members for extreme racist statements or for being associated with more or less openly racist or Nazi-sympathising groups (TV2.dk, 8 February 2008). On the other hand, however, whereas the expelled persons have been lower-ranking members, a number of the Danish People’s Party’s most prominent figures have been sentenced for violating the Danish racial discrimination act without any consequences for their position in the party (Denfri.dk, 31 January 2016). In the wake of the 9/11 terror in the United States, the Danish police intelligence service recorded a wave of anti-Muslim harassments, assaults and arsons, and a similar situation occurred during the Mohammad cartoon crisis 2005–2006 (Hadforbrydelser, 2011: 90–6). In both cases, the Danish People’s Party had added fuel to the fire, especially during the cartoon crisis when a number of new and self-proclaimed ‘Islam-critics’ joined the scene (Larsen and Seidenfaden, 2006; Klausen, 2009: 147–66). Among them we find groups such as the Danish Defence League, Stop the Islamisation of Denmark (SIAD) and the Free Press Society (Trykkefrihedsselskabet) that have called for a ‘resistance movement’ (Larsen, 2012). Meanwhile, several members of parliament from different parties, editors of the most important liberal and conservative newspapers, university professors and others have warned against the threat to ‘Danish values’ from Islamic terrorism and from the presumed ‘backward’ Muslim culture among immigrants in Denmark. This climate has motivated extreme-right activists to return to the streets; but unlike the 1990s, neo-Nazi elements have played only a marginal role. Instead, counter-jihad and anti-Islamisation activists have had some success in the streets. For instance, on 19 January 2015, around 200 participated in a Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamisation of the Occident (PEGIDA) Denmark march in Copenhagen, and the same day there were similar minor demonstrations in two other Danish cities. PEGIDA Denmark is a faction of the international network of Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamization of the West, and has established itself with regular rallies and marches through central parts of Copenhagen (Ekstrabladet.dk, 19 January 2015). Also in 2015, a three-year-old tradition of a national-conservative annual people’s festival gathered around 250 participants from the Danish Association, The Free Press Society, the Danish Peoples Party, bloggers from mainstream right-wing newspapers and others (Politiken.dk, 15 January 2015). A further reason for the relative success of PEGIDA and other recent anti-­Islamisation groups is that they, contrary to earlier Nazi-infiltrated marches, enjoy greater support and public legitimisation in a context where the Danish media has become preoccupied with the influx of Syrian and other refugees. In February 2015, for instance, a young Danish-born Palestinian shot and killed a man outside a meeting with the Swedish cartoonist

Radical-right (counter) movements   249 and activist, Lars Vilks, and later, the same day, killed a Jewish guard in front of the synagogue in Copenhagen. Contrary to the 1990s, the current countermovement has had great difficulties in confronting the new extreme-right advance in an effective way. One reason is that a visible neo-Nazism, which earlier functioned as a unifying common enemy for mobilisation, has faded away. Another reason is the general right-turn in Danish political life that has posed anti-racists with unsolved challenges concerning how to build broader alliances. As a result, only minor and isolated radical left anti-fascist groups have continued to confront the current extreme right in the streets, and these leftists have struggled to gain broader public traction. However, recent events do challenge this conclusion. In 2015, large groups of political refugees from the Middle East arrived in Germany, which for a short period opened its borders. Some of these refugees chose to travel to Sweden that opened its borders, too, and in the beginning of September 2015, hundreds of refugees, men, women and children, walked on Danish roads to reach their desired destination in Sweden. This visible but also illegal presence of refugees on Danish ground caused a split in the Danish population: some condemned the refugees; others welcomed the refugees, while the government tried to regulate and control their movement. A large group of Danes intervened to help the refugees. This heterogeneous group of people called themselves the ‘Friendly Citizens’ (Venligboerne). They provided refugees with clothes, food and shelter, and if possible, they tried to guide them to Sweden. The Friendly Citizens also organised petitions, conferences and tried to influence the public opinion in a more immigrant-friendly direction. The origin of the Friendly Citizens goes back to 2013, when a small group of people in a provincial town, Hjørring, decided to help refugees who had been located in their neighbourhood. Since then, the number of activists has increased, whereas the number of followers on the Internet has skyrocketed (Fenger-Grøndahl, 2017; Toubøl, 2017). Although the Friendly Citizens is a new phenomenon, the idea of creating an immigrant-friendly movement often in opposition to mainstream society and the legal system goes back to the end of the 1980s, when people from the National Church and from left-wing parties set up the committee Refugees Underground (Flygtninge Under Jorden) in response to the tightening of the Aliens Act. The committee itself did not hide refugees, but served as a link between informal groups and the officials. Several informal networks across the country arose around Refugees Underground, and with reference to the United Nations’ anti-torture day an alliance of organisations, networks and individuals formed Refugees in Danger (Flygtninge i Fare) in June 2001 (Mikkelsen, 2011: 232–6). Other initiatives and actions could be mentioned, but the overall impression is that from the early 1990s, there has existed an undergrowth of illegal, legal and formal organisations and networks that have been willing and able to assist and defend the rights of refugees.

250  Flemming Mikkelsen

Extreme-right movements and countermovements in Scandinavia Compared to Denmark, we see basically similar patterns of mobilisation of extreme-right movements and countermovements in the other Scandinavian countries, i.e. Sweden and Norway, but also some important differences. During the 1960s and 1970s, anti-racists in Sweden were engaged in solidarity and anti-apartheid movements, and in the 1980s, the target was growing racist and neo-Nazi movements. During the 1990s and early 2000s, countering racist mobilisation was expanded to developing criticisms of structural racism and increasingly restrictive immigration policies. Small and militant anti-fascist factions in Sweden have confronted racist and neo-Nazi groups in the streets and sometimes attacked their strongholds just as it has been possible in some cases to gather thousands of people in peaceful demonstrations facing violent racist excesses (Peterson et al., 2018). Anti-racist activity has also been driven by the mass media, and by the state that has supported exit programmes for neo-Nazis and other projects and campaigns aimed at informing the youth about anti-democratic movements (Kuure, 2003). In Norway, the first violent clashes between far right and left-wing activists took place back in the late 1970s, and culminated when two small bombs were thrown into the Maoist May Day parade in Oslo and seriously injured one person. In those days, the main enemies of the extreme right were communists rather than immigrants. However, from the mid-1980s, the presence of foreign workers in Norway fostered racist or xenophobic sentiment that developed into physical confrontations, when new and increasingly militant organisations appeared on the extreme right. Throughout the 1980s and well into the 1990s, there were bombings and arson attacks against mosques, refugee residences, immigrant businesses and housing for asylum seekers (Helle and Matos, 2018). The opposition mostly responded with peaceful demonstrations, but from the early 1990s, they took a stronger and more direct stand against racist rallies and meetings that sometimes escalated into violent confrontations and street battles. In 2001, the killing of a 15-year-old boy of African paternal descent, Benjamin Hermansen, by affiliates from a Nazi grouping sparked a massive national response of condemnation including a march with over 40,000 participants in Oslo and other Norwegian cities. After the killing, the racist right went underground, finding new ways of packaging their xenophobic and hateful propaganda along with new arenas in which to convey it. Like Sweden, but to a lesser extent, officials in Norway and Denmark have sponsored national and local projects warning against racism and extreme movements (Kuure, 2003). Lack of relevant data and different research traditions makes it extremely difficult to compare the development of anti-fascism and anti-­racism in the Scandinavian countries (Bjørgo, 1997). But we may conclude that anti-­racism/ anti-fascism emerged as a response to the proliferation and mobilisation of

Radical-right (counter) movements   251 extreme right-wing adherents during the 1980s, and reached a peak in the 1990s. Anti-racists/anti-fascists were constantly aware of the pros and cons using different forms of collective action, and tried to steer a course between direct violent actions and broadly appealing consensus manifestations including coalition building. This strategy was relatively successful during the 1990s, but the continued influx of refugees from Muslim countries, the 9/11 terrorist attack on the United States, and later Islamist terrorist incidents led to increasing support for Islamophobic, xenophobic and radical-right populist parties in Scandinavia. And this, as we have seen, has given opponents a serious challenge.

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15 Challenging fascist spatial claims The struggle over the 30 November marches in southern Sweden Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries Introduction During most of the post-war period, fascism as an ideology has been thoroughly discredited, thereby greatly reducing the parliamentary impact of the fascist far right. However, fascism as ‘a political practice’ (Paxton, 1998) in street-level politics has persisted. Post-war extra-parliamentary neo-­Nazis and other far-right groups draw on a rich historical legacy, where temporarily violating the territory of opponents constitutes a crucial component. The most prominent example is how the Nationalsozialistische Deutche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP) systematically sought to violate the ‘red citadels’ of German and Austrian cities in order to provoke unrest, as well as the more mundane pub wars (‘kneipenkrieg’) between communists and Nazis (McElligott, 1983). The same dynamics, where the violation of perceived red strongholds was a crucial tactic by the fascists, may be seen in Italy in the early 1920s (Reichardt, 2007). The British fascists made similar spatial claims, most famously by their provocative march through the working-­ class and immigrant neighbourhoods in London’s East End, sparking the Battle of Cable Street in 1936 (Copsey, 2000). For the post-war N ­ ational Front, public spatial claims represented one of ‘principal means of attempting to communicate with a wider audience’ (Linehan, 2015). And we see a similar pattern in the small number of studies specifically focussing on far-right street politics in the interwar years in the Nordic countries (Lööw, 1990, 2016; Lundin, in this volume). Whereas fascism as a serious contender in the political arena faded into obscurity after the war, this way of doing politics at the street level did not (Virchow, 2007; Koehler, 2017). In Sweden, a violent neo-Nazi movement grew in conjuncture with a racist skinhead subculture starting in the mid-1980s (Lööw, 2016). This resulted in a key challenge for anti-fascists in terms of how to challenge the spatial claims of the extra-parliamentary far right. In this chapter, we will show how anti-fascists from the region successfully challenged fascist spatial claims in a series of confrontations around a yearly commemorative nationalist march with a strong neo-Nazi presence

Challenging fascist spatial claims  255 in the small university town of Lund in southernmost Sweden between 1991 and 2008. In this context, we explore how spatial claims are made and challenged as historically constructed and, parallel to the argument of Tilly and Tarrow concerning repertoires of contention, are shaped relationally in the dynamics between movements and authorities (Tilly & Tarrow, 2007). We will also explore the dynamics between different types of fascist and anti-fascist spatial claim-making and how different tactics have specific vulnerabilities that may be exploited by adversaries. Based on our results, we want to suggest a typology of three different ways of challenging fascist claims – the blockade, the turf war and the disruption of space – and that these challenges may be understood as the product of struggles between anti-fascists, fascists and the police. These different repertoires of spatial claim-making are to some degree a product of local conditions, but we suggest that these categories are useful when it comes to exploring anti-fascist spatial strategies in other temporal and geographical contexts. Finally, we want to argue that these different kinds of space are torn between producing and disrupting the street as either public space or territorial space, and we further suggest that fascist claims appear capable of shifting the attention between these two modes of spatial politics.

Theory, methodology and sources A crucial tension in debates concerning definitions of fascism may be seen between emphasising political practices or political ideas (Griffin, 1993; Paxton, 1998; Mann, 2004). A key concern for the contentious performance of fascist movements unable to make a credible bid for state power (Paxton, 1998), and thus relegated to extra-parliamentary politics, seems to be a particular way of making what Charles Tilly once briefly referred to as ‘spatial claims’ (Tilly, 2003). These claims are torn between two different kinds of logic. One the one hand, the far right may make claims along the lines of the established notion of the streets being a public space for respectable political performances addressing the public and petitioning authorities. Fascists, however, frequently also construct the street as territorial space by designating space as their own or violating space claimed by adversaries (Linehan, 2015). Public spatial claims tend to follow the boundaries set by the state by applying for permits, obeying police instructions and so forth (Sewell, 2001). These are furthermore most frequently coupled with explicit claims, where the state plays an important role as recipient or mediator (Tilly, 2003). At a superficial level, this kind of fascist spatial claims has a great deal in common with other political claims in that these gatherings also tend to display worthiness, unity, numbers and commitment (Tilly & Tarrow, 2007). Territorial spatial claims are aimed at controlling or displaying dominance over a specific space, carved out by regulating which bodies that are

256  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries able to move unhindered and which are confronted as being non-acceptable (see Wahlström, 2010). The other side of this logic is that territories belonging to opposing groups are seen as possible to violate, sometimes by the mere act of being present in the space (Jämte, 2013). This is similar to the logic behind street gangs, but also to the nation state’s monopoly of violence within its borders. The different types of anti-fascist challenges of fascist spatial claims are constituted in relation to this dual nature of far-right street politics. With a common enemy being the strongest common denominator, the practices of militant anti-fascism are best understood as reactive with the aim of denying any and all attempts to establish a fascist platform, both as a public spatial claim and as a practice of territorialisation. In practice, this ‘no platform’ style of anti-fascism often comes down to physical challenges of fascist spatial claims being the central strategy, thereby denying the building of a space for a fascist social movement (Vysotsky, 2015). This is hardly unique to the Nordic countries; influences for this strand of militant anti-fascism may be traced back to Anti-Fascist Action in Britain and the autonomous anti-fascism centred on Antifa Infoblatt in West Germany in the late 1980s (Jämte, 2013; Linehan, 2015). Our primary archival sources are collected from the rich archives deposited by the local police force of the city of Lund. These consist of planning minutes, police reports describing individual crimes and internal memos analysing outcomes from the perspective of high-ranking officers. This material allows us to describe different ways of challenging the spatial claims made by the commemorative march. To get a more complete picture of the chronologies of these events, we read these sources against two interviews with local chiefs of police, written contemporary material, principally the three main local newspapers (Sydsvenska dagbladet, Skånska dagbladet and Kvällsposten) in addition to radical left-wing political magazines. These sources are complemented by semi-structured anonymised interviews conducted in 2008–2013 with 18 Swedish and Danish militant anti-­ fascists. All interviewees participated in the protests in Lund at one point or another from the late 1980s until 2008, and most were affiliated with ­Anti-Fascist Action groups in the region, even though some were not formally members or belonged to other organisations, such as the Syndicalist Youth League of Sweden. The interviews give a valuable insight into the reasoning for how the anti-fascists choose to challenge fascist spatial claims at different times.

1991: the blockade as counterclaim On 30 November each year, the death of the so-called ‘warrior king’ Charles XII is commemorated by a march of people carrying torches in the university town of Lund in southernmost Sweden. The origins of this march are to some extent to be found in the nationalism of the late 19th century to

Challenging fascist spatial claims  257 later, in the interwar years, becoming closely connected to outright Nazi student organisations. Then, after a 17-year hiatus and starting in 1965, it was once again organised by a quixotic coalition of a steadily aging group of crypto-fascists. In the mid-1980s, the march saw the influx of a new breed of nationalist youth, often wearing distinct skinhead regalia such as bomber jackets and army boots (Brink Pinto & Pries, 2013). The growing neo-Nazi movement was intertwined with a skinhead subculture and gained notoriety by a sharp increase in everyday violence targeting immigrants, gays and leftists (Bjørgo, 1993; Pred, 2000). Events like the established 30 November commemorations in Lund became rare opportunities for the Nazi scene to openly make public claims on space. In all other contexts, this was a movement that operated in a territorial mode producing a micro-geography of everyday fascist violence in youth centres, schools, pubs and on the streets. While the march in itself should primarily be understood as a public spatial claim, it also included a clear element of fascist displays of power as a way of creating territorialisation. The skinheads often brawled with local youths before and after the march, and sometimes acted aggressively towards anti-racist protestors lining the march route. Their performance should be understood as hyper-masculine as they were ready to defend themselves violently at the slightest hint of disrespect, threat or assault, while lacking the restraint associated with hegemonic masculinity (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005; Torbenfeldt, 2016). The yearly march, and the increasing number of Nazi skinheads in attendance, became one of only a few visible targets for outrage against the wave of everyday racist violence engulfing Sweden by the late 1980s. The second half of the 1980s saw a steady increase in protests against the march. Resistance oscillated between, on the one hand, public protests encouraging people not to participate in the march and imploring the authorities to intervene and, on the other, improvised and dispersed physical attacks on the march. The attacks were carried out by what the police described as local youths, based on individual officers identifying participants as members of local street gangs and known troublemakers from a handful of council estates (Polismyndigheten i Lunds arkiv, E II bc:1 dnr. K 14 583–89). These different kinds of protests undermined the spatial claims of the fascists in two ways. Anti-racist rallies delegitimised the public claim of the march, just as the territorial claims made by large gangs of fascists roaming the streets before and after the march were challenged by local youths (Brink Pinto & Pries, 2013). In order to enable the march to take the route stipulated in the legal permit, the police increased its presence, while simultaneously curtailing the mobility of the Nazi skinheads. Over time, the march got more policed, with a cordoned off area as the starting and end point of the march. The number of police officers on duty grew from 22 in 1984 to 180 in 1991. Up until the early 1990s, Lund’s police force was able to guarantee the presence of the

258  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries fascists in Lund, despite the increasing number of smaller confrontations taking place before, during and after the march. This all changed in 1991. After the usual large anti-racist demonstration in the afternoon, the police withdrew to an area close to the location where the fascists were gathering. Unknown to the police, a group of 200–300 militant anti-fascists had gathered at a student society to then march to the city centre. The anti-­ fascists stopped just a few hundred meters from the gathering of the nationalist march and erected a barricade across the traditional march route. An attempt by the police to disperse the blockade was met with determined stone throwing and home-made firecrackers. This forced the ill-prepared police to retreat and regroup. Instead of using this tactical victory to attack the hundred or so Nazi skinheads gathering in the park, the anti-fascists remained behind their barricades. A spokesperson was sent forward, demanding that the police should cancel the march. The anti-fascists threatened to maintain their blockade ‘all night if necessary’. After a standstill lasting for three hours, the police decided to give in to the demand. The would-be marchers were forced onto municipal busses and dropped off outside their rented venue outside the city limits (Polismyndigheten i Lunds arkiv, E II bc:1, Erfarenhetsberättelse av 30:e novemberkommenderingen 1991, dnr. 514-AA-12750-91). The anti-fascist blockade, which had not been tried in this militant manner before 1991 in Sweden, was a success story that subsequently shaped the anti-fascist struggles that were to follow in southern Scandinavia. The following year saw a large anti-fascist demonstration breaking the limits of its permit by staging a ‘stop’ in the middle of the planned nationalist march route. Between 500 and 1,000 people participated in the following blockade. Masked activists formed distinct lines along the front and the back of the blockade. These activists clearly signalled a willingness to use violence through their uniform clothing and balaclavas, militant slogans displayed on banners and by brandishing more or less improvised weapons such as cudgel-like flags. But there were no attempts to attack the assembled Nazi skinheads. Just like in the previous year, the blockade was used as leverage in negotiations with the police and demands were made to cancel the march. In 1992, the police force present was more than twice as large as in 1991. Moreover, it was equipped with brand new riot gear and the police had undergone comprehensive training in preparation for Sweden hosting the men’s European football Championship. Once again faced with a militant blockade, the commanding officer at the scene was ordered to avoid confrontations and contain the situation. Lund’s chief of police, Holger Radner, motivated his decision based on the composition of the blockade, where ‘idealistic housewives with prams’ were standing next to openly militant anti-fascists. Instead of trying to disperse the blockade, the police cancelled the traditional march. The 135 nationalists who had gathered, of whom almost 100 were Nazi skinheads, were humiliated by only being allowed to parade in a circle around the city’s cathedral and

Challenging fascist spatial claims  259 the main building of Lund University. After 20 minutes, the police forced them to put out their torches and board buses taking them out of town (Interview with Holger Radner; Polismyndigheten i Lunds arkiv, E II bc:3, Utvärdering av polisinsatsen i samband med 30 november 1992 i Lund och Malmö, dnr. AA-222–867/93). The police refused both sides access to public space in 1993. Despite what was certainly among the largest Nordic anti-fascist mobilisations since the end of the Second World War, with more than ten busses from Denmark and Norway heading to Lund in 1993, the police responded in force. The police drew on images of well-prepared activists from previous years and played down the local participation that had made them hesitate in 1992. The anti-fascists, in scaling up their mobilisation, meant that they were discursively stripped of the rights that had resulted in the police hesitating to attack a group of both activists and ‘common people’ in 1992. As many as 1,300 police officers were on duty and simply dispersed all attempts to march with an unprecedented level of police brutality. Nonetheless, the hard line meant that Lund remained inaccessible to the far right too. The fascist tradition of marching in Lund had come to an end and would not be resumed for many years (Polismyndigheten i Lunds arkiv, E II bc:6, Insatsprotokoll saknr. 201). The anti-fascist territorial counterclaim increasingly forced the police to intervene and limit to what degree neo-Nazis were allowed to roam the streets after the demonstration, thereby indicating that this kind of dispersed geography of fear could be circumscribed. This left the public spatial claim in the form of an orderly march, legitimised by the construction of certain places as historically significant. To challenge this way of making fascist spatial claims, local anti-fascists turned to Copenhagen’s large and militant squatter scene for inspiration. The squatters in the D ­ anish capital had for more than a decade developed a refined repertoire of street politics, primarily concerned with a defensive seizing of street space behind barricades (Schjerup Hansen, 1986; Karpantschof & Mikkelsen, 2001). These kinds of contentious practices were rearticulated in the 1991 blockade. It is no coincidence that the form of the blockade bears such a distinct resemblance to how squatters defended their houses, with barricades manned by masked and well-prepared activists seeking successful negotiations based on their confrontations with the police. As the police were unable, and in 1992 perhaps unwilling, to dissolve the blockade, they instead came to reject the fascist spatial claim. The neo-Nazi skinheads were forced onto busses, thereby unable to display territorial superiority. Similarly, it was not possible to make any claims on public space, as the ­organisers of the march refused to deviate from their traditional route, barricaded by the blockade of the anti-fascists. By constructing certain sites as politically significant, the fascist marchers had opened up a weakness in terms of anti-fascist challenges of their spatial claims, where the latter was able to leverage de facto control over space in order to demand that the police stop the march.

260  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries By rearticulating different histories of struggle, the 1991 blockade emerged as a key type of contentious performance for militant anti-fascists (Brink Pinto & Pries, 2017). The concept of the blockade as the go-to practice for Nordic militant anti-fascists challenging large fascist marches lived on for at least ten years after the blockades in Lund (­Karpantschof, 1999).

The 2000s: turf war as counterclaim Following the police crackdown in 1993, with the police forcefully in control of Lund on 30 November, and thereafter routinely denying any applications for permits to march, the conflict changed to mirror struggles between anti-fascists and fascists in Sweden more broadly. As neither side was able to make any public spatial claim in Lund, their repertoires eventually changed. On the fascist side, a split took place between an elderly generation of respectable fascists, who saw cooperation with the police as necessary, and a younger generation closely linked to the Nazi skinhead subculture stressing direct confrontation with all perceived enemies. The small group that had organised the marches since 1965 carried on at a much smaller scale, holding small commemoration rituals away from the public eye and with very discrete spatial claims, which were largely ignored by anti-fascists, the media and the public alike. Without the older generation, the Nazi skinheads who had participated in the march in the 1980s became part of a transformation of the Nazi subculture scene into something more akin to a political movement (Lööw, 2016). The neo-Nazi movement now emphasised territorial spatial claims away from the public eye. In some cases, this repertoire even translated into something resembling a political tactic, although seldom articulated as clearly as the designation of ‘nationalist’ zones by German neo-Nazis – zones where no leftists, queers or immigrants could move about unscathed (Staud, 2007; Döring, 2011). Being a liberal university town with a relatively strong autonomous movement, Lund was not an ideal location for this kind of fascist spatial politics. But when a small group calling themselves Aryan Youth secretly attempted to march through the city on the symbolically important date of 30 November, it challenged the anti-fascists’ territorial claim on Lund. The anti-fascist response was also typical of the militant anti-fascist repertoire that developed during the late 1990s in response to these secretive territorial claims by the far right. Even though organised anti-fascists got tipped off about the plan to march, they did not attempt to initiate a public challenge involving a public demonstration. Instead, they gathered about 50 militant anti-fascists, who ambushed the would-be fascist marchers gathered in a small square close to the central station in Lund. After a shower of bottles and cobblestones, the anti-fascists chased the Aryan Youth back to the central station in a

Challenging fascist spatial claims  261 running street fight, which only ended when the police appeared at the scene and dispersed the militant anti-fascists (Brand, 2001; Interview with Mikael). In order to assert their dominance over the city, anti-fascists called for a public demonstration in 2001. Even though they did not apply for a permit, they nevertheless communicated with the local police through a letter stating that the demonstration was intended to be peaceful, as long as no Nazis tried to march in Lund (Polismyndigheten i Skånes arkiv, dnr. 698801/2001). The thinly veiled threat should be read in the context of the EU-summit in Gothenburg only six months prior, where the radical left, including militant anti-fascists, had participated in some of the most serious riots in Sweden since the Second World War. No Nazis appeared in Lund, instead opting for a secret commemoration of a skinhead shot to death by the police in nearby Malmö on 30 November 1991. The militant anti-fascists had a network of spotters who soon located the secret march and alerted carloads of ­anti-fascists fresh from the Lund demonstration, resulting in a series of violent confrontations across the city (Interview with Mikael). While not explicitly linked to the commemoration of Charles XII, late November became a month of escalating conflict over territorial control in Malmö and Lund for most of the 2000s. Local Nazis regularly tried to commemorate the memory of the dead skinhead in secret, with clandestine street fights erupting on several occasions. With the establishment of the yearly neo-Nazi march held early December each year in the Stockholm suburb of Salem in 2000, these tensions in Malmö and Lund became intertwined with the turf war between anti-fascists and fascists with regard to graffiti, stickers and leafleting – often ending in serious confrontations (https://web-beta.archive.org/web/20021211101401/http://www.motkraft. net:80/nyheter/434, accessed 4 April 2017; Interview with Olof; Interview with Nilla). ­ ovember, While anti-fascists in Lund maintained a public presence on 30 N these types of territorial spatial claims and counterclaims came to dominate the relationship between Swedish fascists and anti-fascists during the late 1990s and much of the 2000s. Many smaller towns saw violent conflicts erupting between Nazi skinheads and anti-fascists every weekend. In this polarised political climate, especially for youths, ‘streets, schoolyards, concerts and pubs became arenas for conflict and confrontation’ (Jämte, 2013). Antifascistisk Aktion (Anti-fascist Action, AFA) Stockholm, the largest and most influential AFA group in Sweden, waged a decade-long campaign against all forms of Nazi presence in Stockholm, especially in the inner-city neighbourhood of Södermalm. They stated that Södermalm was their territory and that it was ‘Nazi free’ – a slogan also used repeatedly in Lund with reference to the 1991–1992 blockades. To mark the territory as such, they flooded the streets with propaganda in the forms of graffiti, posters and stickers. Nazi bookstores were attacked and forced to close. The conflict sometimes took on the

262  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries appearance of a gang war, at times escalating to include attacks on individual Nazis in their homes (Jämte, 2013). This kind of challenge to fascist spatial claims is distinctly different from the blockade. It was not concerned with articulating conflicts as political differences in the public space, and was therefore unable to engage or effectively reproduce wider networks of sympathisers. Instead, the anti-­ fascist repertoire that emerged was concerned with asserting control over specific places, neighbourhoods and cities. This almost entirely territorial way of clandestinely claiming space may in this regard be compared to a turf war between gangs. At the centre lies the question of perceived control over spaces, the power to territorialise space as either ‘nationalist’ or ‘anti-­ fascist’ zones, where the opponent is unable to go or to challenge such zones by defying the claims that they are inaccessible. By meeting any attempt by organised fascists to gather in Lund or Malmö with direct violence, the anti-fascists made it more or less impossible for fascists to establish any kind of organisational structure in the region. What had become a crucial spatial practice for the far right was thereby undermined, and the far right was relegated from urban space, as neither public nor territorial spatial claims were seen as viable. The repertoire that emerged out of the anti-fascist commitment to this turf war was for some time very effective. The clandestine militancy of the turf war and the turn from open anti-fascist counterclaims to the non-existent far-right public claims on space led to isolation. However, an even more important development was that the commitment of the anti-fascists to the territorial claims of the turf war would by the late 2000s expose a vulnerability possible for the far right to exploit.

2008: disruption of space as counterclaim Creating and vigorously enforcing Lund as an anti-fascist zone made the stakes involved in violating this space much higher for fascists and anti-­ fascists alike. During 2006, the neo-Nazi movement experienced a large inflow of sympathisers, further fuelling the ongoing turf war. Cafés in both Lund and Malmö closely associated with the autonomous left were attacked and videos recorded far-right activists constructing immigrant areas as nationalist ‘zones’ using spray-painted stencils and stickers. The small celebration of Charles XII in 2006 also saw the appearance of a couple of younger Nazis who got into a scuffle with nearby hecklers. In 2007, a larger group of Nazis, many wearing scarfs of the football team Helsingborgs IF, made a surprise appearance in Lund on 30 November. Militant anti-fascists scrambled to confront them in numbers, but the Nazis were able to march through central and northern Lund before leaving town (Interview with Hedvig; Interview with Olof). These lightning expeditions into territories proclaimed to be ‘Nazi free’ were seen as victories warranting triumphant blog posts by the main fascist organisations in the region.

Challenging fascist spatial claims  263 These far-right clandestine operations had initiated what one anti-­fascist interviewee (interview with Martin) described as a ‘cat-and-mouse’ dynamic. With increasing confidence and a growing base, the neo-Nazi movement decided to challenge the claims on space of the anti-fascist movement where it was the strongest. During the autumn of 2008, a leading activist in the largest Nazi organisation in the region applied for a permit to once again march through central Lund on 30 November – the most mythological of anti-fascist territorial claims in Sweden (Polismyndigheten i Skånes arkiv, dnr. AA 501–28872/2008). When the local AFA groups got wind of the plan, still not made public to deny anti-fascist protesters time to organise, they first approached the problem from their established spatial repertoire. However, this initial territorial counter-tactic, to simply ‘gather 50 activists with bars and bats and just lay on them’, as an activist puts it, was too risky (Interview with Martin). The activists soon realised that even the most cleverly planned and ruthlessly precise attack would not stop the march as long as it had police protection. By linking a territorial challenge of this anti-fascist zone to a thinly veiled claim on public space, the fascists were able to exploit the key weakness of their opponent. The march challenged the anti-fascists’ claim to territorial control of Lund, but did so with the institutional and legal protection that came along with making a public claim on space. At this point, the regional coalition of anti-fascists decided to switch tactics. On 13 November 2008, they published a short note exposing the still secret plans for the Nazi march, thus following their counterpart’s move from fully territorial to more public claims on space. A week later, the local network Lundabor mot Rasism, mainly consisting of organisations with connections to the autonomous left, called for a ‘mobile blockade’ in Lund (http:// web.archive.org/web/20081203093051/http://www.motkraft.net/nyheter/ 3323, accessed 4 April 2017). This tactic was partly framed by recalling the blockades of the early 1990s, but was clearly also inspired by disobedience tactics that had been circulating in the alterglobalisation movement since the early 2000s and had gained increasing influence with the G8 meeting in Heiligendamm and the protracted mass protests following the eviction of Copenhagen’s Youth House in 2007–2008 (Karpantschof, 2009; Brink Pinto & Pries, 2017). Despite this dual turn to public claims on space, the events that ensued were shaped by a 15-year-old history dominated by territorial dynamics. Unlike the tradition that ended in the 1990s, Nazi propaganda seeking to mobilise supporters to the march had little to say about Charles XII as a mythological proto-nationalist. Instead, avenging the defeats of 1991 was the primary historical backdrop, thus putting an end to the ‘anti-nationalist day of remembrance’ created by the left by venturing into this proclaimed antifascist zone (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS0dZ5HXmWQ&t=33s, accessed 4 April 2017). Making this inroad into what had been impenetrable anti-fascist territory was taken as the first step in establishing a ‘nationalist

264  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries structure’ in Lund, mirroring the National Front and British National Party (BNP) strategy to ‘march and grow’ (Goodwin, 2011). Just as the neo-Nazis in this way simultaneously made territorial and public claims on space, the response was also clearly marked by the same tension, despite its initial framing as a public and largely symbolic protest. About an hour before the start of the fascist march near Lund’s train station, some 500 people had gathered a few hundred metres away to participate in the ‘mobile blockade’. After a tentative beginning, where neither police nor anti-fascists seemed to want the situation to escalate, a group of perhaps 50 masked anti-fascists lit flares and tried to force their way through the police line to reach the parking lot where the fascist marchers were to arrive. Some anti-fascists broke through the police lines, but most of them were turned away by the half-hearted police attempt to disperse the crowd, which, in turn, was met with the crowds sporadically throwing stones and other projectiles. During the commotion, however, the fascist marchers had arrived by train and were escorted to a parking lot just north of the central station. When the organised anti-fascists received news of the gathered Nazis, they left the by-then strategically unimportant street and instead tried to circle around the police’s barricades. Some made their way around the police lines to intermix with a gathering crowd within shouting distance of the Nazis. Others gathered at strategically located spots where the march was likely to pass, in order to obstruct it. Meanwhile, tensions remained high as more people joined the original blockade still locked into conflict with the main police force. When the police tried to apprehend these smaller groups in force, they were met with stone throwing, but also hasty retreats as soon as police reinforcements arrived. These small groups of anti-fascists reappeared in other locations, where the police were temporarily weak, thereby creating a situation where the police found it very difficult to secure all of central Lund (Vickhof, 2008; Lunds Tingsrätts arkiv dnr. B113–09). Meanwhile at the parking lot, tempers started to flare. The crowd had grown substantially and the distinction between onlookers and protesters slowly melted away. After some time, the Nazis demanded that they be allowed to start their march. To be able to start the march, the police punched an opening in the crowd with their mounted police officers and police dogs. With the Nazis inside a tight, moving police kettle, the demonstration started some three hours late. Militant anti-fascists and other protesters swarmed around back alleys and yards and bombarded the march when within throwing distance. It is hard to pinpoint an exact number, but we estimate that between 500 and 1,500 individuals participated in this dispersed mode of protest. The police had to clear every intersection, while simultaneously preventing attacks from the sides and the rear, which led to the march slowing to a crawl (Vickhof, 2008). Resistance against the Nazi claim on space was framed by a combination of public and territorial claims. The small groups of organised anti-fascists who started the riots were to a certain degree behaving similarly to how

Challenging fascist spatial claims  265 they normally countered Nazi gatherings. The police were at least on one occasion circumvented by a large group of anti-fascists directly charging the neo-Nazi gathering, with volleys of paving stones, and bottles were continually thrown over police lines into the Nazi demonstration. Added to this were protests directed at the police, which tended to be much less violent and more defensive. Some of the larger crowds were satisfied with simply defying the orders from the police and chastised activists seeking to start confrontations. At other times, barricades were built on the marching route and defended against police attempts to clear them. While the march was not stopped, the expected violation of this antifascist heartland was severely circumscribed. The march was not only forced out of the city centre despite its promise to once again revisit the traditional memorial sites of the Charles XII cult, which the marchers understood as something in need of being reclaimed from the anti-fascist left. The marchers were also unable to protect themselves against attacks, despite being under heavy police protection all the way from arriving at the train station to leaving the city. For hours on end, they were bombarded with projectiles, thus making their territorial claim very weak. If the territorial counterclaims of the anti-fascists played a certain role in this dynamic, the public claims mediated by the police were also decisive, much like in 1991. The different kinds of disturbances, from peaceful civil disobedience to defended barricades to direct attacks on the marchers, all made it immensely difficult for the police to maintain control over space. This forced them to tightly defend the far-right marchers, but also circumscribe their route to back alleys in a humiliating way. In this way, the anti-fascist protest’s combination of public and territorial claims on space may be seen as constituting a third way in that space was produced by dispersed disruption. On the one hand, it was acknowledged that the police were able to control any given place at any given time, whereas the anti-fascists were also able to create a riot dispersed over time and space. This disrupts space, which increases the cost associated with enforcing fascist spatial claims. Rather than making an explicit counterclaim on specific sites, the riot contests the territorial control of the police in larger areas of the urban space, thereby increasing friction for those seeking to move through it (see Wahlström, 2010). This combination of different tactics forced the police to restrict the Nazi march in time and space in a way that undermined both the public and the territorial spatial claims made by the march. Just like the blockade in 1991, the challenge against the fascist spatial claims was successful. Unlike in the mid-2000s, where the far right was able to shift from territorial claim to more public claims, it was not possible for them to argue that the 2008 march in Lund was a success either in terms of territorial or public claims. The neo-Nazi rekindling of the 30 November tradition abruptly ended with the 2008 failure, and no public event of any sort has been organised on this date in Lund ever since.

266  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries

Conclusion The 30-year battle over Lund on 30 November may be understood in terms of three types of anti-fascist contentious practices to fascist claim-making on space. Each enabled anti-fascists to achieve certain goals, but also came with inherent vulnerabilities. The first practice was the blockade, eventually followed by the turf war, which was, in turn, rearticulated as the disruption of space. The blockade is squarely placed in the public sphere and primarily challenges public spatial claims. Its success depends on the anti-fascists’ potential to take control over a closely defined space, either through direct violence or by appearing as a legitimate political subject against which the police is unable to use excessive force. The blockade exploits the spatial practices of the fascist march: by designating certain sites as memorial sites central to the legitimacy of the commemorative march, the organisers thereby made certain parts of central Lund vulnerable to blockade. If the fascist march was unable to take a certain route, then it lost its purpose. The blockade may also counter territorial claims, at least when deployed the way it was in early 1990s Lund. By forcing the police to severely restrict the movement of the far right and possibly physically dominate urban space, the blockade also undercuts this kind of spatial claim. The turf war between neo-Nazis and militant anti-fascists took place far away from the public eye, as well as from policing of the conflict. Territorial claims were concerned with control over the urban space by totally denying the opposing movement access to certain sites, or the challenging of these claims by violating boundaries. While the anti-fascists by and large controlled Lund as a territory, their clandestine organising did isolate core activists from their support base. Anti-fascist turf wars in and around Lund thus denied public space to the neo-Nazi movement. But, this also led the anti-fascists to a move away from a struggle over urban space as a public sphere, with anti-fascist mobilisations increasingly being concerned with directly confronting far-right groups. This undermined the anti-fascists longterm capabilities to raise the numbers needed for mass mobilisations. Disruption of space, just like the blockade, was a kind of contentious performance where the police mediated public claims on space, but it also included territorial counterclaims. The complex combination of peaceful blockades, riots, barricades and direct attacks on the 2008 neo-Nazi demonstration in Lund included both direct challenges to the demonstration itself and actions that made urban space ungovernable for the police. This undermined both the public and the territorial claims made by the neo-Nazis. The public branding of the demonstration as a Nazi march, the large protests and the lack of control pushed the police to openly dismiss the neo-Nazis claims to march through the city centre. Meanwhile, the incessant violent conflicts around the march undermined any sense of a successful territorial violation of Lund as an anti-fascist space.

Challenging fascist spatial claims  267 A final conclusion concerns that notion that the way that spatial claims are made and challenged needs to be understood as historically constructed and shaped relationally in the dynamics between movements and authorities, giving further evidence that ‘space and social movements are engaged in a dialectic of space transforming movements and movements transforming space’ (Sbicca & Perdue, 2014: 312). The events are in one sense part of a local history, where new modes of making spatial claims are built on experiences of the past in and around the city. We have shown that the blockade exploited vulnerabilities explored during the protests of the 1980s, just as the turf war was a response to the neo-Nazi retreat from public space following the anti-fascist victories of the early and mid1990s. While often violent and clandestine, this type of spatial claim is vulnerable to a scale shift, where one side shifts away from the tit-for-tat dynamic, instead turning towards a more public spatial claim. This happened in 2008 when Nazis shifted away from a losing war of attrition over Lund and Malmö in order to try to reinstate the tradition of having commemorative marches in Lund on 30 November. By doing so, they were able to reengage with more formalised politics and apply for a permit and police protection. While the militant anti-fascists considered challenging the spatial claim with a repertoire linked to the turf war, they instead opted to challenge the spatial claim by drawing on experiences made in the anti-globalisation movement and the struggle for the Youth House in Copenhagen by calling for an open mobile blockade. By doing so, they also shifted the scale to a more public political arena and were thus able to mobilise enough participants to disrupt much of central Lund during the entire march, thereby severely restricting the spatial claim and delaying the march. These types of challenges are also connected to a broader anti-fascist history. The 1991 blockade rearticulated the Danish squatters’ repertoire in terms of defensively seizing space, just as it pioneered a preferred method for the anti-fascists in southern Scandinavia during the 1990s (Brink Pinto & Pries, 2017). The turf war seen in Lund, and Malmö, between 2000 and 2008 was only a limited example of a relationship that was much more significant in other parts of Sweden. The way in which the 2008 march was met with a combination of disobedience and riots not only rearticulated a local history of resistance; this mobilisation also drew on tactics seen in the mid2000s summit protests and the Youth House Campaign as well as experiences made in the anti-fascist protests in the Stockholm suburb of Salem in 2007–2009. Based on our case, we argue that challenging what Tilly refers to as spatial claims is important for understanding the dynamics between fascists and militant anti-fascists. However, the notion of spatial claims needs more analytical precision in order to capture this dynamic. Fascist spatial claims are frequently torn between the traditional liberal street politics of public space and territorial claims concerning the control of zones, where the

268  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries emphasis shifts from one of these logics to the other in response to resistance. This makes resisting fascist movements a difficult task, as only undermining one of these ways in which space is claimed always carries the risk of fascists simply shifting their spatial claims from public to territorial and vice versa. Public protests against fascist marchers simply risk fuelling their territorial claims, as shown in the case of the protests against the increasingly large and militant neo-Nazi presence in Lund during the 1980s. Similarly, anti-fascist territorial claims were not sufficient when neo-Nazis in Lund shifted from a strict turf war to more public claims in 2008. It is only when both of these kinds of claims are successfully challenged that the rationale for fascist marches is undermined.

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270  Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries Virchow, F. (2007) ‘“Capturing the Streets”: Marches as Political Instrument of the Extreme Right in Contemporary Germany’ in Reiss, M. (ed.) The Street as Stage: Protest Marches and Public Rallies since the Ninteenth Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vysotsky, S. (2015) ‘The Anarchy Police: Militant Anti-Fascism as Alternative Policing Practice’, Critical Criminology 3 (23): 235–53. Wahlström, M. (2010) ‘Producing Spaces for Representation: Racist Marches, Counterdemonstrations and Public-Order Policing’, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 28 (5): 811–27. Websites https://web-beta.archive.org/web/20021211101401/http://www.motkraft.net:80/­ nyheter/434, accessed on 4 April 2017. http://web.archive.org/web/20081203093051/http://www.motkraft.net/nyheter/3323 accessed 4 April 2017. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS0dZ5HXmWQ&t=33s, accessed on 4 April 2017.

Afterword Nigel Copsey

In the mid-1980s, the French historian Jacques Droz identified two obstacles facing any would-be historian of anti-fascism. The ‘first is the fact that no consensus on the nature of anti-fascism has been established amongst historians’ (author trans, Droz, 1985: 7). The second obstacle comes from the complexity of the tendencies which are concealed beneath the surface of anti-fascism. For sure, anti-fascism appeared with fascism itself. But it presented in multiple forms: appearing in different countries, at different dates and in different circumstances, it carries the mark of the political and ideological traditions that presided over its birth. (Author trans, Droz, 1985: 8) More than three decades have now passed since the publication of Droz’s landmark study on the history of anti-fascism in Europe. Are today’s historians any better equipped to negotiate these obstacles? Let me begin my lamenting the continued absence of a definitional consensus. As the editors of Rethinking Antifascism (García et al., 2016: 11) recently noted, ‘antifascism is still an object of historiography which is contested beginning with its definition, and these differences are unlikely to disappear in the foreseeable future’. Why should this be so, after all, it is surely stating the obvious that ‘anti-fascism’ means opposition to fascism? Yet nothing, to use a cliché, is obvious. Anti-fascism’s definition, as Gilles Vergnon (author trans, 2009: 12) reminds us, remains ‘problematic, both because of the nature of its antagonist […] and because it is also marked by polemics’. Take the antagonist first – did anti-fascists identify their ‘fascists’ accurately? Were they even within the zone of accuracy? The rhetoric of ­Soviet-inspired anti-fascism, needless to say, could be nowhere near this zone (to the point that all those who were not Stalinist Communists fell victim to the ‘fascist’ label at some point). It is therefore not surprising that for many a year, the term ‘anti-fascist’ was simply a synonym for Communist – the ‘mirror image of fascist and Nazi totalitarianism’ (García 2016: 565). According to celebrated French

272  Nigel Copsey historian, François Furet, anti-fascism was the product of the 20th-­c entury dialectical relationship between fascism and communism where the ‘communist nourishes his faith with antifascism, and the fascist his with anticommunism’ (Furet and Nolte, 2001: 33). Anti-fascism was thus inseparable from Communism, and so it was, in Pierre-André Taguieff’s words, ‘a powerful ideological instrument of Communist propaganda, used systematically by the Soviets and their networks in order to disqualify their adversaries’ (author trans, 2007: 140). The more open-minded did come to recognise the possibility of a plurality of genuine anti-fascisms that stretched beyond the revolutionary left, connected to, and determined by, ideological traditions other than Communism. This possibility relates to the second obstacle that Droz identified – the multiplicities beneath the surface. Yet for most historians – even for those that documented these multiple forms – anti-fascism still remained essentially of the left. So for Larry Ceplair, ‘Although there were conservatives and reactionaries who steadfastly opposed Fascist movements, anti-Fascism was a Left-wing phenomenon’ (1987: 2–3). Over the past two decades, my own work in this field, and that of others, has tried to push at these boundaries, extending the continuum of anti-fascism further to the right. Admittedly, boundaries can find themselves stretched a little too far, especially when applied to right-wing conservativism. This is not to say that there can be no such thing as a right-wing conservative anti-fascism, but as we have seen in this volume, fascists could find conservative allies. Conservative youth organisations in the Nordic countries were often vocal champions of the fascist cause. In the case of Denmark, as we have seen, they even ‘began to don uniforms, renamed their most active units “Stormtroopers”, adopted the raised-arm salute and provided their members with paramilitary training during intensive summer camps which often ended in mass parades’ (Larsen, 1990: 248). So, the more expansive the definition, the greater the danger of ‘making everyone who was not a fascist, in effect, an antifascist’, as Tom Buchanan deftly put it (2016: 65). Is there any way to mitigate this risk? In his recent study of anti-­fascism in the United States, Christopher Vials (2014: 5) makes an important point: anti-fascism is more than a ‘reflex aversion, nor does it use fascist as a casual slur. For antifascists, fascism is not one problem among many but a force so menacing that it requires concentrated effort to check’. This brings us to the thorny issue of distinguishing between ‘active’ and ‘passive’ forms. For historians, such as Christopher Vials and David Renton (2000), anti-fascism has to be active – it typically manifests in the form of a reactive, concerted ‘campaign’ or ‘struggle’. Anti-fascism is therefore a movement, the site where personal opposition to fascism intersects with, and finds expression in, collective forms of opposition. Yet context is all-important here. Anti-fascism under the conditions of Nazi dictatorship, where we might speak of  the

Afterword  273 ‘silent opposition’ (see Rothfels, 1978: 28), looks rather different to anti-­ fascism in a democratic state where being ‘active’ does not necessarily invite solitary confinement in a police cell. In prioritising the visible, the organised, the collective, do we not marginalise the more isolated opposition of an individual? Is Knut Dørum justified in applying the term ‘anti-fascist’ to Harald Gram’s response to Vidkun Quisling? Or, is he guilty of stretching the concept of anti-fascism too far? Was Gram’s response sufficiently active? Was it sufficiently anti-fascist? Consider Michael Seidman’s recent approach in Transatlantic Antifascisms (2018). Seidman argues that it makes sense to speak of two forms of anti-­fascism. The first is a ‘revolutionary anti-fascism’, which ‘identified capitalism and fascism and was uninterested in the considerable differences between Italian and German fascisms or between fascist and authoritarian regimes’, and a ‘conservative and even counterrevolutionary’ anti-fascism, which ‘rejected the violations of personal freedoms and the confiscation of property which occurred under both fascism and revolutionary antifascism’ (2018: 2,  4). If the former was pro-Communist, the latter was anti-­ Communist, and it included the likes of Winston Churchill, Charles de Gaulle and ­Franklin Roosevelt. Might we also extend this category to include the Norwegian conservative leader, Harald Gram? On one (albeit superficial) level, Seidman makes sense. As we have seen in this volume, there were examples of both types of anti-fascism in the Nordic context. Finnish liberals, as Jenni Karimäki describes them, would be a fine example of a form of conservative or counter-revolutionary anti-fascism: anti-Communist, nationalist, but also defensive of parliamentarian democracy. Take a closer look, however, and Seidman’s neat divisions break down in the real world, particularly when it comes to militant social democracy. For any historian of international anti-fascism, the Nordic case is invaluable in this respect. Should the militant anti-fascists of the Danish Social Democratic Youth that Charlie Krautwald describes really be approached as ‘counter-revolutionary’ or even ‘conservative’ anti-fascists? What about the young Social Democrats in Johan Lundin’s study? Did Tauno Saarela’s Finnish socialist intellectuals really understand their anti-fascism as ‘counter-revolutionary’? If our study of the Nordic experience further problematises neat conceptual understandings, it also reveals much that it shares with the anti-­ fascist experience elsewhere. In a moment of comparative reflection on how the anti-fascist experience in interwar Britain compared with other countries in Europe, Keith Hodgson, who studied the British left and anti-­ fascism, observed that anti-fascists ‘attempted to fight fascism in ways which accorded with their own political ethos and which they judged to be suitable at the time. They each framed their opposition in the light of the threat as they perceived it’ (Hodgson, 2010: 199). Anti-fascists in the Nordic countries were no different. But beyond repeating this pattern,

274  Nigel Copsey is the Nordic anti-fascist experience of any other significance? Without question, yes, for our volume calls particular attention to the problematic relationship between ‘race’ and anti-fascism. It was possible for a race biologist to adopt an anti-fascist standpoint in Sweden; we could find anti-fascism being framed from the perspective of racial understandings of the nation in Iceland. This further reveals an uncomfortable truth: the ability of anti-fascists to reconcile their nationalism (and in some cases, even their racism) with their anti-fascism. A contextual reading of Nordic anti-fascisms underlines the point that these awkward truths should be confronted. This brings me to my contention that we should approach anti-fascism (like fascism) with methodological empathy. In other words, we should understand anti-fascism as perceived and interpreted by the actors themselves. Methodological empathy is just as relevant today as it is for the interwar period. According to Taguieff, what we have today is a ‘néo-­ antifascisme’, which references historical anti-fascism, but which takes the form of ‘futile’ militant agitation against a ‘non-existent enemy’. Yet present-day militant anti-fascists do not see their agitation as ‘futile’ and this enemy certainly does exist. Research on British post-war militant ­anti-fascism has demonstrated its efficacy at certain points and at certain moments (see Copsey 2017; Renton, 2000). Andrés Brink Pinto and ­Johan Pries reach similar conclusions on militant anti-fascism in southern ­Sweden in this book. In formulating my response to the recent suggestion from criminologists in the United States that militant anti-fascists should be understood solely from the perspective of ‘gangs’, I stressed the need for methodological empathy. While I accept – a point also made by Andrés Brink Pinto and Johan Pries in Chapter 15 – that there are connections between the behaviours of militant anti-fascism and ‘gangs’, we do need to make sense of this connection ‘empathetically’ and not simply collapse one (militant anti-fascism) into the other (gangs). Anti-fascist actors, even at the most basic level, ascribe political meaning to their anti-fascism (see Copsey, 2018). Jacques Droz was of course right: anti-fascism does present itself in many forms; shaped by different ideologies and traditions. And, our volume on Nordic anti-fascism(s) is indicative of an emerging international agreement that anti-fascism has far more plurality than once thought (see Copsey and Olechnowicz, 2010). Times move on, and while there is still no definitional consensus, at least there are now encouraging signs of an agreement on the parameters of our subject. We should not treat plurality as a barrier, but as an opportunity to both extend and deepen the field of anti-fascist studies. Our volume constitutes the Nordic response to the call made by Dan Stone (2010: 184) to ‘internationalise’ the study of anti-fascism; we also speak to the recent ‘transnational turn’ in anti-fascist studies (see García, 2016). In Rethinking Antifascism (García et al., 2016), there was clear

Afterword  275 recognition that the history of anti-fascism is an entangled one, a history that, as our volume also shows, crossed borders, and which was subject to an array of transnational influences. The next stage in rethinking anti-­ fascism is to place this history in its wider global context. We desperately need to analyse the historical configurations of anti-fascism on a worldwide scale. There was much truth in the comment made by Tim Kirk and Anthony McElligott (1999: 2) that ‘No country in Europe was without its fascists or fascist sympathisers, and none without its anti-fascists’. That fascism and anti-fascism were not just pan-European phenomena, but were also, and continue to be, global ones is truer still. Historians of antifascism need to venture further afield, put pen to paper and write this global history of anti-fascism.

References Buchanan T. (2016) ‘Beyond Cable Street: New Approaches to the Historiography of Antifascism in Britain in the 1930s’, in García, H., Yusta, M., Tabet, X. & ­Climaco, C. (eds.) Rethinking Antifascism: History, Memory and Politics, 1922 to the Present. New York: Berghahn. Ceplair, L. (1987) Under the Shadow of War: Fascism, Anti-Fascism, and Marxists, 1918–1939. New York: Columbia University Press. Copsey, N. (2017) Anti-Fascism in Britain. 2nd edn. Abingdon: Routledge. Copsey, N. (2018) ‘Militant Antifascism: An Alternative (Historical) Reading’, Symposium: What Is Antifa? Society, 55 (4): 243–7. Copsey, N. & Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) (2010) Varieties of Anti-Fascism. Britain in the Inter-War Period. Houndmills, Palgrave Macmillan. Droz, J. (1985) Histoire de l’antifascisme en Europe 1923–1939. Paris: Editions La Découverte. Furet, F. & Nolte, E. (2001) Fascism and Communism. Lincoln: University of ­Nebraska Press. García, H. (2016) ‘Transnational History. A New Paradigm for Anti-Fascist Studies?’, Contemporary European History 25 (4): 563–72. García, H., Yusta M., Tabet, X. and Climaco, C. (2016) ‘Introduction: Beyond Revisionism: Rethinking Antifascism in the Twenty-First Century’, in García, H. Yusta, M., Tabet, X. & Climaco, C. (eds.) Rethinking Antifascism: History, Memory and Politics, 1922 to the Present. New York: Berghahn. Hodgson, K. (2010) Fighting Fascism: The British Left and the Rise of Fascism, 1919–1939. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Kirk, T. & McElligott, A. (eds.) (1999) Opposing Fascism: Community, Authority and Resistance in Europe. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Larsen, S. U. (1990) ‘Conservatives and Fascists in the Nordic Countries: Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Finland, 1918–1945’, in Blinkhorn, M (ed.). Fascists and Conservatives. London: Unwin Hyman. Renton, D. (2000) Fascism, Anti-Fascism and Britain in the 1940s. Basingstoke: Palgrave-Macmillan. Rothfels, H. (1978) The German Opposition to Hitler. London: Oswald Wolff. Seidman, M. (2018) Transatlantic Antifascisms: From the Spanish Civil War to the End of World War II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

276  Nigel Copsey Stone, D. (2010) ‘Anti-Fascist Europe Comes to Britain: Theorising Fascism as a Contribution to Defeating it’, in Copsey, N. & Olechnowicz, A. (eds.) Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Taguieff, P-A. (2007). Les Counter-Réactionnaires: Le Progressisme entre illusion et imposture. Paris: Denoël. Vergnon, G. (2009) L’antifascisme en France: de Mussolini á Le Pen. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Vials, C. (2014) Haunted by Hitler: Liberals, the Left and the Fight against Fascism in the United States. Amherst & Boston: University of Massachusetts Press.

Index

Acheson, Dean: IUSY protest telegram of Western military cooperation with Franco regime 219–20 active anti-fascism 272–3; passive forms comparison 6 active socialism 102–4, 106 Active-Socialist Front 103 Adler, Max: leftist socialism 168; publications 165; winning over the middle-class 167 AEAR (L’Association des écrivains et artistes révolutionnaires) 173–4 The Aesthetics of Resistance (Weiss) 206 Aftenposten: attitudes towards fascism 76–7; condemnation of National Unity 79; Conservative Party sentiments 79–80 Agrarian Party 170; rejecting National Unity 79 Áhlström, Axel: Nazism 69 AKS (Akateeminen Karjala Seura) 160, 170 Alarm group 106–7 Alfringhaus, Erich: Zukunft 210 Åmark, Klas: Living next door to evil 100 American Finnish Workers’ Theatre Foundation 193 Andersson, Sven: The forest is burning 120 anti-communism: Finnish liberals 44–5; framework 232–3; Icelandic Nazis 26–7; undermining anti-fascism 2 anti-fascism: active versus passive 6, 272–3; boundaries 272; characterisation 41; conservative 273; definition 4, 271; framework 232–3; methodological empathy 274; plurality 272–4; race relationship 274; revolutionary 273; synonym for Communist 271–2

Anti-Fascist Front: ISH 133, 136, 171, 178 anti-fascist spatial challenges 256; blockade 256–60; difficulties 268; disruption of space 262–5; movements and authorities dynamics 267; turf war 260–2 anti-Hitlerism: Zukunft 210 anti-immigration: extreme-right movements in Denmark 239–40, 247–48 anti-imperialism: ISH campaigns 131 anti-Islamisation: Denmark activists 248 anti-Nazi movement: neo-Nazis 245–6 anti-racist movements: actions and participants 243; Denmark 244–6; Scandinavia 250–1; Sweden 250 Anti-Racist Network 244, 245 anti-refugee events: extreme-right movements in Denmark 239–40 anti-Semitism: Norwegian fascism 77–78 anti-Stalinist turn: Zukunft 209–10 anti-totalitarian master frame 228–9, 232, 233 anti-war ISH campaigns 131–2 artistic activism: counter-hegemonic intervention 187–88; theatrical public sphere 188 AS (Aktiv Socialisme) 102–4, 107 ASS (Academic Socialist Society) 160; Central European socialists fascism interpretations 165–70; central figures 160–1; division of workers 169; educational work 164–5; expulsion from SDP 171–2; fascism ensuring survival of capitalism 161–2; foundation 160; idea sharing with Wiik 165; IKL threat 162; international cooperation 168; labour

278 Index aristocracy 169; labour movement 160, 169; popular front 170–1; SDP political differences 164–5; socialist intellectuals 9; Sundström’s fascism definition 161; united working class counterforce 163 asylum: Iceland policies 27–28 atrocity propaganda: Nazism 4 Att bo granne med ondskan (Åmark) 1–2 AUF (Arbeidernes Ungdomsfylking) 224 Austria: Bauer’s fascism interpretation 166; militant social democrat defensiveness 94–5 authoritarian rule: Finland 40–1, 55 authorities: movements dynamic 267 Balme, Christopher: theatrical public sphere 188 Battle of Menstad 75 Bauer, Otto: fascism interpretation 166 Bech, Dagfinn: fear of fascism 74 Benford, Robert: social movement frames 221 Bishop, Claire: artistic activism 187 Bjarnason, Brynjólfur: overthrowing bourgeois state 29 blockades: fascist marches 256–60 Blomberg, Erik: Swedish cultural front 177–8 Bonapartist fascism interpretation 166 boundaries: anti-fascism 272 bourgeois: culture 184; domination 165–6; Finnish liberalism 40; overthrowing 29 boycotts: Nazi flag 134–6 Brah, Avtar: racialisation 156 Brecht, Bertolt: Señora Carrar’s Rifles 199 Bredsdorff, Elias: The Cultural Struggle analysis 179–80 Britain: comparison with European antifascism 273; anti-fascism in interwar period 5; fascist spatial claims 254 Brown, Malcolm: racism definition 156 The Brown Book of the Reichstag Fire and Hitler Terror (Katz) 5–6 call-out squads 119 capitalism: communist anti-fascist discourse 28; monopoly capitalists creating fascist movement 167; survival through fascism 161–2 Central European socialists: fascism interpretations 165–70

cephalic index 146, 149 challenging fascist spatial claims 256; blockade 256–60; difficulties 268; disruption of space 262–5; movements and authorities dynamics 267; turf war 260–2 characterisation: anti-fascism 41 China: communist stronghold attacks 137–8 Civil Guard 40, 43–4, 48, 50 civil rights: Finland 1930s 189–91 class struggles: maritime worker class-against-class strategy 128; overthrowing bourgeois state 29; traditional elite alliances and fascism success 21; workers’ theatres 191–2; see also social structures Cold War 4–5; IUSY reaction to Western military cooperation with Franco regime 219–20; IUSY reactions to Eastern European oppression 227–9; lack of action against Franco regime 226–7; Madrid Pact 230–1; US Western Europe defence 231–2 Comintern (Communist International): capitalism 28; common front against fascism 173; Imperialist War Thesis 131; popular front 188–9; RILU 128 Committee against the Refugee Law 241 committee of struggle against fascism 33 Common Constituent Coalition 114 Common Initiative against Racism 244 communism: agitation and propaganda maritime units 127–8; anti-fascism as synonym 271–2; CPI 21–2; denouncing Italian Fascist regime 30; Eastern European oppression 227–9; equating with fascism 22; fight against German Nazism 30; Finnish laws 65; Gúttó-incident 24–5; Hands off China campaign 131–2; Iceland politics 23; Icelandic Nazism 23–7; Nazi confrontations in Iceland 32–5; popular front 188–9; Social Democrat intersection 35–6; SYI condemnation 223–4; theatre activity 191 communist anti-fascism 3; activism 29–30; discourses 28–9; dissemination of illegal anti-Nazi publications in Germany 136; German Communist party suppression 133; Hands off China campaign 131–2; Imperialist

Index  279 War Thesis 131; ISH boycott of Nazi flag 134–6; Nazism as offspring of communist militancy 30; political rhetoric 132; social fascism 3–4; Soviet China defence campaign 137–9; Soviet Union betrayal 4 Communist Youth: cooperation with DSU 105 Compound of Sweden-Germany 115 Compulsory Education Act 42 conservative anti-fascism 8, 272, 273 Conservative Party: Aftenposten sentiments 79–80; anti-fascist uncertainty 81–2; board rejection of National Unity alliance 80–1; eliteauthoritarian ideology 84; National Unity sympathies 80; new programme 83; rejecting National Unity 79; youth organisations’ Nazi sympathies 82–3 Conservative Student Society 82, 83 Copsey, Nigel: anti-fascism characterisation 41; interwar period anti-fascism in Britain 5 counter-agitation: anti-fascist strategy 118–19 counter-hegemonic intervention 187–9, 196–7, 200 counter-jihad activists 248 countermovements: anti-Islamisation and counter-jihad activists 248; extreme-right 244–6; Scandinavian extreme-right movements 250–1 CPI (Communist Party of Iceland) 21–2, 35 craniometry 146 cultural fronts 11–12, 175–7; antifascism cornerstone 176; cooperation 181; discussion meetings 180–1; distinctions between 184; formation 175–6; ideological and political differences 177–9; impact 185; international 176–7; journal publications 179–80; membership 179; Moscow Trials 181–4; parallel initiatives 176; social democracies 184–5 Cultural Front (Denning) 179–80 The Cultural Struggle (Parenti) 179–80 culture: bourgeois 184; Finland and USA exchange 193; Finnishness versus Swedishness 65; International Association of Authors for the Defence of Culture 174

CVIA (Comité de vigilance des intellectuels antifascistes) 176–7 Czechoslovakia: communism 227 Dahlberg, Gunnar 11; attack 150–1; Director of the State Institute for Race Biology 154; “The Nordic Race from a Socio-Anthropological Perspective” 125; physical/mental differences between races 148; pure races 148; racial categorisations of white people 148–9; racial categorisations political influence 149; reactions to attack 151–2; unpolitical anti-fascism 153–4 Dallmann, Günter 12, 207–9, 211 Danish Association 241–2, 244, 246, 248 Danish Conservative Youth 85 Danish cultural fronts: communist faction 177; discussion meetings 180–1; dissolution 183–4; formation 175; impact 185; inter-Scandinavian cooperation 181; journal publications 179–80; membership 179; preventing reactionary barbarity 176 Danish extreme-right movements 238–43; actions from 1980–1999 239; anti-Islamisation and counter-jihad activists 248; anti-Nazi movement 245–6; anti-racist movement 244–5; anti-refugee/anti-immigrant events 239–40; forms and targets of action 241; immigrant-friendly countermovements 249; increasing organisation and politicisation 241–2; international events and transnational networks influence 241–2; neo-Nazi development 242; opponents 244–7; parliamentarisation 247–8; street-level defeat 247 Danish Nazism: DNSAP propaganda offensive 99; neo-Nazi development 242 defence of culture: International Association of Authors for the Defence of Culture 174 democracy: defence 30; fascist threats 231–2; international threat 223; liberal anti-fascism defence 46; liberal antifascist values 51; militant defence 108 democratic socialism: international threat 223 Den kämpande demokratin (Drangel) 112

280 Index Denmark: anti-Muslim harassments 248; Committee against the Refugee Law 241; countermovement 13; Danish Association 241–2; economic impact on politics 97; German occupation 236–7; immigrant-friendly movements 249; Kalundborg incident 240; legal actions against extremism 106; Nazi Machtergreifung turning point 100; neo-Nazi activity 246; preventing reactionary barbarity 176; pro-fascist youth organisations 85; resistance movements in Second World War 7; social democracy 184–5; Social Democratic Youth movements 224; youth militant activism 10; Zukunft 210–11 Denmark for the People programme 106 Denning, Michael: popular front 189 Der Kampf 165, 167, 168 Der Niedergang des deutschen Kapitalismus (Sternberg) 166–7 Deutsch, Julius: defensiveness of working class 94–5 dictatorships: democracy threat 232 Die Zukunft 12, 205–6 Dimitrov, Georgi: popular front 188 dismissive liberal anti-fascism: Finland 42, 44–5 disruption of spaces 13, 255, 262–5 division of workers 169 DKU (Communist Youth of Denmark) 97 DNSAP (National Socialist Workers’ Party of Denmark) 99, 104 DNSB (Danish National Socialist Movement) 242, 246 domestic fascist movements 8 Drangel, Louise: Den kämpande demokratin 112 Droz, Jacques: history of anti-fascism obstacles 271 DSU (Social Democratic Youth of Denmark) 10, 91, 224; abolishing protection units 106; cooperation with Communist Youth 105; cultural line 96–7; DKU harassment 97; DNSAP propaganda offensive 99; exclusion of violent confrontations 106–7; foundation 96; Germany elections triggering attention on fascism 99; KU tensions 100; legal actions against extremism 106;

militancy debate 105–6; militant protection units 97–9; physical confrontations with political opponents 104–5; pro-defence national survival policy 100–1; radical anti-fascism 92; SPF propaganda group 102; Three-arrow movement 104; Tschachotin influence 101–2; uniforms 97; Verner Nielsen death 99 East Swedishness movement 57 Eastern European oppression: escalating East-West power struggle 226–7; IUSY reactions 227–9 ECCI (Eighth Plenum of the Executive Committee of the Comintern) 131, 132, 139; Imperialist War Thesis 131 economy: political impact 97 Eiserne Front alliance 95 emigration: German and European 212 Estonia: illegal communist trade unions 130 ethnonationalism: Swedish-speaking minority in Finland 66–9 ethnopolitics: Finland 56–7 eugenics movement: mainline 146–7; reform 147–8; shift from mainline to reform 154–5 Europe: anti-fascist militancy 93; emigration 212; fascism 1–2; German exiles 5–6; international militant social democracy 93–6; socialist intellectual popular front 170–1 exiles: transnational perspective 5–6 explicit claims 255 extreme-right movements: actions and participants 243; Lapua movement 46–9; Scandinavia 250–1 extreme-right movements in Denmark 238–9; actions from 1980–1999 239; anti-Islamisation and counter-jihad activists 248; anti-Nazi movement 245–6; anti-racist movement 244–5; anti-refugee/anti-immigrant events 239–40; forms and targets of action 241; immigrant-friendly countermovements 249; increasing organisation and politicisation 241–2; international events and transnational networks influence 241–2; neo-Nazi development 242; opponents 244–7; parliamentarisation 247–8; street-level defeat 247

Index  281 fascism: Bonapartist interpretation 166; communism equation 22; democracy threat 231–2; interwar period terminology 39; mobilisation in Sweden 114–15; monopoly capitalists 167; persecution of minorities 69; post-war political practice 254; profascist youth organisations 85; racism distinction 156; relationship with communism 272; social democracy threat 65–6; spatial claims 255; striking down in infancy 3; violence causing condemnation 86 Fascismen kommer! Vad gör Sverges arbetare till sitt försvar? (Höglund) 3 fascist spatial claims: anti-fascist challenges 256; blockade counterclaim 256–60; disruption of space 262–5; movements and authorities dynamics 267; post-war 254; street politics of public space versus territorial claims of controlling zones 267–8; Sweden 13; territorial 255–6; turf wars 260–2 Finland: 1922 Language Act 57; Agrarian Party 170; anti-communism 44–5; anti-fascism progression 9; authoritarian rule 40–1; Civil Guard 43–4; civil rights in 1930s 189–91; Civil War legacy 57; communist laws 65; communists weakening from Soviet Union wars 200; Compulsory Education Act 42; cultural exchange with USA 193; extreme-left weakening from Soviet Union wars 200; Finnish Union for Human Rights 197; historical and cultural ties to Nordic and Western civilisations 62–6; Human Rights League 177; IKL programme 66–7; illegal communist trade unions 130; ILP 50; international fascism influence on domestic fascism 58–61; Kalsta-movement 68–9; language politics 56–7; Lapua movement 46–9; liberals 9; Mäntsälä coup 50; pacifist attitudes and Spanish Civil War 199–200; Peasants’ March to Helsinki 61; People’s Community Society 68; Peoples’ Patriotic Movement 52; popular front 189–91; Progressive Party 170; Second World War 7; SFP and SDP alliance 57; socialist intellectuals 11; Summer of Lapua 61;

Swedish-speaking minority 9; Whites versus Reds civil war 6; workers’ theatres 191–2; Zukunft 211; see also Swedish-speaking minority in Finland Finland’s People’s Organisation 68–9 Finnish liberalism: anti-communist objective 44–5; characterisation 41; Compulsory Education Act 42; defence of democracy 46; democratic values 51; dismissive 44–5; educating citizens about fascist threats 49; exclusion of revolutionary actors 41; extremeright Lapua movement 46–9; ILP 50; Mäntsälä coup 50; national unification 41, 51–2; nationalism 39; passive 43–4; social divisions 42; social structures 40 Finnish socialist intellectuals: Central European socialists fascism interpretations 165–70; division of workers 169; educational work 164–5; fascism and survival of capitalism 161–2; fascism definition 161; idea sharing with Wiik 165; IKL threat 162; international cooperation 168; labour aristocracy 169; labour movement cooperation and unity 169; popular front 170–1; SDP political differences 164; united working class counterforce 163 Finnish Union for Human Rights 197 First World War: neutrality 6 The forest is burning 120 frames 221; anti-fascist and anticommunist framework 232–3; antitotalitarian master 228–9; master 221 Franco regime: IUSY to Western military cooperation 219–20; lack of UN action against 226–7; Madrid Pact 230–1; Social Democratic Youth movements condemnation 12, 225; Spanish youth movement fundraising campaigns 229; UN membership 225, 229–30 Fredrickson, George M.: racism definition 156 Friendly Citizens 249 Frisch, Hartvig: Pest over Europa 101 Fürst, Carl Magnus: Anthropologia Suecica 149 The Future see Zukunft Garibaldadóttir, Indíana 34 German Communist Party: suppression 133

282 Index Germany: communist fight against Nazism 30; Communist Party suppression 133; Eiserne Front alliance 95; emigration 212; exile transnational links 5–6; labour movement 166; militant social democrat defensiveness 94–5; Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact 4; Nazi Machtergreifung 100; Nazi victory in 28 July Reichstag election 99; neo-Nazi partnerships 246; occupation of Denmark 236–7; Reichsbanner 95; Schufos 95; Third Reich resistance 5 Golden, I.J.: Precdent 193 Gram, Harald: Conservative Party sympathies for National Unity 80; rejecting National Unity 79; youth organisations Nazi sympathies 83 The Great Question 62 Grieg, Nordahl: Veien Frem 178–9 Grunz, Martin: nazification connection with militancy 92 Gumerus, Herman: Finnish ethnonationalism 67 Gúttó-incident 24–6, 31, 32, 34 Haekkerup, Per: Eastern European oppression 227–30 Hands off China ISH campaign 131–2 Hansson, Per Albin: Social Democratic Party 113 Heimisson, Einar: asylum policies 27 Hermansen, Benjamin 250 Hitler: Norwegian right-wing press attitudes towards 76–7 Hodann, Max: Zukunft 211–12 Hodgson, Keith: British anti-fascism comparison with European antifascism 273 Höglund, Zeth: Fascismen kommer! Vad gör Sverges arbetare till sitt försvar? 3 Holliday government 113 Hornborg, Eirik 55; fascist persecution of minorities 69; Finnish-Swedish high finance and fascism support criticism 62–4; The Great Question 62; historical and cultural ties to Nordic and Western civilisations 62–6; Italian fascism and domestic fascism comparison 60–1; social democracy fascist threat 66 Horn, Gerd-Rainer: revolutionary social democracy 96; transnational radical anti-fascism 93

Hultén, Britt: Cultural Front analysis 180; Nordeuropa analysis 183 Human Rights League: formation 177 humanity categorisations 157 Iceland 8–9; anti-communism and Nazis 26–7; anti-fascist circle symbol 31; asylum policies 27–9; committee of struggle against fascism 33; confronting Nazi threats 32–5; CPI 21–2; CPI resistance of Nazism 35; denouncing Italian Fascist regime 30; Gúttó-incident 24–5; ICL 24; influential political parties 23; interwar years 23–5; IP relationship with Nazi movement 25–6, 36; labour movement 31–2, 36; labour parties 23; left-wing discourses 28–9; NMI 21; NP 21; organised communism 23–4; Progressives dislike of Nazis 36; SDP 24; student politics 35 Icelandic Communists: anti-fascist activism 29–30; denouncing Italian Fascist regime 30; politics 23; Social Democrat intersection 35–6 Icelandic Nazism: anti-communism foundation 24–5; anti-Marxism 33; communist activism 29–30; confrontations 32–5; CPI resistance 35; IP relationship 25–6, 36; offspring of communist militancy 30; Progressives dislike 36 ICL (Icelandic Confederation of Labour) 23, 24 IKL (Isänmaallinen Kansanliike): Finnish ethnonationalism 67–8; language politics 58; programme 66–7; threat to socialist intellectuals 162 ILP (Isänmaan ja Laillisuuden Puolesta) 50 immigration: anti-immigration extremeright movement 247–8; anti-refugee/ anti-immigrant events in Denmark 239–40; immigrant-friendly movements 249; Norwegian extremeright movements 250 imperialism: anti-imperialism ISH campaigns 131 Imperialist War Thesis 131 intellectuals 11–12; bourgeois culture 184; Finnish Union for Human Rights 197; Paris congress 174; political theatre 191; theatre as counter-public sphere uniting intellectuals and workers 196; see also Finnish socialist intellectuals

Index  283 Interclubs 126, 128–30, 136, 137 International Association of Authors for the Defence of Culture 174 international fascism: influence on Finnish domestic fascism 58–61 international militant social democracy 93–6 International Propaganda and Action Committee of Transport Workers 124, 127 International Propaganda Committee of Transport Workers 127 International Seamen Club 128 interwar period: anti-fascism in Britain 5; fascist term 39; Finland Civil War 57; Finland’s Whites versus Reds civil war 6; Iceland 23–5; militant social democracy 93–6; Spanish Civil War 7; Swedish political landscape 113–14 IP (Independence Party): Nazi movement relationship 25–6, 36 Iron Front alliance 95 IRTB/MORT (International League of Revolutionary Theatres) 192 ISH (International of Seamen and Harbour Workers): Anti-Fascist Front 133; anti-war campaigns 131–2; boycott of Nazi flag 134–6; class-against-class strategy 128; collapse 138–9; communist agitation and propaganda units 127–8; dissemination of illegal anti-Nazi publications in Germany 136; German Communist Party suppression 133; Hands off China campaign 131–2; headquarters 128; illegal trade union groups 130; Imperialist War Thesis 131; Interclubs 128–9; international solidarity 126; ITF cooperation 138–9; legal sanctions 124; militant activism 10–11; national sections 129; Port Bureaus 127; relocating headquarters to Copenhagen 130–1; Scandinavian RFOs 129–30; Scandinavian strategic importance 130; Secretary General Albert Walter support 136–7; Soviet China defence campaign 137–8 isolation: SSU anti-fascist strategy 120–1 Italian fascism: destruction of Italian labour movement 3; far-reaching influences 2; Icelandic Communists denouncing 30; influence on domestic Finnish fascism 58–61; Norwegian right-wing press attitudes towards 76

ITF (International Transport Workers’ Federation): Hands off China campaign 132; ISH cooperation 138–9 IUSY (International Union of Socialist Youth): anti-fascist and anti-communist framework 232–3; condemnation of Franco regime 12, 225; Eastern European oppression 227–9; fascist threats to democracy 231–2; foundation 224; Madrid Pact criticism 230–1; monetary support for JSE 226; national mother party loyalty 225; UN 1946 Declaration vote 229–30; Western military cooperation with Franco regime 219–20 IWW (Industrial Workers of the World) 125 Jewish refugees: Iceland policies 27–8 Jørgensen, Jørgen: Liberal Cultural Struggle 175 JSE (Spanish Socialist Youth): IUSY support 226 Judgment Day (Rice) 12, 194–5 Jungsozialisten 165 Kalsta-movement 68–9 Kalundborg incident 240 Karpantschof, René: public collective actions information 237–8 Kemp, Tage: anti-fascist eugenics 155 Klassenkampf 165–6, 168, 169 Kosola, Vihtori: Mussolini imitation 46 KU (Conservative Youth organisation) 100, 106 Kulturfront 179–80 Kulturkampen 179–80 labour movements: aristocracy 169; Battle of Menstad 75; bourgeois domination 165–6; Central European socialists fascism interpretations 166; cooperation and unity 169; Iceland 31–2, 36; Iceland labour parties 23–4; militant defensiveness 94–5; popular fronts 170–1; Spanish Republic support 222; street-level confrontations 24–5 Labour Party: Battle of Menstad 75; fear of fascism 74 Lange, Halvard M.: Socialist Cultural Front 175 language: Finnish politics 56–7 Language Act of 1922 57

284 Index Lapua movement 46–9; anti-communist 49; becoming fascist 61; beginning 47; Civil War epilogue 48; communist laws 65; disbanding 49; fascist threat 49; Hornborg and Wiik opposition 62–4; Mäntsälä coup 50; Marxism attack 65–6; proper fascism 59; social democracy threat 65–6; Summer of Lapua 61; Swedish-speaking right support 58 Lassila, Väinö: Finnish civil rights movement 190 leftist socialism 168 left-wing discourses: Iceland 28–9 liberal anti-fascism: democratic values 51; dismissive 44–5; educating citizens about fascist threats 49; Finland 9; national unification 51–2; passive 43–4 Liberal Cultural Struggle: formation 175; preventing reactionary barbarity 176 Liberal People’s Party 114 Liberal-Minded: rejecting National Unity 79 Lindahl, Emil: Judgment Day review 195 Lindholm, Sven Olov: fascist spokesperson for common folk 115 Lööw, Heléne: Swedish anti-fascism 112 LSI (Labour and Socialist International) 93; fascism interpretation 94; Paris conference 103 Lundborg, Herman: race biology 146; The Racial Character of the Swedish Nation 149 Lund commemoration marches: blockade 256–60; disruption of space 262–5; turf war 260–2 Madrid Pact 230–1 mainline eugenics 146–7; shift to reform eugenics 154–5 Manchurian Crisis 11, 126, 131 de Man, Hendrick 103 Mäntsälä coup 50 Manual for the Propaganda 116 marches: blockade 256–60; disruption of spaces 262–5; turf war 260–2 maritime transport workers: classagainst-class strategy 128; communist agitation and propaganda organisations 127–8; Interclubs 128–30; international solidarity 126; labour unions 125–6; Port Bureaus 127

Markelius, Sven: Cultural Front 176 Marxism: Lapua Movement attack 65–6; Nazi anti-Marxism 33 master frames 221; anti-totalitarian 228–9 Matthis, Henry Peter: cultural front formation 176 methodological empathy 274 Meyer, Håkon: Trotsky’s asylum 181–2 middle class: popular front 170–1 Miles, Robert: racism definition 156 militancy 10–11; blockading fascist marches 256–60; defence of democracy 108; defined 92; disruption of space 262–5; DSU protection units 97–9; ISH 10–11; nazification 92; social democrats 93–6; turf wars with fascists 260–2; youth 10 Minerva 82 minorities: persecution 69 Mobilisation of Nordic People 73 Mohammad cartoon crisis 247, 248 Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact 4 MORP (International Union of Revolutionary Writers) 173–4, 177 Moscow Trials: Scandinavian cultural fronts 181–4 Mouffe, Chantal: counter-hegemonic intervention 187–8 movements: authorities dynamic 267 Munch-Hansen, Peter: The Cultural Struggle analysis 180 Münzenberg, Willi: anti-Stalinist turn of Zukunft 209; historians reception 205; Nazi opposition 204–5; transnational organisational networks 205; Zukunft editor 204 national boundaries 8 National Council for Civil Liberties 177 nationalism: ethnonationalist movements in Finland 56–7; Finnish liberals 39; Iceland asylum policies 27–8; liberal national unification 51–2 National Socialism: condemned as undemocratic and violent 151–2; racial discrimination 147–8 national survival: pro-defence strategy 100–1 National Unity: Conservative Party board rejection of alliance 80–1; Conservative Party sympathies

Index  285 80; electoral alliance rejection 79; formation 73; hostility 78; press condemnation 79 National Youth League of Sweden 85 Nazi flags: desecrating 29–30 Nazism 1–2; 28 July Reichstag elections 99; anti-communism 24–7; antiMarxism 33; anti-Nazi movement 245–6; atrocity propaganda 4; confronting threats in Iceland 32–5; development in Denmark 242; far-reaching influences 2; fascist sympathies 10; Finland’s People’s Organisation 68–9; Icelandic Communist activism 29–30; IP relationship 25–6; ISH boycott of Nazi flag 134–6; Machtergreifung 100; militancy 92; Nordic state actor relations with Third Reich 4; Norwegian right-wing press attitudes towards 76–7; People’s Community Society 68; racist extreme-right movements 250 Nenni, Pietro: lack of action against Soviet-occupied countries 227 neo-Nazis: activity 246; antiNazi movement 245–6; Swedish countermovements 250; transnational engagement 246 Nerman, Ture: Moscow Trials 183 neutrality: First World War 6; Nordic 4 Nexø, Martin Andersen 175 Nielsen, Verner 99 Nilsson, Torsten: call-out squads 119 NMI (Nationalist Movement of the Icelanders) 21 non-intervention-pact 223 Nordic Cooperation Committee of Labour Movement 7 Nordic neutrality 4 “The Nordic Race from a SocioAnthropological Perspective” 145 Nordic racial types 149 Nordic state actors: relations with Third Reich 4 Nordic term 1 Norway: Battle of Menstad 75; extreme-right movements and countermovements 250–1; fascism as foreign policy issue 73; fascist sympathies 10; independence 6; Mobilisation of Nordic People 73; National Unity 73; Norwegian Legion

73; resistance movements in Second World War 7; social democracy 184–5; Social Democratic Youth movements 224; Zukunft 211–12 Norwegian cultural fronts: discussion meetings 180–1; dissolution 182; formation 175; impact 185; interScandinavian cooperation 181; journal publications 179–80; membership 179; political orientation 178; Socialist Cultural Association 182; Trotsky 181–2; working class defence of society’s cultural values 176 Norwegian fascism: 1920s groups 73; Aftenposten Conservative Party sentiments 79–80; Agrarian Party, Liberal-Minded, and Conservative Party rejection of National Unity 78–9; anti-fascism prevailing over fascism 84–6; anti-Semitism 77–8; Battle of Menstad 75; Conservative Party anti-fascist uncertainty 81–2; Conservative Party board rejection of National Unity alliance 80–1; Conservative Party new programme 83; Conservative Party sympathies for National Unity 80; Conservative Party youth organisations Nazi sympathies 82–3; fascism as foreign policy issue 73; fear of fascism 74; fear of socialism and dictatorship 84; Hitler’s seizure of power 75; late recognition 72–4; National Unity 73; National Unity hostility 78; political polarisation 74–5; press condemnation of National Unity 79; Quisling’s attacks on Labour Party 74; rightwing press attitudes 76–7 Norwegian Legion 73 NP (Nationalist Party) 21; IP relationship 25–6 NSAP (National Socialist Workers’ Party) 99, 104, 114–15, 119 NSB (National Socialistic Block) 114, 246 NSDAP (National Socialist German Workers’ Party) 73, 254; 30 July Reichstag elections 99 Olechnowicz, Andrej: interwar period anti-fascism in Britain 5 Olgeirsson, Einar: capitalism 28 Ordensvaernet 98, 99, 104, 106 Order Corps 98

286 Index Orjatsalo, Aarne: American influence 193 OV (Order Protection) unit 98–100, 105–7 pacifist attitudes: Spanish Civil War 199–200 Palmgren, Raoul 160–1, 168, 170, 172 Paris congress 173–4; common front against fascism 173; International Association of Authors for the Defence of Culture 174 passive anti-fascism 272–3; active forms comparison 6; Finland 43–4 Patriotic People’s Movement see IKL (Isänmaallinen Kansanliike) Paxton, Robert: traditional elite alliances and fascism success 21 Peace on Earth 198–9 Peasants’ March to Helsinki 58, 61 PEGIDA (Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamisation of the Occident) 248 Pehrsson-Bramstorp, Axel 113 People’s Community Society: foundation 68 People’s Home: social democracy 4 Peoples’ Patriotic Movement 52 persecution: minorities 69 Pest over Europa (Frisch) 101 Plan de Man 103 political identities: communists 3 political theatre see theatre politics: economic impact 97 popular front 188–9; Finnish civil rights 1930s 189–91; Finnish socialist intellectuals 170–1; Judgment Day production 198 Port Bureaus 127, 128 post-war: anti-fascism 12–13; fascism political practice 254; fascist spatial claims 254; Social Democratic Youth movements re-establishment 224 PP (Progressive Farmers’ Party) 23, 26–8 Precedent 193 pro-defence national survival: social democrats 100–1 Progressive Party 43, 45, 47–50, 170 Progressives: dislike of Nazis 36 proletarian theatres 188, 192, 194 propaganda: DNSAP offensive 99; maritime communist units 127–8; Tschachotin’s psychological methods 101–2

Pro Patria et Lége 50, 66 proper fascism 59 protection units: DSU 97–9 protest event analysis 237–8 psychological propaganda: Tschachotin 101–2 public spatial claims: blockade counterclaim 256–60; disruption of space 262–5; movements and authorities dynamics 267; turf war counterclaim 260–2 pure races 146, 148, 155 Quisling, Vidkun: called a Nazi 73; Labour Party attacks 74; National Unity 73 race: anthropology 146–7; anti-fascism relationship 274; extreme-right movements 250; Iceland asylum policies 27–8; racism and fascism distinction 156 race biology 11, 146–8; anti-fascist 155; attack on Dahlberg 150–1; humanity categorisations 157; mainline eugenics 146–7; physical/mental differences between races 148; pure races 148; racial categorisations of white people 148–9; racial categorisations political influence 149; racial hierarchies with Nazi connections 155; reactions to Dahlberg attacks 151–2; reform eugenics 147–8; shift from mainline to reform eugenics 154–5; UNESCO second statement on race 156; unpolitical anti-fascism 153–4 The Racial Character of the Swedish Nation 150 racialisation 156 radical anti-fascism 107–8; DSU 92 reactionary barbarity: preventing 176 reform eugenics 147–8; shift from mainline 155–5 Refugees Underground 249 Reichsbanner 93, 95, 102 Renton, David: active anti-fascism 272 resistance movements: Second World War 7 Rethinking Antifascism 1, 271, 274–5 Retzius, Anders: cephalic index 146 Retzius, Gustaf: Anthropologia Suecica 149 revolutionary anti-fascism 273

Index  287 revolutionary social democracy 96, 104 RFOs (national communist revolutionary trade union opposition) 129–30, 134, 138 Rice, Elmer: Judgment Day 12, 194–5 RILU (Red International of Labour Unions) 128, 129, 131, 133, 137 Ritavuori, Heikki: Civil Guard danger 43 The Road Ahead 178–9 Rural Party 111, 112, 114 Ryömä, Mauri 160–2, 170, 171, 192 SA (Stormtrooper division) of Danish Nazis 99–100, 114 SAC (Swedish Workers’ Central Organization) 113 Scandinavia 1; extreme-right movements 250–1; RFOs 129–30 Scandinavian cultural fronts 175–7; antifascism cornerstone 176; cooperation 181; discussion meetings 180–1; distinctions between 184; formation 1755–6; ideological and political differences 177–9; impact 185; journal publications 179–80; membership 179; Moscow Trials 181–4; parallel initiatives 176–7; social democracies 184–5 Schreiner, Kristian and Elette: pure Nordic race critique 155 Schufos 95, 97 SDAPÖ (Social Democratic Workers’ party of Austria) 94–5, 98 SDP (Social Democratic Party) 9, 24; ASS expulsion 171–2; ASS political differences 164; Communist intersection 35–6; Denmark for the People programme 106; labour movement 31–2; Nazi anti-Marxism 33; Nazi Machtergreifung turning point 100; Nazism as offspring of communist militancy 30; pro-defence national survival policy 100–1; SFP alliance 57; three arrows symbol 31 seamen: organised union activities 125 Second World War: anti-fascist resistance 7 Seidman, Michael: revolutionary and conservative anti-fascism 273 Señora Carrar’s Rifles 199 SFP (Swedish People’s Party) 9; Finnish ethnonationalism 68; language politics 56–7; SDP alliance 57

SKP (Sveriges Kommunistiska Parti) 113 SNF (Sweden’s National Coalition) 115 Snow, David: social movement frames 221 SNSP (National Socialist Party of Sweden) 114, 145; Dahlberg attack 150–2 SNU (Sweden’s National Youth Association) 115 social democracy: anti-fascist militancy 93; ethnonationalism 68–9; fascist threats 65–6; militant 93–6; party formation 7; People’s Home 4; prodefence national survival policy 100–1; revolutionary 96 Social Democratic Youth movements: condemnation of Franco regime 225; Eastern European oppression 227–9; fascist threats to democracy 231–2; national mother party loyalty 225; post-war re-establishment 224; Spanish youth movement fundraising campaigns 229; SpanishAmerican Madrid Pact 231; UN 1946 Declaration vote 229–30 social fascism: communists 3–4 social movement frames 221 social structures: Finnish 40–2; language politics 56–7 socialism: active 102–4; Central European socialist fascism interpretations 165–70; intellectuals 11; leftist 168 Socialist Cultural Association 182 Socialist Cultural Front: dissolution 182; formation 175; working class defence of society’s cultural values 176 Socialist Labour International 59, 160, 168 Socialist Youth International 12, 117, 222 Soihtu 160–1, 169, 171, 172, 197 Soviet China: ISH defence campaign 137–8 Soviet Union: anti-fascism end 4; Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact 4; MORP 173–4; weakening Finnish extreme left 200; see also Cold War Sozialistische Arbeiterpartei Deutschlands 165–6, 208 Spain: Madrid Pact 230–1; youth activism 12; see also Franco regime

288 Index Spanish Civil War 7; abandoning pacifist attitudes 199–200; anti-fascist and anti-communist framework 232–3; fundraising campaigns 229; international isolation of Republic 223; international support for the Republic 222; IUSY financial support of JSE 226; rebellion against Republic 222; SYI condemnation of Communist movement and Soviet Union in Spain 223–4; Workers’ Stage Spanish Aid support 198–9 spatial claims: anti-fascist challenges 256; blockade counterclaim 256–60; boundaries 255; definition 255; disruption of spaces 262–5; movements and authorities dynamics 267; post-war 254; street politics of public space versus territorial claims of controlling zones 267–8; territorial 255–6; turf wars 260–2 SPD (Social Democratic Party of Germany) 94, 95, 101, 102 SPF (Social Democratic Propaganda Association) 102 SSU (Social Democratic Youth Association) 111, 224; anti-fascist strategies 118–1; call-out squads 119; communist youth collaborations 117; confrontation strategy 119–20; counter-agitation strategy 118–19; isolation strategy 120–1; Manual for the Propaganda 116; member discipline 117; national leadership 115; Nazi activity information collection 116 Sternberg, Fritz: Bonapartist fascism interpretation 166; Der Niedergang des deutschen Kapitalismus 166–7; monopoly capitalists creating fascist movement 167 Stormtroopers 85, 99–100, 106, 272 Strasbourg Theses 128 street-level labour confrontations 24–5 Struggle and Culture 179–80 student politics: Iceland 35 success of fascism: traditional elite alliances 21 Sundström, Cay 160–1; fascism definition 161; fascism ensuring survival of capitalism 161–2 swastika: ISH flag boycott 134–6; three arrows symbol counter-response 101–2

Sweden: appeasement of fascism 112; extreme-right movements and countermovements 250–1; fascist mobilisation 114–15; fascist spatial claims 13; Holliday government 113; interwar political landscape 113–14; opposition party 115; pro-fascist youth organisations 85; race biology 146–8; social democracy 184–5; Social Democratic Youth movements 224; working class struggle 3; youth activism 10; Zukunft 207–10 Swedish cultural fronts: discussion meetings 180–1; formation 176; impact 185; inter-Scandinavian cooperation 181; journal publications 179–80; membership 179; Moscow Trials 182–3; Nordeuropa 183; political center 177–8; standstill 183 Swedish fascist spatial claims: blockade counterclaim 256–60; disruption of space 262–5; turf wars 260–2 Swedish Nazis: attack on Dahlberg 150–2; disruption of spaces 262–5; public spatial claims and blockade counterclaim 256–60; turf wars with anti-fascists 260–2 Swedish-speaking minority in Finland 9; ethnonationalism 66–9; fascist persecution of minorities 69; Finnishness versus Swedishness culture 65; Finnish-Swedish high finance and fascism support criticism 62–4; Hornborg 60–1; international fascist influence on domestic fascism 58; language politics 56–7; Lapua Movement support 58; SFP and SDP alliance 57; social democracy fascist threat 65–6; Wiik 58–9 SYI (Socialist Youth International) 117–18; condemnation of Communist movement and Soviet Union in Spain 223–4; international threats to democracy/democratic socialism 223; Spanish Republic support 222 sympathies towards fascism 10 Tapiovaara, Nyrki: Precedent 193; theatre as weapon in workers’ struggle 192 territorial spatial claims 255–6; blockade counterclaim 256–60; disruption of space 262–5; movements and

Index  289 authorities dynamics 267; turf wars 260–2 Thalheimer, August: Bonapartist fascism interpretation 166 theatre 191; counter-public sphere uniting intellectuals and workers 196; Finland and USA cultural exchange 193; off-stage activism 196–7; Peace on Earth 198–9; political 191, 196; proletarian theatres 192; public sphere 188; Spanish Civil War activism platform 199–200; workers’ theatres 191–2 Third Period of international communism 28–9 Third Reich: relations with Nordic state actors 4; resistance literature 5 Thoroddsen, Katrín: Jewish refugees 27 Three Arrows Against the Swastika 102 three arrows symbol: counterresponse to Nazi swastika 101–2; DSU protection units 98; SDP 31 Three-arrow movement 104, 105 Toivola, Urho: Lapua movement 47 trade unions: seamen 125 traditional elites: alliances for fascism success 21 transnational anti-fascism: cooperation 12; militancy 93 Trotsky, Lev: Norwegian asylum 181–2 True Finnishness movement 57 Tschachotin, Sergei: anti-fascist circle symbol 31; psychological propaganda methods 101–2; Three Arrows Against the Swastika 102 turf war: fascists/anti-fascists spatial claims 260–2 UN (United Nations): Franco regime 225, 229–30; second statement on race 156 Unge Høire 82 unions: ICL 24 unpolitical anti-fascism 153–4 Upton, Anthony: fascist-type movement in Finland 51 US (United States): cultural exchange with Finland 193; IUSY reaction to Western military cooperation with Franco regime 219–20; Madrid Pact 230–1; Western Europe defence 231–2; see also Cold War

Vala, Erkki: Finnish civil rights 190–1; publishing Prime Minister’s secret memorandum 197 Veien Frem 178–9 Vergnon, Gilles: anti-fascism definition 271 Vials, Christopher: active anti-fascism 272 von Frenckell, Erik: Finnish ethnonationalism 67 Vorrink, Koos: lack of action against Soviet-occupied countries 227 Wallentheim, Adolf: confrontational strategy 120 Walter, Secretary General Albert: ISH martyr 136–7 Weiss, Peter: Zukunft Nordic network 206–7 Wiik, Karl H. 55; Finnish socialist intellectuals idea sharing 165; Finnishness versus Swedishness culture 65; Finnish-Swedish high finance and fascism support criticism 63–4; historical and cultural ties to Nordic and Western civilisations 63–6; international fascism influence on Finnish fascism 58–9; Peasants’ March to Helsinki 61; preserving Swedish language and culture 63; proper fascism 59; social democracy fascist threat 65–6 Wirtanen, Atos: fascist persecution of minorities 69 Wollweber Organisation 126 Workers’ Defence League 32–3 Workers’ Stage: American influence 193; banned by social democrats 198; class struggles 191–2; communist new actors 198; counter-public sphere uniting intellectuals and workers 196; cultural struggle against fascism 12; foundation 187; Judgment Day 194–5; members 192; off-stage activism 196–7; Peace on Earth 198–9; Precedent 193; proletarian repertoire 192; reflections of Finnish political situations 196; Spanish Aid campaigns 199–200; transformation into Workers’ Theatre of Finland 200 working class: defence 30; defence of society’s cultural values 176; division of workers 169; fascist social democracy threat 65–6; Finnish

290 Index united working class counterforce 163; Iceland labour movement 29–32, 36; labour aristocracy 169; theatre as counter-public sphere uniting intellectuals and workers 196 The Young Right 82 youth activism 10; Communist Youth 105; Danish Conservative Youth 85; DKU 97; Eastern European oppression 227–9; Franco regime 12; JSE 226; KU 100; militancy 10; National Youth League of Sweden 85; Norwegian youth organisations’ Nazi sympathies 82–3; pro-fascist youth organisations 85; SNU 115; Social Democratic Youth movements post-war re-establishment 224; Socialist Youth International 12;

Spanish Republic support 222; student politics in Iceland 35; see also ASS (Academic Socialist Society); DSU (Social Democratic Youth of Denmark); IUSY (International Union of Socialist Youth); SSU (Social Democratic Youth Association); SYI (Socialist Youth International) Zukunft: anti-Hitlerism 210; antiStalinist turn 209–10; circulation 212; Dallmann 207–8; Denmark 210–11; Die Zukunft 205; Finland 211; founding 204; German and European emigration 212; Nordic network 206–7; Norway 211–12; Sweden 207–10; transnational organisational networks 205